The Trespass (9 page)

“That sure is something, sir: your grandfather actually walked on the remains of this vessel.” Farrell paused to take a draught of coke. He swallowed with relish and placed the can carefully back on the table. “Now that is awesome.”

Sara spoke up. “What baffles me is why no one else has reported any sightings of the Ark. Surely with all the effort that’s been made over the last fifty years someone would have succeeded in rediscovering it? It’s a
huge
object, you say. How can any serious expedition miss it?”

“Well, ma’am,” Farrell replied, “those mountain ranges around Ararat are simply
vast
. And the altitude is a real problem. Weather conditions up there are pretty bad too.”

Dracup was thinking about the politics. “And it’s in Turkey.”

“That’s right, sir. The Turkish authorities don’t allow research expeditions a lot of leeway.”

Dracup thought about two men, bivouacked together, guideless, with the storm raging outside, and something else recorded in his grandfather’s precise copybook lettering:
I saw it too. A was lifted away – not the wind.

“Have you seen the – Red Earth material?” Dracup asked. If he could just get Farrell’s confidence, put him at ease. “Potzner was telling me about the research project…”

“I’ve heard a few things, but I’m not security cleared to that level.”

“So, what have you heard?”

Farrell looked uncomfortable. “Ah – I don’t really have a lot of exposure to –”

Dracup’s frustration levels finally burst. “Look Farrell, my daughter has been kidnapped. If there’s anything you know that might help, for heaven’s sake tell us. You’re more clued up than you’re letting on, aren’t you?” Out of the corner of his eye Dracup noticed Sara watching him anxiously.

“I just have to look out for you, Professor Dracup. That’s all. I’m real sorry about your daughter.”

Dracup checked himself with an effort. “Yes. Yes, I’m sure you are, Farrell.” The American seemed genuine for all the party line stuff. One step at a time, Dracup, don’t push it. “Thanks, Farrell,” he said. And left it at that.

The fire was blazing as they reassembled in the front room. Dracup went to the pile of letters and picked the next from the heap.

Sara rubbed her hands by the fire. “Nice job, Farrell,” Sara said, straight-faced. “You must have been a Boy Scout after all.”

Farrell selected a blackened poker from the fire stand and prodded the coals speculatively. “Well, thank you, ma’am.” Dracup noticed that he held Sara’s gaze until she uncharacteristically looked away. It wasn’t hard to spot. He liked her all right.

Dracup shifted in his seat. He read the last letter and threw it on the table. Nothing. He tried to remember what his aunt had been involved in, what contacts she had had within her community. She had been a committed Christian, that much he knew, a regular church attendee. And there was her work for charities. He racked his brains. Which church had she attended? The local one, of course; Forest Avenue Baptist. He glanced at his watch: 5.21. Not too late to call at the manse. He grabbed his coat.

Sara frowned. “Where are you off to?”

“To see the minister. Won’t be long.”

“To see
who?
”

Farrell reached for his coat.

“No.” Dracup told him. “You stay with Sara. I’m only going up the road, and it’s still daylight.”

Forty minutes later Dracup strode briskly along Forest Avenue, a cream envelope tucked securely in his jacket pocket. His heart was thumping with adrenaline and his face wore a grim smile of triumph. He took the stairs two at a time and found Farrell and Sara at the top, their faces quizzical.

“Listen to this.”

Sara and Farrell froze at the excitement in Dracup’s voice.

Dracup opened with shaking hands the letter the Reverend Anthony McPhee had produced from his filing cabinet. “It’s from the Alexandra Nursing Home, Aberdeen. From the matron.”

“But how did –?” Sara’s mouth was open.

Dracup shushed her into silence. He read the letter aloud:

Mrs Hunter

c/o Forest Avenue Baptist Church,

Aberdeen

Dear Mrs Hunter,

As we haven’t heard from you for a while, I thought I’d drop you a wee line to see how you were. We always appreciate Pastor McPhee’s visits – and all the wonderful things your church does for the home. Things here are busy as usual – we’ve had the builders in for quite a time now and the dust makes a terrible mess. But we are looking forward to the finished results and the new lounge extension should be ready by Christmas. We’re hoping to hold the carol service there as we’ll at last have plenty of room! Now, I must mention that Mr Churchill is asking for you – he won’t listen to us when we tell him you’ll no doubt pop in soon. He keeps on asking! Well, you know that he does so enjoy your visits and is keeping awfully well considering he’ll be 105 in November and is our oldest resident by a long way!

Anyway, I mustn’t keep you any longer but do accept all our best wishes. Hoping to see you soon.

Yours sincerely,

Joan Mayfield

Matron

Sara looked blankly at him, searching for significance. Dracup watched their faces for any glimmer of understanding. His words tripped over themselves as he tried to explain. “My aunt – she was a member of the local church – she did a lot of charity work in the nursing homes in the area. There was one in particular that was a favourite. Now I know why.”

“Churchill?” Sara’s eyes reflected the light Dracup was searching for. He could almost hear the penny drop.

“Yes! Churchill!” Dracup shouted. “
Reeves
-Churchill. Theodore’s colleague on the expeditions. He’s still alive!”

The time is now
, Ruth told herself.
He will listen
. She hesitated and then heard herself speak, surprised at how calm she sounded. “Forget this Professor Dracup,” Ruth told Kadesh. “He cannot harm us.”

“He has already harmed us. Harmed
me
.”

Ruth pressed on, heedless of the risk she was taking. He was grieving, but she had to know. She had chosen the time carefully. They were resting, breaking their long journey in the anonymity of the French countryside. Kadesh was quiet, thoughtful; pondering his next move. In this mood he was approachable. “It was not the Englishman’s doing,” she appealed. “It was his father’s father.
He
was the one who transgressed.”

Kadesh drew himself up to his full height and Ruth shrank before him. He towered above her, though she herself was tall – like all her kind; her ancestry had fashioned her that way.

Kadesh glowered and then seemed to check himself. “The Englishman has taken a life; my brother’s life. He must reap the consequences. And the law must be fulfilled.”

Ruth changed tack. If she acknowledged his success, then surely he would reconsider. “You have completed your mission. Our treasure will be restored to its rightful place. Surely there is nothing to be gained –”

Kadesh held up his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Gained? There is much to be gained. Justice will be done. And then I will be satisfied.”

“What will you do with the girl?” Ruth asked. “She cannot be any use to you.”

“We shall see.”

“Have compassion on the child, Kadesh. She is innocent.”

“No one is innocent in the sight of God.” Kadesh motioned to Natasha. She was playing with a doll that he had found for her. Perhaps, Ruth hoped, this was a sign of some latent paternal instinct. They could hear the girl chattering quietly to the doll in her make-believe.

“And when it is finished,” Ruth asked, “will you allow him to keep what he has taken?” She held her breath, terrified at her boldness. He knew what she meant; she could see it in his eyes.

“Water will find its own level. Like must cleave to like.” He fixed her with his dark, hooded eyes. “It has always been so.”

“Yes,” Ruth replied, “we must follow the pattern established for us. We must be in His will.” She held out her hands in supplication. Was his heart so distracted?

“Do not lecture me, woman.” Kadesh turned away, presenting his back. “Leave me. My heart is sorrowful.”

“Tarshish was a good man. I – I am sorry.” Ruth knew the conversation was over. She made her way back to where Natasha lay, chattering to the dolly. When she saw Ruth approach she looked up, fearful, then relaxed and held the doll up for inspection. “Look, she has a little light inside.”

“That’s pretty, isn’t it? Better not touch her there.” Ruth moved the child’s fingers away from the tiny pulsing red light just visible beneath the doll’s dress and stroked Natasha’s dark curls, wondering at a child’s capacity to accept the inevitable, to adapt to changing circumstances. If only she could find it in herself to follow the child’s example.

The nursing home was, contrary to Dracup’s expectations, set in well-kept grounds in a pleasant suburb of the city. The drive was flanked by a row of stately elms, fading to yellow and red as the chlorophyll lost its potency and little by little relinquished its task of nourishing the leaves; soon the earth would reclaim them and the cycle would begin afresh.

Dracup parked the car and gave Sara a strained smile. He hoped it was the same Churchill and that he was not about to make a fool of himself. Throughout the night he had slept little, tossing and turning, images of Natasha flitting in and out of his exhausted mind. He finally gave up at six and, bleary eyed, decided to tackle the remainder of the desk contents in the front room. At least when he was occupied he felt less vulnerable, less hopeless.

“Will Farrell be all right at the flat?” Sara asked as they crunched their way up the gravel drive.

Dracup knew what she meant. Farrell could take the opportunity to do a little research of his own in their absence. It was clear to Dracup that Potzner’s focus was Red Earth; Natasha’s predicament held little interest for him. And if the CIA were a step ahead and decided to act...He dared not predict what the result would be. Dracup realized that, to Potzner, Natasha was expendable. Compared to his precious research project she was way down the list of priorities. And that meant Dracup needed to guard any information carefully – to work with Potzner until a point had been reached where he had enough to go on without him. Dracup wondered when – if – that point would ever arrive. He took a deep breath and replied. “Yes. I think so. I get the impression he’s not fully signed up to the Potzner agenda.”

“Me too. Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“We’ll see. Let’s hope I’m right about Churchill.”

They rang the ancient pull-down bell and were greeted by a cheery-faced woman in uniform. “Good morning! You’ll be for Mr Churchill?” They followed her into the reception area where Dracup was immediately struck by the smell, a heady mixture of cabbage, sweat and micturition that floated down the centrally-heated corridors and caused Sara to wrinkle her nose. “It’s very warm in here.” She gave a small cough and grimaced at Dracup.

“Circulation breaks down as you get older. You feel the cold more,” Dracup whispered.

“Just along here,” the care assistant told them. “I should warn you that Mr Churchill is a wee bit – wandery. He’s a hundred and five, you know, so he’s doing amazingly well.”

“He certainly is,” Dracup agreed. “But I wonder, can you tell me before I meet Mr Churchill – does he have another part to his name? I mean the first part of a double-barrelled name?”

She put a finger to her mouth. “Now, let’s see, Oh yes – Reeves. Reeves-Churchill. But we call him by his first name – George.”

Dracup’s heart missed a beat and he exchanged a glance with Sara. “Thank you.”

“We have a church service at ten o’clock for the residents. You’re very welcome to join us if you like. Can I get you a coffee?”

“That’s very kind,” Sara said. “Coffee would be fine. And we’d be delighted to attend the service.”

“We would?” Dracup stage-whispered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church, let alone a service.

“You’ll get more out of Churchill if you spend some time with him. Integrate with what he’s doing. Believe me, I’ve dealt with elderly people before.” Sara widened her eyes.

Dracup knew that look. It meant: I’m right on this. Just do it, and no arguing.

They were ushered into a long room where between fifteen and twenty residents were sitting in quiet expectation. A few looked up when they entered, but most simply stared into the distance or into their laps. No one was reading or engaged in any activity as far as Dracup could see. The care assistant led them over to the far end of the room where an old man was sitting, or rather propped, in a wheelchair. There was a dark green blanket spread over his knees and a faraway look in his eyes. His hair was white and thin, spread across his head in some cursory third-party attempt at style, while his arthritic hands firmly grasped the arms of the wheelchair as if their owner feared that the chair might tear off unexpectedly on some wild, unbidden ride. The silver head bobbed and smiled. A milky cup of tea lay untouched on the table beside him. The room was even hotter than the reception area and corridors through which they had passed, and the smell in the confined space of the lounge was overpowering. Dracup wondered how they could stand it.