The Trespass (33 page)

Now Jesus himself was about thirty years old when he began his ministry. He was the son, so it was thought, of Joseph, the son of Heli, the son of Matthat,

the son of Levi, the son of Melki,

the son of Jannai, the son of Joseph,

Dracup scanned down the list.

the son of Kenan, the son of Enosh,the son of Seth,

the son of Adam,

the son of God.

Dracup recalled Charles’ argument during a heated and lengthy discussion about the Bible and its place in ancient literature:
The Jews were scrupulous record keepers, Simon
. And then, with a bitter taste of shock, he remembered Mukannishum’s strange words in the lion pit:
Your forefather betrayed the son of God
. He was shaking his head. It’s not possible. It simply can’t be. When four sharp knocks on the door interrupted him he was almost pleased to see the thin figure of DCI Moran standing impatiently on the threshold. There was something reassuringly routine about the crumpled raincoat and the cynical expression on the policeman’s face.

“Welcome back, Professor Dracup. Phelps?”

Moran’s assistant stepped forward. “Simon Dracup: I am arresting you on the suspicion of conspiracy to murder Charles Anthony Sturrock. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense –”

“You don’t have to arrest me.” Dracup sat heavily in his chair. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

Phelps glanced at Moran. The DCI shrugged, produced a pocket tape machine and clicked it on. “Let’s fill in some gaps. I asked you not to leave the country. It wasn’t a joke.” He walked to the corner of Dracup’s study and sat in an old armchair, crossing his legs.

“I had to. To find out where my daughter is being held.”

Moran looked at him analytically. “And did you?”

“Yes. In a way.”

“Meaning?”

Dracup sighed. “You’ve probably read my emails. You work it out.”

Moran got up and strolled to the window. He lurked behind Dracup. “As far as we know, you’re the last person to see Charles Sturrock alive. He dies. You disappear.”

Dracup shook his head. “It was the other way round. Charles was fine when I left him in Toulouse.”

“Go on.”

“He flew me to Toulouse. The last I saw of him, he was picking his way round the duty-free shop.”

“So you’re saying you know nothing about his murder.” Moran began pacing the room. He stood behind Dracup again, gripped the back of his chair.

Dracup thought of Mukannishum. It wasn’t hard to piece it together. His flat. His home PC. Charles’ email and address. And then what? An interruption – probably Potzner. And Mukannishum’s solution – an evidence-shredding explosion. Then a tidying of loose ends before following in his footsteps to Africa. Charles wouldn’t have had a chance.

Moran was almost breathing down his neck. “Mr Dracup. I’m waiting.”

“Okay. I believe my daughter was abducted by a group of religious terrorists to exact a form of revenge on my family for something that happened more than eighty years ago. Charles was helping me and I suppose they got to him – to cover their tracks.”

Moran reappeared and took the seat opposite Dracup’s desk. The DCI steepled his hands and leaned his sharp chin on the temporary structure. He wasn’t laughing. Dracup glanced at Phelps. Neither was he.
They know more than they’re letting on.

“I come from Southern Ireland, Mr Dracup. I’m no stranger to religious terrorism.” Moran sighed. “Let’s apply a little lubrication, Professor, mm? D’you have a coffee machine?”

“End of the corridor. Turn left.”

“Good. Phelps?”

Phelps’ expression implied a degree of reluctance, but he shrugged and left the room. Moran clicked the tape off. “Now listen, Mr Dracup. I know you were in France at the time Sturrock was murdered. We checked out the flight logs with local airfields. I also know the CIA is into this in a big way, but murders and abductions in the Royal County are my affair, not theirs. If you want me on your side you’d better start talking – and if I like what I hear I
might
be able to exclude you from our enquiries.”

“Have you read Charles’ last email to me? It’s a pretty good summary.”

“I have indeed. And there are many who would dismiss his conclusions as fanciful gobbledegook.”

Dracup laughed, a harsh sound in the enclosed space. “Yes. And I’m one of them.”

Moran sat back in his chair. “Are you?” He paused as if deciding whether or not to verbalize his train of thought. “I come from a country steeped in religion, Mr Dracup. I was expected to enter the priesthood after I left school. I even attended theological college.”

“Oh? So what happened?”

“Life happened, Mr Dracup. You know how it is. You grow up; you have a head full of ideals. Then you slowly begin to realize what a chaotic world this really is. People die. You can’t find any answers or make any sense out of it. Ambitions are frustrated. You get older. Eventually, God dies as well.”

“You lost your faith.”

“Faith is a hard thing to maintain when you’ve seen what I’ve seen back home; the ruined lives, the widowed mothers, the fatherless children. I’ve seen some pretty unpleasant things in my time as a policeman. It doesn’t help.”

Dracup detected some seed of hope in Moran’s eyes. Almost a hunger.

The DCI was leaning forward now. “Tell me about the diary. And the inscriptions on this thing you found.”

Dracup told him. There was little to gain by feigning ignorance, and something in the policeman’s manner suggested a willingness to suspend disbelief in the improbable. Dracup was having trouble doing just that himself, but the evidence, he conceded, was pointing him inexorably in the same direction. He produced the flash card. They viewed the photographs in silence.

“Well, like I said, it’s all gobbledegook to me,” Moran said. “You say this is the key to your daughter’s location?”

“I believe so, yes. If it’s translated along with Alpha’s cuneiform. And that requires expertise.”

“And no doubt the CIA have an expert to hand?”

“Yes. Potzner had the first part of the stanza translated pretty quickly.” Dracup wondered if the Thames Valley had a cuneiform expert on permanent standby. It didn’t seem likely.

Moran paced the room. “This Potzner character. You think he had anything to do with Sturrock’s murder?”

Dracup shook his head. “It wouldn’t benefit them. It has to be the Korumak, the same person who was after me. I only know him as Mukannishum.”

“And he followed you to Ethiopia?” Moran listened in ill-concealed amazement as Dracup told him of the rock churches and Mukannishum’s demise in the lion pit.

Moran was shaking his head. “I can’t put any of this in the report.” He leaned over the table. “If you’re spinning me one, Dracup, I’m going to take you to the cleaners. You’ll go down for a long time, trust me.”

“Why would I make it up?” Dracup heard himself yelling. “I’m an anthropologist, not a Hollywood script writer. I just want my daughter back.”

Moran held his hands up. “All right, all right. Calm.” He sat down and folded his arms. “So. I’m chasing shadows. That’s what you’re telling me. The man who killed Sturrock is dead. And his organization, run by some character named Kadesh, are nowhere to be found.”

“I was relying on Charles to pinpoint their location. In any case, it seems likely that we’re talking somewhere abroad. In which case there’s not a lot you can do anyway.”

“Oh, don’t you believe it, Mr Dracup,” Moran said quietly. “I can be very persuasive when I’ve a mind to be that way.”

The door opened and Phelps reappeared with three plastic cups and a chocolate bar. He was walking stiffly with an odd, preoccupied look about him.

“Thank you, Phelps.” Moran pointed. “Just there will be fine.”

Phelps placed the cups between Dracup and Moran. He turned with an apologetic expression and looked at the door.

“Problem, Phelps?” Moran stepped forward, his face registering the first inkling of concern, but the door was already swinging open. There was a collective exclamation from the occupants of the room, and Dracup found himself looking down the meticulously rifled barrel of an automatic pistol.

Potzner closed the door. He pointed the automatic steadily at Moran. “Gentlemen.” He smiled a greeting to each occupant of the room in turn. “I do apologize for this unorthodox approach. Professor – would you be kind enough to stand up and walk slowly over to me?”

Moran spoke quietly. “This isn’t a good idea, Mr Potzner.”

“We’ll be out of your way shortly, Detective Chief Inspector. My men are covering the building, so please don’t entertain any foolish notions of heroism.”

Dracup studied Potzner’s face. The eyes were glazed, the expression one of zealous conviction.
Something’s happened. He’s lost it
.

Moran was attempting to reason. “This will cause a serious diplomatic situation. Professor Dracup is helping the police with their enquiries. It’s a criminal offence to remove him.”

Potzner nodded. “Is that a fact? Well, Detective Chief Inspector, I have to warn you that if you attempt to stop me I will shoot you where you stand. Do I make myself clear?”

Dracup’s hands were hidden by his PC. Keeping a close eye on Potzner he eased the flash card out of the card reader and slipped it underneath his cuff.

Phelps was staring open-mouthed. Moran’s hands were clenching and unclenching, weighing his options. Dracup looked at Potzner and had no doubts.
He’ll do it
. He stood up slowly and raised a warning hand to Moran. “I think we’d best do as he says.”

Potzner led Dracup out of the room and closed the door behind him, locking it carefully with one hand. The other still held the automatic. Dracup looked down the corridor. Potzner’s men stood along it, spaced evenly like a wedding line. He looked in vain for Farrell. Surely he wouldn’t condone this madness?

“After you, Professor Dracup.” Potzner gestured with the automatic.

A sleek, black saloon awaited them in the car park. A number of agents were strategically placed like a scattered party of Mormon elders waiting for a sign. The sign apparently came and they melted into the anonymity of the campus. The engine purred into life. Dracup was in the back and the car was moving towards the exit.

Potzner holstered his automatic with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry about that, Prof. I don’t think you’ll do anything stupid, will you?”

Dracup had recovered from his surprise. “I think you’ve cornered the market on ‘stupid’. This is England. You can’t just kidnap a police suspect.”

“But you’re not a suspect, are you, Mr Dracup? I think DCI Moran senses something out of the ordinary and believes you can supply him with the answers. You’re no killer. Anyone can tell that. He’s fishing.” Potzner turned to Dracup with a strange smile on his lips. “And did he catch anything?”

Moran’s not the only one waving a net around, Dracup thought. To counter Potzner’s question he said, “I know what this is about.”

“Oh yeah. I imagine you do.” Potzner seemed pleased.

“But I can’t believe it.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“The discovery of Noah’s Ark is one thing. The preserved body of Adam is another.”

“Nevertheless, both are true.”

There was something disturbing about this dry confirmation. Dracup’s head began to spin. “Creation is a myth. Darwin set the record straight over a hundred years ago.” He shook his head. “It’s impossible.”

“No. Darwin took the world down the biggest blind alley it’s
ever
been down. You never heard of the Laws of Thermodynamics, Prof? I’ll be surprised if you haven’t.”

Dracup’s head was throbbing. “Of course I have.”

“In any given system, neither matter nor energy can be self-created or destroyed. That’s law numero uno.” Potzner ticked it off with his forefinger. “Two. Over time, any closed system becomes less ordered and more random. The mechanics of evolution just don’t work.”

“Yes, but –”

“I told you, I’m no scientist, Prof. But it seems common sense to me. Evolution is just a flawed theory. A fairy tale. You going to argue with Einstein? Go right ahead. Anyhow, it’s all academic. I’ve seen the proof.”

The proof?
Dracup thought of Charles’ bizarre email. Adam. Red Earth. He couldn’t get his mind around it. The car swung smoothly onto the M4. Dracup craned his neck to look out of the back window. So far there was no sign of pursuit. That was odd. “Where are we going?”

“To a US air base in Devon. I need you under US jurisdiction.”

“And what makes you think I can tell you anything?” Dracup stalled. As he prevaricated he realized that Potzner was probably his only remaining hope. Who else could decipher the cuneiform?