Page 21 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Sometimes. Why?”

“Just thinking about security applications.” He had an easy manner, not quite casual but not stiff either. “Seems like it'd be useful for spotting people who don't belong. The ones who watch too long or look at the wrong things.”

“It is useful. Takes practice, though. Most people don't trust their instincts enough.”

“My da always said instincts were just experience talking faster than your brain could follow.” Whitmore smiled slightly. “He was a copper in Birmingham before the war. Said the best ones learned to listen to that voice.”

“Smart man.”

“He had his moments.” Whitmore glanced toward the main grounds. “I should get back to my post. But if you ever want someone to run exercises with, I'm usually on the evening rotation. Beats standing around watching snow fall.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

He headed off, and I stayed to clean the rifle, working through the familiar ritual of maintenance while the other guards dispersed. The cold had seeped through my uniform, but I barely noticed. My mind was already elsewhere, turning over Whitmore's question about watching and being watched.

That's when I heard footsteps approaching. Too deliberate to be casual.

Captain Finch appeared around the edge of the tree line, his breath fogging in the cold air. He looked, if possible, even more rigid than usual, which suggested something had gone wrong or was about to.

“Everyone out,” he said, not raising his voice but somehow making it carry across the range like a command from God himself. “Now.”

Davies and the others exchanged glances but didn't argue. They gathered their gear and filed past, boots crunching through the snow, until only Finch and I remained standing in the cold silence of the empty range.

I set down the rifle and waited.

Finch watched the last man disappear around the corner of the outbuilding before he spoke again. “Not here. My office.”

Something cold settled in my stomach that had nothing to do with the weather.

I followed him back to the manor, through corridors that had become familiar over the past weeks, into the small security office where he conducted his interrogations and issued his orders. He closed the door behind us with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.

“Sit.”

I sat. Finch remained standing, which was never a good sign.

“What I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room.” He didn't phrase it as a question. “You understand the consequences if it does.”

“Yes, sir.”

He pulled a file from his desk drawer and set it in front of me. Inside: photographs, maps, typed intelligence reports. A face I didn't recognise stared up from the top photograph, a man in German uniform with the insignia of a senior officer.

“Oberst Wilhelm Brandt,” Finch said. “Wehrmacht intelligence. He's been coordinating signals operations across the Western Front, including the encryption protocols our people have been trying to crack.” He tapped the photograph. “Three days ago, we received intelligence suggesting he'll be travelling through occupied France to inspect a forward communications post. The route passes within range of a position we can access.”

I looked at the maps, the marked routes, the estimated timetables. Professional work. Thorough.

“You want him eliminated,” I said.

“Command wants him eliminated. I'm the one delivering the order.” Finch's jaw tightened. “This isn't a battlefield operation, Sergeant. It's a targeted assassination behind enemy lines. You'd be inserted by air, make your way to the position, take the shot, and extract to a pickup point. Alone.”

“When?”

“The intelligence is still being refined. Our cryptanalysts are working on intercepted communications that should give us a more precise window.” He paused. “One cryptanalyst in particular.”

Art. Of course it would be Art.

“The mission parameters are being developed,” Finch continued. “You'll receive a full briefing when we have confirmed timing. But I wanted you to know now, so you can prepare. Mentally and otherwise.”

I looked at the photograph again. Oberst Wilhelm Brandt. A man with a face like any other, who went home to someone, who had people who would mourn him when he died. A man I'd never met, never spoken to, who existed to me only as a target.