Omega

“The Middle East presented a particularly intractable problem. Sixty years ago it was believed that the Jewish Question had been settled humanely by the mass evacuations to their ancestral homeland. But it bred equally virulent forms of domestic nationalism within the federated territories. In the Slavic lands we have a convenient wasteland for demarcation, in North Africa the desert expanses. But not in Palestine and Mesopotamia, despite our best efforts at homeland creation.”

His tone was that of a wearily exasperated parent, of someone whose boundless charity had been spurned.

“A festering wound on a sensitive frontier, Jews and Muslims and Christians in bitter unending conflict, even amongst themselves. Even with occupying armies. Too many symbols of religious and nationalist pride, too much history of strife. It became clear it was never going to go away. But the example of the east, how the very devastation of its territories was creating a cordon sanitaire, proved an inspiration to our strategic planners. Why don’t you sit down, major?”

Already I was beginning to anticipates gloss on might say. I made Owain sit. Marisa, whose head was still down, looked like she wished she were anywhere but here.

“The nuclear attack on Palestine was orchestrated by senior figures within the Alliance,” Legister stated. “It was they who supplied the weaponry, they who selected the targets. A means of reducing troublesome provinces to a radioactive desert that could more easily be policed while bolstering their own authority in the inevitable outrage that would follow.”

Sixteen years ago. Sir Gruffydd wasn’t C-in-C in those days, but as Vice-Chief of the General Staff his would still have been an important voice on the JGC. He would have known about such a decision, been party to it.

“You’re saying my father was deliberately sacrificed.”

“It had to look convincingly like an attack from outside.”

“No,” Owain retorted. “My uncle would never have agreed to it. He wouldn’t let his only surviving brother die.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Legister’s tone was laced with scepticism. “Perhaps he preferred to become the guardian of two impressionable boys rather than allow them to grow up under the tutelage of a father he considered a potential danger to the cause.”

“My father spent most of his time overseas. My uncle was already our guardian in all but name.”

“But he was a prolific letter-writer, busily expounding his humanitarian views to the two of you at every opportunity, is that not true? Views that your uncle would have considered dangerously at variance with sound military doctrine.”

“He loved my father, too.”

“That may well be so. But what of his duty to the greater cause? Do you think he would ever have retained his eminence without being able to take whatever action was necessary to preserve it?”

“This is his family. All he had.”

Legister gave him a pitying look. “You would find, if you were able to examine the records, that in the months preceding the attack there was an unusually high level of transfers and repostings to and from Army Group Middle East. A disproportionate number of the new arrivals were personnel whose files are stamped F. For Fraglich. Of questionable sympathies. It’s used to signify moral or ideological rather than military qualms.”

Marisa’s head was up, but she was looking at her husband, not me. It appeared that she was hearing all this for the first time.

“Your father had carried that classification for more than a decade. He was conveniently in place. Had your uncle wanted to get him out, he certainly had the authority to do so. He was meant to be there, major. He was intended to die.”< ><p>

A split-screen shot on the television showed a Muslim cleric leading prayers with a group of senior Alliance officers, and a Free Orthodox ceremony in a church with a black-bearded archbishop. It dissolved into the deck of a warship, where Pope Clement was bestowing benedictions in his brisk fashion on the assembled ranks of the crew. On the continent the Ecumenical Church had more of a Catholic flavour.

“A studio backdrop,” Legister observed wryly. “They’ve rather overdone the seagulls, don’t you think?”

“And me?” Owain said angrily. “What classification do I have?”

Legister didn’t even hesitate. “Verdächtig” he said.

It meant “Under Suspicion”. I was scarcely surprised.

The cabin door opened again, and this time a quartet of Sir Gruffydd’s personal guard entered. The pick of the commando squadrons. We were escorted along the corridor to the front of the aircraft.

A large cabin directly behind the flight deck was crowded with personnel from MPs to braided officers in grey khaki, navy and slate blue. It had an atmosphere that I could only think of as festive. People stood talking in small groups, holding glasses of wine as if at a party. Almost half of them were women, including a high proportion of non-combatants who wore military style jackets and leggings as though to blend in.