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.’
4
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.
He was still eating when a second helicopter arrived. It approached through the darkness, lowered its tail, swung around dramatically, then landed in the glare of the floodlights. It appeared to be a military aircraft, the same general type as the ones Tarent had seen hastening towards the triangular scar in the field, but this one carried the shield of the British Army: a scimitar and rifle crossed, with the Shahada beneath. This time the men who ran forward to unload it appeared from a smaller building on the far side of the compound. They were soldiers in standard fatigues, with orange hi-vis jackets glaring in the bright lights of the helipad. They formed up efficiently into squads. They had brought with them half-a-dozen glistening metal trolleys. With the help of crewmen who had arrived in the aircraft they carefully and slowly unloaded many small and unidentifiable items, which were placed in a truck, then long stretchers bearing human shapes were brought out, hidden beneath thick blankets and securing webbing. Because of the darkness and the movement, Tarent could not see how many stretchers appeared, but there were at least four or five. They were each placed gently on to one of the metal trolleys, drip feeds and oxygen were quickly but deftly hooked up, and the casualties were wheeled away at fast walking speed to the building from which the soldiers had emerged.
Thinking of course of Flo, Tarent stood up as soon as he realized what was going on, pressing up closely to the window. He leaned against the glass, cupping his hands about his eyes. After the trolleys had been trundled out of sight the helicopter restarted its engine and prepared for take-off. The crewmen who had helped with the casualties now stood outside the aircraft, while the pre-flight checks were carried out. They were armed with automatic rifles. As the engine fired and the blades began to move at full speed, the soldiers leapt back on to the floor of the machine, each squatting beside the open side hatches, feet dangling into space, their weapons pointing at the ground. Within a few seconds the helicopter was out of sight.
Tarent left the Paddock building and returned to the accommodation block. He went to find the room to which he had been allocated. As he approached the door he saw that his large bag had been put outside in the hall.
When he slipped the key card into the slot, the red signal stayed stubbornly on. He pulled out the card, reversed it, tried again. The door remained locked. He thumped on it with his fist.
There was no response, so after a few seconds he hammered again. This time, after a short wait, he heard the lock being turned from inside, then the door eased open and was held by a security chain. A face moved into view, partly shaded by the light behind. It was a woman with untidy hair framing her face. He glimpsed baggy, shapeless clothes. She was wearing half-moon spectacles and she raised her chin to peer at him through them.
‘I know what you want. You can’t come in.’
‘This is my room. I’ve been given the key.’
‘No, it’s my room. I was given an undertaking I would not have to share with anyone.’
‘They said we had to share.’
‘Bad luck. I want to be alone.’
‘So do I,’ Tarent said, beginning to feel desperate. ‘They said they didn’t have another available room so I would have to share. I don’t want this any more than you do, but I’ve nowhere else to go.’ He sensed that she was about to slam the door closed. ‘Maybe another room will become vacant tomorrow. Couldn’t I just sleep on your floor tonight? Or in the spare bed. I know there’s one there.’
‘There are usually other rooms they keep free. Go to one of those.’
She was pushing the door against him, but Tarent, anxious to make his point, held it open with his weight. ‘They said there is nowhere else available. Look, I’m exhausted. I’ve been travelling all day, and I was caught up in that attack.’
‘What attack?’
‘You must have heard the explosion. A Mebsher was destroyed, or maybe damaged badly.’ Because he had just seen casualties being brought in he was no longer so sure of the real extent or seriousness of the damage, or if the injuries had been fatal, as he first assumed. ‘I was out there when it happened. I was lucky to escape, because I was about to get back on it when it was leaving. I’m at my wits’ end. I just need a place to sleep tonight.’ She said nothing, but continued to regard him through her low spectacles. Tarent could see she was not tall, fair-haired, nice to look at, but her expression was implacably hostile, unyielding. ‘Please may I come in?’
‘No. Allow me to close the door or I’ll call security.’
‘I won’t go anywhere near you.’
‘You won’t get the chance.’
She shoved the door hard and Tarent yielded. The door closed noisily against him and beyond it he heard the locks turning, then the clattering of two bolts.
5
With nowhere else to go Tarent walked back through the buildings to the corridor where he had met the woman in the burqa. He was dragging his bag, holding his cameras. His back was aching, his arms and legs were tired, he was still finding it painful to breathe and his mind was starting to feel numb. He simply craved a place to rest and sleep – even a chair would do.
There was no one in the corridor. The desk had been cleared of papers. The drawers were locked. A notice on the wall gave a number to call out of hours, but someone had scored a red ballpoint line through it. Tarent had no idea what to do next, but he was now in need of a lavatory. He walked the length of the corridor but the few doors were all locked. The further end was unlighted.
His last, dismal chance was to return to the room, and try for a second time to get the woman to admit him, so he started back that way. Then a door in the corridor opened behind him, one of the doors he had found locked a few moments before. A man emerged.
‘I thought I heard someone moving around,’ he said. ‘May I help?’
‘I can’t get into my room,’ Tarent said. ‘Are you the manager here?’
‘Tonight I am acting duty officer, but these buildings are on Threat Level Red because of an insurgency attack earlier.’ His English was excellent, but he spoke with a faint French accent. ‘My name is Bertrand Lepuits. First, I have to ask you: how did you gain entry to this site?’
‘I was ordered to report here. I believe you are the person I am meant to contact, Monsieur Lepuits. I arrived just after the attack on the Mebsher, which was the one I had been travelling on. The gate opened for me. I am Tibor Tarent, and I understand you are my supervising officer.’
‘Yes, Mr Tarent. We were expecting you, but we received an electronic message that you were going on to Hull DSG instead, so the officers who were deputed to debrief you are no longer available.’
‘No, I never intended to go to Hull.’ Tarent had let go of the handles of his bag, which now stood leaning at an angle on the floor. ‘That message was sent by mistake. If I had stayed on the Mebsher I suppose I would have been among those who have been killed or injured. Monsieur Lepuits, I beg you, at the moment all I want to do is find a room, somewhere I can rest. There is someone already using the room I was sent to.’
‘I can’t offer any help with that,’ the other man said. ‘You would have to see if the other person is willing to share with you.’
‘No, I’ve been through that,’ Tarent said.
‘My best advice, sir, would be for you try again. I have no access to the residential side of this establishment. I am so sorry. As far as the OOR is concerned, your case has been taken over by the MoD and you should be in Hull.’
He was already moving back towards the door he had appeared from.
Tarent said, ‘Is there anything else you can tell me? Is this place likely to be attacked? Is it safe here?’
‘It is as safe as anywhere, and nowhere. We are at Level Red, which is all I can tell you. We are at maximum level of security. Be alert to danger, Mr Tarent, and if the alarm sounds you must
assemble with everyone else outside. There are instructions posted in every room.’
He nodded politely, then withdrew through the door and closed it behind him.
6
Tarent returned to the other building and once again found room G27. He leaned his bag against the corridor wall, made sure his cameras were securely stowed away, then squared up to the door. He was determined that this time the woman in the room should not force the door closed against him.
There was a hand-shaped tactile pad by the side of the door, which he had not noticed before. He pushed his palm against it, feeling the familiar sensation of the reading of sensory information, and waited. A minute passed, then another. Tarent remained braced against the door, hoping it would open, ready to block it with his weight if she tried to close it against him again.
He heard the lock turning, and the security chain rattled. This time the door opened slowly, revealing her face, much as before.
‘I told you to bugger off,’ she said.
‘I’m appealing to you. It’s not my fault they’ve given me the wrong room. I’ve nowhere to sleep. That’s all I want. Please let me in?’
‘Try your key card in one of the other doors. That sometimes works.’