Wincing in the strong sunlight he descended the steps like a sleepwalker and allowed himself to be escorted to the military jeep that had jauntily roared up to the rear of the stationary plane. The driver was wearing light camouflage fatigues and sunglasses in an attitude of style only achievable by Americans away from home in a hot climate; they all looked cool. Dracup self-consciously took off his jacket and slung it across his shoulder. He could feel oppression in the air, the nerve-tingling sense that he had arrived in a city where literally anything could happen at any time.
Farrell saw his reaction. “MANPAD attacks on incoming military and civilian aircraft are pretty common. They’re having a day off today, but small arms are a backup contender. We don’t want to stay out here too long.”
“MANPAD?”
Farrell grinned. “Man-portable Air Defence missiles.”
Dracup nodded dumbly. Great.
The jeep took them to the terminal where he was fleeced by a trio of wisecracking GIs and given a good-humoured OK to proceed. One of them called after him, “Toodle pip!” in a wildly exaggerated English accent. Dracup acknowledged it with a poorly executed salute followed by a thumbs up. Potzner was already striding proprietorially across the terminal floor. He followed in the slipstream of Potzner’s cigarette smoke and found himself in a glass-fronted office that looked out onto the airport runways. The room was full of equipment — flickering monitors and damp-armpitted operators. There was a wide screen suspended from the mezzanine roof, a window into some remote centre of operations. A moment later Dracup recognized it as the UK air force base from which he had recently departed. Before he had recovered from his surprise the plasma display was filled with Fish’s earnest yet harassed face. Potzner’s reaction was immediate.
“Talk to me Fish,” he yelled uninhibitedly at the screen. “We’re all waiting.”
“Okay, okay, I–I think I’ve got something.” Fish combed a strand of hair carefully back into place. “It’s remarkable actually, I’m not sure if—”
“Detail.” Potzner sat with folded arms on the corner of a desk and crossed one leg over the other. He blew out a long stream of smoke and tapped his ring finger on the wood.
“Well, we, uh, we’ve taken some soundings of the area and, strange as it may seem, there appears to be a layer of volcanic rock strata under a large part of the ruins to the west of the site. It goes pretty deep. And even stranger, there’s also a clear reading from the hydroscope.”
“The what?”
“It, uh, it detects the presence of water. And there’s a lot of it. We think it’s an underground river.”
“Are you sure?” Potzner scratched his head and frowned. “I don’t know much about geology, Fish, but it’s not what I’d expect to find under this kind of landscape.”
Fish removed his glasses and waved them at the screen. He was clearly excited. “Precisely my initial thoughts. Funny thing is, this sort of anomaly has been seen before. In the Sahara — they found an underground river right there under the desert. It supplied water for fifty thousand townspeople in the area.”
Dracup was listening intently. It sounded plausible.
“The soundings also indicate the presence of cavities — tunnels or caves — under the strata. And here’s the best bit: right up there near the surface is Tell A23.”
“Gówno prawda, Fish, will you speak English?” Potzner roared.
“Right. Sorry. Archaeologists refer to the mounds of Kish — and other Mesopotamian mounds — as Tells. This one is a biggie — fifty metres. And a solid construction.”
“Solid?” Dracup forgot himself and addressed Fish directly. He had walked up to stand beneath the monitor.
The giant Fish peered down at him. He seemed mildly surprised to be entering into a dialogue with Dracup, but his excitement propelled him on. “It’s not a ruin as such. It’s solid. Intact.”
“But buried?”
“Yeah. Buried. Right there above the volcanic strata.”
Potzner stood very still in the centre of the room. “That’s it,” he said quietly. “That’s it.”
Dracup nodded. It seemed to fit.
“Get me the co-ordinates, Fish,” Potzner yelled. He turned to one of the soldiers standing with his hands on his hips, automatic slung over his shoulder. “Is the Chinook ready, Major?”
The soldier nodded. He waved vaguely out of the window. “Sure thing, sir. Here it is now. Refuelling will only take a few minutes.”
Dracup followed his gesture and saw a long, twin-rotored helicopter descending in a cloud of dust and diesel.
“Do you want me to deploy the troops, sir?” the soldier enquired.
“Just make sure the pilots get those co-ordinates,” Potzner said. “Keep the troops on standby.” He looked at his watch. “Take-off in thirty-five.” He made as if to leave the room. Dracup grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
Potzner turned with an irritated expletive. “Not now, Dracup.”
“I want you to guarantee my daughter’s safety.” Dracup retained his grip on Potzner’s arm.
“You know I can’t do that.” Potzner tore himself away and headed for the door.
“I’m coming with you, Potzner,” Dracup shouted after his retreating figure. “This is my daughter we’re talking about.” The room had reverted to its earlier industrious commotion. No one was paying any attention to the Englishman standing in their midst. Dracup raised his arms and let them fall. He felt tears of frustration welling in his eyes and shook his head angrily.
Farrell was watching him from the nearest desk. He had placed the box containing Alpha on its plastic surface and was sitting, hands in pockets, beside it. He shrugged and waved a finger from side to side as if reinforcing Potzner’s embargo. No help there. Dracup turned his attention to the activity on the airport tarmac.
The Chinook had manoeuvred itself so that the refuelling vehicle could attend to its needs. The pilots were standing next to their machine sharing a joke with the airfield personnel. One of them made a gesture with his arm that caused the group to fall about with laughter. All routine stuff for them, Dracup thought. Just another day in Iraq.
Potzner had reached the door and his hand was out to grip the handle. Before he reached it the door opened and two people entered the room. Potzner stepped back in surprise. Dracup’s mouth fell open.
“Hello again, Mr Potzner.” DCI Moran smiled broadly and gestured to the woman beside him. “This is Chief Constable Françoise Duraison from Interpol headquarters. We’d like a word in private, if that’s all right with you?” He nodded genially at the American and waved briefly in Dracup’s direction. “Be with you in a moment, Professor Dracup.”
Potzner squared up to the duo. “We’re running a military operation here. You’re out of your depth, Moran. I’ll give you thirty seconds to leave before I have the Military Police escort you out of here.”
The woman spoke up, a trim brunette of around forty-three, Dracup estimated. She had a sharp, intelligent face complemented by the typical dark, Gallic pigmentation that enhanced many a French model’s natural good looks and was doing a pretty good job with her own. “Mr Potzner: I have reason to suspect that international law has been violated by virtue of the fact that you removed — by force — a man helping the British police with their enquiries concerning a kidnapping and a related murder. DCI Moran and I have been working on an operation to trace the kidnappers. This is police business and you have no authority to detain Professor Dracup. I have a warrant for his repatriation.” Duraison’s accent was discernable but her manner was businesslike and confident. She held out the paperwork with a superior flourish.