Page 12 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Still inside, I think. You know how he gets when he's working. Probably didn't even hear the whistle.”

Christ.

I left the others to continue toward the assembly point and pushed back into the hut, moving by touch and memory through the narrow corridor. The darkness inside was even more complete than outside, the blacked-out windows sealing out any ambient light, and I had to feel my way along the walls until I reached the main workroom.

“Pembroke?”

No response.

I clicked on my torch, shielding it with my hand so only a sliver of light escaped, and swept the beam across the room. Desks, typewriters, filing cabinets, all the detritus of code-breaking work. And there, at the back, a figure still hunched over a desk, pencil moving across paper.

He hadn't noticed. The whistle, the evacuation, the total darkness. He'd been so deep in whatever he was working on that the entire world had ceased to exist.

I crossed the room in four strides and put my hand on his shoulder. “Pembroke.”

He startled violently, pencil skittering across the desk, and for a moment his eyes were wild, unfocused, like a man waking from a dream he couldn't escape.

“What—”

“Blackout drill. Everyone's evacuated. You need to move, now.”

“I was just—the intercepts—I almost had the?—”

“Now.” I grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and shoved it at him. “You can crack the code of the century tomorrow. Tonight, you're getting out of this building before Finch has both our heads.”

He stared at me for a moment, still half-lost in whatever mental space he'd been occupying, and then something clicked. He pulled on the coat with fumbling hands, grabbed his scarf and the notebook that was never far from his reach, and followed me toward the door.

Outside, the darkness pressed close. I killed the torch once we were clear of the building; using light during a blackout drill defeated the purpose, and I didn't need Finch adding that to my list of failures.

“Stay close,” I said. “The path's iced over. I'll guide you.”

“I can?—”

“I know you can. But you won't. Not tonight.” I took his elbow, the same grip I'd used on wounded men in the field, firm enough to steer but not tight enough to hurt. “We move together or not at all.”

He went rigid under my hand. I could feel the resistance in him, the instinct to pull away, to prove he didn't need help. But the cold was brutal and the ground was treacherous and somewhere in that brilliant, stubborn mind, practicality won out over pride.

He let me guide him.

We moved through the darkness in silence, my free hand outstretched to feel for obstacles, my feet testing each step before committing weight. The snow had crusted over with ice, crunching under our boots, and the only other sound was our breathing, harsh and white in the frozen air.

Halfway to the assembly point, a shout cut through the night. Then another. Sounds of a scuffle somewhere to our left, near the perimeter fence.

I stopped. Pembroke stopped with me, tension radiating through the arm I was holding.

“Stay here,” I said.

“What—”

“Don't move.”

I was already running, boots finding purchase on the ice through instinct and luck, hand going to the Webley at my hip. The sounds led me to a section of fence where the woods pressed close, and I could make out shapes in the darkness now, two figures struggling, one trying to get over the wire while the other hauled him back.

“Hold!” I barked, and both figures froze.

My torch came on, blinding in the blackness, and I saw a young private I didn't recognise grappling with a civilian in a wool coat. The civilian had a satchel clutched to his chest, and his face, when the light hit it, was white with terror.

“What's going on here?”