The Rose Field, page 12
The place looked like a medium-sized academic establishment or research institute. The Thuringia Potash sign, a rampant lion barred in red and white, hung over the entrance. There was no sign of activity.
Malcolm stiffly got out of the car and looked around. The gates were padlocked, the gatekeeper’s office closed, the car park empty.
“It’s early still,” said Ghazarian, who had joined him.
“It’s not that. Look at the shrubs, look at the flowers in the planters. You can bet that TP would have a team of gardeners to care for them, but they haven’t been watered for a week.”
“Curious.”
“Across the road there—is that a café?”
It was, and it was open. Two men were sitting at one of several tables outside; a waiter came out of the door with a tray. The white-painted building was set back a little way from the road, behind an empty space that had room for half a dozen cars.
“I think I need some breakfast,” said Malcolm.
“I’ll wait in the car. Uniforms make people nervous. Don’t stay long.”
Malcolm limped across the road and went into the café, watched silently by the men at the table outside. There were no customers inside; the proprietor responded to Malcolm’s greeting with a wary nod. Malcolm ordered coffee and pastries and spoke quietly with Asta while he waited.
“Attractive place,” said Malcolm. “Clean and fresh. This would have been the natural place for TP staff to eat and drink. He’ll be missing the trade.”
“I think Timur’s right. Better not stay longer than we need.”
When the owner brought the coffee and a plate of limp-looking croissants, Malcolm said, “That place over the road—Thuringia Potash—how long has it been closed?”
“Two weeks, maybe.”
“D’you happen to know why?”
The proprietor shrugged. “Just suddenly one day…No one has tell me. Why should they?”
“No, of course not. The thing is, I’m supposed to have a meeting there this morning. Agreed weeks ago. I’m a representative of an engineering company.”
The proprietor nodded slowly.
“I don’t know what to do,” Malcolm went on. “I think I can see some kind of notice stuck up on the entrance, but I can’t get past the gates to read it. I was hoping there might be a contact address or something. I never heard anything about this. I suppose you had a lot of customers from across the road?”
“Yes, many. Every day. Now…nothing.”
“And they didn’t explain to anyone why they were closing? No warning, nothing like that?”
The man’s dæmon, like a large starling, said something quietly on his shoulder. He nodded. “Some people say they had big project that go wrong. Not suppose to talk, suppose to be secret, but you know, in a café people talk all the time, they tell me things, I overhear…They had big project, but no one hear about closing. Big surprise for everyone.”
“What sort of project? I mean, don’t tell me if it’s a secret, but I’ve come all this way to talk about this new filter my company’s developed, and they’d have had to tell me about what they were doing, obviously. Did you hear anything at all about what this project involved?”
The proprietor looked out through the window at the road, through the glass door at the two customers outside, and behind him towards the kitchen, although he was clearly the only person there. Then he looked at the wallet Malcolm had taken from his pocket.
“For your trouble,” Malcolm said, and laid a couple of notes on the table. “I’ll have to explain to my boss. Anything you can tell me…”
“What I hear I don’t always understand. One day I hear someone say they were trying to make some kind of drug, some new medicine, something like that, and it didn’t work. They spend a lot of money, lot of resources, and they got clever people there, you know, but they couldn’t make it work. I don’t ask too many questions. I just listen, you know. But not always understand.”
“Well, thank you anyway. That’s a great help. At least I’ve got something I can tell my boss. Do you happen to know if TP has another office or plant in Aleppo?”
“No. This the only one.”
“And they didn’t leave anyone there to, I don’t know, keep watch, answer inquiries?”
“No. All gone.”
Malcolm finished his coffee and stood up. He shook hands with the proprietor.
“Well, thank you very much,” he said. “I hope your trade picks up. Maybe some other company will take the place over and bring it to life again. New customers for you.”
“Too late for me. Soon I have to close this café. Go well.”
Malcolm and Asta left. The two men outside ignored them. The road was already busier with the morning traffic; it took longer to cross back.
And when he reached the car, he found Ghazarian in conversation. He was standing by the driver’s door, talking to a middle-aged man who looked uncomfortable in his casual clothes, as if he’d much rather be wearing a suit. His dæmon, a dejected-looking woodpecker, sat on his shoulder with her eyes closed.
“Ah, here is my guest,” Ghazarian said as Malcolm approached. “Mr. Hanson, you ready to move on now?”
“Just about. Good morning, sir,” Malcolm said to the other man. “Are you connected with Thuringia Potash?”
“I was chief accountant. All closed now. You came to see someone?”
“Head of the engineering department. Here’s my card.”
He held out the card he’d put in his pocket, which said that he was George Hanson, Sales Executive of Coventry Hydraulics, makers of pumps, filters, and compressors.
The man nodded sadly. “Too late,” he said.
“What happened?”
“Too much money spent, not enough supervision.”
“They were making some sort of medicine, weren’t they? That’s what they wanted my filters for, anyway.”
“Biosynthesis. Not my specialty. If you have a filter to stop money leaking away, I would be interested. Anyway…” He looked around, and stood a little closer, dropping his voice. “Anyway, they have a new project, further east. Much further. Very confidential, but something big like that will always leak. Filters or not.”
“Have you heard any details about that?”
The accountant shook his head. “I should not say anyway. Even if I knew.”
“That size, you say…Something very large?”
“No. Said enough.”
“Is there a name connected with it? Someone I can get in touch with?”
Another shake of the head; regretful, but firm. He shrugged and handed back the card.
“Wasted journey,” said Malcolm. “Well, I’ve had those before. Nice to talk to you, Mr….”
“Nassim.”
They shook hands, and the melancholy Nassim resumed his walk. Malcolm got into the car, and Ghazarian drove them away.
* * *
—
Lyra stayed in the garden of the Brazilian Embassy for some time. She felt as if she was in a state of suspended animation, almost a coma, or a dream; all her energy seemed to have evaporated in the warm air, leaving her with no more weight or will, no more imagination, than a shadow. Her eyes were closing, and it was hard to resist; her head was so heavy, and the garden was empty and silent…
She nodded herself half-awake, realizing that if she fell asleep sitting on the bench, she’d fall off onto the gravel path, so she lay down on the grass beside it, under the shade of the cedar branches above, and found herself playing with Pan. They were very young, because it was long before they were separated, and they were making a dam on the Castle Mill stream, and every time they got a few sticks fixed in place the miller came out and shouted at them, so they summoned an army of beavers and got the dam fixed in a trice. The miller surrendered and his wife came out with a tray of fish and chips and they all sat on the dam to eat and then Pan screamed, so loud and close and so angry that she woke up and found herself struggling there, now, in the embassy garden, with a young man—half-familiar—no, she wasn’t struggling with him; he was struggling with Pan, her Pan, her old Pan, her dearest Pan, and she woke up fully and hurled herself at the assailant, whose alien hands were all over her dæmon and inside the heart of her own being—she was back at Bolvangar inside the cage under the silver guillotine—Pan was clawing at her arms, her shoulder, her hands—
No! It wasn’t Pan—how could she ever think that? There was no Pan. It was Olivier Bonneville—he was shouting about the alethiometer, his face red, eyes wild, spittle flying. Lyra hit him with both fists and immediately cried out in anguish herself, because her left hand—
Bonneville had one hand around Lyra’s neck. She twisted her head this way and that, trying to reach his wrist to sink her teeth into it, while with her right hand she slashed and tore and pummeled at the young man’s face, and slammed her knees and feet into his thighs and shins. His hawk dæmon swept and dived and wheeled close above them, and Lyra managed to seize a wing for one anbaric second and wrenched it hard and the dæmon fell fluttering and screaming beside them, so Bonneville let go of her throat and turned to scoop the dæmon up and Lyra kicked him in the back, below the ribs, and he sprawled gasping onto the gravel. The target was still there: she kicked it again, merciless, smashing a foot with all her force right where his kidneys were.
She would have killed him if she could. But he had enough strength to scramble away, and she hadn’t enough to follow, so she stood shaking and panting and holding tight to her left hand and watched as the young man dragged himself upright on a cedar branch before stumbling away and out of the garden, his dæmon hanging limp in his hands.
Lyra fell back on the bench in the empty garden and sobbed.
* * *
—
Alice Lonsdale, asleep on a hard bunk in a commandeered and nearly derelict barracks, found herself shaken awake before dawn. She pushed the hand away violently.
“Alice Lonsdale, get up,” said a man’s voice.
“Don’t you touch me again,” she said, heavy with sleep.
The sheet (dirty) and the blankets (thin) were suddenly snatched away. She was sleeping fully clothed because of the cold. Her dog dæmon, Ben, who had been asleep by her feet, immediately leapt forward to guard her, snarling, and Alice sat up and put her arms around him tightly.
There were two men in the room: she could see them against the dim light from the window. They both carried heavy batons.
“Get up, Alice,” the same voice said. “Someone needs to talk to you.”
“D’you want to put your coat on?” said the other man, taking it down from the hook behind the door.
“What’s happening?” said the girl in the upper bunk, only just awake. “Alice, who is it?”
“ ’S all right, Sonia. You stay there. Here—have these blankets. I don’t suppose I’ll be back for a while.”
Alice threw her blankets up and the girl murmured her thanks before pulling them up and turning over.
“Here, put it on,” said the man holding out the coat. “It’s cold out there.”
“Where we going?”
“You’ll find out. Come on.”
He pulled at her arm and she snatched it back.
“Let me put my bloody shoes on,” she said.
“Manners,” said the first man.
“Fuck off.”
The sleepers in the other two bunks were awake now, Alice could tell, but none of them dared make a sound. The shoes were not her own, but loose gym shoes with fragile laces. She sat on the bunk and tied them, carefully in case they broke.
She tugged the coat around her shoulders and wrenched her arm away from the man who tried to hold it.
“I en’t going to run away. Take your hands off.”
They locked the barracks door and marched her along the pitted road between the other buildings. In the faint dawn light she could see that most of them needed repair, and in one the roof had entirely collapsed. The road led up to a high steel fence shutting off the barracks from the woods beyond.
“Where we going?” Alice said, again.
“Inspector Mackenzie.” It was the second man who spoke.
“Who’s he?”
“He wants to ask you some questions.”
“Yeah, but who is he? Is that a police rank or what?”
“If he wants you to know, I expect he’ll tell you.”
“So you don’t know, then. What about your boss here? Does he know?”
“He en’t my boss.”
“Shut up,” said the other man to Alice. “One more word and you can go there in handcuffs.”
Not far from the fence they came to a junction. They turned left, parallel to the edge of the woods, where the road was wider and better maintained. The darkness was retreating every minute, as if it was withdrawing from the buildings and sifting into the trees. One building actually had some lights on in the windows. It was made of brick, like the dormitory buildings but bigger and in a better state of repair.
“Is that where Inspector Mackenzie is?” said Alice.
“Yes,” said the second man.
“What’s this building called, then?”
“I told you to shut up,” said the first man.
“Just asking.”
“You don’t need to know,” he said, but by that time they were outside the front door and Alice could read the brass plate beside it. It was new and highly polished, and it said:
BRYTSEC
ORD Corrective Division
Southern Region
“That’s not straight,” Alice pointed out.
It had been put up in a hurry: the light was getting clearer every minute, and in any case an anbaric lamp had come on over the door, and Alice could see the scratches on the brass where a screwdriver had slipped.
“Just shut up,” said the first man again as his colleague rang the bell.
“It wouldn’t have cost much to get a spirit level. Even I could do it straighter than what that is. And what’s BRYTSEC? And ORD?”
“Ask Inspector Mackenzie.”
“I will.”
A key turned in a lock, and the door opened narrowly. The first man showed a pass or a badge, and the door opened fully. The second man urged Alice forward with a hand on her back. She twisted away from the touch.
“Inspector Mackenzie,” said the first man.
The officer at the door nodded. “Name?”
“Alice Lonsdale. B5. Mind she behaves herself.”
B5 was the dormitory building where Alice slept. The officer ticked something off on a clipboard and said, “Follow me.”
Alice turned and looked at the two men who’d taken her from the cell, memorizing their faces.
“Go on. Follow the officer,” said the second man.
Ben nudged her knee, and she sauntered towards the officer, who was standing at the foot of the stairs tapping his fingers on the clipboard. Alice heard the front door close behind them, and caught Ben’s eye. They both thought: They didn’t have the key. It’s not locked.
“Where we going?” said Alice.
“Second floor.”
“Who’s Inspector Mackenzie?”
“ORD Special Services.”
“What’s ORD?”
“None of your business. Save your breath, and get a move on.”
His dæmon was a crow, and she watched them with a cold eye as they followed him. The stairs were bare concrete, with a wooden handrail on both sides. On the second floor they went along a drably painted corridor under flickering overhead lights, and passed no windows, no pictures, no notice boards; just an endless row of numbered doors, painted the same institutional cream as the walls.
The officer knocked at number 239 and opened the door straightaway.
“Mrs. Lonsdale, B5, for you, sir,” he said.
A man’s soft voice said, “Thank you. Show her in.”
When Alice entered the room she found that the inspector was a plump man in his fifties, with brilliantined gray hair, pale blue eyes, and an expression of kindly understanding. His dæmon was a gray Persian cat. Something about him reminded Alice of the librarian at her school, who had been the only member of staff to take an interest in her, but it was an interest she hadn’t enjoyed.
“Sit down,” he said as the officer left and closed the door.
There was a single upright wooden chair in front of a light, flimsy desk. The window on the inspector’s left showed the steel fence on the other side of the road and the wood beyond, where the first light of dawn was developing into a damp gray. Apart from that, the only lighting was a fluorescent anbaric tube overhead.
Alice sat down. The inspector had been leafing through a file, turning the pages and making an occasional note in pencil. There was nothing else on the desk, no shelves on the wall, not even a filing cabinet. An iron radiator under the window put out a thick oppressive heat, which seemed to intensify the musky kind of cologne the man was wearing.
The inspector went on looking through the file; Alice kept on looking at him. It was a paradoxical face: patience and even friendliness, as her first impression had shown, but there was something pitiless there too. It was the kind of soft face that would take pleasure in watching someone else being very cruel. His white uniform shirt was a little grubby around the cuffs: this was so early in the day that he must either be wearing yesterday’s or have worked all night. There was a little redness around his eyes.
Alice took all this in, and then stared at the cat dæmon, but cats were inscrutable; this one’s flat face and half-closed eyes gave nothing away.
Inspector Mackenzie closed the file and laid his pencil down beside it, precisely parallel to the edge. He raised his eyes to look at Alice.
