The Trespass (18 page)

Sturrock looked up from his collection of ephemera and smiled broadly. “Simon! Splendid! Come in! Ready for that trouncing yet? I played a scorcher the other day – won it with a lob to die for. You’re in serious trouble this term, laddie.”

“I think the big match will have to wait for a bit, Charles.” Dracup, fearing a major digression, let his expression bring Sturrock’s concentration into focus.

“Serious, eh? Righto, what’s all this about a trip to France, then? Got some floozy tucked away? Bet she’s not as cracking as that corker you’ve been escorting recently.”

Dracup sighed. “No, nothing like that, Charles. Listen, I’d better give you a rundown on the situation. It’s not good.”

Sturrock was a good listener. When Dracup had finished he let out a low whistle. “Well I’ll be damned. I can’t believe it. And this girlie of yours – she just vanished?”

Dracup nodded. “Yes. Her house is empty.”

“Her disappearance could be nothing to do with Natasha’s, of course.” Sturrock removed his glasses and began polishing them with a grubby tissue.

“That’s what I’m hoping. I can’t believe she knew something and kept it from me.”

“Funny creatures, women,” Sturrock observed. “Never got the hang of them, personally.” He put his glasses back on and tossed the tissue back onto the desk. “But she could have been under threat herself.”

“You think?”

“Why not? Perhaps she was tasked to keep an eye on you – to make sure that the diary found its way back to base.”

Dracup’s eyes widened. “Oh come on, Charles. Do I look that gullible?”

Charles looked at him over his glasses.

“All right. I suppose it’s possible,” Dracup conceded wearily. But
back to base?
You make her sound like a member of a terrorist cell. And we haven’t a clue where ‘base’ is.”

“No. But you’ve made a reasonable deduction, Simon. The wax tablet summary does appear to suggest a link with Lalibela. So I rather suspect I know what this favour is going to be.” Sturrock raised his eyebrows theatrically.

“You’re the only pilot I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t risk it.”

“A vote of confidence, as expected. Makes a chap feel good.”

Dracup sighed. “Look, Charles, if I can get across the Channel I reckon I’ll be on for an international flight without getting picked up. If I try from Heathrow, odds are that Moran will nab me. Is it possible, or am I clutching at straws?”

“Of course it’s possible. I just need to make the arrangements with White Waltham and book it up. Only proviso is that the other syndicate chaps haven’t made a reservation.” Sturrock absently scratched his head with a pencil. “Come to think of it, two of them are abroad on business, so we should be all right.”

“Charles, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Then consider it done!” Sturrock leaned forward. “Simon, I’d love to take a look at this metalwork. Any chance?”

Dracup shook his head. “Not for the moment. I had to let the CIA take it away for analysis. But I have photocopies. That’ll keep you happy for a bit.”

“Love to. You never know, I may be able to shed a bit of light.” Sturrock rubbed his hands together in anticipation, then fixed Dracup with an expression of barely concealed excitement. “Have you considered the implications of all this?”

“Implications?”

“Yes. That the Ark exists.”

Dracup sighed. “I went through this with Sara. So ‘The Ark’ – or at least a large, ancient, vessel – exists. There
was
a flood. Someone had the good sense to build a boat and get his family on board. Period.”

“Oh come on, Simon – even you can’t be that blinkered. Look, the book of Genesis contains a lot more than Noah’s story. But at any rate the diary kicks out the old tradition that Moses borrowed the flood story from the epic of Gilgamesh when he wrote Genesis.”

“Possibly. But then I’ve always thought the Gilgamesh epic had all sorts of flaws – particularly in the design of the vessel.”

Sturrock chortled. “That’s right. The boat was cube-shaped according to Babylonian records – not a particularly seaworthy design, whereas the Biblical Ark of Noah –” Sturrock jumped up and fished a book from his teetering shelves. “Here we are. Noah’s Ark had the proportions of a true ship. The ratio given in Genesis 6:15 can’t be faulted: 300 by 50 by 30 cubits. Perfect for its purpose.”

“Well, the majority of primitive societies have a flood story, Charles. The Bible record is one of many.”

“I’m aware of that, dear boy. And the reason is that the flood was a reality. China, India, South America, Greece, Africa – they all have their own version of the same event. But the essentials are the same: a global flood; and out of the Earth’s population, one family saved. The Chinese in particular consider the head of this family – chap called ‘Fuhi’ – to be the father of their race.”

“Wait a minute. Who said anything about a
global
flood?”

Sturrock fixed Dracup with a challenging look. “Really, Simon. I’ll have to put your diminished cranial functionality down to stress – quite understandable.”

“What are you talking about, Charles?”

“It’s quite simple. If the flood was merely a local catastrophe, then why go to the trouble of building a huge boat like the Ark? It took years to build, you know.” Sturrock flicked through the pages of the Old Testament searching for a reference.

Dracup held up a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m with you. So Fuhi, Noah, whoever, could have just migrated to a higher altitude – found a convenient mountain to hole up on until the flood waters subsided.”

“Precisely.”

Dracup was silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on the chair arm. “I can accept a catastrophe – a serious one, maybe. And the Ark’s existence looks to be beyond doubt. But the rest – I don’t know. There’s a great deal of fanciful stuff in Genesis I just can’t go along with.”

“Dear me. What is it with this fear of Biblical veracity? I’m not trying to convert you, Simon.”

Dracup grunted. “No. I know. It’s just that I’ve formed my opinions and it’ll take a lot to change my mind.”

“You evolutionists are all the same.”

“Don’t get me started, Charles. This isn’t the time.”

“Well, you’ve got me going now. Take the sedimentary rock strata – any geologist worth his salt will tell you they show clear signs of having been laid down quickly,
not
over a period of millions of years. It points to a global catastrophe – and the fossil record supports the geological evidence too. It simply screams ‘global flood!’” Charles shook his head up and down like a terrier worrying at a ball, waiting for Dracup’s response. When none came he shook his head again and sat back. “Put your preconceptions behind you, Si – all is not as it seems.”

Dracup shut his eyes and groaned. The ongoing debate. Many an evening had been spent like this; argument and counter argument. Surprisingly, they’d never come to blows. “Listen Charles, if you want to help you could start by thinking about a sceptre.
Noah’s
sceptre, maybe. Ever heard of such a thing?”

Sturrock frowned. “Nothing springs to mind, old boy – but that’s not to say it won’t, given the right stimulation. I’ll mull it over. Now, Professor D. – you’d better tell me where you want to go. Paris? Lyons? Or maybe –”

“I can get a direct flight from Toulouse to Addis.”

“Addis? I know a chap in Addis – he might be able to help.” Sturrock fumbled in a drawer. “Here we are – used to teach here a while back. Don’t think you ever met him? Couldn’t resist the call of the wild. You’ll see what I mean if you meet him.” Sturrock adjusted the position of his glasses and read the business card he had retrieved from the depths. “Daniel Carey – The Fountain Language School, Addis Ababa.” He handed Dracup the card. “Bit zany – but a good sort. New Zealander – knows the Ethiopian ropes, if you see what I mean. I imagine he can point you in the right direction – to Lalibela and so on. I’ll wire ahead and let him know you’re coming.”

Dracup took the card. “Thanks, Charles. I need all the help I can get.”

Sturrock smiled with satisfaction. “Good. Toulouse it is, then. Give me a couple of hours to sort it out, and I’ll call you this evening.”

“Charles, you’re a good friend.”

“Did you ever doubt me?”

Dracup threw his coat on the sofa and went to his desk. He shivered; the apartment was freezing. He fired up his laptop, found the Lalibela URL from the favourites menu and scrolled through the selection of photographs. What would he find? Where would he begin his search? There was nothing recorded on Theodore’s abbreviated time capsule to suggest an exact location for the missing part of the crest. Why hadn’t the old man been more specific? The phone rang.

“Dracup.”

“Mr Dracup – I was expecting a call. Everything okay?”

Dracup had prepared himself for this conversation. Potzner sounded concerned rather than annoyed. That was the balance to be maintained.

“Fine. Any progress from your end?”

“I’m still waiting on our guys. Mike Fish is pretty good but not the fastest thing on two legs.”

“Time’s pressing.”

There was a short silence. “Yeah. I know.”

“I had a visit from the police.”

“Right. That was inevitable. Tell them anything?”

“No. As you said, no point.” Dracup could almost see Potzner leaning back from the desk, Winston in mouth, finger flicking at the Zippo.

“I’m going to send Farrell back to you, just to keep things safe.”

Dracup clenched his fist. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“It’s your lady friend we need to keep an eye on. Farrell tells me she went home on her own.”

“Yes. Some domestic crisis.”

“She okay now?”

“Yes.”

Dracup heard the silence this time; an active, analytical silence.

“All the same. I’m sending him down. He should be with you by – say ten o’clock?”

“If you insist.” Dracup cursed under his breath and looked at his watch. Under two hours. He had to make himself scarce. He scanned Yellow Pages for a hotel list. Five minutes later he was on the road.

Potzner looked across the desk at Farrell.

The agent returned the look. “Well?”

“He’s holding out. He knows something.”

“You sure?”

“I can always tell. Are you sure there was nothing else in that box?”

“Sure as I can be.”

“And you were there when he opened it?”

“Pretty much.”

Potzner shook his head. “That’s not what I expect from you, Farrell.”

The agent chewed his gum sheepishly. “I was watching the house. He called me over when he found it.”

“Or when he wanted you to
think
he found it, you mean. I’m betting he had time to hide whatever it was he didn’t want you to see. It would only have taken a few seconds.”

“Must have been pretty small then, whatever it was, ’cause we carried the box out of there together.”

“Coat pocket, Farrell. Did you check it back at the Aberdeen flat?”

“Well, not as such. We got back from the dig, hit up the safe house; he was in the bathroom. Then he got a call from his ex.”

“So he was in the john
with
his coat?”

Farrell smiled awkwardly. “Yeah. I suppose.”

Potzner leaned forward. “Suppose
nothing
, Farrell. Get your ass down that M4
now
.”

Farrell was out of the door in seconds.

Dracup checked in, left his suitcase in his room and headed back to reception. He had to get out. Do something. He went outside to the Thameside promenade where a group of students were manhandling their boats from water to boathouse. He headed up the riverside towpath. Now he was walking alone, his feet crunching a solitary beat on the gravel.

His attention was drawn by a movement on the towpath. He saw it again. A tall shape moving quickly – no, running – up the path. Just a jogger? Dracup studied the figure; and then knew it was coming for him. He thought quickly. Which way? If he continued along the towpath he would be moving away from the nearest public place into the empty water meadows that stretched up to Mapledurham lock. He began to jog across the meadow towards the main road. The road led to a narrow bridge, then continued onto the Oxford Road. He glanced behind. The gap was closing. He drove his legs harder. Traffic was sparse as Dracup hit the pavement and veered right towards the bridge. He reached the traffic lights with lungs heaving and looked back. The runner burst onto the road, turning towards him. Now Dracup could see his features more clearly. He was unusually tall, wearing patched jeans and a black open-necked shirt. His head was partly obscured by a multi-coloured bandana – the object that had caught Dracup’s attention on the towpath. The face was dark, partially bearded with a long, hooked nose curving down toward the upper lip. Dracup entered the darkness beneath the bridge at a brisk trot. The Oxford Road T-junction lay mockingly distant. Dracup took a deep breath and went for it. He heard the sound of trainers slapping on damp paving, made a half turn but lost his footing, tripped over something on the ground and crashed to the pavement in a tangle of metal and limbs.