Moran gave him a sympathetic smile. “Looks like you’ve been had, Professor. Don’t feel too bad about it. Happens to us all.”
Dracup made for the door, but Moran caught his arm. “One more thing, Professor. Don’t leave the country, will you? I might need another word.”
Dracup shook him off angrily and unhooked his keys from the niche by the front door. “You have my number.”
Moran called after him. “If you hear from your friend I want to know about it.”
Dracup arrived at Sara’s front door. He rang the bell. Nothing. He tried to remember anything she had said in Scotland, some hint that she was in trouble, or… the thought jarred his brain like a runaway truck… perhaps they had followed her at the airport, and then… His imagination rampaged out of control. He cupped his hands around his face and squinted into the front room. There was no sign of life. No coffee cups left half finished on the table. No magazines scattered untidily by the sofa. No flowers graced the sideboard. She always had flowers. He dialled the landline. He dialled the mobile again. Nothing. He walked down the lane to the campus, past the spot where the agent had lain white-faced in the moonlight, skull perforated by the killer’s bullet. One of Potzner’s. Another disappearing body. They were good at clearing up behind them — the CIA and them, whoever they were.
He stood on the bridge. The lake lay beneath him, scudding clouds reflected on its glassy surface. He leaned on the rail for support. First Natasha, now Sara. He chewed his thumb, checked his mobile again. No new messages. He remembered Potzner’s promise to call when he had an update on the Aberdeen find. They must have made some progress. And why had Farrell left him to his own devices? Then he twigged. They’ve got what they need. I’m no longer useful. Worse. I’m expendable.
Dracup kicked his way through piles of leaves, remonstrating with himself. Who could he trust now? What if Potzner sidelined him and cut to the chase? What would happen to Natasha? And Sara? They were just footnotes in the American’s agenda. But maybe he had an advantage — as long as nothing else pointed Potzner in the same direction — the wax tablet’s mention of Ethiopia. It was down to him to make the most of it. Dracup stretched his legs to a brisk pace. He needed to find out more. And quickly.
The hard disk grunted and rattled as Dracup typed two words into the search engine: Ethiopia space Lal. He scanned the results: ‘A journey to visit the astonishing religious centres of Ethiopia’,‘Lal Hotel’, ‘Lalibela, Ethiopia’. Dracup chose the third, and sat back to peruse the site:
‘They say it’s the 8th wonder of the world, the monastic settlement of Lalibela, perched upon a natural 2,600-metre rock terrace surrounded on all sides by rugged and forbidding mountains in the northern extreme of the modern province of Wollo.’
Dracup felt his heart rate increase. Something felt right about this. He read on:
‘— the passing centuries have reduced Lalibela to a village. From the road below, it remains little more than invisible against a horizon dominated by the 4,200-metre peak of Mount Abuna Joseph. Even close-up it seems wholly unremarkable, but legend has it that God told King Lalibela to build a series of churches. The churches are said to have been built with great speed because angels continued the work at night. Many scoff at such apocryphal folklore.’
Me for one, Dracup thought. But he still felt an intangible excitement as he scanned the website’s summary.
‘The Lalibela churches, however, silence the most cynical pedants. These towering edifices were hewn out of the solid, red volcanic rock on which they stand. In consequence, they seem to be of superhuman creation — in scale, in workmanship and in concept. Close examination is required to appreciate the full extent of the achievement because, like all mysteries, much effort has been made to cloak their nature. Some lie almost completely hidden in deep trenches, while others stand in open quarried caves. A complex and bewildering labyrinth of tunnels and narrow passageways with offset crypts, grottoes and galleries connects them all — a cool, lichen-enshrouded, subterranean world, shaded and damp, silent but for the faint echoes of distant footfalls as priests and deacons go about their timeless business.’
Dracup clicked on the ‘photographs’ link. The first jpg, captioned ‘Bet Giorgis’, was a church lying in a deep trench and fashioned in the shape of a cross. Theodore had buried the half-sceptre from the Ark deep in the earth. Lalibela in miniature in a Scottish garden. It felt like the right connection; his gut feeling told him the missing section was hidden in Lalibela. If he could find it and translate the cuneiform… The incomplete stanzas ran through his mind:
But which rivers? His mobile vibrated briefly in his trouser pocket and he started in alarm, fishing for the instrument with shaking hands. He read the text message. “Simon. I’m so sorry. Don’t try to find me. S.” Dracup selected the call register icon and called back. No reply. No voice mail. He threw the phone down and pushed his chair back. He strode to the window and beat his fists on the stained glass. So she hadn’t been kidnapped. The policeman was right; he’d been taken for a fool. Moran’s cold teacup sat on the sill. Dracup picked it up and flung it at the wall, where it exploded into fine fragments that flew skittering across the floor. Was anyone on his side? He looked for something else to destroy and, finding nothing, turned his anger against the sofa, punching and kicking the thick cushions until exhaustion quietened his whirling limbs.
Some time later he picked up the phone. He dialled a number and waited a few rings. A cultured voice at the other end answered curtly, “Sturrock.”
“Hello Charles. Simon here. Listen. I need a favour.”
Chapter 14
Ruth had visited the Cave of Treasures many times but still felt a sense of childish wonder as they entered its vaults. She stole a glance at Natasha and smiled, knowing how the girl would react. There was an atmosphere in this place, something intangible, almost sacred. But that was unsurprising, given its history. Ruth shivered. She could feel the presence of her ancestors, those faithful carriers of the ancient torch whose feet had trodden this same path. Countless generations protecting, overseeing, watching, waiting.
“Mind your step,” Jassim warned. “It’s a little uneven.”
“Where are the paintings?” Natasha craned her neck, struggling to pick out any shape from the rock walls, some contour that suggested premeditated design.
“You’ll see. Just follow and be careful,” Ruth told her.
The roof began to stretch away as they rounded a sharp corner, moving into a wider, danker space. Something flicked down from the heights and fluttered around their heads. Natasha let out a cry of surprise and ducked.
Ruth pulled her close and tucked the girl’s head into her bosom, shielding her. “It’s all right — just bats. They’ll go away in a moment.”
Jassim led them on, using his fly swat to swipe at the diving creatures. “No harm; they’re just curious — like you.”
Natasha gave another exclamation and wiped her mouth. “My fingers — they’re all salty.”