The Trespass (40 page)

“I expect nothing, Professor Dracup. I must attend to my responsibilities. The hour of trial is almost upon us. I must play my part.” Jassim’s face was grim. “Take the steps where they will lead you. The passages will be clear at this time; our people are gathered in one place.”

“How will I find my way? I have no torch –”

“There will be adequate light. When I leave you, follow the stairway to its end. Then listen for the sound of water. When you find it, turn to your right and follow the flow. Seek the hidden places. If you are seen, then your life is in your own hands – it is forbidden for an outsider to enter the sanctuary of the Korumak Tanri, but these are unusual times. Be warned: there are others, unlike myself, who will not hesitate to kill you the moment they see you.”

Dracup grabbed his arm. “I have to know more.”

“And you will,” Jassim replied, “but I can share little else with you at this time, Professor, except perhaps –” Jassim pointed to the box nestled in Dracup’s arms, “to advise you to take great care of your luggage. Now, please –”

Dracup took a deep breath and entered the hole. He felt his way down for the first twenty or so steps, then realized that a faint phosphorescence was filling the stairwell with an gentle blue light. He turned to Jassim, an unformed question on his lips. Jassim shook his head. Dracup turned and continued his descent into the home of the Korumak Tanri.

James Potzner nursed his bruised forearm and rolled another Marlboro between his lips. The Humvee vibrated as it negotiated the rough terrain. Too risky for choppers? No problem. The marines didn’t care if they flew or rode – it was all the same to them.
James Potzner is in control.
Moran’s presence was an irritant, but he could deal with the Irishman later; at least Interpol was out of the picture.

Potzner watched the fresh-faced marines joking and bantering in the troop carrier alongside. They were only kids, most of them. He hoped they were prepared for what lay ahead, because he was not prepared to return empty-handed. He had the location nailed; he had the ability. The only fly in Potzner’s ointment was Dracup. The damned idiot could blow the whole thing apart on account of one kid. What was one life when the world was at stake? He clicked on the comms channel. “You there, Farrell?”

For a moment there was only the roar of the Humvee’s diesel engine, then Farrell’s familiar drawl in his ear. “Sure am.”

“You have the map? Good. Now listen: go for the west entry point, and I’ll take the east. I’m betting that the action is at the top of the central stairways, the converging tiers of the ziggurat. They all meet at the top – that’s the focal point of the whole shebang. He’ll be in there for sure.”

A pause, then, “Right. Who’s going in with me?”

“You take Moran – I want him out of my hair. His interest is Dracup and the kid. When we hit the site I’ll give you thirty minutes head start. Check it out and call me when you’re comfortable. Like I said, we’ll come in from the east side and meet you at the top.”

“What do I do when I find the Prof?”

“You help him find the kid.”

“And then?”

“You know what to do, Farrell. None of this can leak. You
know
that.”

A slight pause. “Right. And Moran?”

“At your discretion.”

“Okay. You got it.”

Potzner glanced at his watch. nineteen hundred hours. ETA: forty-five minutes. He chewed on the Marlboro’s filter and thought of his dear, dead wife. It was too late for her, but there would be others – thousands, millions perhaps – who would benefit from the research. And fate had decreed that it was down to James Potzner to make it happen.

The stairway seemed endless. Dracup stopped frequently and listened. The only sounds were his heartbeat and a low, bass vibration that seemed to emanate from within the walls. After a while he discerned an accompanying harmony, strangely discordant yet complementary to the sub-bass drone that had first caught his attention. He paused again, captivated by the effect. It was like some experimental choral composition, but surely no modern composer could create such a sound? As the notes rose and fell in weird, structured, codas Dracup sensed in its metre something old and profound; he realized he was listening to a music preserved from the dawn of time, a chorus of worship that was both ancient and inspired. From grey and enforced Sunday morning attendances he remembered a snatch of scripture:
Adam walked with God
. He felt a shiver run through his body, a sensation unrelated to the cooler underground temperatures. The unsettling soundscape followed him deeper into the bowels of the earth.
This is music from Eden, he marvelled. This is a conversation with the creator.

The stairwell stopped abruptly. In front of him lay a T-junction. Right or left? Listen for the sound of water, Jassim had said. He tried to filter out the hypnotic refrains drifting along the passage. Was there a more elemental reverberation this way? He thought so. He hadn’t travelled a hundred metres before he was sure he heard the rush of moving water. He stepped up the pace. His hands brushed the walls as he paused for breath; they came away covered in a white substance.
Salt
. The catacombs appeared to be constructed from a strange blend of sandstone, salt and some other material that defied his hurried analysis.

He crept on. Eventually the roof of the passage lifted away and he found himself in an open cavern. Dracup caught his breath. Now he could see the water source: a sparkling cascade ran from a hidden opening high in the cavern ceiling. He felt an inward exultation.
This is it.
He took out his mobile and selected the media messages menu. In the photo Natasha was standing just at that point over …
there
. The waterfall fell directly into a pool, hewn out by years of erosion, bouncing on the mossy rocks and bubbling over into a narrow stream. Where now? The stream ran from one side of the cavern to the other, disappearing into a narrow channel on one side and a vertical shaft on the other. Dracup scoured the area.
Hidden places? What hidden places?

He examined the waterfall. Wait. There was something. Through the spray, the shadows darkened at one point near its base. Dracup waded into the stream, drawing his breath sharply as the freezing water numbed his legs. He scrambled up the lichen-covered rocks, slipping back twice as his fingers failed to grip the surface. He was soaked through by the time he hauled himself onto the other side and sat, gasping for breath, by a black space in the waterfall bed. He peered into its depths. Surely not? But there were protrusions that would serve as footholds – for the careful climber.
This is crazy. She could be anywhere.

As he hesitated he heard the sound of footsteps. Running. A shouted command.
Potzner?
Panic and freezing hands made him clumsy; he missed his footing and fell awkwardly, throwing his hands out to save himself. Through the screen of moving water he heard a cry and knew he had been spotted. He heard a popping noise, like multiple corks being sprung from a bottle, then a blow to his arm sent him spinning backwards, sprawling over the wet rocks. He sat up, shocked, and saw with horror a spreading red stain creeping through his jacket sleeve. Oddly, he felt little pain. A shadow fell across the waterfall, then another.

Dracup lay panting, clutching his arm. A face appeared; dark, bearded, unkempt hair tamed by a purple bandana. A bandolier was slung casually over the man’s shoulders and his hands expertly clicked a new magazine into place. A contemptuous grin played about his lips. He raised the automatic and Dracup closed his eyes. He heard a muffled crack. A heavy weight crashed onto his legs and he opened them again. Someone was wading across the stream.

“Professor Dracup? Are you okay?”

He let out his breath in relief.
Farrell
.

The American stepped around the waterfall and crouched at his feet. “Should have got to you a little earlier – sorry about that. Let me take a look at that arm.”

Dracup winced and peeled off his jacket. He was only mildly surprised to see Moran join Farrell at his side. Shadows hovered in the background. US marines, supporting. The DCI holstered his pistol, nodded curtly and prodded the dead man with his toe. “Al-Qaida. It’s all happening here, isn’t it, Professor?”

Farrell finished applying a field dressing to Dracup’s arm. “Just clipped you, Prof. You okay to walk?”

“It’s my arm, Farrell, not my leg – thanks, I’ll be fine.”

“I see you have my parcel.” Farrell pointed his gun at the box, lying askew at Dracup’s feet.

“Don’t try to take it from me, Farrell.” Dracup clenched his fists. “I’ll kill you before I let you do that.”

Farrell raised both hands. “Cool it, Prof. We’re on your side.”

“Are you?”

“You weren’t thinking about going down there without a map, were you?” Moran pointed to the uninviting gash in the rock.

“Without a –?”

Moran reached into his trouser pocket and flourished a folded piece of paper. “This,” he smiled, “is going to come in handy.”

Farrell grabbed it out of the Irishman’s hand. “Where did you get this?”

Moran’s eyes almost twinkled. “Well, that would be telling.” He gave Dracup an odd look. “I borrowed it from a little bird back home.”

A shower of pebbles alerted Sara to the presence of intruders in the funnel.
Jassim?
She nudged Natasha awake and pulled the girl into the shadows. Natasha looked up, fear etched across her face. The girl was pale and thinner, but she had a resilient streak that reminded Sara of her father.

Natasha was pulling on her cardigan. “Are they coming to kill us?”

“No. Of course not.” She smoothed a hand over the girl’s forehead. “Just stay here and I’ll go check it out, okay?”

The girl chewed her lip. Her cheek was streaked with grime and her hair was badly in need of a wash. “Ruth’s dead, isn’t she?” Her large eyes watched Sara intently, daring a lie.

Sara hesitated, her throat constricted. “Yes, Natasha. I’m sorry.” She gave the girl a brief hug, aware of the inadequacy of the gesture. “I have to go see what’s happening, all right? Don’t move.”

Sara found a loose rock and hefted it. She crept, cat-like, to where the funnel entrance spread out like a ram’s horn into the gallery.
How many?
She craned her neck to look up into the blackness. Now she heard voices, the scrabbling of feet. She weighed her options. Stay put, or risk the unknown? She turned and looked down the gallery to where the ceiling dipped and turned. Somewhere beyond the temple perimeter lay the remains of something ancient, a barren, haunted place, blighted by God’s curse. And here, hiding as a child in the gallery, she had felt the weight of its mournful presence.

She took a deep breath.
Okay. Stay put – flesh and blood I can deal with
. A pair of feet landed hard on the sloping floor of the funnel. Sara stepped forward and swung the rock, missing her target’s head but scoring a direct hit between the shoulder blades. As the rock connected she let out her breath in a cry of frustrated anger. The man dropped to the ground with a grunt.

Then two things happened very quickly: something heavy dropped down from the funnel’s twisted tube and wrestled her to the ground. She fought with all her strength, redoubling her efforts as she saw her hands stained with blood and heard the man gasp in pain. She felt a surge of adrenaline.
He’s hurt. I can do this…
And then, twisting around in a final effort to free herself she saw who it was.
Simon?

He froze in her grip, his mouth slack with astonishment. “Sara?” Then, “Where’s Natasha?”

Sara stared at Dracup open-mouthed.

He looks awful.

She bit her lip as Farrell struggled to his feet, reaching behind his neck with a grimace to assess the damage. “Farrell. I’m sorry – I –”

“No problem.” He flashed a smile, then turned to give assistance to the third climber whose legs were dangling, testing the rough steps before committing his weight. A lightly built man dropped down and landed easily on his feet. Farrell jerked his head in Moran’s direction. “DCI Moran, from the UK,” he told Sara.

Dracup was shaking her arm. “Where
is
she, Sara?”

“She’s waiting over there.” Sara pointed and called over. “’Tash? Come over. It’s all right.”

But the only response was the flat echo of her voice and the silence of the gallery. She ran to the spot where Natasha had been sitting, knees drawn up to her chin, dark eyes alert.

Sara looked at Dracup. It was impossible. She
had
to be there. “Simon, she
was
here. I told her to wait. She was scared –”

Dracup was at her side. “Where does this lead?” He swept his hand across the expanse before them.

“I don’t know.” Her head was pounding in a mixed reaction of confusion and anger at herself. “I’ve never – it’s forbidden.” Her heart was beating with fear.
Natasha. Why there? Why didn’t you wait?
“We can’t follow,” she stammered. “It’s impossible.”