His Majesty's Hope(38)
“This is someone’s life, Winston.”
“His Majesty himself gave his seal of approval. I have every confidence in our copper-tressed spy.”
“I pray you’re right, Winnie darling.”
Chapter Eight
Hugh left his office at MI-5 and took the crowded, noxious, fly-infested Tube to Euston Station. From there, he took the train to Bletchley.
Hugh had no desire to meet with Edmund Hope. However, they were both professionals, and Hugh hoped that the work would take precedence over any possible grudges. But he still found the idea of the upcoming meeting disconcerting.
After passing green fields dotted with white spring lambs and stopping at the Tring, Cheddington, and Leighton Buzzard stations, Hugh finally reached Bletchley, a small town about forty miles northwest of London. It was the home of the Government Code and Cipher School, known as Station X—but more commonly called Bletchley or the Park.
It was located on the Bletchley estate, an ugly red-brick Victorian mansion now overrun with both military and academics found to be good at crossword puzzles. But the real business of those who worked at Bletchley was breaking Nazi military code.
At the high front gate, Hugh presented his papers and was waved inside. He walked the long distance through the front lawn. Although it was hot, young men and women—code breakers and staff—were playing the childhood game of rounders with a broomstick and an old tennis ball, their laughter echoing in the distance. Finally, he reached the grand neogothic entrance of the Great House, guarded by two men in uniform, holding rifles. Again, he presented his identification and was waved in.
In the airless, high-ceilinged main hall, covered in dark wood paneling and held up by pink marble columns, he asked for Edmund Hope.
“He’s expecting you?” asked a shrunken elderly man in a seersucker suit, sitting at a small metal desk. He was smoking a pipe; the tobacco smelled sweet.
“Yes, we have an appointment,” Hugh answered.
“One minute.” The man put the pipe down in a glass ashtray and picked up the telephone receiver. He dialed four numbers. “An Agent Hugh Thompson to see you, sir?” A pause. “Yes, yes, of course, sir.”
The man looked up at Hugh with watery blue eyes. “He says he’s in the middle of something, and he’ll be with you as soon as he’s able.” He nodded to a hard wooden bench along the wall, underneath a stained-glass window and a poster for the Bletchley Park Orchestra’s performance of Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
More than three hours later, Hugh was still waiting. He’d paced, sat down, tried to break the code himself and failed miserably, tried again, only to resume pacing. His stomach rumbled. He looked over at the older man. “Is there somewhere where I can get something to eat?” Hugh asked.
“There’s a canteen,” the man replied, “near Hut Four. Behind the main house and take the path to your left. Ask anyone and they’ll point it out for you.”
“If Professor Hope comes while I’m gone—”
“I’ll tell him where you’ve gone.” The man winked. “Don’t worry lad.”
But Hugh did worry. He was worried about his new job with Masterman and the Twenty Committee. He was worried about breaking the code. He was worried about working with Edmund Hope. He was worried about being able to work with Krueger. He was worried about making sure Clara Hess thought her plans were succeeding, when in fact they weren’t. And, in the back of his mind, as always, he was deeply worried about Maggie.
After a few wrong turns, he reached the canteen, smelling of cooking grease and dirty dishwater, papered with propaganda posters. A close-up of a man’s face with a black X over the mouth, captioned, Closed for the duration—loose lips sink ships. Another, with an image of a dying soldier: Careless talk got there first.
As he pulled out a few coins to pay for his tea and buttered roll, he heard laughter and turned. A few men in rumpled suits were finishing up dinner together—shepherd’s pie by the looks of it. And one of them was, unmistakably, Edmund Hope.
If Edmund was embarrassed at being caught going to dinner while leaving Hugh waiting, he didn’t reveal it. “Mr. Thompson!” he called, arm in the air. “Come join us!”
Hugh took his tea and roll and made his way over. One of the men moved so that he could sit down. “Hello.”
“This is Hugh Thompson,” Edmund told those who remained. “Mr. Thompson, these rapscallions are Josh Cooper and Alan Turing,” he said, pointing to each one in turn.
The men said hello, then turned back to their conversation, an animated discussion on the Collatz Conjecture. “I hear Paul Erdös has posted a reward for anyone solving it,” Cooper said. “Five hundred U.S. dollars.”