The Trespass (39 page)

As the sound of the Chinook’s engines receded Dracup took stock of his surroundings. It was late afternoon and the heat from the sun was intense. Bishop had given him a canister of water and two bars of chocolate. As far as the eye could see there was not a soul in sight, and he could see a long way across the flat alluvial plain, with its tussocks of rain-deprived grass and scattering of distant woodland. Above the treetops a shifting pattern of birds wheeled and circled in the still, blue air, their alien cries reinforcing his sense of solitude. Around him lay the remains of ancient Kish, although the only tangible signs were some distance away: a rough rectangular block, doubtless the foundations of some once significant building, and here and there, protruding from the arid soil, the exposed remains that marked the sites of previous excavations.

The landscape for perhaps two or three kilometres was broken by a number of hill-like swellings, each straining skyward as if the earth itself was bursting to reveal the secrets of the past. These were the ‘Tells’, the mounds that concealed the buried buildings of a once thriving city. The closest of these seemed innocuous enough, rising gently to a height of thirty or so metres and surrounded by the detritus of its own destruction. Dracup set the box down and picked up a fragment of reddish stone. It was well crafted, the mason’s art still visible in the turned corners and gentle lines. Perhaps it had been the corner piece of some decorative window, leaned upon by generations of adults and children alike before time and disaster had caught up with it.

He replaced the broken shard amongst the debris and, tucking the box under his arm, began to walk slowly around the Tell. Was it his imagination, or did he feel a faint vibration? He set Farrell’s box down and opened it, ran his hand across Alpha’s markings. He withdrew his finger sharply. The metal was hot, hotter than it should have been even in the high temperature of the plain. Dracup resealed the lid and frowned. The answer to this new puzzle would have to wait.

He wondered if Fish’s analysis was accurate, that beneath this area lay concealed a subterranean anomaly, a leftover from the upheaval caused by the great flood. He paused to take a sip of water, resisting the temptation to pour the clear liquid over his perspiring head. Far off by the distant line of trees some animal was moving sluggishly with lowered head and defeated posture under the ineffectual shade. Dracup squinted to identify it. Perhaps a wolf, or a jackal? He wiped dry lips with the back of his hand and watched until it disappeared. He shook the canister. He’d have to take it easy; he wouldn’t last long out here without water.

But then he didn’t expect to be alone for long. The explosion at the airport would represent only a minor setback to Potzner’s obsessive mission. Dracup was sure he’d read Potzner correctly; the man was living on a razor edge, his entire focus narrowed to a single objective by some tragedy of circumstance. As Dracup resumed his exploration of the Tell, he considered Moran’s unexpected appearance and the effect it had had on Potzner. The Irish policeman’s tenacity was impressive, but Dracup felt sure that, had the rocket not interrupted the proceedings, Potzner would have responded to Moran’s intrusion equally effectively. Nevertheless Dracup felt confident that Moran would find his way to Kish. Somehow. He didn’t know why he felt this way about Moran’s involvement. He just had a growing certainty that the DCI had a part to play, even if the nature of that part was still unclear.

With that reassuring thought, he came upon an area of rock and rubble packed loosely up against the main body of the Tell. The blocks were large, hewn monoliths, roughened by age but part of a once mighty building, piled high to a distance of perhaps twenty or thirty metres. Were they the remains of some external stairway? Dracup skirted the site with a rising feeling of awe. Whoever had built this knew a thing or two about construction. He rested on a boulder and thought of Lalibela. There was some similarity between these reddish layers of worked stone and the strange, sunken architecture he had witnessed in the Ethiopian highlands.
The cradle of civilization
, he thought.
I’m standing in the place where life began again after the flood
. He shielded his eyes and squinted at the colossus rising above him.
And perhaps in a place that predates even that.

With a shock he realized the import of his words. His thinking was, as Potzner had observed, undergoing reconstruction. The eerie silence unsettled him and he forced himself to his feet for a closer inspection of the scattered ruins. There were some gaps through which it was just possible to squeeze, but they led him only into a wilderness of tangled masonry. He lingered for a while in the comparative coolness, undoing his shirt to let the dense, hot air circulate around his body. He resisted another mouthful of water and instead felt his way back out into the harsh sunlight.
Maybe
Fish was way off beam. Maybe this is just what it appears to be: derelict.

As he emerged from the gloom he shielded his eyes from the glare, bending underneath an overturned arch that incongruously called to mind the standing stones of far-off Salisbury Plain. He straightened up and cried out in surprise. A man was watching him from a distance of perhaps ten metres, on a slightly elevated section of the Tell. He was bearded, wearing a long garment of patterned yellows and greens. He stood perfectly still in an attitude of disciplined concentration, as if wanting to be certain of Dracup’s identity before revealing his intentions.

Dracup stole a glance behind him, suddenly fearful that he had been caught in a trap. The man moved slowly down to his level, picking his way elegantly through the fallen masonry with the ease of long familiarity. Dracup stood his ground and waited.

“Professor Dracup. I have been told on good authority that you are a man of ability and determination. Now I see that I was correctly informed.”

There it was again, that accent he had first heard in Sara’s whispered words of love, and from the lips of the doomed Mukannishum in Lalibela. “On what authority?” he called out. His voice sounded puny and flat in the shadow of the great Tell.

The stranger smiled. “On the best authority.”

“I can’t trust someone I don’t know. Who are you?”

“Please do not question me further. Simply follow.”

Dracup hesitated. He remembered Bek’s similar words of encouragement as he was led into the unknown twelfth church. He pushed the memory aside.
You have no other contacts, Dracup old son. No choice.

“Come. Please.” The man turned and began to ascend the Tell. Dracup followed cautiously, regretting his decision to leave the machine pistol in the Chinook. By the time they reached the halfway point his shirt was soaked with sweat and he began to grunt with exertion as his guide pressed on with confident tread to the Tell’s summit. Dracup laboured up the final few metres and, on reaching the level plateau, bent double, hands on hips, sucking in the dry air.

“Twelve kilometres to the west is Babylon, the city of Nebuchadnezzar.” The man pointed with his staff. “His palace was considered the greatest building achievement in the world. But, like all dictators, his time passed. Babylon crumbled to dust. Last century’s dictator, Saddam, constructed car parks and concrete palaces on its ruins.” He laughed softly and nodded. “You will know this, Professor Dracup, as a man who has studied the peculiar struggles of mankind through the ages, yes? But Nebuchadnezzar’s grand enterprises of engineering were not confined to Babylon, with its hanging gardens, its fifty-three temples and great tower. Not at all.” He leaned on the staff and looked at Dracup. “The king’s greatest achievement was here, at Kish.”

Dracup was nodding. “Yes. A greater construction than even the great ziggurat of Babylon took place here. It lies beneath our feet.”

The smile was genuine. It lit up the man’s face with haunting familiarity. “You are wondering where it can be. And how it has remained undetected for so many centuries.” He wagged a long forefinger at Dracup.

It was puzzling. And yet, had Dracup not witnessed Fish’s assertions regarding the subterranean structure of this area, he would have been entirely ignorant of what lay beneath the Tell. Another thought occurred to him. “Saddam must have known of your existence.”

The laugh was disdainful, mocking. “Of course. But even he was afraid. And you may be surprised to know that political adeptness is not confined to the secular world.”

Dracup thought of the CIA infiltration, the ease with which the body of Adam had been taken from the Americans. He shook his head. “No. No, I am not surprised. The Korumak Tanri are a people of far-reaching influence.”

“You have learned a great deal.” The brown eyes glinted with admiration. “And for that you have earned my respect.”

Dracup remained unsure whether this conversation was a sinister prelude to violence or an oblique offer of assistance. His fists were clenched at his sides. “Then you will give me your name.” Dracup held out his hand. “And tell me where you have taken my daughter.”

“My name is Jassim.” Again the long vowel inflexion. “And it was not my will that brought your daughter here, but the desire of our leader.”

The sudden confirmation of Natasha’s presence was an electric jolt through Dracup’s body. He remembered Mukannishum’s whispered confession: the name of Kadesh. “Kadesh? You must take me to him.” He felt the tension in Jassim’s bearing. He was beginning to suspect that the man’s appearance on the surface was a solo initiative, but wondered whether he was acting merely out of curiosity or driven by some greater sense of urgency.

Jassim shook his head. “That would be unwise.” He reached into the folds of his garment. Dracup tensed. The brown hand reappeared. As it opened, Dracup gasped; in Jassim’s palm lay Sara’s moon and star necklace. “Your daughter is with my sister.”

“Your sis–?” Dracup was lost for words. And then he acknowledged the similarity in facial structure, the high cheekbones, the curve of the perfectly white teeth. “Sara?”

Jassim nodded. “They are both in great danger. You must do exactly as I say.”

Dracup swallowed. His throat was parched. “I have many questions.”

“But the answers may not serve your immediate need.” Jassim lifted his staff again and pointed at the reddening sun. “We wait until it has set. Then I will lead you down.”

The early evening brought with it a refreshing coolness and a spectacular sunset. Dracup watched as the sky was filled with a blaze of orange and red, sweeping colour across the clouds with the abandonment of some celestial surrealist painter. Jassim had quietly withdrawn to a nearby scattering of boulders and sat, staff in hand, apparently deep in thought.

Dracup puzzled over the non-appearance of Potzner. He wondered if the American might have sustained injuries in the airport attack. He thought of the Interpol woman and felt a pang of guilt that he hadn’t gone to her assistance. He reasoned that help had been at hand, but also acknowledged – with some discomfort – that he had acted out of sheer, blind instinct. He found one of Bishop’s chocolate bars and broke off a piece. It was partially melted, sticking to the foil. As the sweet taste filled his mouth his ears strained at the sound of approaching engines. Jassim seemed unperturbed, gazing out onto the plain, moving his staff languidly back and forth between his hands. A minute or so passed and the sound faded; whatever machine was responsible for the distant drone was clearly on some other flight path. Dracup, however, was under no illusions; sooner or later Potzner et al. would be paying Tell A23 a visit. He bit his lip. He had to trust Jassim’s judgement.

The heavenly light show gradually faded and the shadows of the Tells fell darkly across the parched soil. Jassim walked over to join him. He seemed preoccupied and tense, in a hurry to begin the descent. “It is time. Let us face our futures, and may God be our judge.”

Dracup followed Jassim to the base of the Tell and along its rubble-strewn length. At the northernmost point a natural formation of rock was buttressed up against the body of the mound, and as they drew nearer Dracup could see a number of elongated fissures in its composition; these scars ran vertically upwards until they eventually disappeared into the clumps of sparse vegetation adhering to the Tell’s summit. They were unlikely portals to the hidden world underground, and yet Dracup was unsurprised to see Jassim squeeze his tall body through the second of these fault lines and disappear from sight.

He followed suit, and discovered that the gap widened significantly as he progressed, to the extent that he soon found himself standing in a circular clearing, overarched high above by an odd fusion of natural geology and derelict architecture. In front of him, set into the ground like a series of puckered mouths, was a triad of sink holes, openings into the body of the Tell. Jassim waited by the central hole, signalling impatiently with his staff. Dracup joined him and peered into the depths. A waft of warm, perfumed air emanated from the deep. It recalled, oddly, the sensation of standing at the top of the high escalator at Holborn tube station; there was the smell and feel of humanity somewhere in the depths, the sensation of unseen activity. Dracup’s heart hammered against his ribs. Jassim was talking, his voice an urgent whisper.

“I can descend with you only part of the way. Then our paths must diverge.”

“Diverge? How do you expect me to –?”