Enigma

Beaumanor's work, he clearly would have kept them there for another week if he could. But when, an interminable half-hour later, he suggested a visit to the motor pool and the auxiliary generators, it was Hester, so cool until then, who finally snapped and said, rather too firmly in retrospect, that no, thank you, but really they did have to get going.
    'Honestly? It's a heck of a long way to have come for just a couple of hours.' Heaviside looked mystified. 'The commander will be disappointed to miss you.'
    'Alas,' said Jericho. 'Some other time.'
    'Up to you, old boy,' said Heaviside huffily. 'Don't want to press ourselves on you.' And Jericho cursed himself for hurting his feelings.
    He walked them round to their car, halting on the way to point out an antique ship's figurehead of an admiral, perched on top of an ornamental horse trough. Some wit had draped a pair of Army knickers over the admiral's sword and they hung limply in the raw damp. 'Cornwallis,' said Heaviside. 'Found him in the grounds. Our lucky charm.'
    When they said goodbye he shook hands with them each in turn, Hester first, then Jericho, and saluted as they got into the Austin. He turned as if to go, then froze, and suddenly ducked down to the window.
    'What was it you said you did again, Mr Jericho?'
    'Actually, I didn't.' Jericho smiled and turned the engine on. 'Cryptanalytic work.'
    'Which section?'
    'Can't say, I'm afraid.'
    He jammed the gear stick into reverse and executed a clumsy three-point turn. As they pulled away he could see Heaviside in the rear-view mirror, standing in the rain, his hand protecting his eyes, watching them. The curve of the drive took them off to the left and the image vanished.
    'Pound to a penny,' muttered Jericho, 'he's on his way to the nearest telephone.'
    'You got them?'
    He nodded. 'Let's wait till we get clear of here.'
    Out through the gates, along the lane, past the village, towards the forest. The rain was blowing across the dark slope of woodland in ghostly white columns, like the banners of a phantom army. A large and lonely bird was flying through the cloudburst, very high and far away. The windscreen wipers scudded back and forth. The trees closed in around them.
    'You were very good,' said Jericho.
    'Until the end. By the end it was unendurable, not knowing if you'd managed it.'
    He started to tell her about the storeroom, but then he noticed a track coming up, leading off from the side of the road into the privacy of the wood.
    The perfect spot.
    They bounced along the rough trail for about a hundred yards, plunging into puddles that turned out to be potholes a foot deep. Water fountained out on either side of them, tearing against the underside of the chassis. It spouted through a hole at Hester's feet and drenched her shoes. When at last the headlights showed a patch of bog too wide to negotiate, Jericho turned off the engine.
    There was no sound except for the pattering of the rain on the thin metal roof. Overhanging branches blotted out the sky. It was almost too dark to read. He turned on the interior light.
    'VVVADU QSA?K,' said Jericho, reading off the whispers on the first log sheet. 'Which, if I remember my days in traffic analysis, roughly translates as: This is station call sign ADU requesting reading of my signal strength, over.' He ran his finger down the carbon copy. Q-code was an international language, the Esperanto of wireless operators; he knew it off by heart. 'And then we get VVVCPQ BT QSA4 QSA?K. This is station call-sign CPQ, break, your signal strength is fine, what is my signal strength? Over.'
    'CPQ,' said Hester, nodding. 'I recognise that call sign. That has something to do with Army High Command in Berlin.'
    'Good. One mystery solved, then.' He returned his attention to the log sheet. 'WVADU QSA3 QTCI K: Smolensk to Berlin, your signal strength is reasonable, I have one message for you, over. QRV, says Berlin: I am ready. QXH K: broadcast your traffic, over. Smolensk then says QXA109: my message consists of 109 cipher groups.'
    Hester fluttered the first cryptogram triumphantly. 'Here it is. One hundred and nine exactly.'
    'OK. Fine. So that goes through—straight away, presumably, because Berlin replies: VVVCPQ R QRU HHVA. Message received and understood, I have nothing for you, Heil Hitler and good night. All very smooth and methodical. Right out of the manual.'
    'That girl in the Intercept Hut said he was precise.'
    'What we don't have, unfortunately, is Berlin's