The Trespass (35 page)

But Noah, the faithful son –

Once more in the earth you will find peace –

From whence you came –

Between the rivers –’

Farrell nudged Dracup. The American handed him a styrofoam cup of coffee and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. The label said
Dellow’s Delicious Deli, Yeovil.
Dracup doubted the description but received the snack graciously. He unwrapped the sandwich and took an automatic mouthful.

“Fingers crossed, huh?” Farrell said.

“I need more than luck, Farrell. I need a miracle.” Dracup gestured to the jostling group of boffins. “This guy is pretty good?”

“Fish? Oh yeah. If it’s doable, he’ll do it.”

But in less than thirty-six hours?
Dracup’s mouth felt like sandpaper. He put his sandwich down.

A small cheer went up from the front. Farrell grinned. “There you go.”

Dracup looked at the screen. It had been split into right and left sections, the original text on the left. On the right, some new text appeared:

‘
From holy resting place to rest upon the water – you have been brought, our father’

Dracup’s heart beat faster. Someone coughed. He looked round. Potzner was standing in a corner at the back of the room, enveloped in a cloud of smoke. His foot was tapping on the carpet tiles in a slow, constant rhythm. Farrell went over to Colonel Gembala and said something in a low voice. Gembala nodded and continued watching the screen. Dracup looked at the clock, a rectangular digital monstrosity that flapped over a plastic square for each new integer to display. It said 22:23.

There seemed to be some debate about the next translation. Dracup’s jpg appeared again. One of the techies was making some phonetic point about an indistinct character on the Lalibelian sceptre. Dracup looked at the close-up of Mukannishum’s long fingers and felt the sandwich turn to sawdust in his mouth.

22:45. The image disappeared and the text reappeared. With two new lines:

‘
But Noah, the faithful son – shall lead you to cooler depths

Once more in the earth you will find peace – laid in the holy place’

A rumble of excitement passed through the room. One of the techies clapped another on the back. Dracup heard an exclamation. “All
right!
” He realized he’d been holding his breath. And his bladder. He made for the door to find the toilets. Farrell was at his side. He shrugged. “Sorry.”

When they returned to the briefing room the buzz of expectancy had grown. 22:52. Gembala was standing now, pacing up and down between two rows of plastic chairs. Potzner, a brooding figure, was keeping his distance. Fish and his colleagues were in a dense huddle. They broke apart. The screen flicked again.

‘
From whence you came – to Kish the seat of kings

Between the rivers – beyond the gate of God’

“That’s it.” Potzner was moving to the front. “That’s it.
Kish
. Where the hell is Kish? Fish? Someone get me a map.” One of the technicians laughed, a release of nervous tension. Potzner shot him a black look and the smile disappeared. Fish and his men scattered as Potzner approached.

Farrell turned to Dracup. “That’s Iraq, isn’t it, Prof?”

Dracup was taking it in. Natasha is in
Iraq?

Gembala was talking urgently to two men who had entered the room just before the last verse was completed. They were in USAF pilot’s uniform. Dracup caught one phrase:
Stand by.
They left on the double.

A map appeared. Potzner laid it out. “About eighty kilometres south of Baghdad.” He stabbed a yellowed finger at the position. “Are our guys anywhere near?” He looked at Gembala.

“Well, yes and no. It’s a protected area. We patrol but there’s no permanent occupation. The government’s pretty hot about the loss of archaeologically sensitive material. Since the museum in Baghdad was trashed at the beginning of the war –”

Potzner cut in. “Who knows anything about this place? Fish – get your ass over here.”

Dracup hovered behind Fish and craned his head for a better look.

Fish adjusted his glasses and brought his face close to the map. “Well, ah, it’s a ruined city. From what I remember the site would be around eight kilometres in total. It’s been partially excavated. There are mounds – I believe a large constructed palace was unearthed.”

“And?” Potzner probed.

“It was the first post-flood city,” Fish blethered on, warming to his theme. “That’s where it all started over. The royal seat was moved to Kish after the supposed flood. It’s all documented in the Sumerian Kings list – er, that’s an archaeological document they found in Mesopotamia,” he added for the benefit of the surrounding blank stares.

Dracup felt numb. Iraq is a war zone.
They took my daughter into a war zone. . .

“And something else –” Fish attempted to control his accelerating excitement. “The gate of God – p-probably refers to Babylon. The derivation is
B-Babil.
”

“Appropriately so,” Gembala muttered under his breath.

Fish looked to be in danger of hyperventilation. “Well, don’t you see the metaphorical implication?” he stuttered.

The gathering waited patiently for enlightenment.

“
Beyond
the gate of God.
Outside God’s gate
,” Fish repeated slowly, as if teaching a class of very small children. “Adam was what?
Banished
from God’s presence.”

Potzner banged the map with his fist. “That’s enough for me. Fish – I need detailed maps. Colonel Gembala – tell your fly guys we’ll be joining them in ten. Dracup – you come with me.”

Dracup was thinking hard. What would they do with him?
A back seat
, Gembala had said. Now that his hope had been rekindled he was terrified they might leave him behind.
Forty-eight hours
, the text message had read. Dracup did some swift calculations. Iraq was at least six hours by air. That was all right; there was still time. Somehow he had to contact Moran. He felt in his pockets for inspiration; his mobile had been confiscated, but he still had his fountain pen.

In the corridor they passed the sandwich lady on her way out. As he passed the trolley Dracup said, “A moment, please?” Potzner turned impatiently. Dracup held a five-pound note, which he pressed into the woman’s hand. He quickly picked a cheese and tomato roll from the unsold items on her tray.

“Still hungry, Prof?” Farrell grinned. “I sure could do with a hot dinner. Reckon there’ll be something on the transport, if it makes you feel any better.”

They exited the building through a set of double doors and into a waiting jeep. It started to rain as they crossed the tarmac. Dracup heard the whine of jet engines before the winking red lights of the military transport plane appeared through the darkness. A door opened in the fuselage and a set of steps hydraulically extended to the tarmac.

“After you, Prof,” Farrell invited Dracup with an outstretched arm.

Dracup followed Potzner up the steps into the aircraft. He turned and took a last look at the cool, English night. He took a deep breath, allowing the air to completely fill his lungs. Then he went inside.

Pam Dellow guided the
Dellow’s Delicious Deli
van out of the airbase main gate. The sentry grinned and saluted. She gave him her usual cheery wave. Inside her heart was fluttering wildly. She glanced over to the seat beside her to make sure the piece of paper was still there. The man who had given it to her along with the five-pound note had also given her a long, lingering look. It was a long time since Pam had been the subject of such attention – especially from a good-looking bloke like that. A good-looking
clever
bloke – the American had called him ‘Prof’. But as she bumped along the country lanes towards her home village she reluctantly conceded that it was probably a look of trust, rather than lust. She shrugged and gave a deep sigh.
Oh, well. It was a nice thought anyway, Pam.
He needed her to deliver the note. But what did it mean? She picked it up and risked another look as she waited to join the traffic on the main road. It didn’t make much sense:

DCI Moran, Thames Valley Police

Baghdad

Dracup

Pam shook her head in puzzlement. The van’s clock told her it was just past midnight. An expression her teenage daughter used came into her head:
Whatever
. She would call DCI Moran when she got home. The police, like her, were used to working all hours.

Yvonne Dracup carefully unpacked her shopping and made a cup of coffee. She looked at the packet of cigarettes she had bought but couldn’t bring herself to open.
Cigarettes?
She was changing. Something was happening to her. She took a sip and scalded her tongue, pushed the kitchen chair back angrily and began to put the washing up away. First the glasses, then the plates, then the cutlery. Forks to the left, knives to the right. She picked up a large Royal Doulton bowl and flung it to the tiled floor. It exploded with a terrifying noise. A shard of pottery nicked her bare foot and drew blood. She stood in the wreckage, hands at her sides, and sobbed. She heard her voice rising in a loud howl: “
Why?
”

The house was silent around her, unresponsive. Her breath was coming in uneven gulps.
I can’t do this anymore. No human being should have to bear this
. She looked at the knife block with its gleaming array of serrated steel. Her skin was so pale, so fragile. She selected a short filleting knife and pressed the blade experimentally against her wrist. It wouldn’t hurt much; just a little sting, then a long, long sleep. She increased the pressure, fascinated by the way the blood fled from the indentation as if anticipating an unnatural exit from her flesh.

She dropped the knife in fright. The blade rang against the tiles with a metallic clatter until it came to rest, spinning in slow revolutions, underneath the breakfast table. Yvonne fled the kitchen and went upstairs. She stood for a moment on the threshold of Natasha’s room before entering her own bedroom and throwing herself full length onto the bed. A long time later she slept.

When she awoke it was late afternoon. She felt better; her earlier despair had dissipated.
It’s because you’re on your own. It’ll be okay when Malcolm gets back
. And he was due back tonight. She resolved to cook a special meal and turn the optimism back on. There was no news, and everyone knew that no news was good news. She went through into the study and switched on the computer. Her email was a lifeline of sorts; her friend Anna was in regular touch from Scotland and hardly missed a day without keying a few lines to make her smile.

While she waited for the machine to boot up she planned the evening menu. Malcolm would be tired when he got home. He travelled such a lot – it was unfortunate but it couldn’t be helped. She didn’t mind the odd day, but lately it had been weeks at a time.
And at a time like this
. Maybe he didn’t realise how weak she felt, how every day was a journey of hope tempered with stubborn self-control conjured from who knew where. She wondered at her own tenacity and when she might reach her limit, the point at which she couldn’t take any more; every day she had to dig deeper into her own psyche just to exist, just to get to the point when she could lapse legitimately into unconsciousness. But then the dreams would come...

She took a deep breath. Her lunchtime loss of control had frightened her. She had never thought like that before, never considered the possibility of...
Stop right there, my girl.
This was no good. Only one thought had the power to sustain her:
Maybe today is the day we hear something.
She opened her email and clicked send/receive. Nothing. Not even junk. She bit her lip and logged out. Should she phone Moran? As she moved to switch the machine off a message box popped up.
Security Alert
. She tried to close it by clicking on the ‘x’. The message box remained frustratingly in the centre of the screen.
Go away. I don’t need this.

Yvonne clicked again, then dropped the mouse in surprise as the cursor began to move by itself. She watched it track across the desktop and open the Start menu. It moved to ‘Run’. A dialogue box opened and text appeared as if an invisible set of digits was typing. Her hand went to her mouth as she dithered, wondering what to do.
I’m going mad
. Then she remembered Malcolm talking about rogue programs that could pass control of your PC to an external operator.
Hackers
. She watched in fascination as a new screen appeared and began to display data, scrolling automatically from top to bottom. It was all meaningless jumble to her. A new message appeared:
Decryption complete
. There was a copyright message at the foot of the message box. It flicked on and off in a second, but she was sure it had said:
Central Intelligence Agency, US
. Then the cursor began to pause at certain words. They didn’t mean anything either:
‘Blackbird’
.
‘Red Earth’
...