A dog howled out in the distance, as the wind swirled round a parked limousine. The front sheet of a rag tabloid glided mesmerizingly through the air, dancing its way across the bonnet as if guided by some unseen hand. For a moment it took away the pervading sense of gloom that struck hard through the stagnant air of the interior and provided a brief glimpse to its occupants of the eternal cycle playing out before them. All too soon it was over and the oppressive weight of inaction returned.
Their actions, planned and reviewed so many times they were now engrained into their beings, were ruined. One man, this British colonel, had ruined everything.
Who the hell was he, and where had he come from? In that answer, a solution to the dilemma presented would surely be found.
Failure was a difficult thing to come to terms with. Especially when so much was at stake. The gambler’s instinct to break even pushed hard sometimes and its irrational empathy with its situation was difficult to ignore.
The greatest choices were never made with a clear head. The divine motion of the random made them great by chance, never by planning.
In the end, it was inevitable. The only choice left was the one, begrudgingly, taken. Somewhere down the line, there would be hell to pay for the decision, but that could wait. The end of the beginning was in sight.
An opportunity would present itself to gather back some of the lost time and find some small measure of solace from the eventual revelation.
Waiting for the next opportunity and acting decisively was now the only course. The solitary question that remained was when.