by Scott Hunter
Potzner drew heavily on the Winston. The images were always the same. For years they had replayed in the space created by the constant waiting his job demanded. “No.” He spoke aloud and the sound of his voice alarmed him. “Please leave me alone.” But he knew the scene had to play to its conclusion. He closed his eyes and let it roll. Barnes, next to him, his mouth wide, pointing, encouraging the men to keep pushing on, stepping over the bodies. And then the muffled thump alongside, the surprise to find himself on his back. No pain. A glance to the left and the shock of Barnes’ sightless eyes staring back, a faint smile on his lips. Then hands on his shoulder, gently lifting him, the vibration of the chopper and the sharp sting of a needle in his arm. It could have been yesterday, but it was way back – 9th February, 1969, Chu Pa region; America was out of her depth in the jungles of Vietnam and he was on his way home to Abigail.
They had visited Barnes’ widow as soon as his leg would bear his weight again. He could still remember her pale face, the wringing of her slender hands as they sat in the family room of the Kentucky farmhouse he’d heard so much about. They’d promised to keep in touch, but then life moved on. He sometimes wondered about her, if she’d found someone else to fill the emptiness. He hoped so. Life had to carry on; those who survived owed it to the dead to live for them. That’s what Barnes would have wanted. Handsome, happy-go-lucky Joseph Barnes. His friend. There one moment; gone the next.
Potzner fingered the window button and flicked out his stub. The smoke cleared and he sighed, a deep, soul-weary sigh. Death had always stalked him. It had been his closest companion in ‘nam, and an ever-present buddy since he had joined the company. Thing was, it was part of the job. That was fine. He could accept that. But it had no place coming home with him. It had no right to enter his front door. But, dear God, it had. He could feel its presence, hovering, waiting, biding its time. Abigail knew, of course. The doctor had been direct. They had held hands as the sentence had been pronounced. He was a young guy, the neurologist. Looked a bit like Woody Allen. They had laughed about that afterwards. Laughed. Anyway, Woody had a good manner, was sympathetic, pulled no punches. As a straight talker himself, Potzner appreciated that. Three, perhaps five years, at the most. Abigail’s hand had tightened on his as they left the hospital and walked out into the sunshine. Traffic crawled past; lunchtime shoppers hurried this way and that, glancing anxiously at their watches. How much time before they had to be back at the office? How much time?
From that point onwards, his and Abigail’s time had become dislocated from the rest of the world. The people striding along the sidewalks lived in some parallel universe, where normality smoothed the path ahead. What had they in common? They had sat in silence in the park for a long time, just looking, just being alive. She caught his eye and he remembered thinking, I have never seen her look so beautiful. I will always remember this moment. “I’ll retire early,” he told her. “We’ll travel, be with each other.” She shook her head. “No Jim, you must carry on. You love your job. I want everything to be normal, as it was before today.” She smiled, pressing her finger to his lips to seal the protest. “I need it to be that way.”
That was three years ago, and the clock was ticking. Should he phone her now? He knew she hated the fuss. Most days were all right. But the bad days... days in a darkened room where her helpless body would be fed with chemicals, nourished through sterilized tubing. Such days came twice, perhaps three times a week now. And he yearned for her, yet could not bear to be there to see her suffering. He would be with her now, had not hope arrived six months ago in a form more unexpected than anything he could have imagined.
Potzner caught a slight movement in the window of the house – semi-detached, the Brits called them – and snapped into alert mode. The girl, Sara Benham, drawing the curtain. Looked like the lovers were in for the night. He scanned the sidewalk, their side, then paid special attention to the hedgerow on his left that separated the road from the University grounds. He could just see the grey expanse of water beyond the hedge, the lake that sat between the halls of residence on this, the north side of the campus. He was parked in the driveway of the old gatehouse and had a clear view of the red-bricked houses slightly up the hill on the corner. Dusk was rapidly falling and Potzner’s sense of unease increased with the diminishing light. Surely soon? He knew they wouldn’t wait long after the bungled attempt at the diary. He patted his coat pocket reflexively, drawing comfort from the contours of the snub-nosed Sig Sauer P229. He was sure he’d need it before the night was out, and that it wouldn’t be the last time it would see action on this operation. If he could just wing one of them, just one… then he’d make them talk. Hell, he wouldn’t even need the diary then.
A few cars swished past the University perimeter, windshield wipers flicking in the worsening drizzle. Great. As if it wasn’t cold and miserable enough already. He glanced at his watch; 17:15. Check-in time. “Campus one?” His earpiece responded immediately: “In position.” Potzner grunted. “Okay, stand by. Two?” A brief pause, then: “Likewise.” Satisfied, he settled back and prepared for a long wait. No sweat, though. Waiting was his speciality.
Dracup faced the intruder, heart pounding in his chest. Then he realized he was still holding the struggling cat in his arms. He launched the animal, a black tangle of extended claws, directly at the figure in the balaclava, then ducked and propelled himself back through the kitchen door, colliding with Sara as she entered the kitchen carrying a tray of plates and glasses. One word came out: Run. He caught her arm and dragged her through to the lounge into the hallway.
“What....”
“Just run.”
Dracup had the front door open and they skidded down the short drive, turning towards the University campus.
“Simon!”
Dracup glanced back. “Save your breath – and don’t run straight.”
They crossed the road at speed. As they drew level with the gatehouse a parked car flicked on its headlights. Dracup weaved parallel to the vehicle and made for the path by the lake.
“Which way?”
“To the right.” Dracup felt the first reaction of his lungs to the unaccustomed strain. His heart thudded and a burning finger moved across his abdomen. The path clung to the lakeside and they pounded down its length, darkness closing around them as the canopy of trees thickened above.
Dracup fumbled for his mobile and punched in a number.
“What are you doing?” Sara gasped as they approached a narrow wooden bridge.
“University security. Come on – this way.” His legs were leaden and it was all he could do to spit out a request when the security desk finally picked up.
“There’s an armed intruder in the campus – approaching from the North East entrance – crossing the lake...”
“What? Who is this?”
“Dracup – Anthropology.”
“Professor Dracup?”
“Yes – get a move on, for heaven’s sake.”
“Are you sure –”
“Of course I’m – look, just get out here now, would you?”
“On our way, sir. I’ll call the police.”
“Good idea...”
Dracup pocketed the phone and concentrated on his breathing. He could see the homely lights of the University building ahead.
Sara, slightly ahead, stumbled over a shape on the path. And screamed.
Dracup looked down as he passed the spot. A man was lying across the path, his face illuminated by moonlight. A neat hole had been punched in his forehead and his eyes stared sightlessly up at the stars. The crew cut and suit connected him inevitably with Potzner. “Keep going. Across the grass and head left.” He calculated their position and risked a glance behind. A figure emerged from the shadow of the trees by the bridge, stopped momentarily then caught sight of them as they hurried across the open space. Then two others came into view, running towards the bridge. The figure hesitated. Dracup heard a shout. Thank God. Security had taken him serious
ly.
“Simon! Come on.” Sara waited, hands on hips several metres ahead.
He pointed to the buildings. “Go left.” If he remembered correctly the Plant Sciences lab lay ahead, close to the Pepper Lane entrance. What he needed was in there – if there was time. He heard more shouting from the direction of the bridge. They turned into the Plant Sciences car park and entered the building by the automatic swing doors. The reception desk was empty – good.
“What are we doing in here? We’ll be trapped...” Sara caught his sleeve.
“I don’t think so,” Dracup said. “Security has probably done enough to keep him off our scent for a while. And I need to do this now.”
“Do what?”
“Come on.” He let Sara tag along as they passed the noticeboard, which was bare save for a large poster advertising Cornwall’s Eden Project. A glance through one of the lab windows revealed several white-coated technicians, doubtless absorbed in some green-fingered research project. He pushed into another corridor. It was along here somewhere. The floor reminded Dracup of hospitals; polished and antiseptic. In fact the whole building smelt sanitized, as if scrubbed hourly by an invisible team of cleaners. They came eventually to an office, deserted but for the hum of photocopiers and faxes. Dracup had the diary out and the photocopier lid open.
“You’re amazing,” Sara said. “I thought you left it at the house.”
“I’m not letting it go that easily. Keep an eye on the corridor.”
Sara stood at the door while Dracup flicked the diary pages over and pressed the button. The copier whirred. The results were barely legible. “Blast. Where’s the contrast button?”
Sara stepped over. “Here. Now try.”
After a few minutes Dracup had half the pages copied. Somewhere in the distance the sound of police sirens rose and fell. The paper ran out, and Sara hissed across the room, “Someone coming.”
One of the lab technicians peered into the room. “Hullo. Can I help?”
“Just borrowing the copier.” Dracup smiled.
“Are you –”
“Dracup – Anthropology. Our machine’s on the blink again.”
“Of course. Carry on.” The technician grinned back.
Sara nodded as the man left the office and walked back along the corridor. As she watched, another man slipped through the double doors at the far end. He was tall and grey haired.
“Simon?”
“What?”
“Someone’s coming.”
Dracup, intent on his task, waited for the next sheet before responding. When he looked up he saw Potzner halfway down the corridor and closing fast.
“Run.” He thrust the papers at Sara, grabbed her hand and bolted out of the office, turning right towards what he hoped was the way to the side entrance – if there was a side entrance. Behind him came Potzner’s voice: “Dracup...Wait!”
They sprinted the length of the building, and burst out in front of the large greenhouses to the rear of the Plant Sciences lab. Skirting the car park Dracup got his bearings and turned back onto the internal campus road. He shouted to Sara, “This leads onto Pepper Lane.” He dog-legged past the security box, stole a glance behind and saw Potzner’s elastic frame almost upon her. Damn. The man was fast for his age. Sara was mouthing something. He strained to hear what she was saying – her arm was flailing now... a warning? He turned – too late – and saw a car mounting the pavement. He dived to the left but the next second it was on him, catching him a bruising blow on his thigh and lifting him into the air. The world slowed down. He floated towards the ground, twisting his head sideways to avoid contact with the pavement. The dreamlike quality persisted until he landed, shoulder first on the tarmac. A curtain descended. He was vaguely aware of hands in his pockets, probing, pulling. An engine roared, so close it felt like it was in his head.
Then there was blackness.
Chapter 4
Dracup was unsure which part of his body hurt the most: his head or his shoulder. He opened his eyes and squinted in the bright light.
“Simon? Thank goodness...”
Sara’s face swam into focus. The curtain twitched and Potzner was at the bedside.
Dracup felt a sudden flare of anger. “I presume you’ve called the dogs off now you’ve got what you wanted.” The effort of speech made him wince.
Potzner studied the bedside cabinet. There was a Tupperware box containing Dracup’s mobile, car keys and wallet. Potzner shook his head. “This wasn’t our doing, Mr Dracup. We were trying to protect you.”
Sara seemed to be in agreement with the American. Dracup searched her face. She was pale, biting her lip. And then he remembered the body on the campus path. To Potzner he said, “You lost a man.”
“Yes.” The American’s expression remained impassive. Only the jaw worked at a slow tempo, masticating the gum with practised automation.
Dracup leaned back on the pillows. His head throbbed with a slow pulse. So Potzner was on his side; that was little consolation now. The theft of the diary had removed the only tangible link to Natasha.
“Fact is, Mr Dracup,” Potzner continued, “it would have been a lot better if you’d just complied with my request and passed the document to me. Safer.”
“That’s helpful.” Dracup’s mouth felt thick and there was a residual taste of antiseptic that made him feel nauseous. “You didn’t tell me there were other interested parties.”
“You handled yourself very well, Professor. But I think it’s time to leave the rest to us.”
Dracup raised an eyebrow. Even that small action sent splinters of pain across his face. “The rest?” Sara was vehemently nodding her agreement. She moved closer and took Dracup’s hand.
“Mr Dracup. I just came to apologize for the inconvenience that’s been caused. I wish you the best for a quick recovery – oh, and you needn’t concern yourself about the incident in the hotel room. The police know nothing.” Potzner turned to leave, one hand on the curtain.
“No. Wait.” Dracup reached out to grab Potzner but fell back on the pillow at the jarring pain in his shoulder. He heard his voice shouting, “My daughter is missing! You can’t just walk away –”
Potzner hesitated; he seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry – I didn’t know.”
“You’re sorry?”
A nurse brushed past him into the ward enclosure. “Right,” she said brightly. “Calm down please, Mr Dracup. Mobile off inside the hospital.” She removed the instrument from Potzner’s gloved hand. “You’ll disturb the whole ward with all that shouting. Everybody out. I have to change Mr Dracup’s dressings.” She bustled off, presumably, Dracup thought, to allow his guests a minute or so to make themselves scarce.
Potzner turned to leave. “I’ll see you in my office when you’re feeling better, Professor. In the meantime I suggest you talk to the police about your daughter. And I wouldn’t mention our little chat. Or the diary.” The curtains parted and Potzner was gone.
Dracup felt his anger burning. “Now wait a minute –.” But Sara’s hand was on his arm, the nurse poised over him like some starched bird of prey. He listened as the American’s uneven footsteps receded along the ward, then turned his attention to the nurse. “I need to get out of here. I’m not ill. There’s nothing broken. Is there?” He challenged the nurse with a hostile jutting of his chin.
“You have a little concussion and a bruised hip,” the SRN said. “But you’ll live. I presume there’s someone who can keep an eye on you?” She glanced at Sara. “Well, that’s all right then. The doctor will be round shortly. If you behave you’ll probably be discharged this evening.”
“I’m discharging myself when you’ve finished the dressings,” Dracup told her. She opened her mouth to reply but, seeing his expression, thought better of it and turned her attention to the task in hand.
Potzner’s office was a Spartan affair. Dracup slammed the door behind him and pointed a trembling finger at the American. “You’d better start explaini
ng. Right now.”
“Do come in, Professor. Take a seat.” Potzner waved vaguely in the direction of a chair. His attention was occupied by a set of photographs that lay askew on the surface of his desk. The omnipresent Winston was jammed into the corner of his mouth, although it remained unlit in irritated deference to the ‘No Smoking’ signs liberally scattered around the building.
“I’ll stand if that’s all right with you,” Dracup said. “Now talk. What do you know about my daughter’s abduction?”
Potzner shrugged. “Only what you’ve told me. I take it there’s no news?”
Dracup leaned across the desk. “Is there a connection with the people who stole the diary? If there is, I need to know. For pity’s sake, Potzner, there’s a child’s life at stake here –”
Potzner blew out air. “Actually there’s a great deal more at stake, Professor. And yeah, there may well be a connection, but I can’t see a motive.”
Dracup slammed his fist on the desk. “I don’t know where to start looking. Turkey? Europe? America? I had the diary. Now it’s gone. I have nothing.” He slammed both fists down. The desk shook. He felt an overpowering weakness grip his body, and collapsed into the chair with his head in his hands.
Potzner was unruffled. “I understand your position, Professor. You’re overwrought. You deserve a little enlightenment – strictly off the record, of course. I can’t tell you much, but you’ll recall our conversation in Aberdeen? About the missing artefact?”
