by Scott Hunter
In the corridor they passed the sandwich lady on her way out. As he passed the trolley Dracup said, “A moment, please?” Potzner turned impatiently. Dracup held a five-pound note, which he pressed into the woman’s hand. He quickly picked a cheese and tomato roll from the unsold items on her tray.
“Still hungry, Prof?” Farrell grinned. “I sure could do with a hot dinner. Reckon there’ll be something on the transport, if it makes you feel any better.”
They exited the building through a set of double doors and into a waiting jeep. It started to rain as they crossed the tarmac. Dracup heard the whine of jet engines before the winking red lights of the military transport plane appeared through the darkness. A door opened in the fuselage and a set of steps hydraulically extended to the tarmac.
“After you, Prof,” Farrell invited Dracup with an outstretched arm.
Dracup followed Potzner up the steps into the aircraft. He turned and took a last look at the cool, English night. He took a deep breath, allowing the air to completely fill his lungs. Then he went inside.
Pam Dellow guided the Dellow’s Delicious Deli van out of the airbase main gate. The sentry grinned and saluted. She gave him her usual cheery wave. Inside her heart was fluttering wildly. She glanced over to the seat beside her to make sure the piece of paper was still there. The man who had given it to her along with the five-pound note had also given her a long, lingering look. It was a long time since Pam had been the subject of such attention – especially from a good-looking bloke like that. A good-looking clever bloke – the American had called him ‘Prof’. But as she bumped along the country lanes towards her home village she reluctantly conceded that it was probably a look of trust, rather than lust. She shrugged and gave a deep sigh. Oh, well. It was a nice thought anyway, Pam. He needed her to deliver the note. But what did it mean? She picked it up and risked another look as she waited to join the traffic on the main road. It didn’t make much sense:
DCI Moran, Thames Valley Police
Baghdad
Dracup
Pam shook her head in puzzlement. The van’s clock told her it was just past midnight. An expression her teenage daughter used came into her head: Whatever. She would call DCI Moran when she got home. The police, like her, were used to working all hours.
Chapter 33
Yvonne Dracup carefully unpacked her shopping and made a cup of coffee. She looked at the packet of cigarettes she had bought but couldn’t bring herself to open. Cigarettes? She was changing. Something was happening to her. She took a sip and scalded her tongue, pushed the kitchen chair back angrily and began to put the washing up away. First the glasses, then the plates, then the cutlery. Forks to the left, knives to the right. She picked up a large Royal Doulton bowl and flung it to the tiled floor. It exploded with a terrifying noise. A shard of pottery nicked her bare foot and drew blood. She stood in the wreckage, hands at her sides, and sobbed. She heard her voice rising in a loud howl: “Why?”
The house was silent around her, unresponsive. Her breath was coming in uneven gulps. I can’t do this anymore. No human being should have to bear this. She looked at the knife block with its gleaming array of serrated steel. Her skin was so pale, so fragile. She selected a short filleting knife and pressed the blade experimentally against her wrist. It wouldn’t hurt much; just a little sting, then a long, long sleep. She increased the pressure, fascinated by the way the blood fled from the indentation as if anticipating an unnatural exit from her flesh.
She dropped the knife in fright. The blade rang against the tiles with a metallic clatter until it came to rest, spinning in slow revolutions, underneath the breakfast table. Yvonne fled the kitchen and went upstairs. She stood for a moment on the threshold of Natasha’s room before entering her own bedroom and throwing herself full length onto the bed. A long time later she slept.
When she awoke it was late afternoon. She felt better; her earlier despair had dissipated. It’s because you’re on your own. It’ll be okay when Malcolm gets back. And he was due back tonight. She resolved to cook a special meal and turn the optimism back on. There was no news, and everyone knew that no news was good news. She went through into the study and switched on the computer. Her email was a lifeline of sorts; her friend Anna was in regular touch from Scotland and hardly missed a day without keying a few lines to make her smile.
While she waited for the machine to boot up she planned the evening menu. Malcolm would be tired when he got home. He travelled such a lot – it was unfortunate but it couldn’t be helped. She didn’t mind the odd day, but lately it had been weeks at a time. And at a time like this. Maybe he didn’t realise how weak she felt, how every day was a journey of hope tempered with stubborn self-control conjured from who knew where. She wondered at her own tenacity and when she might reach her limit, the point at which she couldn’t take any more; every day she had to dig deeper into her own psyche just to exist, just to get to the point when she could lapse legitimately into unconsciousness. But then the dreams would come...
She took a deep breath. Her lunchtime loss of control had frightened her. She had never thought like that before, never considered the possibility of... Stop right there, my girl. This was no good. Only one thought had the power to sustain her: Maybe today is the day we hear something. She opened her email and clicked send/receive. Nothing. Not even junk. She bit her lip and logged out. Should she phone Moran? As she moved to switch the machine off a message box popped up. Security Alert. She tried to close it by clicking on the ‘x’. The message box remained frustratingly in the centre of the screen. Go away. I don’t need this.
Yvonne clicked again, then dropped the mouse in surprise as the cursor began to move by itself. She watched it track across the desktop and open the Start menu. It moved to ‘Run’. A dialogue box opened and text appeared as if an invisible set of digits was typing. Her hand went to her mouth as she dithered, wondering what to do. I’m going mad. Then she remembered Malcolm talking about rogue programs that could pass control of your PC to an external operator. Hackers. She watched in fascination as a new screen appeared and began to display data, scrolling automatically from top to bottom. It was all meaningless jumble to her. A new message appeared: Decryption complete. There was a copyright message at the foot of the message box. It flicked on and off in a second, but she was sure it had said: Central Intelligence Agency, US. Then the cursor began to pause at certain words. They didn’t mean anything either: ‘Blackbird’. ‘Red Earth’...
Yvonne backed away from the PC. Why would the CIA want to hack into our – Malcolm’s – computer? She remembered James Potzner, how strange he’d been during his brief visit. She hadn’t felt safe with him. Something about the way he’d looked at her – no, looked into her. She’d felt dirty afterwards, as if some invasion of privacy had occurred without her knowledge or consent. And now one of his people was crawling around inside their computer.
The text disappeared and a diagram took its place. It was – what? A circuit diagram? A plan of some sort? And then another – a type of pyramid? It looked like a picture her younger brother used to spend hours over, a cross section of a naval submarine, with all its compartments and passages exposed like an ant colony in a glass bottle. Yvonne bent over and flicked the printer on. She hit the print key, fished out the A4 sheet and examined it. There was something familiar about the design, but her memory couldn’t place it. She heard a key turn the front door lock. He’s back. Her heart leapt with excitement. A quick glance in the mirror – she didn’t have any make-up on. Never mind.
She took the stairs two at a time and threw herself into the arms of the man at the threshold. Malcolm was pinned to the doorframe, key in one hand, overcoat in the other. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed hard. “Hi. I’ve missed you.”
“Steady.” Malcolm placed his laptop case carefully onto the hall carpet. “Give me a chance to get in the door.”
Yvonne looked at him and smiled. Everything would be fine now. Solid, dependable Malc
olm would look after her. She felt a pang of guilt. “I haven’t sorted dinner out yet – I was going to make –”
He placed a finger on her lips. “Don’t worry. I was going to take you out anyway.”
This was just what she needed. But he looked tired. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to drag him out again when he’d only just got in. She opened her mouth to voice the thought, then suddenly remembered the computer. “Come quickly.” She pulled him to the stairs.
“Hang on. I’m not quite ready for that.”
“No, it’s the computer. Quickly.”
She dragged him into the study and pointed at the scrolling screen. “There. Look.”
A change came over Malcolm’s face. He darted to the computer and flicked off the power. Then he turned to Yvonne. “What are you doing on this PC?”
“I’m sorry – I thought it was all right to –”
“I told you to only use the laptop in the lounge. All your mail is accessible from there.” His face had darkened with anger. She had never seen him so furious.
“But it was a – a hacker, wasn’t it? I – I thought you should know.”
“What did you see?” He took a step towards her.
“Nothing. There was a lot of rubbish on the screen, that’s all. Then some weird diagrams.”
He grabbed her arm. “I said, what did you see?”
“Malcolm. You’re hurting me.” Yvonne felt a flutter of panic. This was not like Malcolm. He was looking at the printout she had made.
“What is this?” He picked up the sheet.
“I – I haven’t a clue. Something that was on the screen – I thought I’d print it so you could see –”
He struck her hard across the face. She spun backwards and fell across the small computer station, the one she had chosen with him in IKEA. She was so shocked that no words would come.
“What – ?” But he was coming for her again. She backed away and tried to duck under him to get to the door. Her mind was reeling. This can’t be happening. He caught the back of her blouse and she wriggled free, feeling the material tear under his grip. She threw herself down the stairs, but he was surprisingly quick. He caught her in the hall and she felt his arm around her neck.
“Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?” he hissed in her ear.
“I don’t understand. Oh God, don’t hurt me –” She was crying and fighting for breath at the same time as he increased the pressure. She felt a fogginess descending. So this is what it’s like, she thought. I’m going to find out after all. And then there was a distant, heavy noise, like somebody striking a pillow with a hammer. As she drifted into unconsciousness she felt the arm relax its grip. And then she was kneeling on the floor, retching. A hand was on her shoulder, but it had a gentle, concerned touch.
“Mrs Dracup? Are you all right?” She turned and looked into the pinched, greyhound-like face of DCI Moran. Then she was violently sick on the parquet.
Yvonne sipped her tea. It was too sweet, but she didn’t care. Moran was looking at her with an expression of sympathy and repressed curiosity. Malcolm had been taken away a quarter of an hour ago by a pair of very young-looking policemen. Moran assured her he would be charged with assault and remanded in custody. Somehow it didn’t make her feel any safer.
“So,” Moran said. “Do you know what this is?” He held up the print of the sectioned pyramid.
She shook her head. “I haven’t a clue. Obviously something significant.”
Moran was nodding. He looked like a hound that had caught the scent after a long search. “It’s a ziggurat.”
“A what?”
“A ziggurat. A kind of temple the ancients made to worship their gods. Or God.” Moran’s long face lit up with a strange smile. “It has seven levels.”
Yvonne warmed her hands on the hot mug. Her brain was sluggish. She could still feel the arm around her neck, the squeezing. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Malcolm was a cog – an important cog – in this business from the start. He’s an IT specialist, right? Do you know his area of specialism?”
Yvonne sighed. “I don’t really understand it. Codes? Algorithms or something?”
“Security. Network installation and security. He could break into anything – and my guess is he was contracted to break into a very secure network. But now they’ve finally traced him.”
“The CIA?” Yvonne’s mouth was open in shock.
“Spot on. And whoever hired him had some other work for him to do. Something closer to home. Their home.”
Yvonne paled. “Natasha’s abductors? Malcolm knew?”
“I’m afraid he not only knew, Mrs Dracup. He’s been actively working for them for the past few months – if not longer.”
“I can’t believe it.” Yvonne felt paralysed, unable to take it in. “Their home?” she repeated, staring at the print.
Moran nodded. “A strange home, I’ll grant you, but a home nevertheless. And a very old one at that.”
“The ziggurat?” Yvonne was incredulous.
“The ziggurat.”
Chapter 34
The interior of the aircraft had more in common with an executive lounge than a flying machine: comfortable seats, individual mahogany tables, what appeared to be a cocktail bar, two widescreen television monitors and subtle lighting. Dracup thought of his stomach-churning Channel crossing in Charles’ two-seater and shook his head at the contrast. This was straight out of a Harrison Ford movie.
“Something the matter, Prof?” Farrell asked him. “Get yourself strapped in. We’re clearing for take-off.”
Dracup saw Farrell place a box carefully on the floor beside him. He didn’t have to open it to know what was in it: Alpha. His heart beat slowly in his chest. He now knew Natasha’s whereabouts and would shortly close the distance between them. That made all the difference to his exhausted mind. He had a chance. A small one, maybe, but a chance at least. Dracup felt a frisson of fear override his exhaustion. He buckled his seat belt and tried to concentrate.
Potzner appeared, his whole body vibrant with nervous energy. Farrell pointed to the seat belt signs and to his own secured strap. The engine note increased in pitch and Dracup felt an invisible pressure push him firmly back in his seat.
Farrell grinned and shouted over, “A lot more thrust than a conventional airliner, huh? It’ll settle once we reach altitude.”
When the scream of the turbines had quietened the seat belt signs flicked off and Potzner was immediately at the bar. He poured two shots of malt and sat next to Dracup. “Here’s to a successful mission, Prof. Glad you could come along.”
“I don’t recall accepting an invitation.”
“Sure you do. You want your little girl back, don’t you?”
Dracup studied Potzner’s face. He had lost weight and there were deep bags under his eyes. “Of course I do. But that’s not why you want me on this trip, is it?”
Potzner looked at him with an amused expression. “Are you sussing me out?” He looked down at his hands. “Not giving anything away, right? No readable signals – isn’t that what you guys call it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re an anthropologist. You study behavioural patterns, check out body signals, right?”
“You mean interpret gestures? Yes, it’s an unconscious habit. But there’s a little more to anthropology than that. Broadly speaking it encompasses the origin and behaviour of the human race plus physical, social, and cultural development.”
Potzner leaned in close, the whisky on his breath a sour waft. “I’ll bet you’re having to do a little reconstructed thinking around that area now, huh?”
Dracup conceded the point with an irritated shrug. “So why do you really want me here?”
Potzner settled back in his seat with a sigh. “Because I’m willing to bet that whatever else you found up in Scotland is going to come good for you again. For us.”
Dracup maintained a blank
expression. Of course Potzner knew. The wax tablet was too bulky – and too fragile – to carry around indefinitely, and so Dracup had painstakingly copied Theodore’s abbreviations to a thin piece of card and concealed it under his watchstrap. The truth was that he had despaired of making any sense of the final letters of the tablet.
Until Fish had come up with the translation. And then the cryptic K. zig of Theodore’s tablet took on a whole new meaning. Dracup had, by necessity, a working familiarity with the ancient world, but even if this had not been the case he had heard of Kish. And he had heard of the Tower of Babel – and of other Mesopotamian constructions that had been built for the same purpose: places of worship. A place where men could reach up to God… Most of these buildings were ruins, of course, their composition of baked mud unable to withstand the harsh conditions imposed by the relentless passage of time. But it seemed that one had survived – fashioned perhaps from more enduring material because of its special nature. It was buried now, Dracup theorized, under the sand and dust of the Iraqi alluvial plain, but was very much a going concern. They had an unusual name, these stepped pyramidal structures, a name that had made Dracup’s heart dance when he remembered. They were known to historians and archaeologists as ziggurats.
To Potzner he simply smiled and said, “I’m as much in the dark as you are.”
“Oh yeah,” Potzner said. “I’ll bet.”
In a corner of the cabin a fax machine hummed into life. Farrell wandered over and gathered the transmitted papers together. He scanned the documents and looked up with a frown.
“Fish is checking out the lie of the land. He’s done a satellite scan – nothing new so far, just the known archaeology. ‘Important remains still standing at Kish – yada yada yada – include the city’s red-bricked ziggurat built perhaps by Nebuchadnezzar – yada yada – on a rectangular base. Also the grand palace and two other ziggurats –’”
