Free The Adjacent by Christopher Priest

turned her face away from him suddenly, almost as if embarrassed by the revelation.
    Tarent opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again.
    ‘I’m not making it up,’ she said.
    He regarded her nakedness, the tangled bedclothes. The hot room was full of her scents. The improbability of it all.
    ‘You’re full of surprises,’ he said. ‘Should I know who you are?’
    ‘I hope not. We don’t advertise what we do.’
    ‘You’re not a Muslim, is that right?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m not.’
    ‘I thought –’
    ‘You have to be neither male nor a Muslim, although if you saw the civil servants at my rank in other ministries that’s what you’d think. But I guessed long ago that being a woman and
not
being a Muslim were balancing opposites, and went for it. I worked hard, got a good degree, was willing to work for a year as an unpaid intern. Then… I rose through the ranks. I’m ambitious and I climbed quickly. My minister is an enlightened man. He’s what used to be called westernized. He likes soccer and cricket and heavy rock, he goes to the theatre when he can. He enjoys having women around him, and he likes non-Muslims working under him. Most of my staff are female.’
    ‘So who is your minister?’
    ‘His Supreme Royal Highness, Prince Ammari.’
    In spite of everything she had said in the last two or three minutes, and even though he was expecting to be surprised again, Tarent almost missed a breath. Sheik Muhammad Ammari was Secretary of State for Defence, probably the highest ranking cabinet minister after the PM. This woman with the slim and sweaty body, the calm hands, the disarrayed hair, the candid eyes and the heady perfumes of after-sex, in effect ran the Ministry of Defence. She would be administratively responsible for the armed services, and held extensive delegated powers.
    He reached down to the mess of clothes on the floor and disentangled his trousers, the legs turned inside out in his or Flo’s haste to remove them. The Canon was inside his belt pouch. He took it out.
    ‘OK, you get the photos,’ he said.
    He switched on the camera, expanded it, then pressed the GAIN button. The lab was instantly accessible online, so it took only a matter of seconds for him to locate the three pictures he had taken of her. He held the camera for her to see.
    ‘You know, they don’t matter any more,’ she said, but she leaned against him to look closely at them. She leant a hand on his knee to support herself. Her nipple brushed against his arm. As photographs the three were not at all special: one was blurred, apparently by a sudden movement of the vehicle, the other two were as sharp as glass. They showed the half profile view of her that had become familiar to Tarent throughout the journey, leaning forward in her seat, her left hand raised so that her fingers rested lightly in the areabehind her ear. Her face could not be seen clearly in either of the two best pictures. The interior of the Mebsher was in the background, dark and utilitarian.
    She was resting the side of her head against his, strands of her hair dangling against his shoulder. He put an arm behind her, rested his hand on her backside. The images on the camera reminded him of her physical paradox: that coldness she seemed to radiate, her physical proximity yet her remoteness from him. Now this: her warm, voluptuous body touching his, her light breath on his face. She had told him to call her Flo.
    ‘No one but me would recognize you,’ he said.
    Her hand remained on his leg, her fingers lightly wrapped under his thigh, a gentle rhythm of pressure from her fingers.
    ‘I would,’ she said. ‘And His Royal Highness would too.’
    ‘OK.’ He snapped the controller under the thin body of the camera, and waited for the connection to the lab to be confirmed. He selected the three shots and they dissolved into nothingness. ‘No copies, no back-ups, no originals – all gone forever.’ She made no response. ‘Don’t