Enigma

Shark, provided they could get at least ten bombes working in relay for a minimum of thirty-six hours . . .
    And all the time he thought of Claire.
    There was very little, practically, he could do about her. Twice during the day he managed to get out to the telephone box to try to call her father: once as they all went off to lunch, when he was able to drop back, unnoticed by the rest, just before they reached the main gate; and the second time in the late afternoon when he pretended he needed to stretch his legs. On each occasion, the connection was made, but the phone merely rang, unanswered. He had a vague but growing feeling of dread, made worse by his powerlessness. He couldn't return to Hut 3. He didn't have the time to check out her cottage. He would have liked to go back to his room to rescue the intercepts -hidden behind a picture on top of the mantelpiece'', was he insane?—but the round trip would have taken him the best part of twenty minutes and he couldn't get away.
    In the event, it was to be well past seven before he got away. Logie was passing through the Big Room when he stopped off at Jericho's table and told him, for God's sake, to get back to his digs and get some rest. 'There's nothing more for you to do here, old love. Except wait. I expect it'll be around this time tomorrow that we'll start to sweat.'
    Jericho reached thankfully for his coat. 'Did you talk to Skynner?'
    'About the plan, yes. Not about you. He didn't ask and I certainly wasn't going to bring it up.'
    'Don't tell me he's forgotten?'
    Logie shrugged. 'There's some other flap on that seems to have taken his mind off things.'
    'What other flap?'
    But Logie had moved away. 'I'll see you in the morning. You just make sure you get some kip.'
    Jericho returned the stack of Shark intercepts to the Registry and went outside. The March sun, which had barely risen above the trees all day, had sunk behind the mansion, leaving a fading streak of primrose and pale orange at the rim of an indigo sky. The moon was already out and Jericho could hear the sound of bombers, far away, a lot of them, forming up for the night's attack on Germany. As he walked, he gazed around him in wonder. The lunar disc on the still lake, the fire on the horizon—it was an extraordinary conjunction of lights and symbols, almost like a portent. He was so engrossed he had almost passed the telephone box before he realised that it was empty. One last try? He glanced at the moon. Why not? The Kensington number still wasn't answering so he decided, on a whim, to try the Foreign Office. The operator put him through to a duty clerk and he asked for Edward Romilly. 'Which department?' 'I don't know, I'm afraid.'
    The line went silent. The chances of Edward Romilly being at his desk on a Sunday night were slim. He rested his shoulder against the glass panel of the booth. A car went past slowly, then pulled up about ten yards down the road. Its brake lights glowed red in the dusk. There was a click and Jericho returned his attention to the call. 'Putting you through.'
    A ringing tone, and then a cultured female voice said: 'German Desk.'
    German Desk? He was momentarily disconcerted. 'Ah, Edward Romilly, please.'
    'And who shall I say is calling?'
    My God, he was there. He hesitated again.
    'A friend of his daughter.'
    'Wait, please.'
    His fingers were clamped so tight around the receiver that they were aching. He made an effort to relax. There was no good reason why Romilly shouldn't work on the German Desk. Hadn't Claire told him once that her father had been a junior official at the Berlin Embassy, just as the Nazis were coming to power? She would have been about ten or eleven. That must have been where she learned her German.
    'I'm afraid, sir, Mr Romilly's already left for the evening. Who shall I say called?'
    'Thank you. It doesn't matter. Good night.'
    He hung up quickly. He didn't like the sound of that. And he didn't like the look of this car, either. He came out of the telephone box and began to walk towards it—a low, black machine with wide running boards, edged white for the blackout. Its engine was still running. As he came closer it suddenly catapulted forwards and shot round the curving road towards the main gate. He trotted after it but by the time he reached the entrance it had gone.
    As Jericho went down the hill, the vague outline of the town evaporated into the darkness. No generation for at least a century could have witnessed such a spectacle. Even