by Scott Hunter
“About nine months or so. We met at the University. She’s a mature student.”
“I know. Smart girl too, by all accounts.”
“Yes. She is.” Dracup felt tiredness ambush him in its usual underhand way. He suddenly felt bone weary. Does everybody know everything about me? He walked behind the kitchen bar and put the mugs in the sink with a clatter.
“We wanted a word with her as well – just to be on the safe side.”
“With Sara? Why on earth? She’s nothing –”
“That’s what we thought, but we haven’t been able to get hold of her either. Thought she must be with you.”
Dracup couldn’t think straight anymore. “Well, she was. I mean, she had to come back for some emergency. Something to do with her landlady – wretched woman’s a pain. Hang on – I’ll give her a call.” He wiped his hands on the tea towel.
“I wouldn’t bother – there’s no one there.”
Dracup stopped in mid-wipe. “What do you mean?”
“What I said. We’ve been round there this morning. The house is empty. No one home.”
“Well, she’s probably at a friend’s – she has a friend up by the University – she cat-sits for her occasionally. That’s where we –”
“Mr Dracup, when I mean there’s no one there, I mean the house is empty bar the furniture. No personal possessions. Nothing. It’s bare.”
Dracup grabbed his mobile and punched in the familiar sequence. Three pips. This number has not been recognised. He looked at Moran in bewilderment, hoping the DCI could impart some further explanation. “I don’t understand.”
Moran gave him a sympathetic smile. “Looks like you’ve been had, Professor. Don’t feel too bad about it. Happens to us all.”
Dracup made for the door, but Moran caught his arm. “One more thing, Professor. Don’t leave the country, will you? I might need another word.”
Dracup shook him off angrily and unhooked his keys from the niche by the front door. “You have my number.”
Moran called after him. “If you hear from your friend I want to know about it.”
Dracup arrived at Sara’s front door. He rang the bell. Nothing. He tried to remember anything she had said in Scotland, some hint that she was in trouble, or… the thought jarred his brain like a runaway truck… perhaps they had followed her at the airport, and then... His imagination rampaged out of control. He cupped his hands around his face and squinted into the front room. There was no sign of life. No coffee cups left half finished on the table. No magazines scattered untidily by the sofa. No flowers graced the sideboard. She always had flowers. He dialled the landline. He dialled the mobile again. Nothing. He walked down the lane to the campus, past the spot where the agent had lain white-faced in the moonlight, skull perforated by the killer’s bullet. One of Potzner’s. Another disappearing body. They were good at clearing up behind them – the CIA and them, whoever they were.
He stood on the bridge. The lake lay beneath him, scudding clouds reflected on its glassy surface. He leaned on the rail for support. First Natasha, now Sara. He chewed his thumb, checked his mobile again. No new messages. He remembered Potzner’s promise to call when he had an update on the Aberdeen find. They must have made some progress. And why had Farrell left him to his own devices? Then he twigged. They’ve got what they need. I’m no longer useful. Worse. I’m expendable.
Dracup kicked his way through piles of leaves, remonstrating with himself. Who could he trust now? What if Potzner sidelined him and cut to the chase? What would happen to Natasha? And Sara? They were just footnotes in the American’s agenda. But maybe he had an advantage – as long as nothing else pointed Potzner in the same direction – the wax tablet’s mention of Ethiopia. It was down to him to make the most of it. Dracup stretched his legs to a brisk pace. He needed to find out more. And quickly.
The hard disk grunted and rattled as Dracup typed two words into the search engine: Ethiopia space Lal. He scanned the results: ‘A journey to visit the astonishing religious centres of Ethiopia’,‘Lal Hotel’, ‘Lalibela, Ethiopia’. Dracup chose the third, and sat back to peruse the site:
‘They say it’s the 8th wonder of the world, the monastic settlement of Lalibela, perched upon a natural 2,600-metre rock terrace surrounded on all sides by rugged and forbidding mountains in the northern extreme of the modern province of Wollo.’
Dracup felt his heart rate increase. Something felt right about this. He read on:
‘– the passing centuries have reduced Lalibela to a village. From the road below, it remains little more than invisible against a horizon dominated by the 4,200-metre peak of Mount Abuna Joseph. Even close-up it seems wholly unremarkable, but legend has it that God told King Lalibela to build a series of churches. The churches are said to have been built with great speed because angels continued the work at night. Many scoff at such apocryphal folklore.’
Me for one, Dracup thought. But he still felt an intangible excitement as he scanned the website’s summary.
‘The Lalibela churches, however, silence the most cynical pedants. These towering edifices were hewn out of the solid, red volcanic rock on which they stand. In consequence, they seem to be of superhuman creation – in scale, in workmanship and in concept. Close examination is required to appreciate the full extent of the achievement because, like all mysteries, much effort has been made to cloak their nature. Some lie almost completely hidden in deep trenches, while others stand in open quarried caves. A complex and bewildering labyrinth of tunnels and narrow passageways with offset crypts, grottoes and galleries connects them all – a cool, lichen-enshrouded, subterranean world, shaded and damp, silent but for the faint echoes of distant footfalls as priests and deacons go about their timeless business.’
Dracup clicked on the ‘photographs’ link. The first jpg, captioned ‘Bet Giorgis’, was a church lying in a deep trench and fashioned in the shape of a cross. Theodore had buried the half-sceptre from the Ark deep in the earth. Lalibela in miniature in a Scottish garden. It felt like the right connection; his gut feeling told him the missing section was hidden in Lalibela. If he could find it and translate the cuneiform… The incomplete stanzas ran through his mind:
‘From whence you came –
Between the rivers –’
But which rivers? His mobile vibrated briefly in his trouser pocket and he started in alarm, fishing for the instrument with shaking hands. He read the text message. “Simon. I’m so sorry. Don’t try to find me. S.” Dracup selected the call register icon. Number withheld. He threw the phone down and pushed his chair back. He strode to the window and beat his fists on the stained glass. So she hadn’t been kidnapped. The policeman was right; he’d been taken for a fool. Moran’s cold teacup sat on the sill. Dracup picked it up and flung it at the wall, where it exploded into fine fragments that flew skittering across the floor. Was anyone on his side? He looked for something else to destroy and, finding nothing, turned his anger against the sofa, punching and kicking the thick cushions until exhaustion quietened his whirling limbs.
Some time later he picked up the phone. He dialled a number and waited a few rings. A cultured voice at the other end answered curtly, “Sturrock.”
“Hello Charles. Simon here. Listen. I need a favour.”
Chapter 14
Ruth had visited the Cave of Treasures many times but still felt a sense of childish wonder as they entered its vaults. She stole a glance at Natasha and smiled, knowing how the girl would react. There was an atmosphere in this place, something intangible, almost sacred. But that was unsurprising, given its history. Ruth shivered. She could feel the presence of her ancestors, those faithful carriers of the ancient torch whose feet had trodden this same path. Countless generations protecting, overseeing, watching, waiting.
“Mind your step,” Jassim warned. “It’s a little uneven.”
“Where are the paintings?” Natasha craned her neck, struggling to pick out any shape from the rock walls, some contour that sugg
ested premeditated design.
“You’ll see. Just follow and be careful,” Ruth told her.
The roof began to stretch away as they rounded a sharp corner, moving into a wider, danker space. Something flicked down from the heights and fluttered around their heads. Natasha let out a cry of surprise and ducked.
Ruth pulled her close and tucked the girl’s head into her bosom, shielding her. “It’s all right – just bats. They’ll go away in a moment.”
Jassim led them on, using his fly swat to swipe at the diving creatures. “No harm; they’re just curious – like you.”
Natasha gave another exclamation and wiped her mouth. “My fingers – they’re all salty.”
“It’s where you touched the rock – the walls are composed of much salt,” Jassim said. “After the flood the rivers moved. They left behind these tunnels we are walking through.”
Ruth’s gaze traversed the sheer walls to their right where the first of the tombs was visible, cut from the rock like a toothless mouth. Soon, as their eyes became accustomed to the reduced light, others became visible above and below. Every opening was delimited by a frieze of worked stone, each scored by the mason’s artful markings; they were pictures of another age, repositories of ancient lives lived in obedience to their fathers. Ruth watched Natasha. The girl was silent, taking it all in.
“Are there dead people in there?” she asked in a whisper.
“They are our forefathers – they have served in past ages and have gone to their rest. There is nothing to fear from them.”
“It’s creepy.”
“Now look over there.” Jassim pointed ahead to where the wall curved gently, sweeping back on itself to form a wide U-shaped bend. Natasha craned her neck. “No, higher. See where the shadow lies across the last opening. Look to the left.”
Ruth heard Natasha give a little gasp. Now it was clear. The rock face of the extended crescent was covered in drawings of such intricacy that the images appeared to have a life of their own. There were many scenes: sprawling gardens populated with lush vegetation and exotic plants; a king and queen seated on two thrones of startling artistry, bejewelled and clothed in the bright, opulent garments of royalty; a city of evident prosperity under siege from an army of strange, winged creatures; a map of the heavens, each constellation glowing with an eerie blue brightness. But the most striking of all was the centrepiece: a huge, barge-like ship afloat on an empty sea. It was set in a circular frame, each segment of which represented some interior detail of the vessel. And such detail! Ruth had lost herself here on many occasions, slipping away from her brothers and sisters, finding herself guided inevitably to this spot.
“What do you think?” Jassim asked Natasha. “Do you know what this is?”
“It’s Noah. Noah and the Ark,” Natasha said slowly, but Ruth noticed that her eyes never left the paintings and that she was gently humming to herself, caught up in the spectacle.
They watched in silence for a long time. Ruth knew that the longer you looked, the more the paintings seemed to take on a life of their own, until you could feel the wind in your face, the swell of the great ship beneath you, the smell of the warm animal dung floating up from the huge decks beneath. The effect was hypnotic.
“Noah was our father,” Jassim said. “His family were the only survivors of the world before the flood. A world that God judged.”
Ruth found a projection of stone, worn smooth by centuries of spectators, and settled herself on it. She motioned to Natasha. “Come.”
The girl came meekly and sat beside her, Jassim’s voice an aural backdrop to the picture show unfolding before them. Ruth put her arm around Natasha’s shoulders and closed her eyes, stepping into the familiar story as if into the presence of a much-loved friend.
“Noah was a wise man, walking closely with God – and for this reason he was shunned by the people,” Jassim said. “The world was corrupt, degraded. It deserved judgement. But God remembered Noah. He warned Noah of what was to come and commanded him to build a boat, the like of which had never been seen before. His family came with him – they were aboard when God shut the door and let the waters collapse upon the Earth.” Jassim paused, moved by the recollection. “From the old world Noah had gathered many things onto the boat, many sacred things that had been revered from far off times. They were not to perish, but to be preserved until the end times, until the world would again face judgement.” Jassim turned to Ruth. “We are part of that.”
“You are Noah’s children,” Natasha murmured.
“All the peoples of the world are Noah’s children, Natasha,” Ruth said. “A testament to God’s mercy. But we are pure, set apart for God.”
“We are the Korumak Tanri,” Jassim said quietly.
Natasha whispered in Ruth’s ear. “What does it mean?”
“We are those who do his will. We are the keepers of the sacred things. His caretakers,” Ruth replied. “It is our destiny. Until the fulfillment of prophecy.” She looked at Jassim.
Her brother nodded slowly. “Yes. The time is upon us. The father has come home. Now his sceptre must also return.”
“What’s a sceptre?” Natasha looked away from the wall for a moment, a frown creasing her unmarked forehead.
Ruth looked at Jassim. She had never seen her brother’s face more serious. More awestruck.
“It is a symbol of power. Of authority.” Jassim spoke solemnly, his eyes fixed on the paintings.
“Like a king,” Ruth whispered to Natasha.
“Like a king,” Jassim agreed. “The king’s sceptre will return; the awaited sign that the end of the ages is near.”
After a while Jassim called them away. Ruth felt she was rising reluctantly into consciousness from a particularly pleasant dream, the characters and scenery flowing into one another like colours in a child’s painting. Her footsteps were light as they picked their way back along the labyrinthine walkways; she felt cleansed by the experience, spiritually recharged.
When they reached the stream, Ruth found her water jar and allowed Natasha to sit and dip her toes. She watched the child skim a stone, languidly, carelessly, as if her thoughts were elsewhere, exercising her new skill with an indifferent movement of her wrist. Ruth knew what she was thinking. The paintings always had that effect. Even now she felt soporific, sluggish; there was the usual reluctance to return her mental faculties to the present.
Jassim took her arm. “Ruth.” His eyes fixed on hers. There was something in his tone. At once she was alert.
“What? What is it?”
Jassim took her hands in his own and held them. It was a gesture of sympathy which, combined with his expression, implied a degree of helplessness, an inability to change something in her favour. “Ruth. Your sister –” He paused briefly then took a decisive breath. “Sara is coming home.”
Chapter 15
Dracup parked the car outside his old house. He had passed another sleepless night, haunted not only by Natasha’s but now by Sara’s disappearance. He had tried to push thoughts of her aside – he needed the thinking space more than anything else – but his emotions refused to be tamed. He pulled himself together with an effort. This wasn’t going to be easy. He checked his appearance in the mirror and wished he hadn’t. It would have to do.
“Hello.” Dracup gave it his best shot, stretching his facial muscles into something he hoped resembled a confident smile.
“Hi.” Yvonne studied his expression briefly. “You’d better come in.”
Dracup stepped into the hall. Strange how a once familiar place could change. It didn’t smell the same. Houses adopted the smell of their occupants but his contribution was long gone, superseded by whatever equivalent Malcolm’s sweat glands were programmed to generate. And there was something else missing; the smell of a child. Toys, paints, Mr Foamy bath bubbles. Yet he could feel Natasha’s presence. Her reading folder lay on the telephone table. A teddy bear sat on the window ledge in silent witness to the household’s youngest member
. He accepted Yvonne’s offer of a seat, strangely formal, and watched her arrange herself equally formally in the armchair as if about to embark on a conversation with her financial consultant. She had lost weight and the strain was showing around her eyes, where dark circles had appeared, a foretaste of a future where such marks would be a permanent feature.
He opted for a conciliatory starting point. “How’s Malcolm?”
“Fine. Busy as usual.”
“Has he been able to take any time off?”
Yvonne studied the flower arrangement on the side table. “A little – but the client needs him on site, you know.”
“I think you need someone on site too.”
She smiled weakly. “I’m all right.”
He shook his head. “You’re not.” He hated seeing her looking so crushed. “Look, I can’t tell you much, but I can tell you enough to keep you going. Enough to help.”
“Fire away. I’m listening.”
And she did, stopping him occasionally for clarification, asking him about Sara, which she understandably found difficult, soliciting his opinion about the French sighting. He covered everything apart from Sara’s sudden disappearance, found himself at the end of his update and waited for her reaction.
“And you’re going to Africa – against police orders.”
“I have to. I really believe that I can find her.”
Yvonne rubbed her temple with a surprisingly steady hand. “I can’t believe this. It’s like a TV drama.”
“I know how you feel.”
“Natasha’s alive. I know she is.”
“So do I.” He saw the first signs of emotion, a betraying tear angrily wiped away.
Yvonne took a deep breath. “Sorry. What do they want, Simon? They haven’t asked you for anything. It’s not blackmail – I don’t understand.”
