The Trespass

by Scott Hunter

  “Give me that.” Potzner snatched the documents and read them briskly. “This is crap. We’re looking for something else – something subtle. Get Fish on the phone.”

  Fish was on within seconds. “You’ve got nine square miles to check out, Fish.” Potzner bent and peered out of the jet window as he listened to the response. Dracup caught a glimpse of the sun, a red disk on the horizon, the clouds a scattering of grey and white cotton.

  Potzner was pacing the small space now, glass in hand. “They’ve only excavated three out of forty mounds? So the other thirty-seven should keep you busy for a coupla hours.” Potzner sat down heavily, his face contorted with frustration. “Uh huh.” His voice took on an exaggerated emphasis, as if he was talking to the most challenging pupil in a remedial class. “Anything unusual. That’s right, Fish. No, I don’t have any clues either. Just get on with it.”

  Dracup watched the sun reflecting on the surface of the cloud. He was so tired he had forgotten how it felt to be rested, or what it was like to wake up with nothing more than the mundane activities of a University lecturer to inform his mind for the day. He found himself thinking about the number seven. Seven. What was it Sara had said? Seven sevens – the square root of your age is seven. Seven sevens are forty-nine. Forty-nine. He closed his eyes as the figures jumbled and swirled with the clouds, like a white alphabet soup, but with tumbling numbers that refused to add up or make any kind of sense.

  Dracup woke to the jolt of the undercarriage on tarmac. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Farrell was looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

  “Welcome to Baghdad International Airport, Prof. You’d better prepare yourself for a few surprises.”

  Dracup squinted out of the window and saw a vehicle moving alongside, shadowing their arrival. He felt rather than saw the glint of gunmetal from the vehicle’s cabin. A helmeted US soldier, chewing vigorously on a stick of gum, kept his shaded eyes on the plane as it came to a standstill. The door hissed open and heat invaded the interior. Dracup was wearing a heavy jacket and thick shirt in keeping with a British autumn.

  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.

  For a moment Potzner seemed uncertain. The Major he had spoken to had unshouldered his weapon and was holding it loosely, his tanned arms cradling the stock. Around a quarter of the personnel in the operations room – those nearest the exit – were watching the scene while the remainder continued with their tasks, apparently unconcerned by the new arrivals. Dracup watched a small trickle of sweat run down Duraison’s temple and disappear beneath her collar. From the corner of his eye he saw the refuelling tanker move slowly away from the Chinook, and the helicopter’s engines roared into life. The sound penetrated the operations room and heads turned automatically to look. The rotors began to turn, slowly at first, then gathering speed until they became a spinning blur.

  Potzner turned back to address Duraison. “You smug bitch. This is my territory.” He pointed a stained finger at her chest. “I’ll tell you what’s going to hap–”

  At that moment there came a whooshing sound, like a high wind, then the room lit up with a blast of incandescent orange. He heard someone shout out – was it Farrell? – “Rockets! Get down!” The window imploded with a splintering crack that sent shards of glass spinning into the room like jagged spears. The soldier next to Dracup dropped silently to the floor, his neck a torn gash of red. Dracup was lying flat, arms pinned beneath him by some dead weight. He struggled to free himself from the body that was crushing the breath out of him. He saw blood on his hand.

  Duraison was lying beside him, her mouth moving in silent agony. Dracup saw the protrusion of shrapnel in her bicep. He crawled towards her, dimly aware of the lacerations on his exposed forearms. Should have kept your jacket on, Dracup my boy. His knees crunched painfully against the minutiae of mangled debris cluttering the room. For what seemed a long time there was a stunned silence, then, as the room began to fill with acrid smoke from the burning tanker, he heard the low, persistent moaning of the injured.

  The Chinook’s engine noise intensified as the pilot opened the throttle. They weren’t hit? He blinked and tried to see through the smog. There! The spinning blades of the chopper cutting through the pall of white and black smoke. Dracup’s hand brushed against the fallen soldier’s machine pistol. A lunatic thought came to him. With one hand over his mouth, he picked it up and ran towards the space where the window had been. He stumbled over something – a body? – fell, picked himself up and crashed against the desk where Farrell had been sitting. He scooped up the box in his free hand. It was heavy and he almost dropped it. The chopper was a roaring shape in front of him. He ducked his head instinctively and made for the pilot’s hatch. He was up on the step – the machine was moving, beginning to lift. He pulled the handle. It flew open and he hauled himself into the cockpit.

  Jamming the pistol in the shocked pilot’s face he fell into the cabin and yelled “Keep going! Take it up!” The clattering noise of the engine was overwhelming. He couldn’t hear his own voice, but the pilot got the message. The Chinook was snatched into the sky and the airport fell away beneath him.

  Chapter 35

  “It’s late. The child is ready to sleep.” Ruth was tired, but the unexpected nature of the visit was compensation enough. “Please. Have a seat.” She indicated a carved, wooden bench with a soft quilted cushion. It was a family heirloom, made by her mother in the early days of her childhood. She sometimes imagined she could smell her mother’s scent on its fading fabric.

  Kadesh gave an agreeable smile and settled himself at one end of the bench. His long forefinger played with the soft skin of his recently shaved chin as he watched Ruth gather her thoughts and emotions.

  “Can I offer you anything?”

  “I think not.”

  “Oh. Well, then.” She sat on a small stool opposite the leader of the Korumak and wondered what he wanted. Despite the barren years of disappointment her heart was pounding with expectation. He had never come to her at such an hour.

  Natasha was watching suspiciously from her bed. She held her dolly close to her chest, the blanket pulled up to her shoulders. Ruth put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. You must sleep now. We will talk quietly.”

  “I think it may be inappropriate to have the girl present,” Kadesh said. His tone was reasonable. “I have arranged an alternative activity for her. Ah –”

  Jassim appeared at the entrance. His expression was curiously flat, unreadable. He managed a curt bow but failed to make eye contact. Two of Kadesh’s personal escort hovered by the door, just out of sight.

  Ruth felt the first twinges of disquiet. “Jassim? What are you doing here?” Her disquiet turned to fear when she noticed that her brother was wearing his ceremonial scimitar. It dangled loosely at his side, glinting in the low light.

  Kadesh spoke quietly but firmly. “Natasha will be comfortable. Please –” He indicated the stool which she had, in her anxiety and confusion, overbalanced.

  Jassim beckoned Natasha, who cast a questioning look at Ruth.

  They wouldn’t kill a child. Not a child. She took a breath. He is our leader. He is wise. He is kind. Ruth righted the stool and nodded. “It’s okay. Go with Jassim.” She injected her voice with as much persuasiveness as she was able. Natasha obediently allowed Jassim to take her hand. Ruth watched as Jassim led the girl away.

  Now she was alone with Kadesh. She swallowed and composed herself with a huge effort of will. Kadesh seemed in no hurry. He looked around the chamber, allowing his eyes to wander across the dull, ochre blend of rock and clay that formed the walls and roof of the scalloped recess Ruth had made her home. The ancients of Kish had capitalized fully on the opportunities afforded by the departure of the Tigris and Euphrates from their ante-diluvian course, working the natural volcanic passages into numerous storerooms, living areas and meeting places. She was happy here, under the temple of her forefathers. It was all she knew and all she wanted. Almost.

  Ruth sat very still, afraid to make an inappropriate gesture or give voice to her whirling thoughts. Was her dream about to be realized? Perhaps her diagnosis had been correct. He had finally responded to her patience with an acknowledgment of his own needs. Sara would not be his. He had accepted it at last.

  “He is coming – as are the Americans.” Kadesh played with the lid of a glass jar, gently tapping the rim and listening to t
he high note it produced. “But I am ready for them.”

  “How do you know –?”

  “I know.” Kadesh replaced the lid and turned to face her. His arms were folded. “I know. They are in Baghdad. Mukannishum failed.”

  Ruth was unsure how to respond. She had never warmed to Mukannishum, Kadesh’s right-hand man from the time they were at Harvard together. There was a coldness about him, a ruthlessness she found repellant. His influence on Kadesh had been considerable, none of it positive. When Kadesh had returned to Kish, education completed, to lead the Korumak, he had returned a changed man. Gone was the warmth she had known in her childhood; gone were the dancing lights in his eyes. Instead there was a hardening of will and soul. As she looked at him now, she mourned the person she had once known. And yet, here he was, perhaps not entirely immune to her reasoning, or, she hoped, her feminine charms.

  “I am sorry for your friend.” She looked at the floor, unable to meet his eyes. “But they cannot succeed.” She shrugged. The gesture felt inadequate, but the conversation was taking an undesirable detour and she was anxious to steer it back before it was too late. “They are no match for you.”

  She moved towards him. He needed comforting, reassuring. That was her role. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and then moved forward, encircling him in her arms. To her amazement he responded. Her heart beat wildly as he returned her embrace. His body was firm and strong, honed by the disciplined training she knew was part of his daily routine. His clothing smelt of musk and oil, some residue of incense that clung to the fabric. Perhaps his love was like that; maybe there was some essence of his old personality that could be redeemed.