Enigma by Robert Harris Page A

the face of disaster” expression—invariably a sign of
incipient panic. “I think we should guard against too much
pessimism. The Atlantic does cover thirty-two million square miles,
you know.” He risked another laugh. “That’s an awful lot of
ocean.”
    “Yes,” said Hammerbeck, “and forty-six is one hell of a lot of
U-boats.”
    “I agree. It’s probably the largest concentration of hearses
we’ve faced,” said Cave. “I’m afraid we must assume the enemy will
make contact. Unless, of course, we can find out where they
are.”
    He gave Skynner a significant look, but Skynner ignored it and
pressed on. “And let’s not forget—these convoys are not
unprotected?” He glanced around the table for support. “They do
have an escort?”
    “Indeed.” Cave again, “They have an escort of—” he consulted his
notes “—seven destroyers, nine corvettes and three frigates. Plus
various other vessels.”
    “Under an experienced commander…”
    The British officers glanced at one another, and then at the
admiral.
    “Actually, it’s his first command.”
    “Jesus Christ!” Hammerbeck rocked forwards in his chair and
brought his fists down on the table.
    “If I might step in heah. Obviously, we didn’t know last Friday
when the escorts were forming up that our intelligence was going to
be shut awf.”
    “How long will this blackout last?” This was the first time the
admiral had spoken and everyone turned to look at him. He gave a
sharp, explosive cough, which sounded as if small pieces of
machinery were flying around loose in his chest, then sucked in
another lungful of smoke and gestured with his cigarette. “Will It
be over in four days, d’you think?”
    The question was addressed directly to Skynner and they all
turned to look at him. He was an administrator, not a
cryptanalyst—he’d been vice-chancellor of some northern university
before the war—and Jericho knew he hadn’t a clue. He didn’t know
whether the blackout would last four days, four months or four
years.
    Skynner said carefully: “It’s possible.”
    “Yes, well, all things are possible.” Trowbridge gave an
unpleasanr rasping laugh that turned into another cough. “Is it
likely? Is it likely you can break this, whatever you call it—this
Shark—before our convoys come within range of the U-boats?”
    “We’ll give it every priority.”
    “I know damn well you’ll give it every priority, Leonard. You
keep saying you’ll give it every priority. That’s not the
question.”
    “Well, sir, as you press me, sir, yes.” Skynner stuck his big
jaw out heroically. In his mind’s eye he was sreering his ship
manfully into the face of the typhoon. “Yes, I think we may be able
to do it.”
    You’re mad, thought Jericho.
    “And you all believe that?” The admiral stared hard in their
direction. He had eyes like a bloodhound’s, red-lidded and
watery.
    Logie was the first to break the silence. He looked at Skynner
and winced and scratched the back of his head with the stem of his
pipe. “I suppose we do have the advantage of knowing more about
Shark than we did before.”
    Atwood jumped in: “If Guy thinks we can do it, I certainly
respect his opinion. I’d go along with whatever he estimates.”
Baxter nodded judiciously. Jericho inspected his watch.
    “And you?” said the admiral. “What do you think?”
    In Cambridge, they would just about be finishing breakfast. Kite
would be steaming open the mail. Mrs Sax would be rattling round
with her brushes and pails. In Hall on Saturday they served
vegetable pie with potatoes for lunch…
    He was aware that the room had gone quiet and he looked up to
find all eyes were on him. The fair-haired man in the suit was
slating at him with particular curiosity. He felt his face begin to
colour.
    And then he felt a spasm of irritation.
    Afterwards Jericho was to think about this moment many times.
What made him act as he did? Was it tiredness? Was he simply
disoriented,