Sturrock was a good listener. When Dracup had finished he let out a low whistle. “Well I’ll be damned. I can’t believe it. And this girlie of yours — she just vanished?”
Dracup nodded. “Yes. Her house is empty.”
“Her disappearance could be nothing to do with Natasha’s, of course.” Sturrock removed his glasses and began polishing them with a grubby tissue.
“That’s what I’m hoping. I can’t believe she knew something and kept it from me.”
“Funny creatures, women,” Sturrock observed. “Never got the hang of them, personally.” He put his glasses back on and tossed the tissue back onto the desk. “But she could have been under threat herself.”
“You think?”
“Why not? Perhaps she was tasked to keep an eye on you — to make sure that the diary found its way back to base.”
Dracup’s eyes widened. “Oh come on, Charles. Do I look that gullible?”
Charles looked at him over his glasses.
“All right. I suppose it’s possible,” Dracup conceded wearily. But back to base? You make her sound like a member of a terrorist cell. And we haven’t a clue where ‘base’ is.”
“No. But you’ve made a reasonable deduction, Simon. The wax tablet summary does appear to suggest a link with Lalibela. So I rather suspect I know what this favour is going to be.” Sturrock raised his eyebrows theatrically.
“You’re the only pilot I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t risk it.”
“A vote of confidence, as expected. Makes a chap feel good.”
Dracup sighed. “Look, Charles, if I can get across the Channel I reckon I’ll be on for an international flight without getting picked up. If I try from Heathrow, odds are that Moran will nab me. Is it possible, or am I clutching at straws?”
“Of course it’s possible. I just need to make the arrangements with White Waltham and book it up. Only proviso is that the other syndicate chaps haven’t made a reservation.” Sturrock absently scratched his head with a pencil. “Come to think of it, two of them are abroad on business, so we should be all right.”
“Charles, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Then consider it done!” Sturrock leaned forward. “Simon, I’d love to take a look at this metalwork. Any chance?”
Dracup shook his head. “Not for the moment. I had to let the CIA take it away for analysis. But I have photocopies. That’ll keep you happy for a bit.”
“Love to. You never know, I may be able to shed a bit of light.” Sturrock rubbed his hands together in anticipation, then fixed Dracup with an expression of barely concealed excitement. “Have you considered the implications of all this?”
“Implications?”
“Yes. That the Ark exists.”
Dracup sighed. “I went through this with Sara. So ‘The Ark’ — or at least a large, ancient, vessel — exists. There was a flood. Someone had the good sense to build a boat and get his family on board. Period.”
“Oh come on, Simon — even you can’t be that blinkered. Look, the book of Genesis contains a lot more than Noah’s story. But at any rate the diary kicks out the old tradition that Moses borrowed the flood story from the epic of Gilgamesh when he wrote Genesis.”
“Possibly. But then I’ve always thought the Gilgamesh epic had all sorts of flaws — particularly in the design of the vessel.”
Sturrock chortled. “That’s right. The boat was cube-shaped according to Babylonian records — not a particularly seaworthy design, whereas the Biblical Ark of Noah—” Sturrock jumped up and fished a book from his teetering shelves. “Here we are. Noah’s Ark had the proportions of a true ship. The ratio given in Genesis 6:15 can’t be faulted: 300 by 50 by 30 cubits. Perfect for its purpose.”
“Well, the majority of primitive societies have a flood story, Charles. The Bible record is one of many.”
“I’m aware of that, dear boy. And the reason is that the flood was a reality. China, India, South America, Greece, Africa — they all have their own version of the same event. But the essentials are the same: a global flood; and out of the Earth’s population, one family saved. The Chinese in particular consider the head of this family — chap called ‘Fuhi’ — to be the father of their race.”
“Wait a minute. Who said anything about a global flood?”
Sturrock fixed Dracup with a challenging look. “Really, Simon. I’ll have to put your diminished cranial functionality down to stress — quite understandable.”
“What are you talking about, Charles?”
“It’s quite simple. If the flood was merely a local catastrophe, then why go to the trouble of building a huge boat like the Ark? It took years to build, you know.” Sturrock flicked through the pages of the Old Testament searching for a reference.
Dracup held up a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m with you. So Fuhi, Noah, whoever, could have just migrated to a higher altitude — found a convenient mountain to hole up on until the flood waters subsided.”
“Precisely.”
Dracup was silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on the chair arm. “I can accept a catastrophe — a serious one, maybe. And the Ark’s existence looks to be beyond doubt. But the rest — I don’t know. There’s a great deal of fanciful stuff in Genesis I just can’t go along with.”
“Dear me. What is it with this fear of Biblical veracity? I’m not trying to convert you, Simon.”
Dracup grunted. “No. I know. It’s just that I’ve formed my opinions and it’ll take a lot to change my mind.”
“You evolutionists are all the same.”
“Don’t get me started, Charles. This isn’t the time.”
“Well, you’ve got me going now. Take the sedimentary rock strata — any geologist worth his salt will tell you they show clear signs of having been laid down quickly, not over a period of millions of years. It points to a global catastrophe — and the fossil record supports the geological evidence too. It simply screams ‘global flood!’” Charles shook his head up and down like a terrier worrying at a ball, waiting for Dracup’s response. When none came he shook his head again and sat back. “Put your preconceptions behind you, Si — all is not as it seems.”
Dracup shut his eyes and groaned. The ongoing debate. Many an evening had been spent like this; argument and counter argument. Surprisingly, they’d never come to blows. “Listen Charles, if you want to help you could start by thinking about a sceptre. Noah’s sceptre, maybe. Ever heard of such a thing?”
Sturrock frowned. “Nothing springs to mind, old boy — but that’s not to say it won’t, given the right stimulation. I’ll mull it over. Now, Professor D. — you’d better tell me where you want to go. Paris? Lyons? Or maybe—”
“I can get a direct flight from Toulouse to Addis.”
“Addis? I know a chap in Addis — he might be able to help.” Sturrock fumbled in a drawer. “Here we are — used to teach here a while back. Don’t think you ever met him? Couldn’t resist the call of the wild. You’ll see what I mean if you meet him.” Sturrock adjusted the position of his glasses and read the business card he had retrieved from the depths. “Daniel Carey — The Fountain Language School, Addis Ababa.” He handed Dracup the card. “Bit zany — but a good sort. New Zealander — knows the Ethiopian ropes, if you see what I mean. I imagine he can point you in the right direction — to Lalibela and so on. I’ll wire ahead and let him know you’re coming.”
Dracup took the card. “Thanks, Charles. I need all the help I can get.”
Sturrock smiled with satisfaction. “Good. Toulouse it is, then. Give me a couple of hours to sort it out, and I’ll call you this evening.”