Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  The American shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say any more about that, Professor.”

  Dracup leaned back against the headboard and folded his arms. He appeared to have reached the inevitable brick wall. The one that read ‘Classified’. “All right. So what do you want from me?”

  Potzner hesitated and once again looked uneasy. The cigarette case appeared. “The item I’m referring to has been – mislaid.”

  “Mislaid?”

  “Okay. Stolen.”

  Dracup exhaled slowly. So that was it; they needed Theodore’s record. Some clue, perhaps, to help them find – what? He emptied the dregs of his tonic water into the heavy bathroom tumbler. Another thought occurred to him. “But you knew my aunt had the diary. So why didn’t you ask her for it?”

  “Our problem has only recently arisen, Professor, otherwise we would have done.” Potzner drew on his Winston. “So your little acquisition has come at about the right time for us.”

  “Little? If this is genuine, the implications are – staggering.” That’s putting it mildly, Dracup thought. He swigged back his tonic and looked at the American. “So how exactly will the diary help you?”

  “I really can’t tell you any more, Professor.”

  Dracup shook his head in exasperation. He wondered how far he could press the American. Potzner hadn’t threatened him – yet. He caught Potzner’s gaze and held it. “Perhaps I’ll keep hold of it for the time being.”

  Potzner laughed softly. “Mr Dracup – I can’t emphasize enough – your cooperation would be a real convenience for us.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I’ll tell you what.” Potzner consigned the second stub expertly to the recesses of the waste bin. “I’ll let you sleep on it, okay? Have a read through if you like; hell, I’d do the same myself under the circumstances.” Potzner was on his feet and at the door. “I’ll look you up in the morning. Perhaps you’ll see things in a fresh light.”

  Dracup got up to see him out. “I’m not parting company with the diary until I know what this is all about.”

  Potzner shrugged. “Your decision.”

  Dracup watched him walk down the corridor; a tall man in his late fifties, with a slight limp. Before he entered the lift he called back: “Professor Dracup?”

  “Yes?”

  “Take care, won’t you?” The lift doors opened and Potzner was gone.

  Dracup sat quietly for ten minutes before kicking off his shoes and lying back on the king-size bed with a fresh drink. So it was true. It had to be if the CIA were after the diary. Dracup had no doubts concerning Potzner’s ‘Embassy’ role. But more fascinating was their stolen item. He picked up his grandfather’s diary and began to read. He studied the first entry:

  21st Apr ‘20

  First night in situ. Hardly believe we’re on board, after all the anticipation. RC is elated. Estimates are that we’re in the mid section – 3 fragments theory seems vindicated. The size of it is what thrills me! OT seems spot on re dimensions. It’s vast – the decking is clearly visible and quite well preserved

  Three fragments? Presumably referring to the condition of the Ark – the way it had broken up over the years. OT? Dracup frowned. Of course – Old Testament. Dracup shook his head in disbelief. Could this vessel really be the Ark of Noah? A dark stain obscured the next two lines. Dracup raised the book to his nose and took a sniff. Impossible to say what had caused it. He picked up at the next legible point in the entry:

  RC is concerned re the location of the sarcophagus. Clear indications that it was on board during voyage – the sceptre may hold the answer. I have many reservations.

  Sarcophagus? The tone of his grandfather’s entry sent a chill down Dracup’s spine. He shook his head in puzzlement. Potzner wanted something precious that had been on board Noah’s Ark and then taken to another location…

  Clear indications that it was on board during voyage

  Dracup began to hum quietly. Something they had found on the Ark – some clue – had pointed Theodore to that other location.

  the sceptre may hold the answer.

  He flipped on a few pages.

  27th Apr ‘20

  Never been so cold. Descent halted for the day – driving snow. Tevfik’s death has shaken us all. A has not spoken of it, but seems consumed with fear. RC nervous that he’ll disappear and leave us. Constantly mutters under his breath. ‘Bekci, Bekci’ – apparently means ‘The Keepers, the Keepers’. Some local superstition about the Ark we think. Despite it all I feel frustration above everything else – could only bring one or two finds of interest – the larger finds have to stay of course – have taken some samples from drogues. RC has the curious iron piece – I must say the CF is extraordinary even though I’m no expert! No wonder RC so excited. I just pray we get down safely and can examine all at our leisure.

  Tevfik. A Turkish name. Dracup clucked his tongue. That fitted with the Ark’s location: Mount Ararat. He read on:

  30th. Still in cave. Storm too severe to attempt any further descent. RC is out of his mind with fright. I must hold him together or we’ll [here there was a smear across the page] … eepers, the keepers’. It is unsettling to say the least; there must be a rational explanation. But am compelled to be honest – I saw it too. A was lifted away – not the wind; not a hidden crevasse … [unclear lettering here] .. as taken. Hope to God we are near the track way – not that we’ll ever get our bearings in this weather. Food is nearly gone. Resorted to last tin of corned beef this morning. Wait! I hear it again. Something out on the mountainside. RC is muttering in his sleep – he probably hears it too. God preserve us and help us away from here. Tomorrow we must go and face whatever we must face. Whatever happens I shall cling to these treasures. There is much significance in them, I am convinced.

  Dracup shivered. What had happened to them on the mountain? Could it be linked to the missing sarcophagus? Was that what Potzner was after? If so, who did the sarcophagus belong to? And why was it so important? Frustratingly the diary appeared to cover only the first expedition. There was no mention of the mysterious second location. He took a gulp of tonic water. At any rate, he knew what to do next. It was what he always told his students: when in doubt, examine available source material. Reluctantly Dracup fished in the bedside cabinet and found the inevitable Gideon’s Bible. Clearly it had rarely, if ever, been opened. Dracup flicked the pages and found the book of Genesis. Did it mention burials or death on the Ark? What should he look for? Something valuable; a wide remit.

  An hour later and none the wiser he placed the Bible next to the diary, leaned over and clicked a button on his console. The electric blinds hissed open and the lights of Aberdeen invaded the room. He was glad of their company.

  Dracup snapped awake. His bedside light was off. Something was wrong. He tried to recall the geography of the room. Which way was he facing? He opened his eyes slowly. The room was filled with moonlight; he could pick out every detail. Somewhere in the bowels of the hotel, a door slammed. The moon went behind a cloud and the quality of light deteriorated. A subtle movement, a paler shadow in the darkness, drew his attention. There. By the opposite bedside table, a tall figure leaning in towards him. Dracup was a big man but he could be agile when the occasion demanded and something told him this was such an occasion. He rolled just as a soft pop preceded a thump on his pillow where a second before his head had rested. A pungent, burning smell filled his nostrils, but by this stage Dracup was on the floor and groping frantically for a weapon. His brain raced in panic. Come on, he told himself. Think. That’s what you’re good at...

  His assailant was doing the obvious thing. All he had to do was walk round the foot of the bed and shoot him. Dracup had nowhere to go. They both knew it. And that made Dracup angry. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognized this as a good thing; anger might give him an edge. He heaved the bedside cabinet in front of him before the next shot came. The round tore into the MDF of the cabinet and a splinter glanced
off his forearm. He yelled out and reflexively pushed forward, rewarded by the sound of a soft curse as the cabinet connected with the man’s shin. Dracup threw himself forward in a clumsy rugby tackle, desperately aware of his lack of fitness. He caught the man around the waist but the assassin was strong; he wrenched himself free and aimed a kick at Dracup’s head. The blow caught Dracup on the shoulder and threw him back into the corner. The figure lifted its arm again, lining up with Dracup’s head. Dracup scrabbled around the floor for something solid. There was nothing. Wait. His hands closed around the cool plastic of the control console. It might do. He clicked the button. Please God let it be the right one…

  The electric blinds began their automatic sashay, summoned into life by Dracup’s frantic fingers. It was enough. The assassin spun in surprise and Dracup was on him with the full force of his six-foot frame. The impact carried them both to the opposite wall, onto the twisted wrought iron wardrobe handles. The assassin lifted his arm. Dracup remembered his games master’s advice: If you’re in a fight and he’s bigger than you, a knee in the groin will stand you in good stead. Dracup brought his knee up between the man’s legs. The shot went wide, cracking against the glass of the picture window. The blinds were almost closed. Dracup kicked out wildly, feeling his strength ebbing away. But it was a lucky kick, catching the intruder’s arm just under the wrist and knocking it upwards. The bullet passed through the fleshy part of his assailant’s chin and continued on its altered trajectory up into his brain. The assassin slipped to the floor, leaving a dark trail against the light wood of the wardrobe, and flopped forward grotesquely onto the carpet.

  Dracup remained standing, legs slightly apart, panting like a dog. His arms shook, the tremors quickly spreading to the rest of his body like some fast-acting virus. He sat heavily on the bed. His shoulder throbbed and he felt stickiness on the tips of his enquiring fingers.

  Not my blood...

  There was an anxious knock at the door. Dracup froze.

  Again. “Mr Dracup?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the concierge. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine. I had a dream, that’s all.” Dracup felt his heart beating wildly.

  The footsteps receded. Dracup lay back and listened to his breathing. After a while he retrieved the console and turned on the main light. He looked at the body. A faint mist was rising from the pool forming by the head of the man he had killed. The enormity of the word hit him like a sledgehammer. He swallowed hard and bent down for a closer look.

  First thing: it wasn’t the American, Potzner. He hadn’t expected it to be. But had Potzner sent him? This man was olive-skinned – Mediterranean? No, Middle-Eastern by the look of him. Dracup remembered Potzner’s parting words: Take care.

  Second thing: the diary. He made a quick search under the bed. He realized he was holding his breath just as he caught sight of the little book by the bed leg. He retrieved it and breathed again.

  Third thing: the body. He reached for the phone, then checked himself. Would they believe him? His mind conjured an image of the police interview, his reaction as they produced false but compelling evidence fabricated by the CIA, heard his protests overruled by stony-faced Scotland Yard officers…

  Dracup stumbled into the bathroom and was violently sick. He retched into the bowl until there was nothing left in his stomach. His legs would barely support him as he splashed cold water on his face and examined his forearm. An angry gash, but not too deep. Could have been a lot worse. He realized he was speaking aloud but his voice seemed distant, as if it belonged to somebody else.

  He freshened his mouth with toothpaste and sat on the edge of the bed to consider his next move. Police or no police? He looked at the diary; a small thing, nestled in his shaking hands. He squatted down next to the corpse and made himself examine the pockets. He pulled something out. And froze. He was holding a photograph of Natasha in his hand. She was standing outside her school, lunchbox dangling at her side, backpack askew. Smiling.

  Oh God. No.

  The telephone shook in his hands. His fingers were jabbing Yvonne’s number. He waited. Nothing. Come on. The ring tone went on and on. Then he remembered Yvonne’s habit of turning down the ring volume at night. Please. Please pick up.

  Five minutes later he slammed the phone into its cradle. He glanced at the digital clock: 02:25. Dracup took a deep breath and got hold of the corpse’s shoulders. The body was heavy. It took him five minutes of heaving and sweating to get it into the bathroom. He closed the door, fished another miniature of Johnnie Walker from the minibar and downed it in one. No police; no time. A handful of tissues took care of the bloodstained furniture. He stuffed his belongings into a suitcase and looked into the corridor. There was no one about. He closed the door behind him and headed for the fire escape.

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