Potzner’s office was a Spartan affair. Dracup slammed the door behind him and pointed a trembling finger at the American. “You’d better start explaining. Right now.”
“Do come in, Professor. Take a seat.” Potzner waved vaguely in the direction of a chair. His attention was occupied by a set of photographs that lay askew on the surface of his desk. The omnipresent Winston was jammed into the corner of his mouth, although it remained unlit in irritated deference to the ‘No Smoking’ signs liberally scattered around the building.
“I’ll stand if that’s all right with you,” Dracup said. “Now talk. What do you know about my daughter’s abduction?”
Potzner shrugged. “Only what you’ve told me. I take it there’s no news?”
Dracup leaned across the desk. “Is there a connection with the people who stole the diary? If there is, I need to know. For pity’s sake, Potzner, there’s a child’s life at stake here—”
Potzner blew out air. “Actually there’s a great deal more at stake, Professor. And yeah, there may well be a connection, but I can’t see a motive.”
Dracup slammed his fist on the desk. “I don’t know where to start looking. Turkey? Europe? America? I had the diary. Now it’s gone. I have nothing.” He slammed both fists down. The desk shook. He felt an overpowering weakness grip his body, and collapsed into the chair with his head in his hands.
Potzner was unruffled. “I understand your position, Professor. You’re overwrought. You deserve a little enlightenment — strictly off the record, of course. I can’t tell you much, but you’ll recall our conversation in Aberdeen? About the missing artefact?”
“Yes. Go on.”
Potzner gave a little grunt. “I guess artefact is a misnomer. Firstly the artefact in question wasn’t man-made, and secondly it’s linked with state-of-the-art research going on back in the US. It must be recovered.”
“Research into…?”
“Longevity. The human life span.”
Dracup nodded. Such research had a counterpart in the UK and he had a few contacts working in the field of gerontology.
The American smiled. “I can guess what you’re thinking. No big deal. Everyone’s into it, right?”
Dracup nodded impatiently, searching for relevance. “Yes. I was reading recently that our leading research labs have made some progress—”
“Forget it,” Potzner interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m talking breakthrough here. No theories. This is the real McCoy.”
“In what sense?”
Potzner regarded the grey outlook from the office window. London was at work, traffic was sparse. The only movements in the street below were initiated by the odd passing taxi and the continually slanting rain. “I’m not a scientific person, Mr Dracup. I’m an outdoors man. Always have been.” He carefully replaced the unlit Winston in its packet with an expression of regret. “But I’ve taken a special interest in this research. It’s a subject close to my heart.”
Dracup was fighting a losing battle with his patience. He gripped the chair arms tightly and made himself listen. At least Potzner was communicating.
“You’ll no doubt be aware, Mr Dracup, that there are many theories as to why the body ages as it does,” Potzner continued.
“Well, yes. There’s cell depletion and damage, DNA affecting chromosome degeneration, toxin intake — alcohol and nicotine being prime culprits—” Dracup waved at the red and white packet on the desk.
Potzner was nodding, ignoring the slight. “I’m not surprised you know a little about this, Professor. But let me tell you, our guys in the white coats have long subscribed to the theory that there is some coded obsolescence built into our DNA structure.”
“You mean we are all genetically programmed for the ageing process to kick off at a predetermined time?”
“Exactly. It’s as though each of us comes into the world as a machine that is programmed to self-destruct.”
“Ah. The ticking of the biological clock. Time to have sex, time to have babies, time to buy a pipe and a pair of slippers. Time to pop off.” Dracup shuffled his feet under the desk, fighting the instinct to grab Potzner by the collar and force the truth out of him.
“I’m serious, Professor. When the alarm goes off it sends a signal through our DNA structure to begin the ageing process that ends in death. At that point we become more prone to disease; our bodies lose the elasticity of youth. We take longer to heal. Sometimes, we don’t heal at all.”
Dracup looked into the American’s eyes and wondered what weight of sadness had etched the lines around them. This was personal, no mistaking the signs. A sudden guilt replaced his hostility; he’d trespassed on some deep, emotional property. Strangely it had a calming effect. “All right. I didn’t mean to be flippant. Go on.”
Potzner’s tone became more formal, as if he were quoting from some uncontested results sheet. “Our research reached conclusive status with the most recent experiments performed on the artefact in question.”
“Hang on. Isn’t it time you told me what the artefact actually is?”
“Organic tissue. That’s all I can say. The codename for the recovery operation is Red Earth. It may be easier if I refer to that name in future.”
“What kind of organic tissue?”
Potzner hesitated and then said, very slowly, “Tissue that is palaeontologically old.”
“And this is what my grandfather discovered on the second expedition?” Dracup frowned, remembering the diary entry: RC is concerned re the location of the sarcophagus. A body; moved centuries ago from the Ark; palaeontologically old…
“Your grandfather was a bright cookie, Mr Dracup.” Potzner leaned forward. A fresh cigarette was out and tapping on the packet. As if reading his thoughts, the American went on. “As I said before, the Red Earth material was originally resident in the Ark. Then it was transported to the location discovered by your grandfather. And so it came to us. For years it waited for technology to mature. That time is now. I have to tell you the possession of this material is critical for further testing and fine-tuning. If the research is allowed to continue uninterrupted the consequence for the human race will be one of inestimable benefit.”
“Forgive me if I relegate the human race in general to second place for the time being.” Dracup recognized the signs of Potzner’s almost religious commitment to his cause and felt his new-found restraint crumbling. “Potzner, I need answers. Who kidnapped my daughter? What has Natasha got to do with Red Earth? And where do we start looking?”
“Red Earth wasn’t a straightforward acquisition, Professor. It was the property of a religious sect — for want of a better description — who have been planning its reinstatement, or return if you will, to where it was originally discovered — the place Theodore found. This sect made fools out of us. We assumed the threat was long past.” Potzner spoke evenly, as if he were describing the activities of some local charitable committee.
“Reinstatement? But where?” Dracup’s heart lurched. At last, a possibility. Could this be where Natasha was being held?
“That, Professor, is the million dollar question. Whoever these people are, they successfully infiltrated one of the most secure organizations in the Western world. You can imagine what level of security we had on this research.” Potzner leaned forward again. “Professor Dracup, is there anything you can remember from the diary that we could use? Any detail at all? Take your time.”
Dracup closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. “There was a diagram — in the diary — cuneiform script. I only had a brief look at it.”