Page 124 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Finch was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and returned the notebook to his drawer.

“Very well, Sergeant. I'll take you at your word. For now.” He stood, moved to the window, looked out at the snow-covered grounds. “But I want you to understand something. I'm not a fool. I've been doing this job for longer than you've been a soldier. I know when people are hiding things. And I know when those hidden things pose a threat to operational security.”

He turned back to face me.

“Mr Pembroke's suspension will continue until our analysis of his notebook is complete. You will maintain your escort duties when and if he is permitted to return to work. And you will report to me immediately if you observe anything, anything at all, that suggests he may be compromised in any way.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

I stood. Made it to the door.

“Sergeant.” Finch's voice stopped me. “One more thing. The guard who was posted outside Mr Pembroke's room. He's been reassigned. The new guard will be more... attentive. I trust that won't be a problem.”

A warning. Clear and direct.

“No, sir. No problem at all.”

Left his office and walked out into the cold morning air, and didn't let myself react until I was well out of sight of the manor windows.

Then I stopped. Leaned against a tree. Let my head fall back against the rough bark and breathed until the shaking in my hands subsided.

TWENTY-TWO

SIGNALS IN THE STATIC

ART

The knock came at half past two in the morning.

I'd been lying awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster because sleep was impossible and my mind wouldn't stop racing. No Black Book to write in. No work to lose myself in. Just the endless loop of thoughts about Tom, about Finch, about the investigation that hung over my head like an executioner's blade.

The knock was soft. Careful. The kind of knock that didn't want to be heard by anyone except the person meant to hear it.

I sat up, heart hammering. Tom? But Tom would have signalled differently, would have used the pattern we'd established for emergencies.

Crossed to the door on bare feet, pressed my ear against the wood.

“Art.” Ruth's voice, barely above a whisper. “The guard's asleep. Open the door.”

I cracked it open, peered out. She was right. The young soldier Finch had posted outside my room was slumped against the wall, chin on his chest, breathing slow and even. His rifle hadslipped to rest against his knee, forgotten in whatever dream had claimed him.

Ruth stood in the corridor with a stack of papers clutched to her chest, face tight with urgency. Snowflakes still clung to her dark hair, melting slowly in the warmth of the building.

“What are you doing here?”

“Let me in. Quickly.”

I stepped back, let her slip through, closed the door with barely a sound. The latch clicked softly, and I held my breath, listening for any sign that the guard had stirred. Nothing. Just the distant creak of the old building settling in the cold.

Ruth moved to my small desk, spread the papers out under the weak lamplight, and turned to face me with an expression I'd never seen on her before.

Hope. Fierce, desperate hope, fighting against exhaustion.

“I found something,” she said. “In tonight's intercepts. Something that could clear your name.”

The words hit me like cold water. “What?”