The Adjacent Read Online Free PDF Page A

aid body set up by the British government, had been a last-ditch attempt by them both to try to cement themselves together again.
    Tarent looked through the toughened porthole at his side. While he dozed the Mebsher had travelled a fair distance, and there was a glimpse of countryside out there, a hedge beside the road and a grassed area beyond. But his view was restricted – it might have been an urban park. There were two trees in sight. One of them was leaning at an angle, its upper branches entangled with the one next to it. Neither had many leaves.
    Pressing his eyes to the glass, Tarent tried to see as much as he could. The more he looked the more he saw that storm damage was apparent everywhere. The soil and subsoil were laid bare where the storm wind had scoured unsheltered fields, a bleak reminder to him of the scorched and desolated landscape of Anatolia. At times the Mebsher drove past houses or larger buildings, and most of these too had suffered damage. They passed teams of rescue workers, tackling the trunks and thick branches of fallen trees, or pieces of masonry that had crashed into the road. The Mebsher slowed to go past these teams, the vehicle lurching over some of the obstructions. There was flooding in most places, by now becoming shallow, but mud was everywhere. The smell of sewage came in through the filters of the Mebsher’s air-con.
    Tarent reached down to one of the protective cases he had placed on the floor beside his feet and deftly slipped out the Canon. He tried to line it up through the distorting glass, get it to focus. The camera felt natural in his hand, like a thin glove moulded into his grip. He took a couple of shots through the porthole but he knew even as he released the virtual shutter that the pictures would beno good. The cabin was vibrating too much, there were too many imperfections in the thick glass.
    As he lowered the camera he saw that the woman in the row of seats in front of him had turned her head to see what he was doing. It was his first glimpse of her face: she looked nothing like Melanie.
    ‘There’s a lot of storm damage out there,’ he said unnecessarily.
    ‘Do you have a licence for that camera?’
    ‘It’s my job.’
    ‘I asked you if you were licensed to carry a camera.’ She had an intent, officious look.
    ‘Of course.’ He swivelled the camera so that its back was towards her. The LIN was engraved there. He wondered how she had known he was using the camera – she had been facing away from him and the camera operated silently. ‘I’m a professional photographer. I’m carrying three cameras, and have three licences.’
    ‘We were told you were a member of the Diplomatic Corps. Attached to OOR.’
    ‘I’m travelling on a diplomatic passport. I’ve just returned from abroad.’ He briefly explained the means by which the OOR had enabled him to travel with Melanie. Non-medical staff were not allowed to travel abroad, not even spouses. They needed Melanie’s specialist training and experience, though, and she made it clear she wanted Tarent with her otherwise she would take another posting. The solution was a temporary passport, which to Tarent’s quiet satisfaction seemed to open the way to almost anything he needed to do. His swift return to IRGB would have been impossible without the passport and the status it conferred.
    ‘If you’re not a diplomat you should hand it in,’ the woman said.
    ‘I’m still on government business.’
    ‘You don’t need a passport for that. I could cancel it electronically now.’
    ‘Please don’t. I might need it to go abroad again. My wife was killed, but her body was never found. It might be necessary for me to identify her.’
    ‘She was the woman killed in Turkey? Nurse Tarent?’
    ‘Yes. How do you know?’
    ‘We heard. She was a civil servant.’ She turned away from him again.
    He was chilled by her inquisitive manner and irritated by the intrusion, but it was the first time he had been able to