It was about the tiny human bone they had found in the Chamber of Plants. An infant’s distal phalanges. They had sent it to a palaeontologist at Ulm, one of her colleagues. She apologised for even writing when the sense of loss was so fresh and great among the surviving members of Team Ruac but she couldn’t keep the news to herself, even though she admitted she’d been instructed by Marc Abenheim to communicate official matters directly to him. Professor Schneider had completed his examination and had a most unexpected finding. He was certain, as she put it, absolutely, one-hundred-and-ten-per-cent-certain, that this was not a Cro-Magnon infant.
It was Neanderthal.
The rest of the email was Schneider’s point-by-point differential between the morphology of phalanges from Homo neanderthalensis and Homo sapiens. All the check marks from their bone were in the neanderthalensis column.
Neanderthal?
Luc was momentarily swept back to the world he loved – the Paleolithic. This was an Aurignacian cave. A Cro-Magnon cave. This was the art of Homo sapiens. What was a Neanderthal infant doing in the tenth chamber?
The two species certainly co-existed in the forests and savannas of the Upper Paleolithic Périgord but there was not one single example of a mixing of their artifacts or human remains in the archaeological record. Could it have been scavenged elsewhere, carried into the cave by a predator, like a bear? All the way into the furthest chamber? Perhaps, but unlikely.
Ruac was unique in many ways. This was another example of its singularity.
A phone call interrupted his musings.
It was Colonel Toucas with his smooth, cultured voice.
‘Are you in Bordeaux?’ he asked, and seemed disappointed when he heard otherwise. ‘I’m in Bordeaux on business and was hoping to drop by to discuss something.’
‘I’ll be back midday tomorrow,’ Luc said. ‘I have a dinner in Paris. Can’t you tell me what it is?’
‘Well, yes, okay, but I’m telling you this in confidence. It’s not for others, definitely not for the press.’
‘Of course.’
‘You know that stick of material we found under Pierre Berewa’s body? We had it analysed. It’s a material called picratol. It’s a military high-explosive. But no one’s seen it for years. It’s almost a footnote to history. Both sides used it quite a bit during the Second World War.’
Luc felt light-headed. ‘An explosive?’
‘There’s more, I’m afraid. I followed up with the police in England, as you requested. In fact, I’ve been in touch with Scotland Yard. Your explosion in Cambridge? What would you say if I told you that explosive residue was also found at the bombed building?’
‘My God.’
‘Not picratol, mind you. Modern material, some variant of military-grade C-4. A very curious development. I think we need to have a more extensive discussion, Professor Simard, about you, about Pierre Berewa, about everyone who has had anything to do with your cave.’
‘I’ll cancel my dinner and come back to Bordeaux this afternoon.’
‘No, no, that’s not good for me. I’ve got to get back to Perigeux for an engagement tonight. Can you come to my office, say noon, tomorrow?’
‘I’ll be there. But Colonel, please, one of the professors on my team, Sara Mallory, an American who works in London, is missing. She was in Cambridge with me on Monday morning heading for the building that blew up. We were visiting a victim in the hospital. That’s where I left her. No one’s seen her or heard from her since. The man we were visiting was connected with Ruac. He died unexpectedly on Tuesday morning after being visited by a man with a French accent. It’s all connected, I don’t know how but all of this is connected! The Cambridge police know about Sara’s disappearance but have done nothing. Please get Scotland Yard involved. Please!’
‘I’ll make a call,’ he said, then added sternly, ‘Noon, professor. My office.’
Luc closed the phone and stared.
Someone wanted to blow up my cave.
TWENTY-NINE
Ruac Cave, 30,000 BP
Tal awoke, covered from head to feet in sweat, the taste of Soaring Water still on his tongue. He tried to remember what had just happened but he was unable.
He felt between his legs and stroked his erect member. Uboas was a few feet away, lying on a beautifully lush bison skin, the last beast killed in their bi-annual hunt. She was asleep, wrapped in a reindeer skin blanket, and had not been well. He could have woken her and satisfied himself but he chose to let her sleep till the morning light entered the mouth of the cave.
He stroked himself until he was satisfied then rolled himself in skins to warm himself against the night chill. He ran his hand over his own bison skin which was starting to get thin and patchy. It was from a kill he had made as a young man. Not his first – that trophy had gone to his father, but his second. That was his to keep. He remembered the spear throw that had taken the animal. He could still see the shaft flying fast and straight, the flint tip, slipping perfectly between the ribs and sinking deeply. He remembered it vividly, even though it had occurred a very long time ago.
As he felt the animal’s fur bristling between his fingers, suddenly, in a flash of blinding light as if he had looked into the sun, the remembrance of the soaring came back to him. He began to shiver.
He was flying over a herd of bison, close enough to reach out and touch a powerful, muscular shoulder of one of the beasts. He felt, as he always did, the exultation of effortless flight, the honour of moving with the herd, of being one with them. In pleasure, he stretched his arms to their fullest and spread his fingers to the wind.
Then, he was aware of something strange, an alien presence closing in on him. He always soared alone but he sensed there was someone or something else intruding on his realm. He turned his head and saw it.
A long, sleek figure, swooping down on him, like a hawk after prey.
It had the head of a lion but the body of a man. Its arms were tucked against its body, allowing it to cut through the air like a spear. And it was aiming for him.
He flapped his arms to pick up speed but could go no faster. The herd of bison parted, half going right, half going left. He wanted to turn to follow along but he was unable to change directions. He was flying on his own, low, the tall grasses of the plain tickling his bare body. The lion man was getting closer and closer. He could see it open its mouth and snarl, and had a notion how its hot saliva would feel against his flesh the instant before its fangs clamped down on his leg.
The cliffs were approaching and beyond them, the river.
He did not know why but he believed if only he could make it across the river, he would be safe. He had to make it over the river.
The lion man was on him. Its mouth was open, its jaw ready to clamp down.
He was at the cliffs.
There was the river, silver in the sun.
He felt a drop of hot saliva on his ankle.
And he was back in the cave.
He pondered the meaning of the experience. The ancestors were giving him a warning, no doubt. He would have to be on alert, but he was always so. It was the responsibility of the head of the Bison Clan. He had to protect his people. But who would protect him?
He reached over to try to touch Uboas but his fingers could only reach her bison skin. The honour of that bison’s death had been given to the son of Tal’s son, Mem. This exceptional young man, who bore the name Tala, in honour of his grandfather, was more like Tal than Mem ever was.
Tala took an interest in plants and healing, was a keen flint knapper, and had the same ability as Tal to capture the power and majesty of a galloping horse in a flowing outline of charcoal and graphite. Tal had always loved the boy as if he were his second son, because alas, his real second son, Kek, had gone out hunting one day, on his own, which was the way he liked to venture out, to keep proving his courage to his father. He was perpetually angry and frustrated, given to bursts of pique against his older brother and even his father, lacking the temperament to be a second son. He had never returned. They searched for him and found nothing. Again, a long time ago.