Page 126 of The Words Beneath the Noise

My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the desk, trying to ground myself. “Why? Why would he do this?”

“Does it matter right now?”

“Yes. It matters.” I thought about Peter's bombed-out family home. His dead parents. His sister depending on whatever money he could send. The bitterness I'd heard when he talked about the government, about being forgotten. “He's not evil. He's desperate. Broken. The war took everything from him.”

“And he's taking from everyone else to cope.” Ruth's voice hardened. “I'm not without sympathy, Art. But people are dead because of him. And in seventy-two hours, there might be more.”

“Seventy-two hours?”

She pointed to the final intercept.

Rabennest confirms schedule. Primary target accessible. Window: 72 hours.

“They're planning something,” she said. “An operation. An attack.” She pulled out another sheet, coordinates and reconnaissance notes. “These flight paths, the ground confirmations in earlier intercepts. Art, they're targeting the estate. Hut X specifically.”

The blood drained from my face. “They know what we do here.”

“They know enough. Peter's been telling them.” Ruth's voice was tight. “Think about it. Why else would Rabennest be so valuable? He's not just passing convoy routes. He's giving them the location and schedule of the people who crack their codes. Take out Hut X, and they cripple our entire intelligence operation.”

I thought about everyone who worked in that hut. Ruth. Noor. The dozens of cryptanalysts and clerks and wireless operators who spent their days hunched over intercepts, fighting a war with pencils and paper. All of them targets now, marked for destruction by someone who sat three desks away from me.

“Seventy-two hours,” I repeated. “That's three days. Less, if the message was sent hours ago.”

“Which is why we can't wait.” Ruth gathered the papers. “We have to tell Finch. Tonight. Now.”

“I know.” I looked at the evidence spread across my desk, at what Peter had done, at what was coming. “But Art, you understand what this means? This evidence doesn't just identify the leak. It proves you're not involved. Your schedule, your patterns, none of it matches. Finch will have to see that.”

“Will he? Or will he decide I fabricated this to redirect suspicion?”

“He'll believe the intercepts. The source identifiers. The timeline.” She met my eyes. “This is real, Art. This is proof. Not just of Peter's guilt, but of your innocence. And proof that everyone in Hut X is in danger if we don't act.”

“And if Finch doesn't believe us?”

“Then we find another way.” I looked at the stack of evidence, at Ruth's tired face, at the grey dawn light beginning to seep through my window. “But this is our best chance. My best chance. To prove I'm not what Finch thinks I am.”

Ruth nodded slowly. “Then let's not waste it.”

We spent the next hour organising the evidence, creating a clear timeline, preparing arguments for every objection Finch might raise. The guard outside my door snored on, oblivious, and I made a mental note to report his incompetence to someone who might actually care.

By the time we were ready, the estate was beginning to stir. Distant sounds of activity, footsteps in corridors, the clatter of the early shift preparing to face another day.

“Ready?” Ruth asked.

I looked at the papers in my hands. Proof of Peter's betrayal. Proof of my innocence. The key to unlocking everything Finch had locked down.

“Ready,” I said.

Finch was alreadyat his desk, uniform immaculate despite the early hour, papers spread before him in neat stacks. He looked up as we entered, and his expression shifted from mild irritation to cold displeasure when he saw me.

“Miss Adler. Mr Pembroke.” He set down his pen with deliberate precision. “I believe I made it clear that Mr Pembroke is suspended from all duties and confined to quarters.”

“Sir, this couldn't wait.” Ruth stepped forward, placed our stack of intercepts on his desk. “We've identified the source of the security breaches.”

Finch didn't touch the papers. “You've been conducting your own investigation.”

“I've been doing my job, sir. Analysing intercepts. What I found was too urgent for proper channels.”

“And Mr Pembroke's role in this urgent discovery?”