“I saw his eyes, Charles…” Dracup realized that Charles intended to retrace the bus route back into town. “I’d rather go in the other direction if that’s all right with you. He may still be on the Oxford Road — or heading this way.” Dracup recalled the impact of the fist, how it had shaken the bus.
“No problem — we’ll go via the motorway.” Sturrock U-turned the Citroën and headed out through Purley Beeches to Pangbourne.
Dracup shifted uncomfortably in his seat, massaged his leg.
“Are you hurt?” Sturrock shot him an enquiring look.
“It’s nothing. Fell over a bicycle.”
“Trouble with you, Simon, is you’re not fit. Got to keep the joints active when you get to our age.” Sturrock turned briefly to gauge Dracup’s reaction.
“Charles, I’m not in the mood.”
Sturrock’s face fell. “Sorry. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Dracup almost laughed at Sturrock’s deflated expression. He felt as if he’d just reprimanded a precocious schoolboy. He leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to bark, Charles. My nerves are a bit frayed.”
Sturrock stole another glance at Dracup. “Quite understandable. Stiff drink and an early night in order, I’d say. You can have a shakedown on the sofa.”
Dracup grunted. “No luxury spared, eh?”
Dracup held up finger and thumb in response to Sturrock’s refill enquiry, and resisted the urge to down the shot in one. Charles had a fire burning in the hearth and a reflective glint in his eye as he replaced the brandy on the mantelpiece and stood with his back to the flames, rubbing his hands in anticipation of conversation. But Dracup was exhausted. He no longer felt confident about his deductions, nor his African plan. In the homely surroundings of Charles’ digs it all seemed preposterous, a desperate shot in the dark.
“Any better?” Sturrock prompted. “Bit of colour coming back, I’d say.”
“I’m knackered, Charles. I can’t think straight. It all seems — quite mad to me.”
“You didn’t sound mad earlier on. And you have the evidence.”
“Had. Potzner and co have it now.”
“You said you had a copy—”
Dracup looked at Sturrock’s earnest face. His eyes shone like an excited child’s.
“Of the sketch? Yes, I have a copy.”
“May I see it?”
Dracup reached into his jacket pocket and produced the set of folded A4 sheets.
Sturrock spread them out on the table and adjusted his glasses. “Hm. There’s something about this that rings a distant bell. But I’m damned if I can think what it is.” Sturrock sat back and perused his wall-to-wall bookshelves. “Sceptre of Noah you say, sceptre of Noah…” He tutted and scanned along the dusty shelves with a long forefinger. “Nope. Can’t think where I’ve seen that reference.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Dracup frowned. “Staff of Moses, maybe.”
“Yes, yes. Quite. Let’s have those stanzas — the translation I mean.”
“On that sheet.” Dracup leaned over and slid the paper across the table.
“Now then.” Sturrock squinted.
“Right. Well, the first line implies something that was in one place — for a long time, I’d say. And obviously venerated.” Sturrock peered at the verse. “And whatever it was, it went on the Ark. To rest upon the water. Yes?”
“Yes. I suppose so.” Dracup felt his eyes beginning to close. He rubbed them and blinked.
“And when the Ark grounded, Once more in the earth you will find peace, and particularly From whence you came, both imply a return to the original location.”
“Possibly. I have a problem with that, though.”
“Namely?”
“You global flood people would accept that the antediluvian and the post-flood world were — are — very different?”
“Yes.”
“With a considerably altered ecosystem and geological foundation?”
“Highly probably. But that’s not to say all areas were altered beyond recognition. Depending on the geology of the location pre flood, when the waters eventually receded there may have been little or no change to solid formation land masses, rock strata, whatever.”
“Charles, it’s not my area of expertise.”
“Nor mine, but I’ve read some interesting papers on the subject. Bottom line is, if something had been secreted below ground, provided the geology was sound enough it may still be there today.” Sturrock’s expression changed.
“What?”
“You look absolutely knackered, Si. Early start tomorrow. White Waltham for eight thirty. You need to get some sleep.”
Dracup let out a groan.
“Problem?”
“Yes. I’ve left my suitcase at the hotel.”
“Ah. I’ll pick it up if you like.”
“And risk getting your head blown off? I don’t think so. I have my passport, fortunately.” Dracup patted his pocket. “The clothes are just an inconvenience.”
Sturrock downed his brandy in one. “Right. Perhaps I can lend you some essentials.”
Dracup smiled. “Charles, you’re a good man.”
Sturrock shook his head. “Just helping an old buddy.” He replaced his glass on the table with a deepening frown. “Simon — are you going to be all right?”
Dracup was glad he’d chosen Charles as a confidant; the archaeologist’s concern was almost comical. He shook his head. “Charles, I have absolutely no idea if I’m going to be all right.”
Sturrock fixed Dracup with a mock serious expression. “I have every confidence.” He raised his glass, which he had subtly contrived to refill. “My dear chap. Here’s to Africa.”
It was a bright, sunny morning. White Waltham’s windsock ruffled gently in a cool westerly breeze as Dracup was led reluctantly onto the grass where several aircraft were sitting expectantly, like seagulls waiting for tourists to arrive with ice creams and sandwiches. He watched suspiciously as Sturrock gestured towards the smallest aircraft, which looked to Dracup rather like a grown-up version of the boyhood models he had painstakingly constructed in his bedroom.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What do you mean? She’s a beaut. Perfectly airworthy.”
“But we can’t both fit in there.” Dracup examined the cockpit with a growing sense of alarm.
“Of course we can. It’s only a short flight. You’ll get used to it in no time.”
Dracup carried that thought through the pre-flight preparations. Sturrock chattered excitedly about oil pressure, crosswinds and fuel checks. Dracup’s hands were cold and clammy. He attempted a kind of self-deluding detachment, as if he wasn’t really about to climb into an aerial coffin. Forty-five minutes later Sturrock opened the throttle and they rumbled across the grass to the take-off position. When the ground fell away beneath them, leaving Dracup’s stomach with it, he was beginning to wish he’d risked Moran’s vigilance and gone for the Heathrow option after all.
Africa
Chapter 17
“You lost him?” Potzner listened incredulously. “How hard is it to find a University Professor in his home town?”