Birth of a Spy Read online

  What could he have been thinking? It would be from Professor Sinclair, that was the most obvious explanation. Freddie had probably been meaning to present him with it earlier, but had become so wrapped up in their latest triumph that he’d forgotten and so dropped it off in a hurry on his way home. Strange then that there were none of Sinclair’s neatly handwritten comments in evidence. Usually anything he sent Hunter was covered with speculative notes and diligently penned queries. He should make certain he hadn’t just missed him.

  Still holding the page and its envelope Hunter walked back outside. There was a light spring shower and the road seemed almost completely empty. No children at play, no dogs being walked, no commuters returning from a busy day’s employ, just a gentle breeze, a mist of rain and two cars; the beaten up old blue VW Polo that belonged to the guy across the street and an impressive looking metallic black BMW 6 series parked slightly further up the road under a tree. No sign of the professor or his car.

  ✽✽✽

  There had been a time when cameras possessed real character, real style, each with its own subtly distinctive shutter sound and feel. The Olympus had been quick and nimble, the Pentax heavy but reliable and the Hasselblad had sounded exactly as it was, expensive. But no longer. The Cannon EOS 550D was set to continuous shoot which meant it could rattle off nearly four predictably reliable frames a second. With a Tamron telephoto lens Scott Hunter’s face filled the view finder as he craned his neck to look up and down Danforth Road. A rapid reposition and the Cannon fired off four more quick frames of Hunter’s hand clutching the page of white A4. Satisfied, the owner of the camera switched it off and placed it next to him on the BMW’s nappa leather passenger seat.

  ✽✽✽

  Hunter meticulously worked through every stage of his routine. Despite its lack of provenance he would treat this latest code as if it had originated from either the Imperial War Museum in South London or the museum at Bletchley Park. But from the outset the process proved to be a frustrating one. Normally he expected at least to see the date on which the message had been intercepted. That was always a sound indicator as to the model of machine which might have sent it. Then, and assuming the message was German in origin, he would look for specific keywords. Bletchley Park, Hunter knew, had been incredibly successful in breaking Ultra codes sent during the North African Campaign simply by searching for words like sandstorm or desert. However, all of this additional intelligence had been withheld, even the professor’s unrelenting handwriting was absent and so as he stared at the lines of code Hunter couldn’t help but think just how difficult they might be to break. He was going to have to set his programme up with the broadest of possible parameters and do something he had never countenanced before and which did not sit well with him now. He was going to have to hope for the best.

  That evening, and once Amy had returned from the office, Hunter cooked whilst she slipped out of her work clothes and took a shower. She joined him in the kitchen and they shared a glass of wine together as she told him about her day. Hunter stood next to the cooker, keeping one eye on an array of pots and pans as Amy unburdened herself of the day’s office politics. He loved listening to her as, glass in hand, she ranted and raved about her co-workers in a fashion that was simultaneously cathartic for her whilst designed to make him laugh.

  Before the meal was ready, unable to help himself any longer, he’d caught her in his arms, spinning her around, pushing her against the tiny kitchen table, kissing her urgently, and then Amy, ever the voice of reason had gently reminded him not to burn their meal.

  Over dinner Hunter told her of his decision to see Alec and realising how hard it must have been for him Amy leant across the table and gently kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

  They ate in silence, before Amy continued, ‘Any idea what the job entails?’

  ‘Research assistant, I’d imagine?’

  ‘Oh.’

  They both knew what that could mean. Perhaps it would be different working for Alec, she said. Amy certainly hoped so for Hunter’s sake, although deep down she suspected it might be considerably worse.

  The meal over, the wine gone Hunter half-heartedly suggested they watch a film, but it was Amy who took his hand and lead him upstairs to bed.

  The following morning Hunter checked his laptop. It seemed to have made little or no progress. He’d had a feeling that might be the case. He would either have to go back to square one or at least significantly modify the criteria he’d started with. Hunter wondered at the possibility the message had not been German after all. It could be Italian, or, God help him, Japanese. As Hunter sat staring intently at the screen Amy appeared and let him know she was off to work.

  ‘Good luck today,’ she said deftly applying a delicate line of eye shadow.

  He looked up at her, every bit the business woman in her slim fitting charcoal suit, Hunter’s vacant expression giving him away.

  ‘Today Scott, you’ll see Alec, today won’t you? Oh Scotty, please tear yourself away from that bloody thing for the morning at least.’

  ‘Let me just finish this. I’m so close, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake. I give up. I thought we discussed this last night?’

  ‘We did and I will, just let me finish this first.’

  ‘Okay then.’

  ‘I thought I’d go into college later and see...’ he let the sentence trail off. She knew he was going to see Professor Sinclair, he could tell simply by the look on her face. Hunter had never understood her antipathy towards him. They had talked about it once, briefly. She was generally such a good judge of character and when he’d pushed her she’d been unable to say exactly what it was about the Head of Classics that made her feel so uncomfortable. Amy, not usually a believer in woman’s intuition, had used just such a phrase. A feeling, an impression, she’d added quickly. Hunter couldn’t help regretting that two people so close to him didn’t get along better. Sinclair was his friend, Amy his partner. He felt certain that if she gave him a chance Amy would find she had a lot in common with the man.

  ‘Well, anyway, whilst I’m in I’ll go to Alec’s department and find out what his schedule’s like. All right?’

  Amy shook her head in mild frustration. ‘See you later,’ she said, ‘and for Christ’s sake don’t spent all day on that wretched laptop, you’ll go blind.’ She smiled and kissed him lightly goodbye.

  Hunter pored over the problem for the remainder of the morning before finally admitting defeat. He didn’t like asking for assistance. The challenge was only ever diminished when you asked for help. But in this case he had to grudgingly admit he was completely baffled. He went into his Gmail account and pulled up the group marked Enigma. There were ten members, nine not including himself. He could discount the professor as he suspected the code had probably originated from him in the first place and anyway he planned on seeing him later that afternoon. In an act of staggeringly transparent self-interest Sinclair had roped in one of the modern history professors. He’d done the same with a member of the language department too. Hunter discounted them both. In any case, if he was still getting nowhere he could simply go and pay them a visit that afternoon and take the code with him. That left half a dozen whose interest was sporadic at best. There were two German historians, Beck and Schumacher, who ran an Enigma association of their own in Frankfurt. They might have been able to help had there been any historical information to go on, but as it was Hunter thought there was little point in involving them. Peter Gracewell was a man who claimed to have worked at Bletchley Park during the war but had never contributed anything to Hunter’s knowledge and was viewed as little more than a Walter Mitty character by Sinclair. Next was Steve Morgan of Fort Lauderdale, Florida whose emails were repeatedly returned by the postmaster and who Hunter took the opportunity to delete. Alec’s name was on the list too, but he knew he had only joined as an act of solidarity and neither had the interest nor the time to be of any help. And that l
eft Lazarus.

  Lazarus had always been something of a mystery. Hunter couldn’t actually say when he had joined their exclusive little group or what his background had been either, but when he’d been stumped in the past the biblical brother of Mary and Martha had proven both helpful and knowledgeable and consequently they had struck up a brief online friendship. Lazarus it was then.

  Need help. See file.

  Once he’d scanned and attached the mysterious code, off it went. Immediately Hunter felt both elated and disappointed. He hated having to admit defeat, or at least what he considered to be defeat, but he was also optimistic that Lazarus would come back with something. He glanced at the clock in the top righthand corner of the screen. 14:17. Shit. He needed to get into town quickly before Sinclair left for the day. He jammed everything into the messenger bag, shouted farewell to Joth over his shoulder and ran from the house to the bus stop.

  Hunter wasn’t confident that he would catch Professor Sinclair as he walked rapidly up the picture lined corridor. He wrapped on the heavy oak door and was relieved to hear the professor’s voice call back.

  ‘Hello. Who is it?

  ‘Scott, Scott Hunter. Could you spare me a moment Professor?’

  The door swung open on heavy hinges and Professor Sinclair’s weary face peered back at him.

  ‘Hello, Scott. Is my diary not up to date? I wasn’t expecting a call from you this afternoon.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Hunter replied rather breathlessly.

  ‘As you can see,’ Sinclair continued gesturing behind him at a desolate looking girl in her early twenties, ‘I am trying, all be it rather unsuccessfully, to impart some wisdom to this young lady.’ The young lady in question flashed Hunter an embarrassed smile.

  ‘Perhaps I should come back later?’

  ‘That might be for the best, if you wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘I just wanted to ask you about this,’ Hunter said fishing in his messenger bag for the envelope, ‘but I suppose it can wait.’

  ‘May I?’ Professor Sinclair was looking at him quizzically.

  ‘You dropped it off yesterday afternoon?’ Hunter suggested.

  ‘Professor Sinclair,’ his student’s voice trailed across the study, ‘I do actually have to be going now, I can be out of your way in just a second.’

  ‘Oh, very well then. In you come, Scott,’ he said taking the envelope from him and withdrawing its contents, ‘What appears to be the problem?’ Sinclair let his glasses dangle distractedly from delicate fingers, their temple tips edging closer to his pursed mouth as he scrutinized the sheet of A4.

  ‘Well, it is a bit low on information, you’d have to admit? I put the programme onto it last night but so far, nothing. I was wondering if you could give me any pointers, like when it was sent or even just where it came from?’

  Sinclair was at the door, escorting his student out.

  ‘I don’t know how some of these young people manage it,’ he said turning the sheet over in his hands, ‘she’s pleasant enough, but really.’ He slid the sheet back into its envelope and returned it to Hunter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Scott, I don’t think I can help you.’

  ‘But I thought you sent it?’

  Sinclair shook his head. ‘Not this one, Scott.’

  ‘Well if you didn’t send it, who did?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. Someone at the university? I’ve no idea. And you believe it’s beyond your… gadget, do you?’ Sinclair continued with an academic sneer, never having particularly approved of Hunter’s 21st century approach.

  ‘At the moment it seems so, yes.’

  ‘Perhaps it just shouldn’t be broken then. Has that ever occurred to you?’

  ‘What?’ Hunter had never heard the professor give up quite so easily.

  ‘Let sleeping dogs lie and all that. Come along Scott, we’ve talked often enough about some of the traffic that must have been sent. Perhaps this is one of those?’ Hunter knew exactly what Professor Sinclair was referring to and he could also see that he was cautiously presenting him with a convenient way out if his algorithm was unable to break the message.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Hunter said. Amy at least would be delighted to hear he had given up on the thing.

  ‘But if you are determined to keep at it, perhaps you might considered a more academic approach? There are a few books I could recommend?’

  Hunter couldn’t help feeling he was being just a little patronized. He had quite a collection of books not just on Enigma and Bletchley Park but on the German Abwehr, the Kreigsmarine and even some technical books from the war that he’d tracked down online and bought from private collectors, grudgingly paying Joth to translate the relevant passages for him. Without them he would never have been able to write the algorithm.

  ‘Enigma by Philip Rutherland?’

  Hunter nodded. That had been a dry read he thought, even for a mathematician.

  ‘And what about, oh damn it,’ Sinclair said, trying to draw the information from his memory, ‘The History of Cryptanalysis in the Second World War?’

  Hunter thought for a moment, visualising the crowded bookcases next to his bed. This was a book he was not familiar with.

  ‘Can you remember who it’s by?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, so there is something you’ve not read,’ the professor said with a hint of glee. ‘Stevens... No Stevenson. You’ll forgive me I am terrible with names, a symptom of my advancing years you see? But yes I believe that’s it. Such and such Stevenson. I’ve a feeling there’s a copy in the college library. Do you still have your card?’

  Hunter fumbled in his trouser pocket for his wallet, withdrew his CAMCard and found his blue University of Cambridge Library card. Expired.

  ‘My my, your life is full of challenges today, isn’t it Scott?’

  ✽✽✽

  Hunter ran his eyes over the shelves. Many of the books he recognised, having either borrowed them or bought them cheaply online. He quickly found Andrew Stevenson’s A History of Cryptanalysis in the Second World War and turned to its index, running his finger down the list of now familiar names before flicking back to the appendices. This was often where the really useful information was to be found. Stevenson had included a thorough set of schematic diagrams showing the wirings for many of the different machines. He tucked the book under his arm and began looking for Enigma by Philip Rutherland. As factual books went Rutherland’s was about as lacking in soft edges and humour as Hunter could imagine. He found it on the same shelf as the Stevenson, wedged beneath a carelessly replaced book lying horizontally along the top of the row. He eased the weighty tome from the shelf and gave it the most cursory of glances. Yes, it was the book he had at home. Yes, it could, as the professor had suggested, be useful. No, he would not be wading through it later. He went to return the dry companion to its prescribed slot. The horizontal book had slid down and across and now sat angled inconveniently in his path. Without examining it he took it from the shelf and replaced A History of Cryptanalysis. As a gesture of goodwill and for allowing him to use and abuse the university’s library system Hunter thought the least he could do was replace the book he now held in his left hand to its rightful home. Turning it over he read down the spine; Setting Europe Ablaze; Coding for the SOE by George Wiseman. On the cover the now ubiquitous picture of an Enigma machine. Hunter had never seen this book before. He glanced at the back cover. A friendly gentleman returned his gaze. George Wiseman’s hair was thick, wavy and grey and pushed back from his high forehead. A prominent Hasidic nose nestled beneath twinkling eyes. Hunter had never seen an author with a cigar and wearing a velvet tuxedo and black tie before. He flicked through the book until he reached a collection of glossily printed black and white photographs at its heart. There was U-559, the U-boat whose crew, after sixteen straight hours of depth charges, had abandoned their vessel without, crucially for the allied war effort, first destroying its Enigma key setting sheets for the entire fleet. Next a photograph of the eclectic f
ront aspect of the manor house at Bletchley Park followed naturally by a picture of Alan Turing, a faraway look on the face of the man responsible for so much of the extraordinary work undertaken at Station X.

  Hunter licked a finger and turned the page. Two men, both wearing suits and ties, the younger of the pair, possibly nineteen or twenty, sat at a table behind an encoding machine, a scarf carelessly draped around his neck. To his side an older gentleman sporting a Fedora, his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Hunter found the caption.

  The author with his father, Bletchley Park c 1948?

  That was good enough for him. There was something in that photograph which fascinated Hunter. He wasn’t sure, perhaps it was simply the relationship between Wiseman senior and his son and the thought of them working together. A father working hand in hand with his offspring against a shared enemy. He felt sure he was going to enjoy this book even if it revealed nothing new about Enigma.

  Hunter fished in his jacket pocket and found his wallet. A quick look revealed what he already knew, he had no money and his CAMBCard, which up until recently would have granted him access to all but a few books in the great university’s library system, had lapsed and was now sadly out of date. He shoved the wallet back in his jacket and glanced towards the doors. Two great metal arches protected the libraries contents. Each book would have to be introduced to a magnetic scanner before he could proceed through those arches without setting off the most appalling alarm. Briefly Hunter thought about checking his card again, but that was fatuous, he’d seen it only seconds before. Expired. How to proceed? Amy’s card would be similarly expired he assumed. He could go back to his digs and see if Joth would take the books out for him, but then he had a feeling that his chaotic flatmate’s stock with the university was probably even lower than his own. He looked at the books he was holding. Reluctantly he conceded there was nothing for it but to put them back and return another day, take a lot of notes and hope that that would be enough. He moved towards the shelf. But if he did that several things could happen. Someone else might borrow Wiseman’s book. It was certainly unlikely, but nevertheless possible. Worse still someone might use them to decode the latest page before he did. He allowed himself a gentle pat on the back. Once more, possible, but unlikely. Hunter wasn’t prepared to risk it though. He had no idea why but he felt the sooner he got to the bottom of this particular riddle the better. He opened his messenger bag.