It was gibberish to him. Maybe they could make something out of it back at the Circus. That’s what the codebreakers were there for after all. He made a mental note to forward on the complete transcript of the interrogation as soon as it was ready. Maybe he just didn’t want to believe what he thought it meant.
‘Is this it?’ Cavendish sounded incredulous. ‘After ten hours?’
‘Maybe he doesn’t know anything.’ He offered, without convincing himself.
‘Is it worth trying more forceful methods?’
Kendrick detested the insinuation. Cavendish meant water-boarding or electrodes or sheer brutality. He blamed the military for introducing such elements, although deep down his own Service had been intrinsically involved. They were not the sort of thing he had joined the Service for and, above everything else, he didn’t trust any intelligence that was derived from them.
Cavendish read his reluctance. ‘What should we do then?’
‘Give me another shot. I just need a bit of food and a rest for an hour.’
‘We don’t have much time.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ he snapped at his superior. The strain was getting to them all. Cavendish understood that and let the insubordination pass with a simple nod of his head.
Somewhere in Berlin there was a mole in the Service, and time was running out to discover who it was. Kendrick thought about her and the doubts surfaced again. It couldn’t be her, he told himself. But his own mind wasn’t convinced.
Helena, he thought. What had she done?
Written for #FOWC, hosted by Fandango on his blog This, That and the Other. Today’s prompt word was: Gibberish. Click on the link to read contributions from other writers.
Yesterday, we lost one of the giants of modern literature and a writer I simply adored. John le Carre was the master of the spy novel, but also one of the greatest writers of the last century full stop. This is my own little tribute to him. Thanks for the stories.
Iain Kelly 
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