by Scott Hunter
“They were good men, you murdering son of a bitch.” Potzner’s voice was steady, but Dracup saw the smouldering hate in the American’s eyes.
“That is a most unflattering and inappropriate term.” Kadesh smiled benignly. “Although the terms ‘murder’ and ‘United States’ are familiar bedfellows. Now,” he told Potzner, “down with your weapons if you please.”
Potzner waved a signal to the waiting marines. The rifles clattered to the floor.
Dracup’s legs were shaking. He lowered himself slowly to his haunches.
“Don’t move again, please.” Kadesh spared Dracup a single glance. “Mr Potzner. Do you still believe you have the right to take what does not belong to you?”
“Ownership isn’t the issue here.” Potzner held a snub-nosed pistol in his right hand. The grip was steady.
“But it is, Mr Potzner. And you have no such rights.”
Dracup’s eyes scanned from left to right. Moran was five, maybe eight metres away. The DCI’s hands were empty, his gun holstered under his armpit.
Kadesh wore a disdainful expression. “In a way, this is better than I’d hoped.” He turned his attention to Dracup. “To personally pay the debt to my father is an additional – a richer, one might say – blessing.”
Dracup knew he had to play for time. “What debt?”
“Oh, please, Professor Dracup. By now, you know it all. My father died because of what happened in his generation. Because of what your family did.”
“My family? A geologist, working – no – coerced into working for the US federal government? That’s hardly culpable. Theodore Dracup was forced into a situation he would rather have left well alone. You know that.” Dracup snatched a glance at Potzner, his heart in his mouth. The American’s forefinger was stroking the pistol trigger, his eyes fixed, the pupils dilated.
“My father died a broken man, Professor Dracup. Your grandfather’s interference brought ruin and desolation upon our people.”
“Then I apologize on his behalf. What he did was wrong – even if he acted against his will.”
Kadesh shook his head. “It is too late for apologies.” He let the knife brush across Natasha’s cheek. “You have failed to return the sceptre.”
“You’re wrong. I have Alpha.” Dracup fumbled for his belt.
Kadesh’s eyes flashed a warning. “Keep your hands in front of you.” The knife moved to Natasha’s throat.
“I also have the diary.” Dracup tried to keep his voice even, reasonable. “It’s yours if you want it.”
Kadesh laughed softly. “Indeed? So, you overcame Mukannishum. Still, I regret that your efforts are sadly inadequate.” He tightened his hold on Natasha. “Besides, did you really expect me to show you any mercy?”
One of the jihadi squad laughed, a foreign, heartless sound.
Beside him, Jackson stirred, groaning. The marine’s arm fell loosely by his side, exposing the wrist. Kadesh drew a pistol and shot him through the head.
Dracup yelled, “No!” He stopped in his tracks as the pistol was levelled at him. His hands made fists then clasped his thighs in impotent fury, trying to repress the revulsion he felt at Jackson’s cold-blooded murder. Kadesh was enjoying himself, taking his time, studying his reaction. Think, Dracup, think. And then his pulse accelerated, a surge of adrenaline. What had Cannon said?
I can even fire this sonofabitch from around a corner, provided I can get a clear view. And the marine had shown Moran his wrist: Radio controlled. Effective up to distances of two hundred metres.
Dracup checked the angle of Jackson’s rifle. It was pointing towards the roof, way off centre for an accurate shot. He had to entice Kadesh to move. “You can’t kill an innocent girl.” Sweat broke out on his brow. “Kill me instead. Let her go.”
“Oh no, Dracup. I want you to see her suffer.” Kadesh took one further step into the chamber. “I want you to look into her eyes as she bleeds.”
“This is pointless. You have what you want. Let me hold her. Please.” In Dracup’s peripheral vision he saw a minute change in Potzner’s posture, a fractional increase in tension.
I hope you’re reading my body language now, Potzner...
And close behind came this thought:
But he doesn’t care about Natasha. It’s Kadesh he wants.
Dracup held out his arms to Natasha. Kadesh hesitated, moved a fraction closer. Behind Potzner, a muted muttering of protest; the marines, waiting for their chance. Dracup’s right hand crawled to Jackson’s wrist. He felt the buttons under his fingers. Which one? He murmured a prayer.
Natasha’s eyes, saucers of terror. He chose the first button and pressed it softly. A red dot appeared on Kadesh’s shoulder, just below the collarbone.
Thank God thank God thank God...
Potzner shuffled his feet, relaxed slightly.
He’s seen it.
“Darling, don’t be scared,” Dracup babbled, willing Kadesh to move, just a pace. Just one. “Daddy’s here. It’s all right. I love you.” He held out his free arm, palm upwards. Kadesh sneered, enjoying the moment, but Dracup’s forward motion had caused him to take a small step back. The red dot tracked across Kadesh’s dishdash and settled above his left eye like an angry wasp.
Dracup found himself hesitating.
I can’t kill him in cold blood – can I?
Moran spoke up. Two words: “Do it.”
“Enough.” Kadesh said. The knife drew back and plunged towards Natasha’s neck.
Dracup closed his eyes and stabbed the second button. The rifle exploded into life, emptying its programmed quota of rounds, filling the chamber with the stink of cordite. Dracup was on his feet, catching Natasha as she fell, stepping over Kadesh’s body, grimacing at the bloody mess of bone and skin which was all that remained of the Korumak leader’s head. A bizarre silence descended as both marines and jihadis tried to work out what had happened.
A voice in Dracup’s head said Move! He leapt for the cover of the exposed hole in the west wall. Moran had the same idea. They collided, sprawling, half in, half out of the chamber. The jihadi automatics were chattering, raking the chamber with crossfire. Potzner, taking cover by the sarcophagus, barked out orders to the marines. “Cover me, you asshats!”
Dracup rolled, smothering Natasha’s body. His shoulder blades twitched in anticipation of the ripping burst that would end his life. He inched forward, then shoved Natasha’s bottom towards the gap. Moran grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the line of fire. Dracup stumbled after her, his head ringing with the explosive noise of the jihadi and marine automatic fire.
But they were outnumbered. The jihadis advanced through the chamber, bending low, using the sarcophagus as cover. Bullets pinged and whined off the lid. Potzner duck- walked backwards, yelling, “Careful, you morons – not the casket. Clear shots only.”
Potzner made it to the hole. He came through and flattened his back against the outside of the wall. Dracup held Natasha tight. He could see, as he had supposed, a mirror image stairway beginning its long descent twenty metres from where they stood. Beside him, a squat, muscled marine winked at him.
“Nice shootin’, man. This’ll sort the suckers out.” He showed Dracup a grenade grasped tightly in each fist. Potzner was reloading, fingers working methodically as he fed the magazine. The marine stepped forward, into the gap. Potzner glanced up, realised his intent too late. He held up his hand and screamed.
“No! No grenades!”
In slow motion, Dracup saw the marine turn, a quizzical look on his face. Why not? We want to waste the creeps, don’t we? The grenades left his hands in two rolling, overarm pitches.
Potzner yelled again. “No!”
Dracup watched the American dive into the gap. He knew what was on Potzner’s mind: the contents of the sarcophagus. Protect it. At all costs.
He’s going for the grenades. He’s crazy.
Dracup had to look. He pressed Natasha into Moran’s arms and picked up a fallen marine’s rifle.
He edged his face round the wrecked wall into the chamber. Through the smoke he saw Potzner in a half dive, half lunge, stretching for the second grenade, the other already secure in his left hand.
He’s out of time – it’s going to blow.
A jihadi loomed over Potzner’s prostrate body. Dracup aimed, pulled the trigger. The rifle breech wheezed and clicked. Empty. Potzner had fallen alongside the sarcophagus. Dracup watched him raise his arm to speed the grenade away towards the jihadi stairwell; parallel with Potzner’s head it exploded in a flash of brilliant light. A microsecond later there came another sharp crack as the second grenade exploded. The chamber roof groaned, heaved and fell with a noise like a tearing thunderclap.
Dracup was pushed back by the combined force of the explosions and the sudden shifting of masonry. His head was ringing, but he moved forward again to enter the chamber. Perhaps Potzner could be saved. No more deaths. Enough was enough.
A hand was on his arm, pulling. “Get the hell out of there. Fall back!” Dracup turned, dazed. A marine roared in his face. “Move out!”
Dracup stumbled away a second before a sheet of flame burst from the chamber and flicked towards the stairwell. Moran was shouting, Natasha’s face pale and shocked beside him. He made the stairway and lurched down, two, three, five steps at a time. Three marines ahead, one, maybe two behind him. Moran glanced back, nodded briefly in acknowledgement. He felt for Natasha’s hand and grasped it firmly. Smoke billowed down the stairwell, overtaking them as they fled.
At the foot of the staircase they emerged into a wide hall delimited by a blue marbled portico. The hall was bare of ornamentation except for a solitary central fountain. The marines spread out and secured the area. Two guarded the stairwell.
Dracup sat on the bottom step and tried to make sense of what had happened. Natasha sat on his lap, head buried in his neck. He held her close, staring fixedly ahead. Moran was walking slowly up and down, brushing his thin hair back with stiff, repetitive motions of his hand. Dracup’s throat ached; his ears were whining with a shrill, high-pitched whistle. He was thirsty, but the fountain was too far away. He watched the marines take their turn and held out his hand automatically as Moran pressed a bottle into it. He gave it to Natasha, who drank deeply. He took the remaining liquid into his mouth and swallowed with a reflexive, unconscious action.
In his mind, he replayed Jackson’s death. If he had been quicker. If he had grabbed the rifle and used it straight away. If he had remembered the remote operation a minute earlier. Thirty seconds earlier. Ten seconds. He held his head in his hands, closed his eyes. And saw Potzner’s last suicidal dive, the explosions that ended his dream. So close. All for nothing.
Moran sat next to him. “Nice shot,” he said quietly, and placed a hand on Dracup’s shoulder; he let it rest for a second and withdrew it with a shrug. “You did what you had to do.”
“I could have saved Jackson. He was only a boy.” Dracup felt his bottom lip vibrate. He looked at his hands; they were still shaking.
“Just take it easy.” Moran produced a flask, shook it experimentally and headed towards the fountain. Dracup prised Natasha’s face from his chest. “Hey. You all right?”
She nodded. “We’re in Fountain Square,” she whispered. “That’s the Great Passage.” She pointed to a yawning opening beyond the fountain; the main exit, he imagined, from the ziggurat’s first level to the outside world. Natasha smiled weakly.
He gave her another hug. “We’ll be out soon. I promise.”
When he looked up one of the marines was staring at him. There was something awkward in his manner. Dracup frowned. “Problem?”
The marine chewed his gum and looked past Dracup, up towards the ziggurat’s pinnacle. An ominous vibration shook the stairwell. Dracup read his name tag – Cruickshank.
Bad sign, Dracup thought. No eye contact.
“Thing is, Professor, we had orders, from, ah –”
“– Mr Potzner.” A second soldier appeared at Cruickshank’s side, finished his sentence. His tag said, Rutter.
“And?” Dracup looked directly into the second marine’s eyes.
“Orders are – anything happens to Mr Potzner, we take charge of the girl.”
“What?” Dracup was baffled.
“She has to come with us.”
Now Dracup understood. The order could be summed up succinctly in two words.
No witnesses.
“I do mind, actually.” Dracup weighed his chances. Not good. Moran was by the fountain, talking to another marine. Having the same conversation. He saw Moran fling the water container to the ground, take a step back. He shot Dracup a look that said clearly, They wouldn’t murder us. Would they?
Dracup cursed himself for his stupidity. He’d been invited not because he might have contributed to Red Earth, but rather to ensure Potzner’s operation remained as he had intended: top secret. If he had contributed, so much the better, but the end game was always going to have the same result.
Cruickshank tried to make his face impassive and did badly. “If you would, sir. Don’t make this any harder. Believe me, we’re only following –”
“Orders? Maybe. But you’ll have to kill me first.” He backed towards the stairwell, shielding Natasha.
Rutter was grinning. “I wouldn’t, Professor.” Rutter was different. He was enjoying this. He raised his rifle. “I can take you out where you stand, Prof – trust me on this, okay? Messy, though. You saw what your li’l shootin’ episode did to that creep up there.” He waved the snout of his rifle up towards the roof. “Well my baby’s been customised to the nth degree.” He stroked the assault rifle lovingly.
All eyes were now on the scene by the stairwell. Dracup sensed a change in atmosphere. He looked at the fountain, along the portico walkway. The marines, Cruickshank and Rutter’s buddies, were standing, watching.
“Then shoot me, Rutter.” Dracup turned his back and began to climb the spiral. He had little idea of what he would do if he made it any further. There was only fire at the top to meet him. And a gang of unhappy jihadis. He heard Rutter’s sharp click clack, as he flicked off his safety.
And then someone said, “Drop it now, soldier.”
Dracup let out his breath. Farrell was standing by the fountain, his automatic trained on Rutter’s head. Rutter turned. “What –?”
Farrell stood his ground. “Who’s your commanding officer, Rutter?”
“Major Mortimer. And he ain’t here.”
“Right. And who directed this operation on his behalf?”
Rutter sighed. “Mr freakin’ Potzner. And he’s dead.”
“Right again. And I’m his number two. That means I’m in command.”
Rutter looked at Cruickshank, then back to Farrell. “But you told us to –”
“I know what I told you. I’m countermanding that order.”
Cruickshank chewed gum and shrugged.
Farrell’s voice was hard, insistent. “Put it down, and walk away.”
Rutter lowered his rifle, spat on the ground and strolled nonchalantly towards the fountain.
Dracup released his grip on Natasha’s arm and sat heavily on the step, relief flooding through him. “Nice timing, Farrell,” he said. “We missed you.”
“Looks like you did just fine on your own.” Farrell ruffled Natasha’s hair. Then his face became serious. “You’ve met Jassim?” The agent pointed to the portico.
Dracup suddenly became aware that the portico was crowded with Korumak – quietly standing, observing. A figure detached itself and walked into the open: Jassim.
Dracup felt a hand on his arm. Moran was opening his rucksack. The DCI reached into the bag and to Dracup’s astonishment eased out the Lalibelian sceptre, Omega. “I think you’ll need this.”
Dracup took it from him in wonder. “Where on earth… how did you –”
Moran gave a knowing smile. “From the same source as the map.”
Dracup put the pieces together. “Malcolm... It
was him. In Lalibela.”
“Yes. He was employed by Kadesh. But my guess is he wanted a better deal, followed Mukannishum – and you – to Lalibela, bribed or bamboozled the priests and made off with the goods.”
Dracup was stunned. “To blackmail Kadesh for the return of Omega?”
Moran nodded. “Exactly. A risky game, given what we know about Kadesh. But it fits. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn not to prejudge people. Especially those on the sidelines.”
On the sidelines. Dracup thought of Malcolm’s pudgy face, his white hand on Yvonne’s shoulder. He felt sick. Another thought occurred to him. “You had Omega all the time – you could have let me know – in the chamber.”
“And give Kadesh what he wanted?” Moran’s eyebrows arched.
“It would have spared me a few grey hairs.”
Moran grinned. “I knew you’d come up with something. Go on,” the detective prompted. “He’s waiting.”
Dracup released Natasha’s hand and approached Jassim.
“I’m pleased to see you again,” Dracup said.
Jassim bowed. “Change has come upon us, Professor Dracup. But it is a manageable change. I apologise for the hardship you have endured. It is not the Korumak way.”
“I understand that you played no part in this.” He took the man’s hand in his. “I’m sorry for your loss – after everything.” He groped for words, failed to find anything adequate. “I didn’t… I hadn’t expected –” He gave up.
Jassim’s eyes wrinkled. “Our loss is –” He swept his arm around the expanse, pointing with his staff. “Only this. There are alternatives, where we shall continue, as God has ordained.”
Dracup thought of the chamber, the sarcophagus enveloped in flames. He frowned. “But I –”
“Do not understand? No.” Jassim smiled. “You must come. Quickly. There is little time. Very little time, according to Mr Farrell.”
“Come on ’Tash.” Dracup took his daughter’s hand and followed Jassim to the portico. The Korumak, those who had remained with Jassim, parted to let them through. He felt their warmth, hands on his arm as he passed, a squeeze of the hand for Natasha. Her friends.
