cypher

                                                        1

                                                       1943

The man in the dark glasses took her lethal pill. That tiny compound of deadly chemicals. She was told it would induce a painless death. Bite down on it hard.  Death has always been ten seconds away, ever since she landed in France. Now something worse awaits her.

     She can hear nothing beyond the walls of this room. This room that is swallowing up her whole life.

     “Perhaps you recognise these, Evelyn? Or should I call you Katherine?”

     Everything this man learns about her makes her less certain who she is.

     The chandeliers drop refractions on the polished desk like a coded message. The man, her interrogator, pushes a sheaf of papers across towards her. He looks like a ticket inspector. Wiry, humourless, vigilant. A man who scrutinises scraps of papers for anomalies.

     She glances down again at the buzzer next to the lamp. She has a mad urge to press it. To get the worse over and done with. He sees her look at it. The expression on his face is another part of the game he is playing with her.

     The sheaf of papers is no doubt another trap. She looks at the top sheet of paper warily. It is a photostat. Then she can’t keep her surprise and dismay off her face. It is the letter she wrote to her mother three weeks ago. Below this is a letter she wrote to London HQ about suitable farms for an arms drop. All the mail she has sent in the past month is here. Mail she gave to the air movements officer, a roguish charming relentlessly inquisitive French man called Henri, code name Gilbert. Mail he was supposed to send back to London. Mail that it often wasn’t thought necessary to code. 

     “We have arrested many of your companions. When they saw their own letters they felt betrayed. And so they talked. We have agreed to treat them as prisoners of war and not as spies. Thus sparing their lives. In exchange for information. Many have cooperated. So it is pointless for you to play the heroine. If I press this buzzer an unpleasant French thug will enter the room. It will be his job to cause you pain. And he enjoys his work. It sickens me how much pleasure he takes from his work. Do you want me to press the buzzer?”

     “What I want is a hot bath and something decent to eat.”

     “All in good time. You have my word.”

     She has his word. He has been trying to impress this on her ever since she was led into his office. Mock interrogations at training school in England had been nothing like this. The sophistication of the Gestapo has been underestimated. She had been led to believe she would be shouted at. Made to stand on chairs. Made to kneel down on all fours in her underwear. It is as if this man is trying to coax her into buying something she has no need of. But he won’t give up. 

     “Would you be surprised if I told you there is a traitor in your midst?”

     She would not be surprised. It is the only explanation. She has heard about all the arrests. Hundreds of them in a short space of time. Whole circuits compromised. She knows he is speaking the truth.

     “Two traitors actually. Obviously Henri is working for us. But there is also someone in Baker Street. Can you guess who that might be?”

     She shakes her head.

     “Please take a guess. I am curious whether you have an intuition on the matter.”

     Her mind summons up a parade of Baker Street personnel. She scrutinises her emotional memory of each of them for signs of duplicity.