Jack tapped his intercom, making sure it was still working. “We’re going to have to open up ship-to-diver comms to give them guidance. The ship’s going to have to stand off, for a start. The swell’s a lot stronger than it was when we went down. Having survived that dive, I don’t want us to end up crushed between the Zodiac and the ship’s hull.”
“Roger that,” Costas said. “Anything else before they’re able to listen in on us?”
“Here’s my plan. Once we’re on board, I’m going to radio my friend in Freetown to see if he can get a Lynx helicopter from the British military mission to come out and pick us up pronto. He’s ex-army and I’m still a reservist, so he can make it official. British naval officer and American colleague need rescuing from the clutches of pirates, or something like that. Otherwise, with the weather worsening, I can see these guys on Deep Explorer refusing to fly us off in their own helicopter, using the weather as an excuse to grill us about what we saw. Landor will think he knows which buttons to press to try to get me talking, but I’m damned if I’m going to give him that chance. He and I are way past swapping dive stories now. And the last thing we want is for them to snatch our cameras and see those images of the gold. There’s not much they can do now to recover it, of course, but they could make life very unpleasant for us. We need to get out of here as soon as we can.”
“Roger that. Ship comms back on line in two minutes.”
Jack twisted around so that he was floating on his back, the spindrift from the waves lashing his visor. By the time they reached Freetown and had stayed a night with the military mission, their nitrogen saturation levels should be safe enough to fly. He would also put in a request for the IMU Embraer to fly down from England and be waiting for them at Freetown airport.
He felt bone-tired, but exhilarated. He needed to get home, to transport himself back to the darkest days of the sea war in 1943, to a time when the future of the world hung in the balance.
He could hardly wait to see where this mystery would take him.
4
A bitter wind swept across the forecourt of the compound, and the woman drew her coat more tightly around her as she hurried toward the checkpoint in front of the entrance. It had only been a twenty-minute walk from the station, but already she was beginning to miss the fug of the train compartment, the familiar smell of stale sweat and wet wool and tobacco, the warmth of the men around her. Most were bomber crew back from weekend passes in London, some still fuddled with hangovers but others pale and wide-eyed and staring through the window into the pre-dawn darkness, knowing what lay in store for them in the skies to the east. At Bletchley they had stayed on board while the train disgorged its other passengers, the silent army she could hear coming up the lane behind her. Many were women, civilians like her or girls of the Women’s Royal Naval Service, with a few male army and naval officers among them. As usual she had hurried ahead to avoid lining up in the cold at the checkpoint, and to be the first for a cup of tea at the NAAFI canteen inside.
She reached the barrier and stopped in front of the two military policemen in greatcoats with rifles and fixed bayonets. A corporal came out of the booth, blowing on his hands, and stood before her. “Papers, please.”
She knew the drill, and already had her ID, clearance papers and weekend pass in hand. He scrutinized them and then handed them to the officer who had come out of the booth behind him. “Name?” the officer demanded, towering over her.
She drew down her scarf from her chin to show her face, and looked up at him. “Fanny Turley.”
“Occupation?”
“Civilian telegraphist clerk, Admiralty.”
“What were you doing in London?”
“Staying with my sister in Clapham.”
“But your papers give your home address as Shropshire. Why not go there?”
“My sister’s husband has just been killed in Burma.”
“Did you talk to anyone about your work here?”
“No.”
“Did anyone not working here accompany you to Euston station?”
“No.”
“What’s your division?”
“Hut 9b, Special Operations. Atlantic convoys.”
“Supervisor?”
“Commander Bermonsey.”
The officer passed back her papers and nodded her through. He had not shown a flicker of recognition, despite the fact that he had spent an evening the week before trying to chat her up in a pub in the nearby village where she was billeted. He was a professional, as they all had to be in this place. The slightest chink in the armor, the slightest lapse in security, could see the whole code-breaking edifice crumble before their eyes.
Even her family had no idea what she was doing. When she had abruptly left her job as a schoolteacher in Shrewsbury to work for the Civil Service in London, they had guessed that it might have had something to do with her aptitude for math, but when they asked her, she had revealed nothing more than her job title and that she worked for the Admiralty. Her sister knew that she was based somewhere an hour or so to the north of London, but that was true for so many girls employed in government departments that had relocated to country houses following the Blitz. Her job title, telegraphist clerk, was a typical Bletchley cover, revealing nothing of her true role. Even within Bletchley there were multiple veils of secrecy, with those in one hut knowing little of what went on in the hut next door. But everyone who worked here knew the official name of the establishment, the Government Code and Cypher School, and even the military policemen outside who knew nothing of decryption were aware that keeping this place secure was vital to the war effort.
She pushed through the door, grateful for the surge of warmth, went straight over to the canteen, and took one of the mugs of sweet tea that were already being laid out. For a few precious minutes she could ignore the smell of watery cabbage and burned fat that seemed to permeate the place, a residue of lunches past and a foretaste of delights to come. She nestled the mug in her hands for a moment, blowing on the tea, before heading off to the door that led out to the central courtyard and toward the huts, knowing that those coming through the checkpoint behind her would soon be crowding around the canteen.
As she stopped to take a sip, an elegantly dressed young woman came out of the lavatory door beside her, finished applying lipstick, and then snapped shut her handbag, smiling. “Hello, Fan. Good leave?”
“Euston was absolutely packed, even at six A.M.,” Fan replied. “There must be quite a lot more new recruits among this lot behind me. I see they’ve already begun work extending the compound to the north while I’ve been away. Soon we won’t be able to see the old park at all for the Nissen huts.”
“There are more Americans here now. Several new ones in your hut.”
Fan shrugged and drank some more of her tea. “Can’t say I’ve noticed.”
“Come on, Fan. It’s an open secret you’ve got two new American officers. One of them looks quite dishy.”
Fan shrugged again, smiling innocently. “I couldn’t possibly comment. Top secret, you know.”