Christopher Nuttall - The Fall of Night

“So tell me, how are the Russians going to react?”

“They are not going to start a war with us,” Trautman said. “If the people of the Ukraine decide that they want to vote to join us, what right have they to interfere?”

“It is no use passing resolutions on vegetarianism when the wolves are of a different opinion,” Fanaroff said. He had had a girlfriend who had been a vegetarian once; she had been so self-righteous that he had dumped her right after one argument too many. There was a point when even great sex didn’t make up for the fact that you really didn’t like each other. “The Russians have launched a major military build up” — he pointed to several locations on the display — “here, here and here, perfectly positioned for a rapid advance into the Ukraine. They could brush the Ukrainian Government forces, such as they are, aside within a week… while you’re arguing over what to do about it. The American Government…”

“Is worried about the security of the ABM stations in Poland,” Guichy snapped. “I would like to remind you that they’re there are the sufferance of the European Union…”

“The Polish Government, which for some reason wanted to keep the military agreement that Poland signed with us,” Fanaroff snapped back. “The Poles agreed to keep them, because they wanted the radars to provide additional coverage for their own air force and EUROFOR is not involved and doesn’t even get a feed from the stations!”

He took a long breath. “It is the recommendation of the American Government that you reinforce Poland so that you actually have something in position to react when the Russians decide that the Ukrainian elections are tilted against them and come over the border,” he said, as calmly as he could. “For what it is worth, the American Government has also agreed to offer EUROFOR access to the direct feeds from the stations, if EUROFOR would like to take them up on the offer!”

There was a moment’s pause. “That would be quite welcome,” Trautman said. “In fact…”

“There is no intelligence to suggest that the Russians intend to do anything other than abide by the election results,” Guichy said. He nodded to a young carrot-topped man. “Major?”

Major Nekropher O'Mans, of EUROFOR Intelligence, shook his head. “There have been no reports that the Russians have dire intentions towards the Ukraine,” he said. “They actually played quite an important role in getting the Swedes into position, providing some help with transport and intelligence to prevent some of the factions from starting a civil war. A civil war is hardly in their interests.”

“I hope you’re right,” Fanaroff said. He unlocked the chip and passed it over to O'Mans. It had puzzled him that an Irishman had been appointed to EUROFOR Intelligence; the French or British had much more capable intelligence agencies and far more contacts to draw on. “That is the information we have been able to gather, Major; I hope that you are able to disprove the conclusion, but… I have a nasty feeling that you’re wrong.”

He saluted them and left the room; Saundra was waiting outside, skilfully deflecting the escort’s attempts to chat her up. The escort passed her his email and telephone number before escorting them back outside the building, into the warm sun. Brussels was lovely in spring, apart from the new buildings; they had been built to a standard where taste didn’t apply.

She tossed the note away as soon as she was outside. “Sir, how was it?”

Fanaroff looked back at the EUROFOR HQ. “They’re all doomed,” he said. He ignored her astonished questions. “Come on, we have to get back to the Embassy; I need a stiff drink.”

Edinburgh, United Kingdom

“Welcome to Edinburgh,” Hazel said, as the new prospective lodgers arrived. She took a moment to check out their appearance; one man, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and one woman, her eyes faintly desperate. The Scottish Parliament might have issued grandiose proclamations on how it intended to create new housing in the city, but in a fit of typical brilliance, the Parliament had managed to build houses that were too expensive for most buyers. “I understand that you are living together?”

“Yes, thank you,” the man said, his voice clearly from the Highlands. He held out a hand. It felt limp and sweaty to her touch. “We were recently offered a transfer to Edinburgh and… well, it was the sort of transfer that you take or you leave permanently.”

Hazel nodded in sympathy, reappraising them. She had assumed that they were lovers, at least, not merely colleagues; they had to be desperate to be sharing a flat. She had no objections to them sharing a room, but they would definitely be sharing a double bed, unless one of them had a sleeping bag. Her husband had a spare one if it were to be needed; she would go the extra mile for them if she could.

“The rent is three hundred pounds a month,” she said. In theory, she could accept Euros instead, but she had no real trust in European money. It just didn’t look real. “If you are sharing a room, I assume that you will be sharing the cost?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “I’m Shelia and this is Grant Murdock.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Hazel said, leading them up the stairs. “There are two floors to the building; the flats are all on the second floor. There are no real restrictions on what you can do here, except smoking; smoking is firmly banned in this building. If you bring anyone home, you are responsible for any damage they might do, and if you do break one of the rules, your possessions will be seized until you pay up. How long do you think you’ll be staying?”

Shelia seemed to be doing most of the talking. “We honestly don’t know,” she admitted. “The way things are these days, we just don’t know what to expect; the damned boss gets the golden handshake, we get the door and a kick in the arse if we don’t move fast enough to suit them. We hope to be here for at least a year, but…”

Hazel nodded. She understood; her husband shared her concerns about the job market these days. They all had debts to pay off, debts and endless taxes and red tape complicating their lives; there were times when she wanted to just go up to the IRS and detonate a really large car bomb right in front of the building.

“This is the main living room,” she said. She noticed Rashid Ustinov sitting on the sofa, probably waiting for his friend to come out of his room; the Russian wore simple labourer’s clothes. He worked on a building site somewhere; it was probably how the pair had met. He waved absently at the pair of them and turned his attention back to the book in his hand. “You’ll notice a fridge, for cold and frozen items, and a microwave, along with a computer port and a television. There’s a computer port in the room itself; the shower is just at the end of the building. It’s shared, I’m afraid.”

She showed them the room itself and knew instantly that they weren’t intending to rent it. It was smaller than they had expected, even if it did have a large bed; she had hoped that there would be more married couples moving into the house. She went through the entire explanation anyway, pointing out how the designer had hidden drawers and other units in the room, including a larger wardrobe than seemed possible. There was a sink for their basic needs; she even pointed out the washing machine that the two Russians used for their own washing. It wasn’t as if they had many clothes, after all; she’d only seen them in their basic labourers outfits.