Page 8 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Security oversight. Given the sensitive nature of the work being done here and certain concerns about estate security, we're implementing enhanced protective measures for the entirecryptography operation.” Finch gestured vaguely toward the hut behind us. “Sergeant Hale will be responsible for the safety of this building and everyone who works in it. Patrol rotations, access protocols, escort duties during blackout hours. You're our lead cryptanalyst, which means you'll be liaising with him directly on any security matters that affect your team.”

“We've managed perfectly well without a military presence hovering over us.”

“That's not your decision.” Finch's tone was flat, the kind that discouraged argument. “The Germans know we're reading their traffic. They don't know where or how, but they're looking. And this hut, whether you like it or not, contains some of our most valuable assets. I won't have the entire operation compromised because someone wandered in who shouldn't have, or because one of your people got careless during a late shift.”

The word assets landed strangely. Like being described as pieces of equipment rather than people.

“So we're to have a minder,” I said. “Someone to watch our every move and report back to you.”

“Someone to keep the operation secure.” Finch's eyes narrowed. “Sergeant Hale isn't here to spy on your team, Pembroke. He's here because if anything happens to this hut or the people in it, we lose months of work and potentially thousands of lives. The codebreakers are the brains. He's here to make sure nothing interrupts that work. Try to see it as a resource.”

I looked at the sergeant then, properly looked. The scar across his knuckles, faded but visible. The way his hands hung loose at his sides with the particular readiness of someone accustomed to violence. His expression revealed nothing. Just watchfulness, that same careful assessment I'd felt across the room.

“Fine,” I heard myself say. “If those are my orders.”

“They are.” Finch nodded once. “Given your hours, you'll likely see more of Sergeant Hale than anyone else on your team. He'll escort you back to your billet at the end of late shifts. Try not to make his job more difficult than it needs to be.”

He swept out of the office, leaving me alone with the soldier.

The silence stretched, uncomfortable and charged. I could feel him looking at me, and I didn't know what to do with my hands, my face, any part of myself.

“I should get back to work,” I said finally.

“I'll be here.” His voice was rough, like gravel under boots. Northern accent, probably Lancashire or Yorkshire. Working-class, certainly. The kind of voice that didn't waste syllables.

I walked back to my desk with the awareness of him following, not close enough to crowd but close enough that I couldn't forget he was there. Ruth raised an eyebrow as I sat down. Noor, across the room, mouthed something I couldn't read. I ignored them both and pulled the Ardennes intercepts toward me, trying to focus on patterns instead of the prickling sensation of being watched.

He took up a position near the back of the hut, against the wall where he could see the entire room. And there he stayed, silent and still, for the rest of the afternoon.

I worked. Or tried to. The patterns that usually came so easily kept fragmenting under my attention, scattering every time I became aware of those blue-grey eyes somewhere behind me. I made mistakes, had to re-do calculations, lost my place in the cipher tables twice. By the time the light through the windows had faded to black and the night shift had begun filtering in, I was exhausted and frustrated and no closer to cracking the additional layers of the Ardennes traffic than I'd been hours ago.

“End of shift.”

I looked up. Sergeant Hale stood beside my desk, closer than he'd been all day. Up close, I could see the faint lines around hiseyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he held himself like a man braced for impact.

“It's past eighteen hundred,” he said. “I'm to escort you back to your billet.”

“I should stay. The Ardennes intelligence?—”

“Has been submitted. You said so yourself.” His tone left no room for argument. “You've been at this for twelve hours. Time to stop.”

I wanted to argue. The impulse rose up. But my body was betraying me, eyes burning, neck aching, thoughts starting to fragment at the edges.

I gathered my things. Coat, scarf, gloves, the Black Book secure in my pocket. When I stood, the room tilted slightly, and I had to grip the edge of my desk until it steadied.

“When did you last eat?”

The question caught me off guard. I looked at him, found his expression unchanged but something different in his eyes. Not concern, exactly. More like professional assessment.

“This morning,” I said. “I think.”

“You think.”

“I don't always notice. When I'm working.”

He studied me for a moment, then turned toward the door. “Canteen's still open. We'll stop on the way.”

“I'm not hungry.”