The Adjacent (20 page)

Above all, Flo. What of her? What had he discovered about the woman other than the fact that he should call her Flo? He had known her physically and sexually, but only briefly. Any deeper knowledge of her still lay mainly in questions. Now, those would never be answered.

Down at the site of the crater a number of uniformed men and women had arrived, with more vehicles turning up every minute or so. A group of armed soldiers in full combat gear had debarked from five huge armoured personnel carriers and were now fanning out slowly across the field, inspecting the ground, but also looking about in every direction. Several of them were moving towards the ridge where Tarent was crouching. He decided that he did not wish to be found, treated perhaps as a witness, taken in and interrogated about what had happened, or what they might think had happened. How could he answer a single question about it? He had seen it occur, but he would have found it almost impossible to describe it or attempt to explain it.

He backed away so that he could not be seen from below, packed his cameras securely, then hefted his heavy bags again and set off in what he hoped was the general direction of the place he was supposed to be going to.

The freezing wind was still blowing but at last the sleet had turned to rain. He barely noticed the cold as he struggled along through the tangle of undergrowth and broken vegetation. He reached the path. Two helicopters, their markings invisible because the machines were black against the sky, swept past swiftly and at a low altitude, heading towards the scene of the explosion. They descended rapidly and soon Tarent lost sight of them.

He started to run, responding to a feeling of growing panic. All that was around him seemed threatening, inexplicable, out of control. He felt himself to be somehow responsible, for the destruction of the Mebsher, for the end of Flo’s life, for the end of Melanie’s, everything. He was haunted by the image of the triangular crater, whose shape had no logic other than the fact that it existed and he had seen it happen. Weighed down by his luggage, feeling the bulk of his case bashing against his knees and sides as he ran, Tarent sensed that this was the end, that his life was over, with nothing left for him.

He did not have far to go. In this state of mental fear and confusion, close to panic, not paying much attention to his surroundings, and when he had lost hope of finding any kind of refuge, he glimpsed the roof of a large building, made of grey metal. Behind it was another, then a space, and beyond that a third tall building, this one with a high chimney. Several big trees, stripped of most of their leaves but still standing, surrounded the buildings. With no expectation of what the buildings might be Tarent came to a halt, put down his bag and stood still, trying to recover his breath and to become calm. His heart was pounding. He waited a few minutes, hoping that someone might appear, or that there would be some outer indication that he was in the right place. He checked the GPS display, which had started working again, and it confirmed that his position coincided with Warne’s Farm.

He flexed his body, collected up his bag and cameras, then hastened further along the path towards the nearest of the buildings. He encountered the fence again, just as forbidding, but at least at this point there was a gate. A stand, made of concrete and steel, was next to the entry, with an electronic reader built into its upper surface. The familiar logo for the OOR was engraved on the surround. Tarent had to put down his bag once again to retrieve his security card from an inside pocket, was relieved to find it, and more so when the gate swung swiftly open. It began to close again just as quickly so he hurried through, dragging his property.

He went along a made path towards the building. It was much larger than he had thought at first sight. There were several wings and extensions, all apparently built at different times and now extending behind the main block. The original building appeared to be a nondescript twentieth-century farmhouse, but any character it might once have had was concealed by a number of alterations. Most of the extensions, flat-roofed and lined with monotonous rows of windows, were constructed of concrete panels and sheets, but these were cracked in many places. A zigzagging line was etched across the main wall facing him, from the ground to roof level, with mosses and other plants prodding through. The windows were metal-framed and looked as if they had not been cleaned in years, although lights were glowing behind some of them. The overall impression was that the building was being clamped to the ground: numerous wide straps, some made of metal, others of thick ropes, had been thrown over the roofs and secured firmly in the concrete like a huge restraining web.

There was no sign of a paddock, Tarent noted as he walked across to the building: just a large yard with a rough concrete floor where several vehicles were parked. As he approached the main door he could smell woodsmoke and something being cooked. He began to think of Flo, then in agony thrust memories of her from his mind.

A WOMAN IN A
BURQA
CHECKED HIM IN, QUIETLY SCANNING HIS
body and baggage with electronic analysis equipment, then efficiently, and apparently knowledgeably, examining all three of his cameras and the other photographic equipment he was carrying. Throughout this she said nothing. When Tarent volunteered his name she gave no sign that he was expected.

Two or three printed lists of statements and instructions were mounted on the desk between them, under a protective sheet of thick but transparent plastic. She led him silently to the positive result of each examination with a point of a gloved finger to the relevant words. Her pale skin showed through tiny ventilation holes in the glove, the only glimpse possible of any part of her body. There were four columns of text: Arabic, Spanish, Russian and English. She guided him to the column of English phrases. He glimpsed, or at least sensed by the motions of her head, the quick movement of eyes beyond the veiled aperture of her shroud. There was no discernible eye-contact with him. Tarent knew what she and other security officers would be on the look-out for, and like most people who travelled frequently he did not object to being searched, but he was always anxious when anyone handled his cameras. The woman held them delicately, though, then passed them back to him.

The reception area was an untidy, unclean passageway, unlit except by what daylight came through a window set into one of the two doors. The woman worked at a large, low and untidy desk, but there seemed to be no seat for her and she stood behind it. The corridor floor appeared not to have been swept for several weeks – there were many small chunks of broken masonry and cement powder, mixed in with the more expectable rubbish of packages, pieces of paper, small forgotten possessions dropped in passing. The environment of the place reminded Tarent of one of his photographic projects from years before: a pictorial essay for a magazine, about a failing sink estate in a town in Hertfordshire, where the interiors
and public areas of the buildings had been and continued to be trashed by dysfunctional youths.

‘Is this Warne’s Farm?’ Tarent said. The woman gave no hint that she had even heard the question. ‘An office of the OOR?’

She pointed with a gloved finger to a list of phrases held beneath the plastic sheet. Tarent read: ‘You are in the Intelligence and Funding Department of the Office of Overseas Relief, in the Eastern Kalifate of IRGB.’ A website address followed, as it did after almost every other piece of text. The finger moved to another line. ‘Your request will be dealt with by one of our officers when available. In the meantime, please wait.’

‘I have been ordered to report here,’ Tarent said.

No hint of understanding came from the woman as she went through his papers and plastic identifiers. After the first minute or two of her impassive silence, Tarent, craving human contact following the trauma of what he had just witnessed, tried to make conversation. Either the woman ignored him, or she touched a finger to another line of text: ‘I am engaged in a decision-making process – please wait’, or ‘If you have a complaint, please communicate with my supervising officer’, and so on.

Finally she handed over a plastic key card, then pointed to a chart of a floor-plan of an annexed building and indicated the room which had been allocated to him. He thanked her, praised Allah and averted his eyes. He struggled with his luggage along a short corridor, went outside to cross an open yard, then into a second building, unheated. He located the door to his room without trouble.

As he pushed the door open with his back, dragging in his luggage behind him, he was assailed by warmed air and the smell of food. The room was in darkness. He switched on the overhead light. The room was obviously already occupied: a notepad computer was open on the desk, with a screen saver moving to and fro, used cooking pans were stacked chaotically inside a small sink in one corner and a plate with yellowish curry smears was on the table. Discarded clothes were everywhere, and they were all women’s. Tarent glanced around, took in the fact that the room had two beds, one with just a bare mattress, but immediately backed away.

He left his luggage on the floor inside the room and returned to the other building. The woman in the
burqa
was standing behind her desk. She did not respond as he approached.

‘Peace be unto you,’ he started. The hidden head nodded a slow reaction. ‘Do you speak English?’

She leaned forward and removed a white card from a drawer in her desk. She slid it under the plastic sheet and indicated it with a finger. Tarent leaned forward to read what it said.

‘I have vowed to be silent during the hours of daylight, and request all visitors not to expect a verbal response from me.’ The words were repeated in the three other languages. The handwriting was open, broad, using a thick or soft pencil. The lead had apparently broken while she wrote, as the last three words were written with a ballpoint pen.

Tarent glanced back through the window – although the sky was still overcast and the day was gloomy, there were probably at least two more hours before nightfall.

She removed the card, but the others remained.

He said, ‘I respect your vows,
begum
, but I need your help. Please tell me what you can. The most trivial problem, but the one I want to resolve quickly, is that you have allocated me a room which appears to be occupied by someone else, a woman. Unless there is an extreme shortage of accommodation here, I believe it would be wrong for me to move into that room without her knowledge or permission.’ The woman made no apparent response. ‘I must also meet the person in charge of this place as soon as possible, because I have been brought here to be debriefed by the OOR after a journey abroad. But more important than any of this, there has been some kind of insurgent attack outside, not far from here, just below the ridge. Less than an hour ago. You must have heard the explosion. I think several people were killed. One of them is a close friend of mine, and I am desperate for more information about what happened.’

The woman opened the drawer again, produced another sheet of paper and slipped it under the sheet for him to see.

It said in printed letters: ‘
Mr Tibor Tarent, IRGB citizen
,
seconded to OOR at diplomatic status, priority high, M. Bertrand Lepuits to interview
.’

‘Yes, that’s me!’ Tarent said, greatly relieved to discover that he was known, expected, part of the system or structure of this place. ‘May I see Monsieur Lepuits straight away?’

The gloved finger went to: ‘What is the number of the room you are disputing?’

He found the key card in his pocket but it was electronically encrypted and no number was printed on it. He remembered that at the same time as she gave him the key card, the woman had passed him a slip of paper. He found that in his pocket.

‘It’s G27,’ he said.

The finger: ‘There is a state of emergency at present. Please consult your supervisor.’

‘My supervisor – is that Monsieur Lepuits? May I see him? I can’t be expected to share a room with someone I do not know. Can he give me more information?’

The finger again, more emphatically: ‘There is a state of emergency at present. Please consult your supervisor.’

‘Is there another room I could use?’ Tarent said. ‘One on my own – or perhaps I could share with another man, if there are no single rooms?’

Quickly: ‘No.’

‘Are any other rooms likely to come free?’

‘No.’ The gloved finger tapped three times against the printed word.

‘Then who is the woman who is already in G27?’

‘I am not allowed to answer that question.’ The plastic that lay immediately over these words was scuffed and semi-opaque, as if it were referred to more than any other answer.

Tarent thought for a moment. ‘I haven’t been able to eat any food all day. Is there a canteen, or a refectory, or somewhere I can find a meal?’

The finger pointed to another well-used line: ‘Our restaurant is situated on the first floor of the Paddock Building. Staff may not entertain guests without prior permission. Dishes are restricted to available ingredients on a day-by-day basis. The opening hours are from –’

‘Thank you.’

THE RESTAURANT TURNED OUT TO BE A VENDING MACHINE,
placed in a bare room overlooking the central yard. It required coins which Tarent did not have, but there was a slot for his security card. This made the machine display a list of choices, of which there was only one actually available: a Spanish omelette. It was delivered a minute later: it was so hot Tarent could barely handle it in its cardboard sleeve, but tough and tasteless when it was cool enough to be eaten. He sat at a wooden chair and table by the window, picking at the food, both hungry and repelled.

He looked down at the abandoned cars and trucks, which had
been pushed together into a rusting group. Beyond them was a cleared area, illuminated by floodlights, presumably in anticipation of the gathering twilight. It was to this pad that a helicopter circled in, hovered, then landed. It was a small machine with closed sides and no identifying marks, but it was expected – on its arrival several men hurried out from one of the buildings alongside the apron and unloaded crates and packages. The helicopter kept its vanes rotating while this was happening. As soon as the last load had been taken off, the aircraft lifted away, already turning as it climbed rapidly. Tarent was reminded of the almost frantic haste displayed by the supply helicopters which had visited the field hospital during those sweltering, unbreathable nights in eastern Turkey.