Page 112 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“No?” He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, a gesture so human it startled me. “I suppose you wouldn't. I've tried to be discreet about the investigation.”

“Investigation?”

He opened a file on his desk, but didn't turn it toward me. Just stared at the contents with an expression I couldn't read.

“Three weeks ago, intelligence from this facility was compromised. A convoy route. Seventeen ships. Four hundred and twelve men.” His voice was flat, reciting facts. “We rerouted based on decoded intercepts. The enemy knew. They were waiting.”

My stomach dropped. “I heard about the losses. I didn't know they were connected to a leak.”

“No one does. That's rather the point of an investigation.” He looked up at me, and I saw something in his eyes that wasn't hostility. It was grief. Barely contained, ruthlessly suppressed, but there. “Four hundred and twelve men, Mr Pembroke. Sons. Brothers. Husbands. Gone because someone in this facility gave information to the enemy.”

“And you think that someone is me.”

“I think I have to consider every possibility.” He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment he looked less like an interrogatorand more like a man who hadn't slept properly in weeks. “You have access to the relevant intercepts. You were on shift when the compromised intelligence was processed. And your behaviour lately has been...” He paused, choosing his words. “Irregular.”

“Irregular how?”

He pulled out a sheet of paper covered in notes. “Extended absences from your desk. Visits to areas of the estate unconnected to your work. Secretive behaviour. Nervous disposition when questioned.” His eyes met mine. “Close association with Sergeant Hale.”

The name landed like a blow. But Finch's tone wasn't accusatory. It was tired. Almost sad.

“I'm not accusing you of anything specific,” he continued. “Not yet. I'm trying to understand the pattern. Because there is a pattern, Mr Pembroke, and I need to determine whether it's innocent peculiarity or something more dangerous.”

“Tom has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Perhaps not. But you spend considerable time with him. Time that coincides with gaps in your documented work schedule.” Finch set down the paper. “Help me understand. If you're not passing intelligence, what are you doing during those unaccounted hours?”

The question was almost gentle. An opening, I realised. A chance to explain. To give him something that would make sense of the irregularities without revealing the truth.

“I have difficulty with... certain aspects of this work.” My voice came out smaller than I intended. “The pressure. The constant awareness that mistakes cost lives. Sometimes I need to step away. To breathe. Tom helps with that. He doesn't ask questions or expect me to perform. He just... lets me be.”

Finch studied me for a long moment. “You're describing friendship.”

“Yes.”

“And that's all it is? Friendship?”

The lie stuck in my throat. But I forced it out anyway. “Yes.”

Something shifted in Finch's expression. Not belief, exactly. More like recognition. The look of a man who understood lies because he'd told his share of them.

“I had a friend once,” he said quietly. “In the last war. Before I understood what this kind of work costs.” He stood, moved to the window, stared out at the snow-covered grounds. “His name was Ronald. We served together in intelligence operations. Spent months working side by side, decoding messages, trying to save lives. He was brilliant. One of the best minds I'd ever encountered.”

I didn't know what to say. This wasn't the interrogation I'd expected.

“He was also feeding information to the enemy.” Finch's voice was carefully controlled, but I heard the old wound underneath. “I didn't see it. Didn't want to see it. He was my friend, and I couldn't imagine him capable of betrayal. By the time I understood, a hundred and seventeen men were dead because of intelligence he'd passed along.”

He turned back to face me. “I'm not telling you this to be cruel, Mr Pembroke. I'm telling you because I need you to understand why I can't afford to trust anyone. Why patterns that might be innocent in peacetime become potential threats when lives hang in the balance.”

“I'm not Ronald.”

“I hope not. I truly do.” He moved back to his desk, sat down heavily. “You're one of our best cryptanalysts. Losing you would be a blow to the operation. But I cannot let sentiment override security. Not again. Not after what it cost last time.”

The confession changed something between us. He was still Finch, still rigid and demanding and suspicious. But he wasalso a man haunted by failure, desperate not to repeat it. I understood that desperation. Lived with my own version of it every day.

“What do you need from me?” I asked.

“The truth would be a start.” His eyes dropped to my jacket pocket. To the shape of the Black Book visible through the fabric. “That notebook you carry everywhere. What's in it?”