Sara closed her PDA with a soft click and glanced at her watch. It was almost time to leave. She was desperate to get the information to Dracup, but there was no available network for her to tap into. Kadesh monitored a private link and she couldn’t access it even if she wanted to. So be it. She would just have to wait until they reached Baghdad. If they reached Baghdad.
At midnight she collected a sleepy Natasha from Ruth’s chamber. Her sister was calm, almost her normal self. She had packed two bags with essentials, and hurried them on their way with a pinched face and dry eyes. Natasha was too befuddled with sleep to ask any awkward questions, and as Sara jostled her through the twilit corridors the girl seemed unaware of their newly acquired fugitive status. The air temperature slowly increased as they climbed to the surface until, like ants emerging from a nest, they found themselves under moonlight in the open air. It was a beautiful night, the stars airbrushed across the sky like a broken necklace. Natasha tilted her face upwards and smiled. “It’s nice outside,” she whispered.
The vehicles were lined up in the shelter of the mound, their angular geometries silhouetted against the horizon as Sara squinted, tried to pick out the one most appropriate for their needs. Not too heavy. We’re in a hurry. A few minutes later she had settled on an open-topped four wheel drive with a robust set of fat, deep-treaded tyres.
“Okay. Hop in,” she told Natasha. The girl sleepily obliged and immediately curled up on the passenger seat. The keys would be in the ignition, Ruth had assured her. No car thieves around here. Sara almost laughed aloud at the thought. The keys were not in the ignition. She opened her mouth to ask Natasha to look for a set on her side when they were bathed in a brilliant, blinding light. The voice that told them to step out of the jeep and stand with their hands above their heads belonged to the one man she feared more than God himself.
Kadesh stepped into the searchlight’s exposing beam. His face showed a curious mixture of anger and disappointment. Sara put her arm around Natasha and waited for their fate to be decreed.
Chapter 26
Dracup stood just inside the threshold and shook his head in wonder. He removed his hat and allowed the cool, scented air to dry the sweat from his forehead. The place was enormous. It reminded him of an English cathedral, but without the clean lines favoured by mediaeval architecture. He angled his head to examine the distant roof, then returned his attention to the carved columns of reddish volcanic rock that served as gigantic, asymmetrical supports. The building was almost organic in structure, as if it had come into being not by premeditated plan or design but through some accidental quirk of geology — albeit enhanced by considerable skill. Dracup was speechless. It was as if he had stepped into Tolkien’s Mines of Moria, into a space that seemed timeless and set apart from the world.
“So what do you think, eh, boss?” Bek prompted.
Dracup frowned and stroked his beard. Something wasn’t right. “Think? I don’t know what to think, Bek.” He turned and looked at the boy. “How did you find it? It’s well hidden — there’d be no reason to deviate from the path—”
“I told you. Bek knows stuff.”
Dracup smiled. “Yes, I’m coming round to that idea. So — what else can you tell me?”
“Come further in, boss, I know what you want.” Bek ran forward into the building and gesticulated impatiently.
Dracup glanced behind him. The entrance was a reassuring rectangle of light, but his intuition would not be placated. The church possessed an ambience, a stillness that bordered on expectancy. Dracup murmured quietly to himself, his attention concentrated on the young guide. This feels different. Bek seems very keen…
And then came the sound, a grinding, rolling noise of heavy weights coming together. The light diminished abruptly. Dracup, half prepared for the unexpected, didn’t bother to turn. The entrance had been sealed. Bek was standing to one side, inanimate, as if his sideshow had come to a premature but premeditated conclusion and there was nothing more for him to do. In the darkness, a torch flared. Dracup stood still. There was nothing to be gained by running. He was standing in the central space, the nave of the church. Further pinpricks of fire danced in the darkness until their collective light allowed Dracup to make out at least ten figures advancing towards him. He called over to Bek, alarmed by the boy’s transformation from extrovert guide to forlorn — and clearly frightened — teenager.
“Anything you can tell me about this, Bek?” Dracup spoke kindly, hoping for a few final words of explanation. But Bek was curled into a knee-hugging ball, rocking backward and forward in the shadows. His shoulders heaved in syncopated jerks. Eventually Dracup was able to interpret the repetitive mantra: “I’m sorry, boss. He made me do it.”
Dracup turned his attention from the sobbing boy to the procession. It was led by a tall figure in black. The man’s face was partially obscured by the traditional Ethiopian turban-like wrap, but his eyes were bright in the torchlight. As Dracup watched, the figure held up his hand and the procession came to an obedient halt. The man peeled his scarf away and opened his mouth in a wide, gleaming grin. Dracup wasn’t surprised. The runner from the Thames promenade had finally caught up with him.
Dracup walked between two priests — he assumed they were priests — with the man in black leading the way. Towards the altar, Dracup thought. Not good. But as they reached the plain stone block the leader turned. He looked at Dracup for a moment, studying him with interest. His opening words were preceded by a smile of evident pleasure. “Professor Dracup, I shall show you what you have been looking for. It seems only fair. And I have a great sense of fairness, as do all you — British people.” He spoke in measured, educated tones and although there was a faint trace of accent it was hard to place. The nose was pure Arabic, his height — very unusual. Dracup had studied African tribes where the least in stature measured six and a half feet, but he had seen nothing outside the Guinness Book of Records to compare with this. His size lent the man an alien quality; there was something otherworldly about him. The voice went on confidently, as did Dracup’s linguistic analysis.
“But I am being rude. I was speaking of fairness whilst all the time retaining an unfair advantage. My name is Mukannishum.” He bowed, his long body folding over at the waist like a hinged gantry. There was something in the vowel inflexion that rang a familiar bell. Where had he heard that same intonation? That odd flattening of vowels?
The torchbearers had formed a circle with Dracup and Mukannishum a few metres apart in the centre. The altar was directly in front of them, and Dracup noticed that raised up on its surface was a curtained container of some sort — a tabernacle perhaps, not domed in the Catholic or High Church tradition, but broader and bigger. Mukannishum issued an order and one of the priests raised his torch, casting a clear orange light onto the altar. The material covering the tabernacle was pure white and the pictorial detail was of a great tree, its branches spreading over the fabric like a protective roof. The embroidered foliage portrayed a density of leaves and fruit through which slanted rays of brilliant sunshine. It was virtuoso art, so lifelike that Dracup could almost smell the fruit and feel the wind against his cheek.