"Have we talked to them yet?"
"Phelps took one — he got name, rank, and a sworn statement that the other man worked for Gruber in SD headquarters."
"You're joking!" Everyone here knew that Colonel Hans Gruber was a senior officer in the Operations Directorate of the SD.
"This fellow is apparently only a corporal, mind you, but if it's true—"
"Can I have a crack?"
"I thought I'd give him to you."
"Capital," Thatcher said. "It's been two weeks since we've had any fresh blood. I'll see him straightaway. And I'd better take that coffee. You know how the new ones are — if they're of a mind to talk we could be at it all day. And he might have something I can follow up on." Thatcher was an interrogator, but he had also become the unit's bloodhound — when questioning divulged the whereabouts of important war criminals, Thatcher was sent to track them down. It had happened four times so far this year, and he'd found them all, although one was already in a pine box. "Have him brought to room three. And get Baker to stand watch, the big lad. That always intimidates—"
"Michael—" Ainsley interrupted, his voice thick in exasperation.
Thatcher lost his thought, seeing concern on his commander's face. Ainsley got up, went to the heavy oak doors, and eased them shut. Thatcher wondered what this was all about.
Ainsley spoke in a quiet voice, "Michael, I know you'll do a bang-up job on this, but there's something that's been bothering me."
"What? Have I cocked up? If it's about that Lieutenant I rousted yesterday over the condition of his sidearm—"
"No, no. Tell me — what day of the week is it?"
"Day of the week?"
"Yes, tell me what day it is."
"Well, I suppose it's Thursday." He watched Ainsley frown as he sat back at his desk. "Or perhaps Friday. What the devil does it matter, Roger?"
"What time did you leave here last night?"
"Around midnight, I suppose."
"And the night before?"
"Perhaps a bit later. I've been keeping the same hours for a year."
The colonel steepled his hands thoughtfully under his chin. "This war has hit you harder than most of us, Michael."
"Nonsense. I've recovered fully. My leg—"
"I'm not talking about your leg." Ainsley had turned things around, and now he was the one steeped in stony seriousness. "Have you given any thought as to what you're going to do?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Afterward, Michael. After the war."
In fact, he had not. Not really. Before the war Thatcher had been a happily married man, well on his way to becoming a solicitor. Two years remaining at King's College, Cambridge, and a lifetime to spend with Madeline. Then the damned war had taken it all away. It was strange to even imagine going back to school, yet he could think of nothing else to say. "I suppose I'll go back and finish my law studies."
"Have you contacted them?"
"No. How can I without a schedule? Roger, we'll be chasing down these scoundrels for years. There's so much to be brought to light. You saw those photos last week, the classified ones of this Dachau camp. It was barbaric! They must be brought to justice, and it's our job to shoulder."
"It's our job to chase down and interrogate suspected high-ranking Nazis. Right now we're having a field day. But, Michael, I went to a meeting yesterday. For the moment this is between the two of us — but Handley Down is to be closed in early September."
"What? That's only three months! How can we do our job in that amount of time?"
"You know we're not the only ones. There's Kensington Palace Gardens and, of course, the Americans and the French."
"So we'll be transferred?"
The pause was deafening. "It's not out of the question, but even then — six months, or a year. You and I will soon be demobilized. I'll retire, but you're barely thirty years old, with the balance of your life ahead. Michael, you were a man on the rise before the bloody war. You must go back."
Thatcher's crooked shoulder sagged and he stared at the floor in thought. Go back? Go back to what? The university seemed like a lifetime ago, and if he did return it would be without Madeline. Would the memories be insurmountable?
"I know how much this work means to you, Michael, but you must move on. You must!'
Thatcher stood slowly and spoke in a quiet voice, "Of course youre right, Roger. Someday I'll return to finish my studies. But until that time there's work to be done."
Prisoner 68, as he was internally known, was already in the interrogation room. It was a spartan place, one of the few rooms in Handley Down that could be made so. Formerly occupied by one of the lesser servants, the color scheme was institutional gray. A single table divided three chairs — one versus two, subliminal reiteration to the prisoner that he was outmanned at every turn. Baker's hulking figure loomed near the only door, and dim light came by way of a lone bulb hanging naked from a wire.
Number 68 had been sitting in place for thirty minutes, long enough for him to understand that prisoners and guards might have their time wasted, but interrogators were far too busy to bother with punctuality. So far, under the watchful eye of Baker, Number 68 had been calm as he sat with his manacled wrists crossed on the table.
Thatcher crashed through the door and bustled in, Baker springing to rigid attention. It was a mockery of the military bearing normally shown around Handley Down, but served as a clear message for their guest — this was an officer not to be trifled with. Thatcher carried a thick file under his arm and he took a seat without making eye contact with the prisoner. He opened the file like a book and began sorting and sifting through the pages, as if an encyclopedic dossier already existed on the man facing him.
In fact, most of the pages were blank, and what they really had would fit on a single page with room to spare. Number 68 was supposedly Corporal Fritz Klein, secretary to a top Nazi spy-master. If it was true, more documentation would confirm these facts in time — the Nazis were sticklers about records — but it might take months or even years to sort through all the captured information. Thatcher paused at a paper here and there, narrowing his eyes critically like a doctor regarding the chart of a terminally ill patient. He finally slapped the file down on the table and addressed the prisoner.
"Guten Morgen."
The prisoner nodded. He stared at Thatcher with dark eyes that held firm. He was rather heavy, of medium height, and his skin had a vibrant, healthy hue, absent the pallor and perspiration usually seen on the first session. Number 68 seemed to have a purpose. Thatcher wondered if the man might have been involved in interrogations himself. He poised a pen over paper.
"Was ist dein name?"
No answer, but an easy shake of the head. Thatcher continued in fluent German.
"Your unit and service number?"
Nothing.
"Do you wish to say anything?"
The man sat in silence. Nearly half did on the first session.
Thatcher put down the pen and leaned back in his chair. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, then refocused on the German with a piercing glare. It was no act. "Why don't we get things straight right now. You are here to answer our questions, and you will do so until we are satisfied. Whether it takes ten days or ten years is of no consequence to me. We will eventually find out everything. If you have committed crimes, your degree of cooperation will be considered when punishment is assessed. I will ask once more. Do you have anything to say?"
The German nodded once. With two index fingers that were chained in close proximity, he pointed toward the pen and paper on the table. A thankful Thatcher poised again to write.
"Manhattan Project."
The German's accent fell hard on the English words, but there was no mistaking them. Thatcher looked up quizzically and Number 68 again gestured for him to write. Reluctantly, Thatcher did, only to be rewarded with more silence. The prisoner was done for the day. Thatcher took the paper and crumpled it into a ball as he rose. He strode from the room, Baker again steeling to attention as he passed, and slammed the door shut.