Chapter 32
“Okay, Mr Dracup. Journey’s end. For now.” Potzner held the door and Dracup stepped onto the tarmac. Around him he was aware of the bulky shapes of aircraft and the transient movements of US personnel tending to the myriad jobs of an operational base. Huge golf-ball-shaped radomes studded the airfield perimeter, bonding a veneer of science fiction to Dracup’s embattled thought processes. Potzner ushered him quickly across the concrete apron to a squat perimeter building, within which nestled a warren of open-plan activity. He felt like an intruder, a feeling compounded by the curious stares he attracted as they made their way across the operations floor. A queue was forming around a white-aproned sandwich lady, through which Potzner shouldered his way without apology. Dracup closed his ears to the expletives and followed the American as he negotiated the maze with practiced ease, nodding briskly to a familiar face here and there until they entered a door simply marked ‘Intelligence Officer’.
Sitting on a corner of the single desk was Farrell, who raised a hand in half-salute then let it drop back to his side with a curt nod to Dracup. He looks worried. Dracup caught the anxious glance that passed between Farrell and the man behind the desk, who had stood up to greet the newcomers.
“Colonel Gembala — this is Professor Dracup.” Farrell performed the introductions. “He has the information we need.”
Gembala extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Professor. I’ve heard about your solo performance. You’ll be taking a back seat from this point on.”
“Has Fish arrived?” Potzner demanded. Farrell opened his mouth to reply but Potzner cut him off. “If not, why the hell not?”
Gembala walked round the desk and patted Potzner on the shoulder. “He’ll be here in ten, Jim. Take it easy.” The voice was firm but rang with a conciliatory note. Dracup watched with interest. They’re handling him with kid gloves.
Potzner flicked his Zippo and lit a Marlboro. He blew smoke and held out his hand to Dracup. “May I?”
Dracup took the flash card from his pocket and placed it in the American’s outstretched palm. Potzner jammed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and held up the card between his thumb and forefinger. “You went through a lot for this, Professor.” The sardonic smile was back in place. “The world will be grateful.” Potzner addressed Gembala. “Is everything ready for us, Colonel?”
“Fuelled and waiting on your word,” Gembala replied.
“Then we just need Fish.” Potzner inhaled smoke and blew a thin stream towards Farrell, who waved a practiced hand in front of his face.
The desk phone rang. “That’ll be him.” Potzner stubbed the cigarette out on the corner of the waste paper basket. “Let’s go.”
They assembled in a larger room Dracup guessed was used for briefings. There was a projector and laptop set up for presentations as well as seating for around fifty bodies. A small, nervous-looking man entered the room from a side door and approached with an expression of pained excitement.
“Okay Fish, let’s roll the slide show.” Potzner handed him Dracup’s flash card.
“Right. If you gentlemen will just give us a few minutes—” Fish indicated several other new arrivals who were engaged in animated conversation. One of them was fiddling with the laptop. A blank yellow square appeared on the screen, shrinking in size as the technician focused the lens. Familiar text appeared:
Farrell nudged Dracup. The American handed him a styrofoam cup of coffee and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. The label said Dellow’s Delicious Deli, Yeovil. Dracup doubted the description but received the snack graciously. He unwrapped the sandwich and took an automatic mouthful.
“Fingers crossed, huh?” Farrell said.
“I need more than luck, Farrell. I need a miracle.” Dracup gestured to the jostling group of boffins. “This guy is pretty good?”
“Fish? Oh yeah. If it’s doable, he’ll do it.”
But in less than thirty-six hours? Dracup’s mouth felt like sandpaper. He put his sandwich down.
A small cheer went up from the front. Farrell grinned. “There you go.”
Dracup looked at the screen. It had been split into right and left sections, the original text on the left. On the right, some new text appeared:
‘From holy resting place to rest upon the water — you have been brought, our father’
Dracup’s heart beat faster. Someone coughed. He looked round. Potzner was standing in a corner at the back of the room, enveloped in a cloud of smoke. His foot was tapping on the carpet tiles in a slow, constant rhythm. Farrell went over to Colonel Gembala and said something in a low voice. Gembala nodded and continued watching the screen. Dracup looked at the clock, a rectangular digital monstrosity that flapped over a plastic square for each new integer to display. It said 22:23.
There seemed to be some debate about the next translation. Dracup’s jpg appeared again. One of the techies was making some phonetic point about an indistinct character on the Lalibelian sceptre. Dracup looked at the close-up of Mukannishum’s long fingers and felt the sandwich turn to sawdust in his mouth.
22:45. The image disappeared and the text reappeared. With two new lines:
‘But Noah, the faithful son — shall lead you to cooler depths
Once more in the earth you will find peace — laid in the holy place’
A rumble of excitement passed through the room. One of the techies clapped another on the back. Dracup heard an exclamation. “All right!” He realized he’d been holding his breath. And his bladder. He made for the door to find the toilets. Farrell was at his side. He shrugged. “Sorry.”
When they returned to the briefing room the buzz of expectancy had grown. 22:52. Gembala was standing now, pacing up and down between two rows of plastic chairs. Potzner, a brooding figure, was keeping his distance. Fish and his colleagues were in a dense huddle. They broke apart. The screen flicked again.
‘From whence you came — to Kish the seat of kings
Between the rivers — beyond the gate of God’
“That’s it.” Potzner was moving to the front. “That’s it. Kish. Where the hell is Kish? Fish? Someone get me a map.” One of the technicians laughed, a release of nervous tension. Potzner shot him a black look and the smile disappeared. Fish and his men scattered as Potzner approached.
Farrell turned to Dracup. “That’s Iraq, isn’t it, Prof?”
Dracup was taking it in. Natasha is in Iraq?
Gembala was talking urgently to two men who had entered the room just before the last verse was completed. They were in USAF pilot’s uniform. Dracup caught one phrase: Stand by. They left on the double.
A map appeared. Potzner laid it out. “About eighty kilometres south of Baghdad.” He stabbed a yellowed finger at the position. “Are our guys anywhere near?” He looked at Gembala.
“Well, yes and no. It’s a protected area. We patrol but there’s no permanent occupation. The government’s pretty hot about the loss of archaeologically sensitive material. Since the museum in Baghdad was trashed at the beginning of the war—”
Potzner cut in. “Who knows anything about this place? Fish — get your ass over here.”