Forgive the radio silence—locked down handling the Fairford situation.You’ve seen the papers, right?I’m safe, just tired.Not free to talk yet, but I would very much like to see you.Could we meet later this week?I’ll ring as soon as I’m clear.
ChapterEleven
Bryce
The embassy conference room had been polished within an inch of its life.Brass fixtures glimmered in the overhead light, the parquet floor shone, and the mahogany table stretched long enough to host a banquet instead of a crisis briefing.But despite the elegant trappings, the room throbbed with unease.
Every chair was filled—British uniforms with their medals catching the light, American suits stiff with formality, and the occasional civilian analyst perched on the edge of their seat like a nervous schoolboy waiting to be called on.A map of England was projected on the far wall, red circles marking Gloucestershire like angry welts.
The conversation volleyed back and forth in clipped bursts.
“Three drones.RAF Fairford airspace.”
“Intact recovery.Mostly intact.”
“No casualties.”
“Analysis ongoing.”
The words weren’t even full sentences anymore, just shards of language—jargon, acronyms, numbers.They cracked through the air like static.
I pressed my pen against the notebook in front of me, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap betraying the strain I tried to conceal.It wasn’t nerves exactly.It was pressure.Like someone had placed a heavy glass dome over the table and filled it with all the oxygen in the embassy, then locked us in together to see which of us would suffocate first.
I stopped tapping.Leaned forward.My reflection on the glossy surface of the table showed furrowed brows, and a mouth set tight.
“What matters is speed,” I said, letting the words slice clean across the chatter.
The effect was instant.A dozen heads turned in my direction.The Americans looked expectant, the British guarded, the civilians grateful someone had dared to interrupt.
“They’re measuring us,” I continued.“Not just our radar or our missiles.Us.If we waste hours massaging language into reports, Moscow learns we hesitate.They’ll see exactly how long it takes us to answer the door when they knock.”
Silence stretched.Somewhere down the hall, someone quickly answered a ringing phone.
Finally, an air marshal cleared his throat.His silver hair gleamed, and his posture was immaculate.“With respect, Ambassador, our analysts haven’t confirmed hostile intent.It may have been simple reconnaissance.”
I arched my brow.“Simple?Since when does Moscow do anything simple?”
The words landed harder than I intended, but I didn’t take them back.A few American uniforms nodded, lips twitching in silent agreement.Across the table, one British colonel looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.
And then there was Nigel Thorne.
He hadn’t said a word all morning.Not one.Instead, he lounged with the posture of a man enjoying a matinée, one hand smoothing an already-perfect lapel, the other resting lightly against his chin.When I spoke, his eyes lit with private amusement, as if I were performing for his entertainment.
The conversation resumed, but more carefully now.Threat analysis.Airspace sovereignty.NATO response protocols.I jotted notes, though I didn’t need them; every word etched itself into the back of my mind, sharp and indelible.
And beneath it all, Nigel’s silence pressed on me more heavily than the chatter.He was waiting—always waiting—for the exact moment to pounce.Or at least that’s how my exhausted and paranoid brain perceived it.
After nearly an hour, I shut my notebook with a decisive thud.The sound cracked like a gavel.
“That’s enough for now,” I said.“We’ll reconvene once we’ve got a full intelligence report.In the meantime, I expect hourly updates.And if Moscow sneezes, I want to know which way the wind is blowing.”
Chairs scraped back, polished shoes scuffed the floor, voices dropped from official to conversational as the military filed out.Some left briskly.Others lingered to exchange murmurs with colleagues.The room slowly emptied of its uniforms, its clipped accents, its official gravity.
Until there was only Nigel.
He hadn’t budged.He stayed exactly where he was, perched elegantly on the edge of his chair, one leg crossed over the other so that his silk sock flashed when his trouser hem shifted.
I gathered my papers with deliberate precision, stacking them until the corners lined up perfectly.“Was there something else, Mr.Thorne?”
