Enigma

Index Room. Not in the Registry. And not next door in the Registration Room, either: she had already made a quick inspection there. The Decoding Room was a possibility, but the Type-X girls were always complaining they were cramped for space, and sixty separate Enigma keys, their settings changed daily—in the case of the Luftwaffe, sometimes twice a day -well, that was a minimum of five hundred pieces of information every week, 25,000 in a year, and this was the war's fourth year. That would suggest a sizeable catalogue; a small library, in fact.
    The only conclusion was that they had to be kept where the cryptanalysts worked, in the Machine Room, or else close by.
    She finished blisting Chicksands, noon till three, and moved towards the door.
    Her first pass through the Machine Room was spoiled by nerves: straight through it to the other end of the hut without even glancing from side to side. She stood outside the Decoding Room, cursing her fears, pretending to study the noticeboard. With a shaking hand she made a note about a performance of Die Fledermaus by the Bletchley Park Music Society which she had no intention of ever attending.
    The second run was better.
    There was no machinery in the Machine Room—the origin of its name was lost in the glorious mists of 1940 -just desks, cryptanalysts, wire baskets filled with signals and, on the wall to the right, shelf after shelf of files. She stopped and looked around distractedly, as if searching for a familiar face. The problem was, she knew nobody. But then her gaze fell upon a bald head with a few long, ginger hairs combed pathetically across a freckled crown, and she realised that wasn't entirely true.
    She knew Cordingley.
    Dear old, dull old Donald Cordingley, the winner—in a crowded field—of the Dullest Man in Bletchley contest. Ineligible for military service due to a funnel chest. By profession: actuary. Ten years' service with the Scottish Widows Assurance Society in the City of London, until a lucky third place in the Daily Telegraph crossword competition won him a seat in the Hut 6 Machine Room.
    Her seat.
    She watched him for a few more seconds, then moved away.
    When she got back to Control Miles Mermagen was standing by her desk.
    'How was Beaumanor?'
    'Engrossing.'
    She had left her jacket over her chair and he ran his hand over the collar, feeling the material between his thumb and forefinger, as if checking it for quality.
    'How'd you get there?'
    'A friend gave me a lift.'
    'A male friend, I gather. Mermagen's smile was wide and unfriendly.
    'How do you know that?' 'I have my spies,' he said.
    The ocean was alive with signals. They were landing on Jericho's desk at the rate of one every twenty minutes.
    At 16.00 a sixth U-boat fastened on to the convoy and soon afterwards Cave announced that HX-229 was making another turn, to 028 degrees, in her latest and (in his opinion) hopeless attempt to escape her pursuers.
    By 18.00 Jericho had a pile of nineteen contact signals, out of which he had conjured three four-letter loops and a mass of half-sketched bombe menus that looked like the plans for some complex game of hopscotch. His neck and shoulders were so knotted with tension he could barely straighten up.
    The room by now was crowded. Pinker, Kingcome and Proudfoot had come back on shift. The other British naval lieutenant, Villiers, was standing next to Cave, who was explaining something on one of his charts. A Wren with a tray offered Jericho a curling Spam sandwich and an enamel mug of tea and he took them gratefully.
    Logie came up behind him and tousled his hair.
    'How are you feeling, old love?'
    'Wrecked, frankly.'
    'Want to knock off?'
    'Very funny.'
    'Come into my office and I'll give you something. Bring your tea.'
    The 'something' turned out to be a large, yellow Benzedrine tablet, of which Logie had half a dozen in an hexagonal pillbox.
    Jericho hesitated. 'I'm not sure I should. These helped send me runny last time.'
    'They'll get you through the night, though, won't they? Come on, old thing. The commandos swear by them.' He rattled the box under Jericho's nose. 'So you'll crash out at breakfast? So what? By then we'll either have this bugger beaten. Or not. In which case it won't matter, will it?' He took one of the pills and pressed it into Jericho's palm. 'Go on. I won't tell Nurse.' He closed Jericho's fingers around it and said quietly: 'Because I can't let you go, you know, old love. Not tonight. Not you. Some of the