Omega

When we were leaving I managed to get a moment alone with Tanya in the car park. You know I’m still in love with you, don’t you? I blurted. She just laughed and told me to be careful to get Lyneth and Sara home safely.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to attend the wedding, let alone be Geoff’s best man. I contrived circumstances that gave me a get-out clause: I was in Normandy with a film crew, doing location work for a feature about William the Conqueror. I pretended that it had been arranged months in advance, whereas I had actually pressed for the slot only after I knew the date of the wedding.

Afterwards Tanya sent us a card to say: Sorry you couldn’t make it. On the front was the Klimt print “The Kiss”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Rhys turned the Mercedes into a military parking space on the western side of Aldwych. As they were getting out, a couple of security police materialised, both of them women. Rhys was ready with his ID card, which Owain knew would have Special Access status, allowing him to leave the vehicle almost anywhere he wished. Owain was embarrassed by his brother’s ostentation as he attempted banter with the women, joking that he would pay them a retainer if they kept an eye on the vehicle while he was away.

The car, a compact two-seater Kobold imported from Germany, was a twenty-year-old sports model that was no longer in production.Titanium alloy bodywork, leather upholstery, tinted windows—a symbol of conspicuous consumption.

They walked along the Strand, where illuminated restaurants, hotels and bars existed like garish expressions of a world immune to war. The streets were busy with well-heeled people, the privileged and the opportunists who always thrived, no matter how bad conditions were. Restaurant windows gave glimpses of senior commanders entertaining glamorous young women, Priority Provision stores sat snug behind metal shutters, and discreet doorways gave access to exclusive clubs where all sorts of pleasures were available. The Ritz, closed after a salmonella outbreak, was in darkness, but a Future Youth clinic occupied its forecourt, its neon signs urging passers-by to donate eggs and sperm towards the nation’s heritage. On this street, with official sanction, the blackout did not receive even a token observance.

What was he doing here? He had no alternative, he knew. If Rhys had information that might be of use to him, it was essential he extracted it.

His brother led him up the spiral stairs of a restaurant called the Viceroy on the corner of Trafalgar Square. The ground floor of the place was packed with diners, but an upstairs room held only a handful of people. Rhys was greeted without fuss by a maître d’hôel who knew him, and they were promptly led to a table at a window overlooking the square.

Their overcoats were taken, Owain surrendering his self-consciously, hating this enforced participation in his brother’s world, with its snobbery, exclusiveness and indifference to the sufferings of the majority. It was like being in enemy territory.

As if sensing his distaste, Rhys said, “I wouldn’t want you to think I make a habit of eating at these sort of places. I thought it might be a little treat. Uncle says you’ve had a difficult time.”

A bottle of wine appeared, in a silver cooler. The waiter was an elderly man. Before Owain could say anything his brother requested water for him. They were in a little alcove, out of earshot of everyone else. Rhys poured himself a large glass of wine. It was a golden-green.

“You said you knew something,” Owain remarked, unable to keep his impatience in check. “About the explosion.”

His brother nodded sagely. “More in the nature of a discharge than an explosion.”

“What does that mean?”

Rhys took a mouthful of wine. The waiter shuffled back to the table with a dark blue bottle. Water that sparkled as it was poured into his glass. Not what he’d wanted. But he wasn’t going to risk any distraction by insisting on a jug and tumbler.

Rhys waited until the man had hobbled away.

“What do you remember about the Minsk operation?” he asked.

Owain tried to keep his face free from any expressione a surprise. He didn’t want to give his brother the satisfaction.

“You know the one I mean,” Rhys said confidently. “You were the only one to come out of it alive, isn’t that so?”

All his brother’s usual awkwardness was gone. He was only ever self-effacing in their uncle’s company, always playing the dutiful, compliant nephew. Owain had a dawning sensation of the ground having shifted between them. He’d made a tactical mistake in letting his brother dictate the terms of their evening. Here, on his own territory, Rhys was suddenly confident, in full command of the situation.

“Did Uncle tell you?” Owain asked.

Rhys shook his head superciliously, though not necessarily in denial. “It’s my business to know these things. We monitor communications at ASPIC, remember? Among other things.”