by Scott Hunter
Farrell stopped humming. “Okay. If you tell me where we’re headed.”
“You’ve agreed to come. Jassim has given his word that he won’t harm you.”
They were waiting outside a polished wooden door. It was set into the passage wall, surmounted by a low beam. Sara followed Jassim through the narrow space. Farrell was hesitating, toying with his automatic. “He won’t harm me?”
“That’s right, Farrell. Come on.”
She watched with satisfaction as the tall American ducked his head and joined them inside. Jassim closed the door.
Sara inhaled slowly. The scent of the room evoked bittersweet childhood memories of visits to Jassim’s predecessor, a wizened, hunched servant of the chamber named Mahalalel. Even with her small hand firmly clasped in her mother’s it had seemed a forbidding place. Her young eyes had widened at the ointments, ceremonial robes, jars of musky oil and strange, illusory tapestries hanging from the walls of Mahalalel’s sanctuary. Even now she felt the familiar foreboding settling on her. She gazed at the sacristan’s paraphernalia and shivered, catching a similar reaction on Farrell’s bemused face as he took it all in. Jassim brought her back to the present, his soft voice lulling childhood fears away.
“Mr Farrell. The weapon is unnecessary.” Jassim made a slight, dismissive movement with his hand.
Sara watched Farrell. She could see the agent’s fascination in the small, distracted movements of his head, the nervy moistening of his lips.
“What is this place?” Farrell holstered his handgun and let his arms drop. “There’s a feeling, I can’t –” He shook his head, bewildered.
“Mr Farrell. You know your scriptures, I am told.” Fine lines appeared around Jassim’s eyes, the faintest of smiles raising the corners of his mouth. “But as you say in the West, seeing is believing.”
Sara caught her breath. Her brother had taken the greatest risk; now there was no going back for either of them. She felt a pang of guilt and caught Jassim’s arm. “Jassim – I – I don’t know... Kadesh is only doing –”
“– what he feels is right.” Jassim nodded. “I know. And what about Ruth? Was that right?”
Sara took a deep breath. She watched Farrell moving around the room, touching, inspecting. Confusion raged inside her. She took her brother’s hand and squeezed it.
“It just feels like a – a betrayal. He is one of us. He is our leader. Are you sure –”
Jassim’s grip was firm. He looked into her eyes. “No, sister. This is not betrayal.” Jassim held her by the shoulders, gently reinforcing his words. “This is survival.”
“Where the hell is he?” Potzner slammed down his fist on the Humvee dash. He glanced at his watch. “Okay. That’s it. We’re going in.” Damn Farrell. He’d have to look after himself.
He opened the door and stepped onto the baked earth. The marines silently disembarked, assembling in a disciplined phalanx around the vehicles. Conversation was limited to terse, monosyllabic checks and affirmations. Weapons clicked in the darkness as they were primed and loaded. A shadow approached.
“Mr Potzner?”
“Yes, Colonel?”
“Keep to the rear of the second squad. I’ve assigned two guys to you personally. They’ll do whatever is necessary.”
Potzner nodded with satisfaction as two marines materialized beside Colonel Osbourne. Nametags identified them as Cruickshank and Rutter. They were built like football players. Good. Things were going to get tough in there.
Potzner looked up at the great Tell, silhouetted against the skyline and blocking the stars with its bulk. He felt a rising excitement, a tingling in his loins. At last.
Chapter 41
The grip was firm, clasping Dracup’s hand and drawing him towards the shimmering curtain. But Dracup’s mind was in rebellion. He fought against the unrelenting vice that would sever him from Paradise. Natasha was screaming, pulling and kicking his legs. Dracup fought for control. I can’t leave.
You must.
He felt a coldness seeping into his outstretched arm and with it came a reluctant clarity. He realised that he was half-in, half-out. He could see Moran, the tendons on the DCI’s neck straining with the effort of dragging Dracup from the persuasive influence of the tree.
And then he was out. He felt a shock run through him, like a rapid electrical discharge. He was lying next to Natasha, his lungs struggling for breath. Moran was flat on his back, panting and cursing.
“Daddy?” Natasha shook him gently by the shoulder. “Can we go back now?” She pulled Dracup’s hand. “I want to see Sara.”
“Yes. We should go back.” Dracup felt groggy, like an interrupted lotus-eater. He looked around at the stunted roots and grey, lifeless earth. Behind him, the tree pulsed with unremitting energy.
Moran was standing by the curtain, his hands caressing the translucent space in front of him. The air rippled and parted at his touch.
“Don’t even think about it,” Dracup said. “I haven’t the strength to get you out.”
“The Tree of Life.” Moran’s face was pressed against the solid air, trying to see. “This is the Tree of Life.”
“I heard you speaking,” Dracup told him. “I remembered the verses you quoted.”
“I didn’t quote anything,” Moran snorted. “I was pulling like a dray horse.”
“Thanks.” Dracup smiled wryly. “But someone was talking to me –”
“Daddy, you are thin.” Natasha assessed him with the uninhibited assurance of her years. “And your face is dirty.”
Dracup fought back tears. He reached out his hand. “Come here. Just give me a hug.” He cupped Natasha’s face in his hands. She appeared unharmed, tranquil.
“By the way,” Moran said, “have you noticed?”
“What?”
Moran pointed. “Your arm. Have you checked it recently?”
Dracup pulled up his shirtsleeve to reveal the rough bandage Farrell had applied. With a shock he realised he felt no pain. More than that – he had forgotten his injury. His fingers probed under the dressing. They reappeared dry. No blood. He unravelled the gauze. The skin was unbroken.
“Someone’s on our side.” Moran took a deep breath. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Dracup took Natasha’s hand and they walked away, retracing their steps. He wondered when the elation would kick in, but found that he was consumed by other, unbidden feelings; he dared not glance back. He could feel the tree’s energy seducing him, as if he were straining against the insistent tug of some invisible, elastic connection. As he made one foot follow the other he thought about the voice. He hadn’t imagined it. But if it wasn’t Moran’s...
Then whose was it?
Chapter 42
Potzner crouched low. He had heard something. Up ahead the leading marine hissed a warning. Behind him Cruickshank and Rutter’s nervous banter had stopped, replaced by the sound of adrenaline-primed heavy breathing. The signal came to move on. The stairwell was firm under Potzner’s feet, his steps confident. He felt unstoppable.
Suddenly there was nothing under his feet. The marines in front simply fell into the void, like stones dropped into a well. Potzner’s arms shot out for purchase, catching the edge of the stairwell and finding some metal projection, part of the trap’s machinery. He was a heavy man and the odds were against his being able to support his weight. He felt his back judder with the shock, a stinging pain in his bicep. For a moment he swung precariously above the blackness, then with gritted teeth he clawed at the crumbling stonework until he felt Cruickshank’s farmhand grip on his wrist. It took all the marine’s muscle to pull him up. Rutter added his energy to the final heave and then Potzner was lying across the staircase, the taste of blood in his mouth where his teeth had clamped against his tongue during the fall.
The sprung section had swung back into place by the time he had recovered sufficiently to get to his feet. He examined the stonework. They could pass if they clung to the side wall and moved slowly.
He massaged his arm. Five men gone. Someone was going to pay.
By the waterfall Moran signalled caution. Behind the screen of water there was movement. And light. They exchanged looks. Moran shrugged and continued his appraisal of the area surrounding the falls. Every few seconds Dracup’s hand wandered unconsciously to the spot where the bullet had passed across his skin. What had happened at the tree? Who had spoken? He felt Alpha’s weight pulling at his belt and moved his hand down to ease the burden. The artefact had cooled by the time he had recovered it, but it was becoming harder to carry, as if its internal mass was somehow increasing without any visible change. And another problem gnawed at his mind: Farrell and Sara had disappeared.
Moran whistled softly. Dracup looked up. “If I’m not mistaken,” Moran grinned, “those are US marines.”
“Yes, but do we want US marines?” Dracup hissed in response.
“An armed escort? Sounds like a good idea to me.”
Dracup weighed the options. Moran was right. They needed help. But could he trust Potzner? The troops had no doubt been briefed. But what was their brief?
Moran was gesticulating impatiently. He had to take the risk. Dracup gave the thumbs up and felt a cautious relief as Moran, hands extended upward, stepped into the marines’ field of vision and stayed alive.
Moran signalled from the water’s edge. Dracup broke cover, negotiating the slippery stones. They couldn’t avoid a soaking from the spray, but Natasha seemed to enjoy it. She giggled and pushed her damp hair back from her forehead. The sound was a tonic to Dracup’s ears.
“You’ll be the Professor, I’d guess,” said the first marine, a fresh-faced boy of around twenty.
Dracup nodded. The soldier was dressed in standard desert combats, the light from his assault rifle bathing the trio in an intense beam.
“I’m Jackson, and this is my buddy, Cannon.” He cocked his head towards an untidy ginger-haired marine. “We have orders to see you clear of this place.”
Dracup’s fears resurfaced. He didn’t want clear of this place. He wanted Kadesh. Face to face. Answers. Closure.
“We have to get going,” Jackson told them. “The place is crawling with unfriendlies. If you would, please.” He barrelled his light along Dracup’s earlier route. The beam picked out the perfectly conjoined stonework that formed the passage’s ceiling, the enduring handiwork of Nebuchadnezzar’s master builders.
Cannon echoed the sentiment. “You heard the man. Let’s move out, folks.”
Dracup took Natasha’s hand and they fell into step behind the probing glare of Jackson’s light. How could he find Kadesh in this warren? Cannon’s footsteps trudged behind them, his light casting their shadows onto the path ahead.
“This is the lowest level,” Jackson called back. “We’ve got a way to go, so keep up.”
“There are seven levels,” Moran said, fumbling with his map.
Dracup moved in for a closer look. The map was a cutaway, exposing the innards of the ziggurat as if a giant knife had sheared through its centre. “Where did this come from?”
Moran shot him a strange smile. “What was it you said? ‘Hasn’t the imagination to be unstable’?”
Dracup was stunned. “Malcolm? What in the name –?”
He was interrupted by an impatient shout from Jackson. “C’mon now, let’s pick it up. Everyone okay back there?”
“Okay,” Cannon called. The passage began to rise under their feet. A faint susuration could now be heard; it filled the space with a primal, earthy urgency. Dracup heard Cannon muttering, “What the hell is that?”
“It’s just the singing, don’t worry. We’re near the chamber of worship on this level. I like it. Ruth taught me,” Natasha said. An instant later Dracup caught his breath as Natasha’s high treble joined in with the melody, adding her own harmony to the weird, ambient soundscape.
“Hold up,” Jackson called back. Dracup pressed his hand to Natasha’s shoulder and the girl fell silent. They had reached a junction and Dracup suddenly understood Jackson’s warning: footsteps, moving fast – their way.
Jackson consulted his map and signalled right. They fled down the new passage, which stretched ahead in a slow, upward gradient. Dracup glanced to one side. Moran had drawn his pistol, checking the number of rounds as he ran. Jackson broke right, then doused his light. They were in a subsidiary corridor of some sort, narrower than the main thoroughfare but not, as Dracup had feared, a dead end.
Natasha spoke in his ear. “My room is right up at the end.” She pulled at his sleeve. “Come and see. I know where we are.”
“You do? Can we get out this way – further up?” he whispered to his daughter.
“Wait up,” Jackson said. “I don’t want to go in any deeper. This place is a warren. We stay here, then we get back on the exit route.” He jerked a thumb towards the passage, a warning glint in his eyes. “Now quiet.”
They waited. An escalating grumble coalesced into a conversation of raised voices. The slap of sandals on stone was close now, almost on top of them.
“Daddy?”
He put his finger to Natasha’s lips and shook his head.
“I want to get something,” she whispered. “Maybe Sara will be there,” she added brightly.
Dracup frowned and pressed a finger urgently to his lips, flabbergasted at the carrot his daughter had used to entice him. Good grief – and she’s only eight...
A group of men passed the passage entrance, close enough to touch. Dracup pressed his back against the wall. The voices were harsh and argumentative, sparring in animated conversation. A tang of acrid cigarette smoke wrinkled his nostrils and was gone. The regular metallic clank of some loose piece of equipment receded with their unresolved discussion.
“Daddy, please.”
“Quiet, ’Tash.”
“We’ll give it five,” Jackson whispered hoarsely. “There may be more suckers on the way.”
Moran blew out his cheeks. “Jihadis.”
Dracup frowned. “How can you be sure?”
“They’re not the guys who took a pop at you earlier. I’d guess they were some kind of internal security. These –” Moran waved vaguely in the direction of the departed group, “are definitely in a different league. Look at the clothing, for a start. Isaaba. Standard Al-Q action garb. Did you catch the hardware as well? That was a mortar.”
Jackson chewed his gum and nodded silently. “Just keep it down. If they suss us out we’re dead. Period.”
Dracup squatted to take the weight off his feet. His mouth was furred and dry. He racked his brains to remember the last food that had passed his lips, and failed; he remembered ’Tash’s first reaction on seeing him: You’re thin. He smiled. Succinct, to the point. Just like Yvonne. The thought jarred. He wished he had some way to communicate Natasha’s safety.
Moran was admiring the marines’ armament. He listened as Cannon described the customisations he’d made to his weapon. Cannon flicked a switch; a red dot appeared on the ceiling, some way down the passage. “It’s a laser sight,” Cannon explained. “You can’t miss with this baby.”
Moran looked suitably impressed. “And this?” the DCI asked, pointing to another rocker switch situated above the magazine.
“Remote operation,” Cannon told him. “I can even fire this sonofabitch from around a corner, provided I can get a clear view.”
“How?” Moran was all ears.
Jackson showed his wrist. “With this,” he said. “Radio controlled. Effective up to distances of two hundred metres. First button switches on the sights, second fires ten, twenty, thirty rounds. Depends on how you set it up.”
“Daddy. Please can we go to my chamber?” Natasha repeated her request.
Dracup thought quickly. It might be his only chance to get away. “’Tash wants to collect something from the room they kept her in,” Dracup said to Jackson. “It’s close by – that okay with you?”
Jackson looked Dracup up and down. “No way.”
Na
tasha appeared between them. She gave Jackson her best smile. “Please?”
“Uno momento, young lady,” Jackson said, visibly weakening. He placed his hand gently under her chin and tilted her head up. “You’ve been here a while, ain’t you? Okay, just hold on a little longer.” They watched him creep to the junction and peer round the corner. He returned with a resigned expression.
“All clear,” he shrugged. “Go with them, Cannon – pronto.” Jackson waved them on. “And hurry.” He looked at his watch. “Two minutes max.”
Cannon led them along the corridor. They passed two or three recessed doorways; other Korumak residences, Dracup assumed. He marvelled at the efficiency of this underground community. They had the basic commodities: light, heat, water. He was puzzling over the fourth, food, when Natasha gave a small noise of recognition. And then stopped in her tracks. “Here.”
Cannon turned. Dracup looked over Natasha’s shoulder. “What is it, ’Tash?” And then he saw.
A woman lay spread-eagled on the floor, her sightless eyes gazing at the ceiling. Natasha was staring at the body. “Ruth.” She stretched out her arm and took a hesitant step forward.
Dracup grabbed her. “Don’t look, ’Tash. Come away.” He pulled Natasha back. She shook him off and pointed to an alcove, where a spread of furs and an intricately embroidered wrap lay partially concealed behind a fine, silken curtain. On the wrap lay a pile of carefully folded clothes. Dracup recognised Natasha’s school uniform. There was also a dolly dressed in a bright blue pinafore.
Dracup stepped gingerly around the body, retrieved the uniform and dolly and ushered the girl out. His heart was thudding in his chest as they rejoined Moran and Jackson at the junction. Moran looked at Dracup and frowned, but the question died on his lips as a burst of machine gun fire broke the silence. Dracup instinctively ducked as it was followed by another staccato fusillade. A bullet hit the ceiling above the junction, raining down a small shower of loose shale.
