Chapter 13 Suspicion and Sugar
THIRTEEN
SUSPICION AND SUGAR
TOM
Finch reviewed the file in front of him without looking up. Mission parameters. Extraction timeline. Confirmation of target elimination.
“Clean shot,” he said finally. “Three hundred metres. Centre mass. Target confirmed deceased by Resistance contacts.” He glanced up, and something in his expression shifted. Not warmth, exactly, but acknowledgment. “Well done, Sergeant. Truly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Major Hartley's report is glowing. Says you performed exactly as expected. Professional. Efficient.” He set down the file, and his hand lingered on it for a moment.
“Brandt was responsible for coordinating intelligence that led to the sinking of fourteen Allied vessels over the past year. Over two thousand men.” He looked up at me.
“You've saved more lives with one bullet than most soldiers save in an entire career.”
The words should have been comforting. They weren't.
“Any issues to report? Complications during extraction?”
“None, sir. The operation went according to plan.”
“Good.” He was quiet for a moment, staring at the file. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Softer. “The first time I killed a man, I was twenty-three. Ypres. Close quarters, not like your work. I could see his face clearly. He was younger than me. Couldn't have been more than nineteen.”
I didn't know what to say. Finch never talked about his service, never revealed anything personal. This felt like watching armour crack.
“It gets easier,” he continued. “That's what they told me. And they were right, in a way. The mechanics become routine. But the weight of it...” He touched the file again. “The weight never gets lighter. You just get stronger at carrying it. Or you break.”
“Sir.”
“I'm telling you this because I've seen men come back from operations like yours and fall apart within weeks.
The silence gets to them. The knowledge of what they've done, sitting alone in their heads with no one to share it.” His pale eyes met mine.
“If you need to talk, Sergeant, my door is open. Not as your commanding officer. Just as someone who understands.”
The offer caught me off guard. Finch, offering counsel. Finch, admitting to vulnerability. It didn't fit the rigid, suspicious man I'd been dealing with for weeks.
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Don't appreciate it. Use it if you need to.” He straightened, and the moment of openness closed like a door.
“Now. The intelligence that made this operation possible.
If the Germans investigate, if they trace back how we knew about Brandt's movements, the chain is protected. Compartmentalised. Your identity is secure. No one outside this office and the relevant command structure knows who pulled the trigger.”
“And the codebreakers? The ones who cracked the original intercept?”
“Are equally protected.” He studied me. “Is there a particular reason you're pressing this point?”
“Just want to make sure all angles are covered, sir.”
“They are. I've made certain of it.” Something flickered in his expression. Understanding, maybe. “The people who work in those huts carry enough weight without adding fear of exposure to it. Whatever else you may think of me, Sergeant, I protect my people.”
I believed him. In that moment, despite everything, I believed him.
“Now.” He pulled another file toward him, and his tone shifted back to business. “There's another matter. You've been here long enough to form impressions. I want to know what you've observed in Hut X.”
“Observed, sir?”
“The cryptanalysts. Their routines, their interactions, their state of mind.” He leaned back in his chair. “You're not a fool, Hale. You've been watching them while you guard them. What have you seen?”
This felt different from his usual fishing expeditions. Less accusatory. More like a commander genuinely trying to understand his people.
“They're exhausted,” I said carefully. “All of them. Working hours that would break most soldiers. The pressure is constant, and they feel every failure personally.”
“Go on.”
“They care about the work. Genuinely. It's not just a job to them. When intelligence arrives too late, when an operation fails despite their efforts, they carry it. You can see it in their faces.” I thought of Art, hunched over his desk at three in the morning.
Ruth, snapping at everyone because she hadn't slept in two days.
Noor, making jokes to keep from crying. “They're not security risks, sir.
They're people doing impossible work and paying the cost.”
Finch was quiet for a long moment. “And Pembroke specifically? You spend more time with him than the others.”
My jaw tightened, but I kept my voice level. “He works harder than anyone I've ever seen. Irregular hours because the work demands it. Stress because he takes every lost life personally. He's not hiding anything suspicious. He's just burning himself out trying to save people.”
“You're certain of that.”
“I am, sir.”
Finch studied me, and I had the uncomfortable sense that he was seeing more than I wanted to show. But when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful rather than accusatory.
“Pembroke reminds me of someone I served with. Brilliant. Dedicated. Carried the weight of every decision like it was personally his fault.” He paused.
“That man worked himself into a breakdown by the end of the war.
Couldn't function. Couldn't live with what he'd done, even though what he'd done had saved thousands.”
“Sir?”
“I'm not accusing Pembroke of anything, Hale.
I'm concerned about him. The same way I'm concerned about everyone in this facility who's pushing themselves past breaking point.” Finch's expression was unreadable.
“If you notice him struggling, if he shows signs of approaching that edge, I want to know.
Not to punish him. To help him. Before it's too late.”
The words didn't match the Finch I'd come to expect. The suspicious, rigid security officer who saw threats everywhere. This was something else. Something almost paternal.
“I'll keep an eye on him, sir. But not as a spy. As someone who gives a damn whether he survives this war.”
Finch's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “That's all I'm asking, Sergeant. Dismissed.”
I saluted and made for the door.
“Hale.”
I turned.
“The weight you're carrying from this mission. Don't let it sit alone in the dark. Find someone to share it with. Someone you trust.” His eyes held mine. “We all need that. Even those of us who pretend we don't.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and stepped out into the corridor.
The canteen was packed with the evening shift change, bodies pressed close in the steamy warmth, voices layered over voices until the noise became a solid wall.
My usual corner table had been claimed by a group of WAAFs, so I'd ended up near the centre of the room with my back exposed and too many people in my peripheral vision.
Wrong. Everything about this felt wrong. But the alternative was skipping the meal entirely, and I'd learned the hard way that missing too many meals led to shaking hands and worse judgment, neither of which I could afford.
So I sat with my back to the room and my tea going cold in front of me and tried to pretend the noise wasn't crawling under my skin.
“Sarge! There you are.”
Peter materialised beside my table with his usual cheerful energy, tray balanced in one hand and that too-wide grin that made him look younger than his twenty-four years. He slid into the seat across from me without waiting for invitation, already talking before his arse hit the chair.
“Been looking for you. Got something that'll make that sad excuse for tea actually drinkable.” He pulled a small twist of paper from his pocket and set it on the table between us with the air of someone presenting the Crown Jewels.
“Real sugar. Proper stuff, not that saccharine shite that tastes like chemicals and disappointment.”
Real sugar. Hadn't seen any of that in months, maybe longer. Rationing had turned luxuries into memories, and sugar had been one of the first casualties.
“Where'd you get that?” My voice came out sharper than I'd intended, suspicion automatic.
“Told you. Mate in town. He's got connections with the supply depots, can get things now and then if you know who to ask.” Peter's grin didn't falter. “Don't look so serious, Sarge. It's not stolen. Just... redistributed from people who have more than they need to people who appreciate it.”
Black market, then. Or close enough to make no difference.
Not uncommon. Half the country was running on under-the-table deals and favours traded in the dark.
But coming from someone who worked at a classified installation, someone who had access to information that could be worth more than sugar. ..
“Take it,” Peter said, pushing the paper twist closer. “Go on. When's the last time you had tea that didn't taste like misery?”
He had a point. And refusing would be churlish, would mark me as suspicious or ungrateful or the kind of bloke who couldn't take a gift without making it complicated.
So I took it. Unwrapped the paper, dumped the precious white crystals into my tea, stirred with the battered spoon that came with the cup.
First sip hit different. Sweet and almost shocking after months of bitter, unsweetened brews. My whole body seemed to recognise it as something good, something worth savouring.
“Better, yeah?” Peter was watching me with satisfaction, like he'd personally solved all my problems with a teaspoon of contraband sugar.
“Yeah. Better. Thanks.”
“Don't mention it. We've all got to look out for each other, right?” He took a gulp of his own tea and grimaced. “Christ, even with sugar this stuff tastes like it was brewed in a boot. But at least it's hot.”