Enigma

Weather Code Book. We could get our foot back in the door again. Don't you see?'
    He ran his hands through his hair and tugged at it in exasperation. Why were they all being so dim?
    Kramer had been scribbling furiously in a notebook. 'He's on to something, you know.' He tossed his pencil into the air and caught it. 'Come on. It's worth a try. At least it puts us back in the fight.'
    Baxter grunted. 'I still don't see it.'
    'Nor do I,' said Puck.
    'I suppose you don't see it, Baxter,' said Atwood, 'because it doesn't represent a triumph for the world proletariat?'
    Baxter's hands curled into fists. 'One of these days, Atwood, someone's going to knock your bloody smug block off.'
    'Ah. The first impulse of the totalitarian mind: violence.'
    'Enough!' Logie banged his pipe like a gavel on one of the trestle tables. None of them had ever heard him shout before and the room went quiet. 'We've had quite enough of that already.' He stared hard at Jericho. 'Now, it's quite right we should be cautious. Puck, your point's taken. But we've also got to face facts. We've been blacked out four days and Tom's is the only decent idea we've got. So bloody good work, Tom.'
    Jericho stared at an ink stain on the floor. Oh God, he thought, here comes the housemaster's pep talk.
    'Now, there's a lot resting on us here, and I want every man to remember he's part of a team.'
    'No man is an island, Guy,' said Atwood, deadpan, his chubby hands clasped piously on his wide stomach.
    'Thank you, Frank. Quite right. No they're not. And if ever any of us—any of us—is tempted to forget it, just think of those convoys, and all the other convoys this war depends on. Got it? Good. Right. Enough said. Back to work.'
    Baxter opened his mouth to protest, but then seemed to think better of it. He and Puck exchanged grim glances on their way out. Jericho watched them go and wondered why they were so determinedly pessimistic. Puck couldn't abide Baxter's politics and normally the two men kept their distance. But now they seemed to have made common cause. What was it? A kind of academic jealousy? Resentment that he had come in after all their hard work and made them look like fools?
    Logie was shaking his head. 'I don't know, old love, what are we to do with you?' He tried to look stern, but he couldn't hide his pleasure. He put his hand on Jericho's shoulder.
    'Give me my job back.'
    'I'll have to talk to Skynner.' He held the door open and ushered Jericho out into the passage. The three Wrens watched them. 'My God,' said Logie, with a shudder. 'Can you imagine what he's going to say? He's going to love it, isn't he, having to tell his friends the admirals that the best chance of getting back into Shark is if the convoys are attacked? Oh, bugger, I suppose I'd better go and call him.' He went halfway into his office, then came out again. 'And you're quite sure you never actually hit him?'
    'Quite sure, Guy.'
    'Not a scratch?'
    'Not a scratch.'
    'Pity, said Logie, half to himself. 'In a way. Pity.'

5

    Hester Wallace couldn't sleep. The blackout curtains were drawn against the day. Her tiny room was a study in monochrome. A nosegay of lavender sent a soothing fragrance filtering through her pillow. But even though she lay dutifully on her back in her cotton nightgown, her legs pressed together, her hands folded on her breast, like a maiden on a marble tomb, oblivion still eluded her.
    'ADU, Miss Wallace. Angels Dance Upwards
    The mnemonic was infuriatingly effective. She couldn't get it out of her brain, even though the arrangement of letters meant nothing to her.
    'It's a call sign. Probably German Army or Luftwaffe ..."
    No surprise in that. It was almost bound to be. After all, there were so many of them: thousands upon thousands. The only reliable rule was that Army and Luftwaffe call-signs never began with a D, because D always indicated a German commercial station.
    ADU...ADU...
    She couldn't place it.
    She turned on her side, brought her knees up to her stomach and tried to fill her mind with soothing thoughts. But no sooner had she rid herself of the intense, pale face of Tom Jericho than her memory showed her the wizened priest of St Mary's, Bletchley, that croaking mouthpiece of St Paul's misogynies. 'It is a shame for women to speak in the church . . .' (1 Corinthians I4.xxxv). 'Silly women laden with sins, led away with divers lusts ...' (2 Timothy 3.vi). From such texts he had woven a polemical sermon against the wartime employment of the