Free The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) by Justin Richards

sigh. ‘And at the moment the devil is driving towards Moscow. Mainly, I gather, in equipment taken from the French when they threw in the towel.’
    ‘This meeting,’ Guy said. ‘Can I go?’
    Chivers looked surprised.
    ‘I’ve finished the latest batch of translations,’ Guy told him. ‘Not much to do that’s urgent.’
    ‘I doubt they want spare bodies clogging the place up. Precious little air down there as it is.’
    ‘I meant instead of you. As your representative. I’ve done that often enough before, though maybe not at this level. But, I mean, if you’re not…’ His voice faded.
    ‘Not up to it?’ Chivers finished for him. ‘I’m up to it, never fear. But…’ He stared down at the papers strewn across his desk. ‘I could do without the distraction. It’ll just be a glorified pep talk from on high. So…’ He looked up at Guy and nodded. ‘Good idea. I’ll have Maureen write you a chitty in case anyone asks.’
    Guy smiled back, though he was already wondering what he’d let himself in for.
    ‘Ten o’clock sharp, down in the War Rooms.’ Chivers nodded his thanks. ‘Rather you than me.’
    Deep under the New Public Offices building in Whitehall lay hidden the nerve centre of Britain’s war effort. Guy had been to the War Rooms several times before. He found it even more claustrophobic and airless now. He had never seen it so busy.
    The meeting was little more than an update on the situation in the Soviet Union. Guy already knew most of it. Churchill sat at the end of the room in a fog of cigar smoke. He said little until the end of the meeting when he hauled himself to his feet and addressed the assembled officers and civil servants.
    ‘Herr Hitler has made a grave mistake,’ he announced. The glint in his eye was visible even through the smoke. ‘He has opened a second front in the war. He is not a man to learn the lessons of history. Either he is impatient, or he considers us merely a thorn in his side. But make no mistake, this thorn will bleed him dry.’
    Guy slipped out of the room during the inevitable military updates. It was the diplomatic side of things that would interest Chivers, and that had already been amply covered. He made his way through the narrow corridor, squeezing past messenger girls and military personnel. Pausing at a junction of another corridor, he glanced to his left and saw a distinctive head of thinning red hair above the other people.
    The man from the underground station – David Alban. Guy eased his way closer. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk to the man, or just to let Alban see he was here. But as he got closer, he saw that Alban was speaking with an army officer. It was Colonel Brinkman.
    Guy took a step back, colliding with a woman carrying a message flimsy. He apologised profusely, earning a smile as she hurried on her way. She passed Alban and Brinkman, who were now walking slowly as they talked.
    The corridor cleared slightly, and Guy could make out some of the conversation ahead of him. Brinkman’s voice was calm and quiet. But Alban was more animated – loud and angry.
    ‘… poached their best agent, SOE won’t be happy.’
    Brinkman made some comment. It didn’t calm Alban. Guy caught snatches of his reply.
    ‘They’re already screaming blue murder at us for not getting enough involved. Smash bang wallop is the SOE philosophy… No idea about intelligence gathering…’
    Again Brinkman’s reply was lost in the general noise of the bunker.
    Alban stopped, and Guy was close enough to hear the man’s response.
    ‘Too right it’s your concern,’ Alban said. His voice was lower now, but no less angry. ‘Or it soon will be. SOE are all right, they’re Churchill’s baby and still the blue-eyed boy. But we need to up our game in eastern Europe now that the second front has opened. That means MI6 needs more funding. Everyone knows how vital our work is at MI5, and if SOE is sacrosanct then the only place that funding can come