The Trespass (20 page)

Potzner’s first impression was that some basketball player was rifling through Dracup’s possessions. Absurdly his mind replayed a Harlem Globetrotters point – it had been a great match, and some piece of entertainment when the centre dummied then spun the ball into the basket with the wonderful leisurely disdain for the opposition that had made the ’Trotters a global phenomenon. He remembered it well – even down to the burger he’d eaten that night. Must have been ’79 or ’80? Abigail had been with him, and had turned to share the enjoyment of the moment. Her eyes were wide with pleasure; there was a small ketchup stain on her chin and he loved her for it. All this fast-forwarded through Potzner’s mind as he levelled the handgun and his lips framed a warning.

The intruder straightened up. The guy was over two metres, surely – his head would’ve scraped the ceiling in a normal apartment. Maybe it was the bandana that added to the impression of extraordinary height. He was holding something – Dracup’s laptop – unplugging the snaking connection from the wall socket.

Freeze
. Farrell’s order came loud and clear. The man hesitated, sizing them up. Potzner was confident. There was nowhere to go; they had the exit covered. “I said get your hands
up
.” Potzner began to move forward, creeping across the polished floor like a ballet dancer on rice paper. And then the man did something odd. He smiled. Potzner felt rather than heard Farrell just behind and to his right, supporting, watching. Then the warning: “
Sir!
” But Potzner had seen it too, a smooth, unhurried movement from the large hands in which two small cylinders had appeared. They detached themselves and rolled gently along the parquet towards them, bumping in an irregular pattern as the asymmetrical shapes found their rhythm on the slippery surface.

His immediate thought was
No way... not this time
. He’d been on the receiving end of this kind of welcome before – on a standard patrol, even before the hell of Chu Pa. A quiet morning, ten buddies together, talking about home, girls, movies. No Charlie around – they were told the area had been cleared. And then the sudden shock, the air filled with rifle fire; three of his friends falling red-shirted to the jungle floor. Then came the lethal canisters of explosive, some airborne, some clanking along the path, the sudden dull thump of ignition, cries of surprise rather than pain on either side. And himself, somehow, unscathed in their midst. Still alive, the only one that by some quirk of physics or geometry had avoided the whirling metal and was doomed to face the accusing stares of the boys back at camp.
So you made it? Too bad about Chuck, and Rich, and Al
. They had clapped him on the back, left him to his guilt.

Farrell articulated all this in one word: “
Grenade!
”

Potzner threw himself at the nearest cover – the sofa – and found Farrell just ahead of him. The rolling death passed them by and rebounded off the skirting board by the bathroom. Then the sofa was driven back on a cushion of warm air, pinning Potzner to the ground. His eyes were filled with stinging smoke and a loud, whistling shriek invaded his ears just as the second grenade exploded. He felt the patter of shrapnel on the leather of the sofa’s backrest, and something hit his shoe with a sharp report. It felt like he’d been stamped on by a horse. He yelled and drew his legs in, waiting for another packet of explosive to come rolling along. Potzner clutched his pistol and made himself as small as he could. He had no intention of dying under a sofa. A few moments later when his instincts told him the danger had passed he broke cover and surveyed the scene with practiced thoroughness. They were alone in the apartment.

“He’s out,” he called to Farrell. But Farrell was already moving through the smoke towards the gaping hole in the wall that had previously supported Dracup’s front door. The apartment was a chaos of brick fragments and mortar; flame licked lazily up the blackened woodwork of the bathroom doorframe, exposing vulnerable electrics beneath stricken plaster.

Coughing and hacking they burst into the air. Dracup’s car was moving. Potzner clipped off a couple of shots, but Farrell laid a restraining arm on his shoulder. “Forget it. He’s out of here.” A small crowd had begun to gather, their shocked expressions accusatory and fearful. How should they engage with these two strangers who appeared to be responsible for what had just occurred? Questions began to fly from the crowd, some of concern, some openly hostile. “You all right?” “What’s your game, mate?”

Potzner waved them away with his pistol, as if swatting a swarm of irritating flies. Farrell moved amongst them. “It’s all over, folks. Nothing to see.” He flapped his open wallet at them. “Police business. Now move on. Move on.” He turned to Potzner. “You okay, sir?”

Potzner made a quick examination. His right foot squelched in its shoe; there was no pain. That would come later. He sat on what remained of the doorstep and inspected the damage. A jagged tear criss-crossed his leather upper. His fingers probed the gash and came away red. He cursed under his breath, then a little louder for the benefit of one woman who remained staring, mouth open, with shopping spilling from a supermarket carrier onto the rubble-strewn pavement. That hit the button. She fled, trailing her bargains behind her.

“I’m fine, Farrell. Just hunky-D.”

“He was packing some serious kit, sir.” Farrell helped Potzner struggle upright. “Kinda caught me out there.”

“Yeah. I guess that about covers it.” Potzner winced as he tested his full weight on the foot. Damnation. He’d need to get it seen to.

“Shall I call a paramedic, sir?”

“An ambulance, Farrell, an ambulance. This is England, not LA.”

“Right. An ambulance.”

“No. I do not want an ambulance. Just get a fix on that car, and get after Dracup. He can’t be far away. And get me to ER – I’ll direct you to the hospital.”

Farrell allowed himself a small grin. “Sir, I believe the Brits call it ‘Casualty’.”

Three hours later Potzner emerged from the hospital. He’d been lucky. Superficial damage only; five stitches, no broken bones. Hurt like hell though. He popped one of the prescribed pills and called a minicab. He watched the passing trade in broken humanity, raw materials for some junior doctor. Potzner hated hospitals; he’d spent enough time in their sterile embrace, heard the whispered conversations, the fearful encouragements, the bravery of the terminally ill. He was glad when the cab arrived. Sitting in the back he checked the time.
Time to be an encourager yourself, Jim.
He tapped the shortcut key and waited.

“Hello?”

She sounded okay. He knew the signs. Today was a good day. “Hi. It’s me.”

“Well, hi yourself. How’s it going?”

“Had a little trouble earlier but I’m better now.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Potzner flexed his toes and regretted the movement. He suppressed an exclamation. “Honey, you know the rules.” He tried to inject a light-heartedness into his voice but she was too perceptive, knew him too well.

“You’re hurt, aren’t you, Jim?”

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

Her voice was warm with concern. “Jim. You shouldn’t be doing this stuff any more. It’s time to let the youngsters take the risks. Are you really okay?”

“Yeah. Really. It’s just a cut on my foot. You can hardly see it. But what about you? You sound pretty good.” He bit his lip.
Keep it up, Jim boy.

“Well, you know. Some days up, some down. Today is good so far. I’ve done some housework. Mary’s in later so she can finish up.”

“That’s great. But you’ve gotta take it steady. Conserve your energy, right? Your body needs all its energy for healing.”

There was a small sound, almost a sigh on the other end. “Jim. We both know there’s no healing. Only the time we’ve been given.”

“I’m not letting that time go, babe. I’m working on it, believe me. I’m on the case. Soon we’ll be able to –”

“Hush, Jim. Just tell me when you’re coming home. I miss you.”

He gritted his teeth. “I miss you too.”

“Jim – I – I want us to be together – you know – while – while we can.” Her voice faltered a little.

He took a deep breath. “I know.” Potzner cleared his throat. “I just need a little longer. I have to fix something for our guys, then they’ll be on the case for us. They know how important it is.”

“Just come home soon.”

“I will. You bet.”

The signal broke up; his phone gave three short beeps. Disconnected. He put it back in his pocket. That’s how it would be at the end, he knew. One last word, a last thought. Then disconnection.

By the time they began their descent Dracup was past caring. He had experienced every conceivable discomfort, ranging from airsickness to paralysing terror. Closing his eyes brought little relief. He knew only a thin Perspex bubble separated him from several thousand feet of nothing. Sturrock was babbling stuff about vectors and altitude, giving the impression of thoroughly enjoying himself. Dracup risked a quick look out of his window just as Sturrock banked. Dracup groaned and closed his eyes again. He hoped he could hold out a little longer; he’d run out of brown bags.

Twenty minutes later Dracup’s feet were in contact with French soil, and the object of his misery was parked securely in a hanger reserved for light aircraft. His legs were rubber as they walked to the exit. Sturrock clapped him on the back. “Wasn’t so bad, eh? Bit blustery over the Channel, though – still, soon cleared up. Listen, while you’ve been retching I’ve been thinking. I have an idea about that stanza – I’ve seen a reference in a late apocryphal tome – twelfth or thirteenth century, I recall. Have you heard of ‘The Book of the Bee’ or ‘The Cave of Treasures’?”

Dracup shook his head. His mouth felt gritty, acidic. “
B
what? No. Why?”

“Well, I don’t think Theodore’s sceptre, or staff if you will, was originally Noah’s at all.” Sturrock smiled cryptically.

Dracup fought a new wave of nausea. “Charles, I need a while to restore my faculties –”

Sturrock laughed and punched him playfully on the arm. “Understood, understood. Well, listen, I tell you what: if I find anything useful, I’ll drop you a line. Have you still got your hotmail account?”

“I think so – I haven’t used it for a while.”

“Right, splendid. I’ll pop something in the old electro-post if I think it’s worthwhile.” He wagged a finger at Dracup. “Don’t forget to check.”

Dracup smiled weakly. He was going to miss Charles. “Thanks. I won’t –
if
I can get online in Addis.”

Sturrock groaned theatrically. “Simon, you can get online from
anywhere
these days.” A French official appeared, gesticulating with a clipboard. “
Ah, oui m’sieur, nous allons vite
– come on, Si, buck up. We’ve got to check in at security.” Sturrock rubbed his hands gleefully. “Quick toddle around duty-free then back over the water in time for supper. Can’t be bad, eh?”

The airliner was half empty. Dracup chose a window seat, closed his eyes and tried to piece together everything he had discovered. He remembered the conversation in Potzner’s office:
“I’m talking breakthrough here. No theories. This is the real McCoy.”
The American had spoken of longevity research, a critical program utilizing some material that was quite irreplaceable. The
artefact
– no,
organic tissue.
Stolen – reclaimed rather – by its original owners. People who held a century-spanning resentment of his family line; a covert, intelligent, persistent organization who had targeted himself and his family for some act of sacrilege committed by his grandfather. Dracup smiled bitterly.
The sins of the fathers
. Not for the first time, he wished they had taken him. He would be a willing substitute for his child. Let them do whatever they wished to him. Just let Natasha go. Natasha.
My baby
.

He remembered his child when she was small. He wondered at her uniqueness, so like her mother and father yet very much an individual. She was headstrong, like him. She was focused, like her mother. Had they taught her enough to survive a crisis? Did she have the required skills to emerge from her ordeal unscathed? Her survival depended on a combination of both instinctive and accumulated resources. And on his deductions, his actions.

Dracup looked out of his window and for the first time wondered if he would ever see his daughter again. The thought was terrifying. He racked his brains. Organic tissue, stolen. Noah’s sceptre.
Alpha
.
Alpha
and
Omega
. The aeroplane droned on, passing out of French airspace into the open skies above the Mediterranean. Stewards moved up and down the aisle, smiling and attentive. He smiled back automatically, ate the proffered plastic food, read the in-flight magazine from cover to cover. There was a photograph, a young girl modelling executive yachts. She looked a little like Sara. Sara, the girl who had come into his life and saved his sanity; the girl who seemed to him like an Egyptian queen. The girl who had rekindled love in his bruised and battered heart; the girl he thought was his, however unlikely it had seemed. He couldn’t believe she’d had anything to do with Natasha’s abduction. No, that wasn’t true; he didn’t
want
to believe it. But without her, he had nothing left. Dracup replaced the magazine in its elastic folder and reached for his earphones, listened to the piped classical music. He felt nothing but emptiness. After a while he slept.