As he hesitated he heard the sound of footsteps. Running. A shouted command. Potzner? Panic and freezing hands made him clumsy; he missed his footing and fell awkwardly, throwing his hands out to save himself. Through the screen of moving water he heard a cry and knew he had been spotted. He heard a popping noise, like multiple corks being sprung from a bottle, then a blow to his arm sent him spinning backwards, sprawling over the wet rocks. He sat up, shocked, and saw with horror a spreading red stain creeping through his jacket sleeve. Oddly, he felt little pain. A shadow fell across the waterfall, then another.
Dracup lay panting, clutching his arm. A face appeared; dark, bearded, unkempt hair tamed by a purple bandana. A bandolier was slung casually over the man’s shoulders and his hands expertly clicked a new magazine into place. A contemptuous grin played about his lips. He raised the automatic and Dracup closed his eyes. He heard a muffled crack. A heavy weight crashed onto his legs and he opened them again. Someone was wading across the stream.
“Professor Dracup? Are you okay?”
He let out his breath in relief. Farrell.
The American stepped around the waterfall and crouched at his feet. “Should have got to you a little earlier — sorry about that. Let me take a look at that arm.”
Dracup winced and peeled off his jacket. He was only mildly surprised to see Moran join Farrell at his side. Shadows hovered in the background. US marines, supporting. The DCI holstered his pistol, nodded curtly and prodded the dead man with his toe. “Al-Qaida. It’s all happening here, isn’t it, Professor?”
Farrell finished applying a field dressing to Dracup’s arm. “Just clipped you, Prof. You okay to walk?”
“It’s my arm, Farrell, not my leg — thanks, I’ll be fine.”
“I see you have my parcel.” Farrell pointed his gun at the box, lying askew at Dracup’s feet.
“Don’t try to take it from me, Farrell.” Dracup clenched his fists. “I’ll kill you before I let you do that.”
Farrell raised both hands. “Cool it, Prof. We’re on your side.”
“Are you?”
“You weren’t thinking about going down there without a map, were you?” Moran pointed to the uninviting gash in the rock.
“Without a —?”
Moran reached into his trouser pocket and flourished a folded piece of paper. “This,” he smiled, “is going to come in handy.”
Farrell grabbed it out of the Irishman’s hand. “Where did you get this?”
Moran’s eyes almost twinkled. “Well, that would be telling.” He gave Dracup an odd look. “I borrowed it from a little bird back home.”
Chapter 39
A shower of pebbles alerted Sara to the presence of intruders in the funnel. Jassim? She nudged Natasha awake and pulled the girl into the shadows. Natasha looked up, fear etched across her face. The girl was pale and thinner, but she had a resilient streak that reminded Sara of her father.
Natasha was pulling on her cardigan. “Are they coming to kill us?”
“No. Of course not.” She smoothed a hand over the girl’s forehead. “Just stay here and I’ll go check it out, okay?”
The girl chewed her lip. Her cheek was streaked with grime and her hair was badly in need of a wash. “Ruth’s dead, isn’t she?” Her large eyes watched Sara intently, daring a lie.
Sara hesitated, her throat constricted. “Yes, Natasha. I’m sorry.” She gave the girl a brief hug, aware of the inadequacy of the gesture. “I have to go see what’s happening, all right? Don’t move.”
Sara found a loose rock and hefted it. She crept, cat-like, to where the funnel entrance spread out like a ram’s horn into the gallery. How many? She craned her neck to look up into the blackness. Now she heard voices, the scrabbling of feet. She weighed her options. Stay put, or risk the unknown? She turned and looked down the gallery to where the ceiling dipped and turned. Somewhere beyond the temple perimeter lay the remains of something ancient, a barren, haunted place, blighted by God’s curse. And here, hiding as a child in the gallery, she had felt the weight of its mournful presence.
She took a deep breath. Okay. Stay put — flesh and blood I can deal with. A pair of feet landed hard on the sloping floor of the funnel. Sara stepped forward and swung the rock, missing her target’s head but scoring a direct hit between the shoulder blades. As the rock connected she let out her breath in a cry of frustrated anger. The man dropped to the ground with a grunt.
Then two things happened very quickly: something heavy dropped down from the funnel’s twisted tube and wrestled her to the ground. She fought with all her strength, redoubling her efforts as she saw her hands stained with blood and heard the man gasp in pain. She felt a surge of adrenaline. He’s hurt. I can do this… And then, twisting around in a final effort to free herself she saw who it was. Simon?
He froze in her grip, his mouth slack with astonishment. “Sara?” Then, “Where’s Natasha?”
Sara stared at Dracup open-mouthed.
He looks awful.
She bit her lip as Farrell struggled to his feet, reaching behind his neck with a grimace to assess the damage. “Farrell. I’m sorry — I—”
“No problem.” He flashed a smile, then turned to give assistance to the third climber whose legs were dangling, testing the rough steps before committing his weight. A lightly built man dropped down and landed easily on his feet. Farrell jerked his head in Moran’s direction. “DCI Moran, from the UK,” he told Sara.
Dracup was shaking her arm. “Where is she, Sara?”
“She’s waiting over there.” Sara pointed and called over. “’Tash? Come over. It’s all right.”
But the only response was the flat echo of her voice and the silence of the gallery. She ran to the spot where Natasha had been sitting, knees drawn up to her chin, dark eyes alert.
Sara looked at Dracup. It was impossible. She had to be there. “Simon, she was here. I told her to wait. She was scared—”
Dracup was at her side. “Where does this lead?” He swept his hand across the expanse before them.
“I don’t know.” Her head was pounding in a mixed reaction of confusion and anger at herself. “I’ve never — it’s forbidden.” Her heart was beating with fear. Natasha. Why there? Why didn’t you wait? “We can’t follow,” she stammered. “It’s impossible.”
“What are you talking about?” Dracup turned to Moran. “What about your map? Does it show anything in this direction?”
Moran shook his head. “That’s the funny thing. It ends right here. The gallery isn’t marked at all.”
Dracup called her name repeatedly: Natasha! ’Tash! Moran walked alongside, observing, cautious. Sara was behind with Farrell, reluctant. Scared. And he could understand it. There was something about this place, something not right. The ceiling had crept lower and lower until for an uncomfortable five minutes they had been forced to bend almost double; then it rose sharply again, stretching out of sight and creating the illusion that they were no longer travelling underground, but under a remote, lofty sky. The ground became progressively featureless, the curious formations of rock they had passed at the outset being replaced by a plain, dry dust underfoot. The air was still, the temperature warmer than the area surrounding the waterfall and the funnel.