Omega

Legister was the only civilian on the JGC. According to official sources, he had rescued Marisa from enslavement in the aftermath of the North African insurrection six years before. According to Marisa herself, the truth was somewhat different. Only seventeen at the time, she had been taken hostage and held in the southern Sahara by a renegade group of Aryan supremacists, who’d exiled themselves beyond Alliance territory after the passing of the racial emancipation laws. A captive for three months, she was finally liberated by Italian special forces and delivered to Alliance headquarters in Alexandria. Legister had been on a fact-finding mission there at the time. Thirty years her elder and hitherto a bachelor, he’d had a chaplain marry them in a hastily convened ceremony before bringing her back to London.

All this came to me in a matter of instants. Whenever he met Marisa, Owain was always very conscious of her past. I had a sense that he sought within it a clue to her future.

“I left a message,” Marisa said, going over to the telephone and pressing the Play button.

There was a moment of silence, followed by a series of electronic hisses and whooshes.

“I didn’t know you spoke static,” Owain said with a ponderous lack of humour.

She took his hand to lead him into the kitchen. He winced as she touched the raw skin of his knuckles.

“More damage,” she said.

“It’s nothing. I slipped.”

Her gaze was direct. “You are telling me porkies.”

“It’s icy out there.”

She let it go. “Do you know what they call a pig who works in the secret service?”

Only the glimmer of mischief in her eyes alerted him to the fact that she intended a joke.

“Go on.”< ><p>

“A pork spy!”

It was a child’s joke, but her laughter invited collaboration. She took a foreigner’s delight in the quirks of the English language, which was only one of several that she spoke.

Owain felt an unsettling brew of emotions. He himself had never married. His fiancée had abandoned him shortly before their wedding, leaving London to join her family on holiday in Venezuela, whereupon they deliberately sailed into US waters and were interned by the Americans. She’d sent him a note on perfumed paper to say that she wanted a better life.

Eight years ago. Caroline. These days whenever he thought of her it was merely as a deserter to her country rather than their marriage. There had been no one else until Marisa came along. But she was a married woman, even though his impression was that she had been duped into it by an older man taking advantage of her vulnerability. It was his own sense of honour and self-preservation that prevented him from even declaring let alone acting on his feelings. It was quite possible that Legister knew she was here.

“You must take more care,” she told him seriously. “They said you were lucky not to be killed. It was a bomb.”

He wasn’t sure whether this was a question or a statement.

“Of some sort,” he replied. “They’re still investigating. I don’t remember much.”

This, of course, was a lie; but he didn’t want to involve her in complications. Yet she might be able to help.

“What did your husband say?”

“Carl? He never speaks to me about official matters.”

“I thought you said he was talking to my uncle about it.”

“Only that there had been an incident. I heard him mention your name.”

“Apparently his men are doing the investigating. I’m surprised they’re involved.”

“Do you think he would explain things to me? I am only his little wife.”

She said this with resigned amusement rather than rancour.

“My driver,” he remarked. “His name was Maurice. Jamaican originally. They told me he was OK, but it would be nice to know.”

“Is it not possible to contact him?”

He couldn’t risk asking his uncle or Giselle, and it was unlikely he would be allowed access to personnel details without raising suspicions.

“It’s not encouraged,” he told her. “You know how these things work. But I’d just like to be sure, unofficially, you understand?”

He disliked being less than straightforward with her, but there was something slippery about the whole business; and Marisa was no fool. Staff details would surely be accessible at her husband’s ministry. Drivers were unlikely to have a high security classification.

“Of course I will do this for you,” she said. “With the uttermost discretion.”

She was grinning, pleased that she could help. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she went on. “I missed you badly when you were away. You’re the only one who makes me feel I can be myself.”

Her candour unsettled him because the sentiments she expressed were so desirable.

“So how is Carl?” he asked.

“I hardly see him,” she replied. “Every day he is gone before dawn. Every day there are meetings, conferences, and I never know whether he will be home or not. Always at six in the evening he rings, often to tell me he will be late and I am not to stay awake for him.” She gave an exasperated sigh and said, “Am I bad to say I would prefer it that way except that sometimes it is hard to occupy my days?”