THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel (27 page)

“Perhaps just a random event,” suggested Anna. “How many letters in all?”

“About 200, as I recall.”

“That many?” Yvonne was curious. “Perhaps still a chance occurrence. But I wonder. What else could conceivably explain it?”

“I've only thought of one possibility,” replied Mavis. “The message was intercepted from an Italian source. They use a lot of L's.
La
this and
il
that. When an L is typed into the machine, it comes back some other letter, never an L.”

Yvonne was skeptical. “That should reduce the frequency of L's in an Italian message. But eliminate them entirely? Seems unlikely.”

The three young women were stumped. They sat thinking.

“But that's
exactly
it!” Mavis exclaimed, and then quickly lowered her voice to avoid being overheard. “We're dealing with some young idiot in training, who sent out a practice message. He did the same thing I did when I first got my hands on an Enigma. I can remember punching the 'A' key over and over; I was fascinated to see a whole jumble of letters come out. This imbecile pressed the L key over and over. More than a hundred times, it seems.”

Mavis was right. With the L-less message, the wizards of BP were able to figure out the internal wiring of the Italian wheels.

Their Navy paid a heavy price. Forewarned of the approaching Italians, the British sank three cruisers and two destroyers at the battle off Cape Matapan in southern Greece.

Even more important, BP now had advanced information on enemy convoys from Italy to North Africa.

A
dmiral Sir Andrew Cunningham, victor of Cape Matapan, came by Bletchley Park to express his appreciation. The Enigma intercepts, he said, offered him the sword to smite the Fascist enemy. After the Admiral's brief remarks, Alastair led him over to the young women who had been so instrumental in cracking the Italian code, singling out Mavis. The Admiral greeted her warmly; he was delighted to congratulate her in person.

“Thank you, Admiral, but the navy did the dangerous work. You were the ones who got shot at.”

Sunlight was streaming through a window into the Admiral's eyes. To escape, he backed toward the wall—the better to see the three attractive, attentive young women. They saw their opportunity.

“That's
such
a dashing uniform,” cooed Anna. “What do all those stripes mean?” She knew very well; Kaz had drilled her on military ranks. She moved closer, doing her best to giggle with girlish glee, and brushed her hand on the gold braid on his sleeve.

He began to explain, taking two more steps backward.

Yvonne moved in from the other side. “And what happens when you fire a salvo?” she asked brightly. “Must be deafening.”

“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” replied Sir Andrew, trying hard not to sound stuffy and taking another step backward.

His mistake; he was now leaning against the wall. When he got back to his quarters and took off his uniform, the back of his jacket was covered with whitewash. He sighed; perhaps his tailor could replace just the back. Fortunately, there was no white on the sleeves or gold braid.

And, he mused, it was worth it. After all those months at sea, he was delighted to be surrounded by admiring, flirtatious young women. So what, if they laughed at his expense? They would, he fancied, remember him. Mavis and Anna.... What was the name of that third girl?

A
s the months passed, Anna became increasingly concerned about security. The point of information was to exploit it. But the more they used it to attack Africa-bound convoys, the greater the risk that the Axis powers would suspect their codes were being broken.

At her regular weekly luncheon with Yvonne and Mavis—which again gravitated to an isolated corner of the dinning room—Anna expressed her concerns. Yvonne was reassuring.

"You're not the only one to worry. A few months ago, strict orders were sent to all commanders with access to Ultra—the code name for Enigma decrypts. Absolutely no action may be taken against any target unless preceded by air reconnaissance or similar measures.

“As far as I know, this order is being strictly obeyed. It gives our observation planes a bizarre role. Their objective is not to observe, but to be sure that they are
being
observed. When they spot the convoy, they radio back a report in the clear, as much for the benefit of German listeners as for Allied air forces.”

Anna felt relieved; reasonable precautions were being taken.

“Under pressing circumstances, however, the rules are broken.”

“Really?” Anna was taken aback.

“But those decisions are made only at the highest level.”

“The highest level?” Anna was encouraging Yvonne to go on.

“The Prime Minister.”

There was a lengthy pause. Anna was finally about to change the subject, when Yvonne decided to provide details.

“The Germans are killing thousands of people, sometimes whole villages, as they advance into Russia. We know from decoded messages.”

Anna nodded; she had seen several of the intercepts and had heard of others.

“Churchill became so enraged that he decided to denounce the slaughter. He was very blunt, accusing the SS of 'scores of thousands of executions in cold blood.' To underline Nazi barbarity, he exclaimed, 'Since the Mongol invasions of Europe in the sixteenth century, there has never been methodical, merciless butchery on such a scale!'

“You may have heard about the speech,” Yvonne added.

“Better than that,” said Mavis, “I just happened to hear it on the BBC. Churchill at his bulldog best. He positively spat out 'Nazi' and 'butchery.'”

Yvonne continued. “It was quite a gamble, because Orange intercepts—SS messages—were the source of much of the information on the slaughter. Fortunately, we've also intercepted German police messages about the killings. They were much less detailed and less securely encrypted, just using a hand cipher unrelated to Enigma. Let's hope we're lucky, and the Germans come to the obvious—incorrect—conclusion: that Churchill's denunciations were based solely on intercepts of police messages.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Mavis noticed that Hugh Alexander—one of the wizards of Hut 6—had entered the dining room and was looking around. When he spotted the three young women, his face brightened and he headed toward their table.

“Don't look now, but wicked uncle at nine o'clock,” said Mavis under her breath. Without thinking, Anna began to turn her head, but caught herself as Mavis frowned. An embarrassed smile crossed Anna's face.

The “wicked uncles,” as the younger staff knew them, were senior men—Welchman, Turing, Milner-Barry and Alexander—not noted for their patience with mere mortals.

They had created a sensation several months earlier. They became so exasperated with the lack of support that they spurned normal channels and wrote directly to Churchill. Churchill had recently visited Bletchley Park, praising the codebreakers for their brilliance and discretion—“the geese that laid the golden eggs and never cackled.” The time had come, decided the uncles, for some cackling. They deputized Milner-Barry to deliver their request—demand?—for more resources directly to the Prime Minister.

The comic scene at No. 10 Downing Street reminded Anna of her own first morning in Britain. Milner-Barry forgot to make an appointment or take any official identification. He managed to get as far as the PM's private secretary, who insisted on knowing what was so urgent. Milner-Barry wouldn't tell him; it was too secret. The secretary finally agreed to pass a sealed envelope on the PM without opening it. The results were spectacular. Churchill ordered his chief of staff to give BP top priority. At once. “Action this day,” he scribbled across the letter.

“He's almost here,” whispered Mavis, even more softly, “but you can relax. He's actually smiling. No kidding.”

“May I join you?” Alexander asked, still smiling. Yes, he might. “I want to congratulate you, Mavis, on you're brilliant work with the missing L's.”

“Thank you. We were just talking shop—Yvonne was explaining about observation planes whose main objective is to be observed.”

"You might also be reassured by other steps to protect security," Alexander elaborated. "With our successes, the Germans may be wondering if we've broken Enigma. To send them off in another direction, we've invented nonexistent spies. One is supposedly in Naples—tipping us off on the sailing of Rommel's convoys. But we're proudest of 'Boniface,' a fictitious officer close to Hitler.

“I sometimes like to imagine, as I'm in bed falling asleep, the troubles that Boniface must be causing the Germans—the witch hunts within the German high command trying to track him down. I'm also amused by our own intelligence officers who aren't in on the Enigma secret. They think we've been spectacularly successful, penetrating Hitler's innermost circle. 'This chap Boniface must have nerves of steel!' one of them said to me the other day. I replied: 'You wouldn't believe how daring he can be! A real Scarlet Pimpernel.'”

“Ever thought of pointing the finger at someone specific?” Anna wondered. “Himmler would be my first choice. That really would be the god of vengeance at work. Imagine him being shot on Hitler's orders. History would turn out right. For once.”

“I nominate Göring,” Yvonne volunteered. “A nice fat target for a firing squad.”

“We've got a little list. Society offenders who never would be missed,” quipped Alexander. He needed only the slightest provocation to quote Gilbert and Sullivan.

“But security is not why I wanted to see you.” He got to the point. “I want to pick your brains.” Actually, he was supposed to have lunch with a permanent undersecretary, but the senior official canceled at the last minute. But, even though they were his second choice, he did want to talk to the three; they might come up with something.

“Every once in a while it's good to step back and take a broad view of what we're doing. Are we missing anything in the way we collect information, or in the way we try to get the wheel settings?” Alexander paused. That was a pretty broad topic. Yvonne was about to ask if he could be more specific when Anna spoke up.

“I suppose we might look at what we're doing now. Is anything falling through the cracks?

“First is the heavy lifting—Turing's machines and the new ones being developed. That's a very specialized operation; I don't think we have much to offer.”

“Other than something that's way above our pay grade,” Yvonne interjected.

“And that is?” Alexander asked.

“It looks as if this war will go on for years,” Yvonne responded. “As the Germans make Enigma more and more complicated, Turing-type machines will become even more critical to our success. I wonder if British industry will be able to keep up with the demand. We might look to the Yanks as a source of machines.”

“You're right. Above your pay grade.” But Alexander grinned as he said it.

The young women paused. They hoped Alexander would say more. He did. “It's been taken up at the highest level. For the time being, the Americans won't be let in on our Enigma secrets. Too much risk that information will leak out.”

After waiting briefly for more information, Anna continued. “Second is the hardware and information we get from captured German ships. I suppose we might try harder to damage U-boats rather than sink them, but I doubt there's any way to depth-charge a submarine gently.”

“Third is the radio interception program. Maybe there are ways of improving that operation—such as a more methodical search for possible kisses and other German mistakes—but I think Welchman's doing a first-rate job keeping his eye on that part of the operation.”

“I'm afraid this isn't much help. But maybe I've missed something.”

“That's exactly the question,” Alexander added. He paused thoughtfully. The three young women waited. Then he continued:

“You mentioned German mistakes. We look for them all the time. Perhaps it might be possible to
get
the Germans to make mistakes.”

“You mean,” asked Mavis, “get them to send a message, whose contents we already know?”

Anna responded. “But how—unless we have someone inside the German system? In other words, a spy? We really do need a Boniface.”

“Perhaps
we
could do something that they would have to report to their superiors,” Mavis replied. “Or to one another.”

“That's it. That's exactly it,” said Alexander excitedly. “Suppose we lay mines, without being too subtle about it. The Germans observe us. They send out a coded message. What will it say? British mines in the area—then they give specific longitude and latitude. They'll have to spell out the numbers, because the Enigma machine has no number keys, only letters. We laid the mines; we know what the numbers are.”

The RAF was thereupon set to work laying mines at very specific points in the North Sea. The aircrews were puzzled. They got their orders. It was essential to lay the mines in
precisely
the right spot. But they also got a not-too-subtle secondary message: it didn't much matter if the Jerries saw them or not.

Gardening
it was called. Planting seeds of information that could quickly be harvested.

Within a few months, it was much more than gardening. It became commercial farming. British Intelligence had tracked down every enemy agent in England. They were given the option: work for British Intelligence or face the hangman. Without exception, they picked the first choice. They were handed over to the Committee of Twenty—the XX Committee; the double cross. One agent, code named
Treasure
, was indeed a treasure. Her reports back to Germany—approved and monitored by the XX Committee—were loquacious, to say the least; she never used two words when ten would do. Although her reports were vacuous, they were trumpeted by her German handlers, who repeated them word for word in coded messages. Kisses on command.

O
ver their regular weekly lunches, the three women occasionally exchanged information on new machines, wheels, and German codebooks that were appearing at BP.