Chapter Six Eagle Works Terrier 1500
Six
Timur Ghazarian said, “This is where we leave the car.”
Malcolm, fully awake but stiff and aching, said, “Where are we?”
It was early morning. Ghazarian had brought a change of clothes for Malcolm, who now looked like a respectable traveler.
They were somewhere in the western outskirts of Aleppo, on a wide road lined with small factories, wholesale furniture distributors, occasional dusty market gardens, and car repair shops.
“As soon as we see a bus stop we’ll put the car out of sight and join the commuters,” Ghazarian said.
They had crossed the frontier with no difficulty. The guards were sufficiently impressed by Ghazarian’s uniform and Malcolm’s papers to put aside any misgivings. Malcolm thought that the officer in charge seemed preoccupied by some bigger anxiety, and Ghazarian agreed.
“The problem for them is that their senior command has no idea of what side they should be on in case of a conflict with the Magisterium. You can see why that makes them anxious.”
“I can…Timur, can you pull in at the next set of gates on the right?”
Ghazarian did so, checking the road ahead and behind.
There was no sign that they were being followed; the traffic was already beginning to build up, but it was flowing easily.
While the car came to a halt, Malcolm, sorting through his wallet, took out a business card and tucked it into his top pocket.
“My name is George Hanson,” he said.
“As you wish,” said Ghazarian, looking at the building behind the locked gates. “But why here? Oh, I see. TP…Them again?”
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 daemon, 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 daemon, 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 daemon 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—