Page 123 of The Words Beneath the Noise

I sat. Same chair as before, same interrogation lighting, same cold calculation in Finch's pale eyes.

“You visited Mr Pembroke yesterday. Against explicit orders that he was not to have visitors.”

“I conducted a welfare check. Standard protocol for security personnel monitoring high-value assets.”

“High-value assets.” Finch repeated the phrase with something approaching amusement. “Is that what we're calling him now?”

“He's a cryptanalyst essential to the war effort. His mental and physical welfare directly impacts our operational capability. I determined that isolation without any human contact could exacerbate existing stress responses and potentially impair his future usefulness.”

The words came out clinical, professional. Everything I'd rehearsed in my head during the long night hours.

“And how long did this welfare check last?”

“As long as necessary to ensure he was stable.”

“Which was?”

“I didn't time it precisely, sir. I was focused on the assessment.”

Finch leaned back in his chair, studying me with those cold eyes. “The guard reported you were in that room for nearly two hours, Sergeant. That seems excessive for a simple welfare check.”

“Mr Pembroke was in significant distress when I arrived. It took time to calm him down enough for coherent communication.” Kept my voice flat. Steady. “I'm sure you're aware of his documented anxiety responses. They don't resolve quickly.”

“I'm aware of many things about Mr Pembroke.” Finch pulled a familiar object from his desk drawer. Art's Black Book, the cloth cover worn soft with handling, Bea's stitched initials barely visible on the inside. “Including his habit of encoding personal thoughts in military-grade cipher.”

He set the notebook on the desk between us like evidence at a trial.

“Have you seen the contents of this notebook, Sergeant?”

“No, sir.”

“Never? In all your time escorting him, monitoring him, conducting welfare checks? He never showed you what he writes in these pages?”

“Mr Pembroke's personal effects are his own concern. I'm assigned to protect him, not to surveil his private thoughts.”

“And yet private thoughts can be dangerous. Private thoughts can reveal loyalties, intentions, vulnerabilities.” Finch tapped the notebook's cover. “I've had our people working on this all night. The cipher is sophisticated. Multiple layers. Someone put considerable effort into making these entries unreadable.”

My heart hammered, but I kept my expression neutral. “Mr Pembroke is a cryptanalyst. Sophisticated ciphers are his speciality.”

“Indeed. Which raises the question: why would a man who creates unbreakable codes for his country use those same skills to hide his personal writings?” Finch's eyes never left my face. “What is he so desperate to conceal?”

“I wouldn't know, sir. You'd have to ask him.”

“I have asked him. He claims it's merely a coping mechanism. A way to process the stress of the work.” Finch opened the notebook, flipped to a page dense with encoded text. “But coping mechanisms don't usually require military-grade encryption. Coping mechanisms don't usually make a man go white with terror when someone asks to see them.”

He closed the book. Looked at me.

“What is your relationship with Mr Pembroke, Sergeant? And I want the truth this time. Not the professional distance you've been performing.”

The moment stretched. I could feel the trap closing, could see exactly where this was heading. Finch had suspicions. Maybeeven evidence. And he was giving me one chance to confirm or deny before he made his move.

I thought about Art. About his tears. About the way he'd said I love you like it was the most terrifying and necessary thing he'd ever done.

Thought about what would happen if I told the truth.

And what would happen if I lied.

“My relationship with Mr Pembroke,” I said carefully, “is exactly what I've reported. I'm his security escort. I've developed a professional rapport that allows me to perform my duties more effectively. Nothing more.”