But they were outnumbered. The jihadis advanced through the chamber, bending low, using the sarcophagus as cover. Bullets pinged and whined off the lid. Potzner duck- walked backwards, yelling, “Careful, you morons — not the casket. Clear shots only.”
Potzner made it to the hole. He came through and flattened his back against the outside of the wall. Dracup held Natasha tight. He could see, as he had supposed, a mirror image stairway beginning its long descent twenty metres from where they stood. Beside him, a squat, muscled marine winked at him.
“Nice shootin’, man. This’ll sort the suckers out.” He showed Dracup a grenade grasped tightly in each fist. Potzner was reloading, fingers working methodically as he fed the magazine. The marine stepped forward, into the gap. Potzner glanced up, realised his intent too late. He held up his hand and screamed.
“No! No grenades!”
In slow motion, Dracup saw the marine turn, a quizzical look on his face. Why not? We want to waste the creeps, don’t we? The grenades left his hands in two rolling, overarm pitches.
Potzner yelled again. “No!”
Dracup watched the American dive into the gap. He knew what was on Potzner’s mind: the contents of the sarcophagus. Protect it. At all costs.
He’s going for the grenades. He’s crazy.
Dracup had to look. He pressed Natasha into Moran’s arms and picked up a fallen marine’s rifle. He edged his face round the wrecked wall into the chamber. Through the smoke he saw Potzner in a half dive, half lunge, stretching for the second grenade, the other already secure in his left hand.
He’s out of time — it’s going to blow.
A jihadi loomed over Potzner’s prostrate body. Dracup aimed, pulled the trigger. The rifle breech wheezed and clicked. Empty. Potzner had fallen alongside the sarcophagus. Dracup watched him raise his arm to speed the grenade away towards the jihadi stairwell; parallel with Potzner’s head it exploded in a flash of brilliant light. A microsecond later there came another sharp crack as the second grenade exploded. The chamber roof groaned, heaved and fell with a noise like a tearing thunderclap.
Dracup was pushed back by the combined force of the explosions and the sudden shifting of masonry. His head was ringing, but he moved forward again to enter the chamber. Perhaps Potzner could be saved. No more deaths. Enough was enough.
A hand was on his arm, pulling. “Get the hell out of there. Fall back!” Dracup turned, dazed. A marine roared in his face. “Move out!”
Dracup stumbled away a second before a sheet of flame burst from the chamber and flicked towards the stairwell. Moran was shouting, Natasha’s face pale and shocked beside him. He made the stairway and lurched down, two, three, five steps at a time. Three marines ahead, one, maybe two behind him. Moran glanced back, nodded briefly in acknowledgement. He felt for Natasha’s hand and grasped it firmly. Smoke billowed down the stairwell, overtaking them as they fled.
At the foot of the staircase they emerged into a wide hall delimited by a blue marbled portico. The hall was bare of ornamentation except for a solitary central fountain. The marines spread out and secured the area. Two guarded the stairwell.
Dracup sat on the bottom step and tried to make sense of what had happened. Natasha sat on his lap, head buried in his neck. He held her close, staring fixedly ahead. Moran was walking slowly up and down, brushing his thin hair back with stiff, repetitive motions of his hand. Dracup’s throat ached; his ears were whining with a shrill, high-pitched whistle. He was thirsty, but the fountain was too far away. He watched the marines take their turn and held out his hand automatically as Moran pressed a bottle into it. He gave it to Natasha, who drank deeply. He took the remaining liquid into his mouth and swallowed with a reflexive, unconscious action.
In his mind, he replayed Jackson’s death. If he had been quicker. If he had grabbed the rifle and used it straight away. If he had remembered the remote operation a minute earlier. Thirty seconds earlier. Ten seconds. He held his head in his hands, closed his eyes. And saw Potzner’s last suicidal dive, the explosions that ended his dream. So close. All for nothing.
Moran sat next to him. “Nice shot,” he said quietly, and placed a hand on Dracup’s shoulder; he let it rest for a second and withdrew it with a shrug. “You did what you had to do.”
“I could have saved Jackson. He was only a boy.” Dracup felt his bottom lip vibrate. He looked at his hands; they were still shaking.
“Just take it easy.” Moran produced a flask, shook it experimentally and headed towards the fountain. Dracup prised Natasha’s face from his chest. “Hey. You all right?”
She nodded. “We’re in Fountain Square,” she whispered. “That’s the Great Passage.” She pointed to a yawning opening beyond the fountain; the main exit, he imagined, from the ziggurat’s first level to the outside world. Natasha smiled weakly.
He gave her another hug. “We’ll be out soon. I promise.”
When he looked up one of the marines was staring at him. There was something awkward in his manner. Dracup frowned. “Problem?”
The marine chewed his gum and looked past Dracup, up towards the ziggurat’s pinnacle. An ominous vibration shook the stairwell. Dracup read his name tag — Cruickshank.
Bad sign, Dracup thought. No eye contact.
“Thing is, Professor, we had orders, from, ah—”
“—Mr Potzner.” A second soldier appeared at Cruickshank’s side, finished his sentence. His tag said, Rutter.
“And?” Dracup looked directly into the second marine’s eyes.
“Orders are — anything happens to Mr Potzner, we take charge of the girl.”
“What?” Dracup was baffled.
“She has to come with us.”
Now Dracup understood. The order could be summed up succinctly in two words.
No witnesses.
“I do mind, actually.” Dracup weighed his chances. Not good. Moran was by the fountain, talking to another marine. Having the same conversation. He saw Moran fling the water container to the ground, take a step back. He shot Dracup a look that said clearly, They wouldn’t murder us. Would they?
Dracup cursed himself for his stupidity. He’d been invited not because he might have contributed to Red Earth, but rather to ensure Potzner’s operation remained as he had intended: top secret. If he had contributed, so much the better, but the end game was always going to have the same result.
Cruickshank tried to make his face impassive and did badly. “If you would, sir. Don’t make this any harder. Believe me, we’re only following—”
“Orders? Maybe. But you’ll have to kill me first.” He backed towards the stairwell, shielding Natasha.
Rutter was grinning. “I wouldn’t, Professor.” Rutter was different. He was enjoying this. He raised his rifle. “I can take you out where you stand, Prof — trust me on this, okay? Messy, though. You saw what your li’l shootin’ episode did to that creep up there.” He waved the snout of his rifle up towards the roof. “Well my baby’s been customised to the nth degree.” He stroked the assault rifle lovingly.
All eyes were now on the scene by the stairwell. Dracup sensed a change in atmosphere. He looked at the fountain, along the portico walkway. The marines, Cruickshank and Rutter’s buddies, were standing, watching.