“Sure as I can be.” The agent shrugged.
Dracup wasn’t convinced by Farrell’s casual attitude. He’d feel safer if they kept moving. “Aren’t you going to keep an eye on the front?”
“Relax, Prof. We’ll get moving shortly. Meantime, you’d best clean yourself up. You don’t want to attract any unwelcome attention if we’re pulled over.”
Dracup looked at his hands. They were thick with dried mud. “The police, you mean? Yes, all right. In a moment.” He picked up the object in one hand and hefted it. It had to provide the answers he needed. “Look at the engraving — I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Uh huh. But does it get us any further?”
Dracup felt the weight in his pocket with a slight flux of conscience. He sighed heavily. “It will. It has to.”
“How about coffee?”
“Farrell, I could get to like you.”
The American gave Dracup a puzzled look.
“Sorry. British humour.”
Farrell grunted. Dracup slipped off his coat and made for the bathroom, locking the door behind him. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out the vibrating instrument and checked the number. Yvonne.
Dracup sat wearily on the toilet and thumbed the answer button. “Hi.”
“Simon? I–I’m sorry. I know it’s the middle of the night.”
“No problem. I was awake anyway.”
“I can’t sleep. I–I just need someone to talk to.”
“Malcolm?”
“Out like a light. He’s very busy at work, you know—”
“I know.”
“Simon? Where are you? The police have been round again. They’ve been asking questions about—” Yvonne hesitated.
“What?”
“About you. They want to know where you are. They think—”
Dracup groaned. “I know what they think. They’ve no leads, so I’m their chief suspect.” There was a moment’s silence, then:
“Yes.”
“Great.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So where are you, Simon?”
Dracup let out his breath in a long sigh. “In Aberdeen.”
“Scotland? But you’ve only just—”
“I know. Something came up. I think it may be significant.”
A brief pause, then: “Simon, do you know where she is?”
“Not yet. But I’m getting closer.”
Dracup heard Yvonne catch her breath. He imagined her standing downstairs in the dim light of the standard lamp, Malcolm unconscious upstairs. When she spoke again her voice was even. He wondered what inner strength sustained her when all she could do was wait. And hope.
“Simon. Do you think she’s all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. I think she’ll be fine. She’s as tough as old boots.” He gave a short laugh and regretted its hollow sound.
“You don’t think she’s — I mean—”
“No. I don’t.” He reached inside his coat pocket and drew out the wax tablet. It was about the size of an envelope. “Listen. I’m sure I know what’s happened. I’m almost sure why. The question I’m working on is where.”
“It’s to do with your aunt, isn’t it? Her will.”
“Yes. Look, I’m coming back down to Reading tomorrow. I’ll keep you in touch, okay? Everything will be fine.”
“Are you going to talk to the police?”
“I suspect I’ll have no choice in the matter. I don’t want them to think I’m running away.”
“Can’t you tell them what you’ve found? Then they can investigate, you know. They have procedures—”
“Not for this they don’t. Listen, I’m not acting alone. I have help already. The police will just mess things up, complicate everything. It’s complicated enough as it is, believe me.”
“You okay, Mr Dracup?” Farrell’s voice floated through the keyhole.
Dracup covered the phone with his hand. “Fine. On the phone.”
“Okay. No problem. Coffee’s on the table.”
“Who was that?” The tone of Yvonne’s voice shifted to one of suspicion.
“A guy I’m working with.”
“Who is he? Not a policeman?”
“Sort of. CIA.”
Another pause as she took the information in. Then: “Oh God, Simon. What is this? What have you got us into?”
Dracup took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow. You should get some sleep,” he added gently.
There was a moment’s silence across the airwaves. He could imagine her smoothing her hair back from her forehead the way she did when she was anxious about something. “Yes. I suppose I should. And you should too.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep well.”
Again the silence. Then, “You too — and Simon?”
“Yes?”
“Bring her home, won’t you? Just bring her home.”
The line went dead. Dracup sat for a few minutes, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Then he picked up the tablet and began to read.
Sceptre/Staff of Noah — prob. pt crest? B ref. Staff of A?? section alpha…
Exp. 1920 Smithsn. Retrieved from remains lge aq. vessel.
Corresp. Ark of Noah. Ararat, Turkey.
Inscr. — cuneiform, refers cargo of ship in cun. vrse.[Part only]
Projectns. Repr. 3 sons Noah—
Shem, Ham, Japheth
Hamitic/Sth, Semitic M. East/Israel, Japheth/Eur.
Loc. Remaining part staff, trad. Ethiop.
Ityopp’is — Cush — sn of Ham — fnded Axum.
Match. crest. Lal., Ω section 1921, TD,GRC. Left in situ.
Formed basis of expo. 1922 C of Tr.
K. zig. — 7 by 7
Dracup’s heart beat faster as he scanned the tight, indented script. Left in situ. He replaced the tablet in his pocket and pulled the chain. An image of George Reeves-Churchill came into his head. Perhaps the old man hadn’t been raving after all — what was it he had said? A shame, shame. What they did. Lali, Lali. Was this a reference to somewhere in Ethiopia? Match. crest. Lal., 1921. He remembered Potzner’s voice on the phone, the incomplete translation:
Dracup ran a basin full of water and washed the mud off his face, then ran the nailbrush across his fingertips. Keep going, Dracup, you’re one step closer. He peeled off his wet shirt and lobbed it into the sink. What he needed was a bath and a change of clothes. No time for that. A strip wash would have to do for now.
He exited the bathroom to find Farrell on his haunches, eyes at table height, scrutinising the crest and muttering sounds of admiration. “I’d sure love to know what all this means, Prof — there’s a lot more detail than on the sketch.”
Dracup looked again at the object he had disinterred. There in the top left hand corner was a clear indentation, set apart from the cuneiform:
Α
Alpha. The beginning.He picked up his coffee and took a long swig. “We’ll let your boss take a look,” Dracup said. He waved his empty mug at Farrell. “Better have another of these. We’re heading south.”
Dracup turned the key and simultaneously fished out the free sheet protruding from his letter box. He turned to consign it to the depths of the wheelie bin. A thin, wiry man in a fawn coat stood at the bottom of the steps. He looked familiar.
“Professor Simon Dracup?”
“Yes?”
The man advanced up the steps and waved a wallet at him. Dracup had it before he saw the pass details: the DCI from the TV news report.