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

soldier told Pentecross.
    ‘I know, I’m sorry. It was a bit of a rush. Last-minute thing. You know what it’s like.’
    People in the queue behind were shuffling impatiently.
    ‘You need to catch up with the colonel,’ the soldier said. He handed their passes back. ‘You won’t get into any of the secure locations unless you’re with him, not on these passes.’ He waved them through and turned his attention to the man waiting behind.
    ‘That was close,’ Guy breathed as they hurried up the driveway.
    ‘What the hell is this place?’ Sarah asked.
    ‘Somewhere we shouldn’t be, that’s obvious. We stay just long enough that they don’t get suspicious when we leave, then we’re out of here, all right?’
    Sarah nodded. From her expression Guy guessed that like him she was beginning to think they should never have come. Some things were best left well alone. He silently cursed his curiosity.
    Ahead of them, the house was now clearly visible as they approached. It looked, Guy thought, a bit of a mess, as if sections had been added haphazardly over the years. The result was an unsymmetrical structure that didn’t quite look ‘right’.
    But this was not Brinkman’s destination. He and Miss Manners turned off along a narrower roadway that led between several of the temporary wooden buildings. The place was busy – people walking or on bicycles. Many were in uniform, but a lot of them were in civilian clothes. The number of women suggested to Guy that it was some sort of administrative centre.
    Wherever they were, it was apparent that the work done here was sensitive. Sarah nudged Guy as they passed a noticeboard by the side of the drive. In amongst notices of social events and concerts was a foolscap poster:
    REMEMBER
    Do not talk at meals
    Do not talk in the transport Do not talk travelling
    Do not talk in the billet
    Do not talk by your own fireside
    Be careful even in your Hut
    Anywhere else, Dr Henry Wiles might have cut a rather odd figure in his threadbare tweed jacket, ancient waistcoat, and wire-rimmed glasses. But here at Bletchley Park, staffed with the most brilliant and eccentric academics and thinkers, Wiles fitted right in.
    ‘Colonel Brinkman is due in a few minutes, sir.’
    Wiles couldn’t recall if he’d ever been told the girl’s name, but she reminded him vaguely of his niece Deborah. He should probably find out what she was called, since it was always the same girl who brought the messages to this Hut. At least, he thought it was.
    ‘Thank you. What was your name again?’
    ‘It’s James, sir.’
    ‘James?’ Wiles pushed his glasses further up his nose.
    ‘Eleanor James.’ She was smiling. ‘I’ve asked the Gate to send the colonel straight up when he arrives.’
    Wiles nodded. ‘He sent another of those weird transmissions last week, this one originating over south east England. Damned if I know why he’s coming here himself, though.’ He cleared his throat, realising he had said that out loud. ‘Um, sorry, Debbie.’
    ‘Eleanor,’ she corrected him.
    Wiles nodded without really hearing. He needed space to work, he needed to talk to Fredericks and arrange time to examine this latest data from Brinkman. The colonel would want answers – he always wanted answers. Wiles bundled together the papers he had been working on, shuffled them into a neat pile, and dumped them on the floor. He still had to provide the data needed for a run on the bombe machines used to try to derive the day’s Enigma rotor settings. But there would be time for that later. For the moment, the German Enigma codes could wait – this was far more worrying.
    Immediately, he was absorbed in the problem. He didn’t hear the knock on the door of the small hut. Didn’t look up when the door opened and Colonel Brinkman came in. Didn’t react when the colonel cleared his throat. Not until the girl who wasn’t Debbie tapped his shoulder and said quietly:
    ‘Colonel Brinkman’s here.’
    ‘Thank