She said, “Ben,” at the same time as he said, “Pamma?”
Then they both laughed and said, “I had no idea,” at the same time.
“You’re really working for MI5?” she asked.
“I’m not allowed to tell you that, but since I’m here, I suppose you can deduce that the answer is yes,” he said. “And you are not allowed to tell anybody. You do know that. Especially not anybody at home.”
“Of course. And you’re not to tell anybody I’m working here at Bletchley.”
“We’ve only heard whispers and rumours about what goes on at Bletchley,” he said. “Station X. That’s how the rest of the world knows you. But it’s something to do with codes, isn’t it? Are you really a code breaker?”
She nodded. “Not a very good one, it would seem. We’ve been listening in on German propaganda broadcasts.”
“The New British Broadcasting Station, you mean?”
“Yes. That’s it. My boss seems to think there might be coded messages to fifth columnists within the broadcasts.”
“Yes, we’ve considered that, too,” Ben said.
“You haven’t come across a codebook from a captured fifth columnist, have you?”
Ben smiled. “I don’t think they make it as easy as that for us.”
Pamela sighed. “Our problem is that we don’t know where to start. If the coded messages are going to ordinary people—German sympathisers—then the codes would have to be quite simple. Nothing like the clever stuff the Germans use to send messages to their aircraft and ships.”
“You’ve been working on those, have you?” he asked.
“A little. Not the decoding as much as translating. But there are some brilliantly clever chaps here. And I probably shouldn’t be talking about this, even to you.”
“Are you working on this alone?” Ben asked.
“No, there are two of us. But my colleague is off, listening in at the wireless station today. At first, they sent us transcripts, and then I wondered whether we were missing anything by not hearing the actual spoken words—possible inflections, clearing of the throat, or even the music they use between news and commentary.”
Ben nodded. “Interesting. And what have you found so far?”
“These are the latest transcripts and our notes,” she said. “They always end their broadcasts with messages purporting to be from servicemen in German prison camps. You know, all jolly stuff about how well they are being treated. So I wondered if they were real people and addresses and not somehow in code.”
Ben peered over her shoulder at the papers on the table. He was horribly aware of her presence, of the faint fresh smell of her hair. “You want us to check that the names, serial numbers, and addresses are genuine?”
“That’s right.”
“Should be simple enough.” He read down the page. “What a lot of rubbish they talk. I wonder if anyone believes it?”
“My boss says that people do. The news and commentaries play on their deepest fears—for the safety of their children and whether we are about to starve.”
“And what’s this music noted here?”
“That was another thought we had—that the piece of music was somehow significant. The chap I’m working with knows his music quite well. He’s the one who identified the pieces we’ve mentioned. The only one that we could see might be important was the Royal Fireworks music.”
“Golly, yes. Someone planning to blow up the king?”
“Exactly. Have your lot heard any rumours like that?”
“Plenty of them. Nothing definite, but . . . What words followed that particular piece?”
Pamela leafed through the transcripts. “Here,” she said.
“‘Our great German composer Handel wrote this for your English king, showing what a deep and abiding friendship there has been between our two countries and what a rich heritage we create when we are not on opposite sides.’” Ben paused. “Nothing obvious that one could read into that. No dates or places. Factual.”
“I know,” Pamela agreed. “We’ve been over it again and again, substituting letters, selecting words. Nothing.”
“So apart from this, it’s been mainly Beethoven and Bach?” Ben’s finger was scanning down the pages.
“Apart from a couple of snippets of Wagner. Very loud and depressing.” Pamela pointed them out. “My pal Froggy, who knows these things, says that they are from various operas, all part of the Ring cycle.”
“What did you say?” Ben’s voice was unexpectedly loud and sharp.
“The operas are all part of the Ring cycle.”
“My God. That’s it,” Ben said. “Look, Pamma. I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you, but we’ve been zeroing in on a secret group of fifth columnists, working actively with Germany. They are mainly aristocrats, and they call themselves the Ring.”
“Crikey,” Pamela said. “So this is their signature piece. They are saying ‘Take note of what comes after this.’”
“It would seem so.” Ben’s finger was shaking as it ran down the page. “Sergeant Jim Winchester, serial number 248403. To Mrs. Joan Winchester. 1 Milton Court, Sheffield. That must be it, Pamma. What’s the betting this is a message for their operative in Winchester, or a meeting in Winchester, and those numbers are a date, or a telephone, or a street number.”
Pamela’s eyes were shining. “Oh yes. Brilliant.”
“I should copy them all down and take them back with me. Some of the names and addresses will be genuine, to put us off the scent. But every one that follows the Wagner will contain information. Someone higher up than me will be able to figure out what and whom they might refer to. Have the Wagner passages become more frequent lately?”
“We’ve only been listening recently rather than reading transcripts, so they could have been going on for some time.”
“And do you happen to know if the number 1461 has shown up anywhere?”
“Not that I can remember . . .” She frowned. “It could have been in the middle of a longer serial number.”
“Don’t worry. I can check,” Ben said.
“Take a seat.” She went across to a desk and brought out a pad and fountain pen. “I’ll help you copy them.”
They sat side by side in companionable silence.
“Are you going to Jeremy’s party?” she asked at last.
“Yes, I said I’d go.”
“Should be fun.”
“I hope so. I’m bringing a girl.”
“A girl?” She looked up abruptly.
Ben nodded. “I’m not sure that was wise, but Jeremy sort of invited her himself, and she was so keen that I couldn’t back out.”
“Is she nice?”
“I hardly know her. She may turn out to be a little too . . . enthusiastic . . . for me.”
Pamela laughed. “Meaning that she’s too keen on the physical contact?”
Ben blushed. “I actually meant that she may gush. She’s terribly impressed that some of the guests come from titled families. And she was obviously impressed by Jeremy.”
“Well, who wouldn’t be?” Pamela laughed. Then she grew quiet again. “Do you find him changed, Ben? Since he came back?”
“I’ve hardly spoken to him enough to know, but he seems, how shall I put it—harder, more seasoned. I wonder if the fun has gone.”