Enigma

cold. They clenched the steel like claws. 'The decrypts arrive by conveyor belt from Hut 6. They go first to the Watch for translation—you know that, that's my post. Two Watches per shift, one for urgent material, the other for back-breaks. Translated Luftwaffe signals are passed to 3A, Army to 3M. A for air, M for military. God in heaven, it's cold. Are you cold? I'm shaking.' He pulled out a filthy handkerchief and blew his nose. 'The duty officers decide what's important and give it a Z-priority. A single Z is low-grade—Hauptmann Fischer is to be transferred to the German Air Fleet in Italy. A weather report would be three Zs. Five Zs is pure gold—where Rommel will be tomorrow afternoon, an imminent air attack. The intelligence is summarised, then three copies are dispatched—one to SIS in Broadway, one to the appropriate service ministry in Whitehall, one to the relevant commander in the field.'
    'And the German Book Room?'
    'Every proper name is indexed: every officer, every piece of equipment, every base. For example, Hauptmann Fischer's transfer may at first seem quite worthless as intelligence. But then you consult the Air Index and you see his last posting was to a radar station in France. Now he is going to Bari. So: the Germans are installing radar in Bari. Let them build it. And then, when it is almost finished, bomb it.'
    'And that's the German Book?'
    'No, no.' Weitzman shook his head crossly, as if Jericho were some dim student at the bottom of his class at Heidelberg. 'The German Book is the very end of the process. All this paper—the intercept, the decode, the translation, the Z-signal, the list of cross-references, all these thousands of pages—it all comes together at the end to be filed. The German Book is a verbatim transcription of all decoded messages in their original language.'
    'Is that an important job?'
    'In intellectual terms? No. Purely clerical.'
    'But in terms of access? To classified material?'
    'Ah. Different.' Weitzman shrugged. 'It would depend on the person involved, of course, whether they could be bothered to read what they were handling. Most don't.'
    'But in theory?'
    'In theory? On an average day? A girl like Claire would probably see more operational detail about the German armed forces than Adolf Hitler.' He glanced at Jericho's incredulous face and smiled. 'Absurd, isn't it? What is she? Nineteen? Twenty?'
    'Twenty,' muttered Jericho. 'She always told me her job was boring.'
    'Twenty! I swear it's the greatest joke in the history of warfare. Look at us: the hare-brained debutante, the weakling intellectual and the half-blind Jew. If only the master race could see what we're doing to them -sometimes the thought of it is all that keeps me going.' He held his watch up very close to his face. 'I must get back. Coker will have issued a warrant for my arrest. I fear I have talked too much.'
    'Not at all.'
    'Oh, I have, I have.'
    He turned towards the gate. Jericho made a move to follow but Weitzman held up a hand to stop him. 'Why don't you wait here, Tom? Just for a moment. Let me get clear.'
    He slipped out of the court. As he passed by on the other side of the fence, something seemed to occur to him. He slowed and beckoned Jericho closer to the wire netting.
    'Listen,' he said softly, 'if you think I can help you again, if you need any more information—please, don't ask me. I don't want to know.'
    Before Jericho could answer he had crossed the path and disappeared around the back of Hut 3.
    Within the grounds of Bletchley Park, just beyond the mansion, in the shadow of a fir tree, stood an ordinary red telephone box. Inside it, a young man in motorcycle leathers was finishing a call. Jericho, leaning against the tree, could hear his singsong accent, muffled but audible.
    'Right you are . . . OK, doll. . . See you.'
    The dispatch rider put the receiver down with a clatter and pushed open the door.
    'All yours, pal.'
    The motorcyclist didn't move away at first. Jericho stood in the kiosk, pretending to fish in his pockets for change, and watched him through the glass. The man adjusted his leggings, put on his helmet, fiddled with the chin strap . . .
    Jericho waited until he had moved away before dialling zero.
    A woman's voice said: 'Operator speaking.'
    'Good morning. I'd like to make a call, please, to Kensington double-two five seven.'
    She repeated the number. 'That'll be fourpence, caller.'
    A sixty-mile land line connected all Bletchley Park numbers to the