Omega

We took the lift up to street level, no one speaking. The warrant officer kept tugging at his gloves and scissoring his fingers for a snug fit. Stradling, a fellow-countryman, though from North Wales. Rhyl or thereabouts. A man renowned for his taciturnity and apparent lack of fellow feeling for any other human being. But efficient and an excellent driver. His uncle’s favourite chauffeur.

A trio of identical black Daimlers was waiting in the car park, their engines running. Land Rovers, APCs and triple-wheeled motorbikes flanked them. The air was heady with their exhausts.

Owain was directed to get into the driver’s seat next to Stradling. Giselle climbed in after him, leaving nothing in the way of elbowroom. The Daimlers were built to accommodate up to six people including the driver, but it was always a snug fit. A mirrored window with a sliding partition obscured the rear seats.

The heating was turned up full, the car practically tropical. We sat in silence for several minutes, Owain watching the rest of the vehicles manoeuvre into formation. The motorbikes were triple-wheeled Triumph Tridents, the rear men sitting back-to-back with the front rider on swivel pillions that gave them a traverse of over a hundred and eighty degrees for machine-gun fire and an elevation of close to ninety. Six surface-to-air missiles were mounted on their flanks. Despite their bulk, they were fast and manoeuvrable machines.

The rear doors of the car opened, and I felt the suspension react to the entry of one, two people. So, not quite a full house. Owain glanced at Giselle, but she was taking a mouthful of drink from a white plastic bottle. It smelt like lime juice. She didn’t look at him, gave every impression that she preferred to pretend he wasn’t there.

Some of the motorbike riders were forming up at the head of the exit ramp. The APCs and the other Daimlers began to tuck themselves in behind one another. Stradling moved off and they took their place in the column. The hatch behind Owain slid open.

“You been behaving yourself?”

It was his uncle, speaking in Welsh. He sounded curious rather than irate.

Owain twisted around. Sir Gruffydd was sitting in one corner, with Henry Knowlton next to him in a big black overcoat.

“The Secretary of State for Inland Security picked me up for questioning this morning,” Owain said.

“So I gather. And what did you tell him?”

His uncle looked quite hearty, showing no hint of his rect illness.

“Nothing,” Owain replied. “I was a bit worse for drink the night before. Couldn’t remember a thing.”

There was a silent instant before his uncle burst out with laughter, in which Knowlton loyally joined, despite the fact they were still speaking in Welsh.

“That’s the spirit,” his uncle said. “Kept the bugger guessing, did you?”

“He was very interested in Rhys.”

“That a fact? And how did you enlighten him?”

“I pleaded my usual ignorance. Told him I never discussed family matters with strangers.”

Owain was aware that this was something of a loose paraphrase of his actual conversation with Legister, but the essence was true. Sir Gruffydd nodded, eyeing him all the while.

“Where is Rhys?” Owain asked.

“Fill you in later. Have lunch, did you?”

Owain nodded.

“Then sit back and enjoy the ride. All will be revealed.”

The old man leaned forward and slid the hatch shut.

We made swift progress on the South Circular before hitting a tailback at Wandsworth Common. I was doing everything I could to suppress my agitation, but I felt under siege. It wasn’t just a question of what was going on with Owain; developments here were just as challenging in their way.

I didn’t have any appetite for seeing my father. The last time I’d visited I’d found him sitting on the balcony, apparently doing the Times crossword. He looked quite normal and lucid until I sat down next to him and he asked me if I’d come to read the electricity meter. When I told him that I was his eldest son he’d reacted angrily. Of course, he’d retorted, as if I was a moron. Who the devil else did I think I was?

The anger subsided as swiftly as it had come and he asked me if I’d brought any chocolates, producing an empty Minstrels packet. His hands were so busy making fidgety movements I wondered how he’d managed to get the chocolates out of the bag and into his mouth. And yet he was evidently still able to use a pen: the crossword was half-completed in spidery red capitals. It quickly became apparent, though, that he was fitting in words at random, many of them obscure or misspelled.