Omega

The back flash and the impact were instantaneous, the shell striking close to the boys, showering them with debris.

As the smoke slowly dispersed, Owain saw that a neat hole had been punctured in the ice. It was still bubbling, churning with white-streaked water. They’d probably used an armour-piercing shell without the explosive charge.

He heard the men laughing, saw one of the boys smear blood from his cheek. Both began to scramble around, one retrieving the rod and the bait bag, the other dragging a large stone across the ice for a seat.

Owain rose. Nothing had come back to him to fill the gap in his night’s recollections. It was still a void. A blank confusion was his prevailing emotion, along with uncertainty about the allegiances of those closest to him. What was Rhys up to? Where was he? Why was his uncle apparently avoiding contact with him? What did Legister want, beyond information on Marisa’s whereabouts?

He crossed a path through Parliament Gardens, past the concrete flowerbeds and blackened saplings. A corpse lay frozen in the derelict gazebo, a drift of snow covering it like a bed sheet. He was conscious of the labyrinth of rooms and chambers far beneath his feet that would be bustling with subterranean activity, all of t dedicated to the preservation of the state. He felt like an ant on the skin of a whale, out of place, at sea. His entire career as a soldier had been geared towards taking pragmatic action according to clearly defined circumstances. There was seldom the time to dwell on matters of morality or cause and effect; any such inclinations were positively discouraged in the field. Here, very little was clear, while taking any sort of action precipitated a host of unforeseen consequences. Webs of intrigue in which he felt ever more entangled.

He approached the first of the guards outside the building and showed them his ID. The man checked through sheets on a clipboard. He saluted.

“I’ll notify them you’re on your way, sir,” he said. A walkie-talkie was crackling at his hip.

“Am I expected?”

“You’re listed personnel, sir.”

A female guard at the main entrance didn’t even bother to check his ID; she stepped aside to let him through. He didn’t have a cap or beret and felt somehow naked as he entered the bustle of the main hall. But no one paid him any attention. Everyone was busy on telephones and typewriters. Much ado about something very pressing indeed.

I made him head for one of the lifts. Their buttons had a granular texture, were supposed to contain circuitry that gave an instant thumbprint match with a personnel catalogue on AEGIS. Or so it was rumoured: no one would ever confirm such things.

The lift arrived empty. I’ve no gun, Owain thought as it took him down. Legister’s men had never returned it. His usual anxieties about confinement and falling didn’t surface. Possibly it was my influence: probably he had more urgent priorities.

Another guard in the lobby, a Sikh in an incongruously white turban. His homeland was now under American administration. How does it feel? I felt like asking. Would you rather be there or here? What difference would it make to your loyalties?

The man escorted us to Sir Gruffydd’s quarters. Knocked on the outer door and opened it.

Giselle Vigoroux was just getting up from a desk, a sheet of paper in her hand. On seeing Owain, she put it down.

The guard withdrew, closing the door behind him.

“Major Maredudd reporting for duty,” he said with ostentatious formality.

“Where on earth have you been?”

She sounded irritable, looked less than pleased to see him. There was a young female secretary working at another desk nearby. Apart from this, the administrative area was empty.

“Out and about,” he said. “Walking.”

“Your phone’s dead. We sent a car around for you.”

“Really? When?”

“Two hours ago.”

Probably the ginger-haired CIF man had ripped out the wires when he was searching the place.

“Carl Legister was there first,” he said.

She frowned at him.

“An early morning call. He took me for a little ride.”

She put the paper down but didn’t move from the desk. He could see her thinking, wondering what tack to take.

“Apparently Marisa’s missing,” he said, feeling both brazen and foolish. “He wanted to know if I’d seen her.”

She looked angry, but in a steely sort of way. Arms spread, hands flat on the desk top.

“He was also asking about Rhys.”

Still nothing, though he was certain she knew something.

“You haven’t seen either of them, have you?”

“Ingrid,” Giselle said to the secretary, “would you leave us, please.”

The girl rose and went out. Attractive, though overzealous with the lipstick, and slightly on the buxom side, the brass buttons on her jacket under strain. She couldn’t have been more than twenty.

“We’re leaving within the hour,” Giselle said when she was gone. “Do you have anything to pick up from your quarters?”

“Where are we going?”

“The field marshal’s decided to make the journey by car. You’ll be riding with us.”

Her tone was barely civil. She looked like she’d hardly slept.