Pamela laughed. “You are awful, Trixie.”
“Well, she’s a horrid cow. She steals our ration coupons and keeps the good food for herself. She deserves what she gets.”
Next morning, Pamela and Froggy discussed whether it made sense to repeat their actual listening out at the wireless receiving station. Neither wanted to admit defeat. “We could take it in turns,” Froggy said. “I could go out there for one day, and then you could. I don’t see any reason to stay overnight. I think I could bicycle six miles, and you could get one of the RAF guards to run you over there and back.”
“I suppose so,” Pamela agreed. “Anything’s worth a try at this stage, isn’t it?”
After Froggy had gone, she paced around the table, staring down at the transcripts and their notes. Music. And now messages home from our boys in Germany. Names. Addresses. Should she try to check that these were real prisoners of war with real addresses? She went to ask Commander Travis how they could look into this.
“That would be a job for MI5,” he said. “I’ll get on the telephone to them and have them send someone over. Worth following up on, I agree.”
Pamela went back to work, and that afternoon was informed that someone from MI5 was on his way up. Pamela smoothed back her hair and hastily applied some lipstick. There were rumours about the dashing chaps in the secret service. She knew that MI5 dealt with counterespionage, while MI6 sent out the spies abroad, but all the same, it must be dangerous dabbling in the grey world of spying. There was a tap on her door. In what she hoped was an efficient voice, she called, “Come in.” The door opened, and the last person she expected to see came into the room.
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.”
In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II
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