Omega

“Better, is he?” Owain said.

“He’s been asking about you all morning.”

“That’s good to hear. I thought I’d become persona non grata.”

“We may be gone for several days.”

He couldn’t decide how much of her attitude was pure hostility, and how much mere suspicion.

="3"size="3">“Don’t you want to know what Legister wanted?”

“You’ve already said. He was looking for Marisa.”

“He was also very curious about what Rhys might have said to me. When we had dinner together.”

She’d started gathering up the papers on her desk.

“Did you talk to uncle about him?”

“I told him, yes.”

“And what did he say?”

She was busy slipping the papers into files and wallets, not looking at him.

“There really isn’t time to discuss it now.”

This was more than military need-to-know: he was plainly being kept out of the picture. Things had changed. There was no longer any basis for trust between them.

He waited while she checked through the drawers, locking each one after doing so.

“Any chance of a cup of tea?” he said. “It’s cold out there.”

He could almost smell her impatience, her urge to be done with him.

“Sit down,” she said, indicating the leather chair to the side of the desk.

He did so. She emptied the trays on her desk, putting the papers on top of the pile, which she carried out.

Owain didn’t move. He just sat there, closing his eyes and putting his thoughts on stand-by. I was surprised at his insolence, his almost wilful disrespect for her authority. That he should react to perceived threats with aggressive defensiveness wasn’t unusual, but not with those he considered his patrons and superiors.

I couldn’t get access to his deeper thoughts. They were less concealed than absent, as though he would not permit himself the luxury of any sort of reflection.

A side door opened and Owain was startled when a brigadier emerged, accompanied by the Chancellor.

Automatically he stood bolt upright and saluted. The Chancellor wore a dark suit over a white open-necked shirt. He didn’t even glance at Owain as they exited. Owain overheard him talking in a broad West Country accent.

Of course it wasn’t really the Chancellor, but a flesh-and-blood sighting was always remarkable. A look-alike, one of several in existence throughout Europe, created by a combination of plastic surgery, posture training and suitable applications of hair dye. Doubles of a non-existent person, indispensable for public displays such as ades or television footage of assemblies that demanded an extra degree of three-dimensional realism. Everyone knowingly entered into the spirit of the fabrication.

The secretary, Ingrid, returned with a mug of tea. Louche blue eyes, an accommodating smile. A seduction, he suspected, would be easy. He let her go without a word; it was enough to relish the notion of it.

The tea was liberally sugared. Perhaps he should have come to the office with more humility, though he doubted it would have changed Giselle’s frosty attitude. Clearly she knew far more than she was prepared to tell him—but about what exactly?

He wandered over to Ingrid’s desk and glanced at the paperwork there. A list of provisions that included chocolate-cream biscuits and hot-water bottles. Four-day weather reports for the North Sea littoral, detailing wind patterns, cloud cover, likely precipitation. The text of “Armour Excelsior”, a popular patriotic poem, torn from a book with Ingrid’s spiral doodles around a colour picture of warring thunder gods. A computer printout of support personnel with most of the names highlighted in pink.

“Curious, major?”

Giselle had returned.

“Just browsing,” he replied. “I didn’t open any drawers.”

She stood in the doorway, holding a big bunch of keys.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Am I under suspicion?”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Stupidity? Lack of common sense? Murder?”

He knew it was a gamble to say the last word, but the uncertainty was paralysing him.

“Do you feel as if you are?”

That was their way: to turn your questions back on you.

“I feel excluded,” he said. “A liability. As if I’m not trusted.”

“No. That’s not the case.”

“So why wouldn’t you let me see my uncle?”

“He was very busy. He didn’t want any distractions.”

“Really?”

“Sometimes other matters have to take priority.”

“What about Rhys?”

“What about him?”

“Why is he here?”

“Here?”

“In London.”

“Because he’s needed.”

“For what?”

She went back to the desk and put the keys down. “Sir Gruffydd will explain everything later.”

“Can I see him?”

“He’s exasperated with you, Owain.”

“Why? Because I wasn’t around when I was needed?” He allowed a pause. “Or is it something else?”

He wanted her to tell him what she knew, however damning it might be.

“I’ve arranged an escort to take you back to your quarters,” she said. “Pick up whatever you need and be quick about it. Be back here within half an hour.”

“An escort? Am I under arrest?”

“I want to make sure you don’t go wandering off again. You need to be ready to go.”

Owain thought about it. “There’s nothing I need there.”