The Trespass

by Scott Hunter

  She felt his hand gently stroking her hair. He was murmuring quietly, making soothing noises in his throat. And then he tipped her chin up to look him in the face. She had hoped to see the lights again, but in his eyes now she saw a new darkness, something deep and malevolent. She pulled away but he was too strong; he was crushing her in his arms. He spoke just once as the life was choked out of her: “It is time.” She felt a sharp pain in her abdomen, then a numbing paralysis spreading over the lower part of her body. He let her go, and the floor came rushing up to meet her. She felt no impact. As her body came to rest her soul had already stepped out into the endless tunnels of eternity.

  Sara looked up in alarm as the door was unlocked. “Jassim?” His face was a mask of urgency.

  “Come. Quickly.” He took her hand. There was no one outside her temporary prison. Sara followed Jassim as they half walked, half ran through the dimly lit corridors. When they had reached a place Jassim considered safe, a little-used sacristy on the second level, he turned to her and whispered slowly.

  “Listen carefully. I am sorry I cannot break this gently. He has killed Ruth –”

  Sara’s hand was at her mouth; she felt as if something was choking her. Jassim’s fingers were on her lips. “No. Now is not the time for mourning. You must think of yourself – and the girl. She must come with you.”

  “Where?” Sara was stunned, her mouth dry with shock.

  “To the place of your childhood. You have told me about it many times. But it is still a secret place, is it not?”

  Sara nodded mutely.

  Jassim looked at her with sympathy. “The Americans are coming. And I think your Dracup is with them.”

  Sara’s heart leapt. He was not coming for her, but she would protect Natasha nevertheless. It was the least she could do. She took Jassim’s hand.

  “Jassim. Why are you helping me? He will kill you if he finds out.”

  “Kill me? No.” Jassim smiled sadly. “I have waited and I have watched. Kadesh imagines that his success gives him license to act as he pleases. It is not so. There are others who share my views. Rest assured, I will be safe. His attention will now turn to you and the girl. Come – we have little time.”

  Sara hurried to the waterfall with Natasha’s hand in hers. They waded across the shallow stream and she found the familiar groove that led to the funnel, her childhood haunt. Natasha was reluctant, but Sara’s hands pressed her down into the darkness.

  “Feel with your feet. It’s fine. I’ve been down here hundreds of times.” They reached the bottom and Natasha clung to her. “You’ll get used to the dark. It’s the safest place for us.”

  “Why? Where’s Ruth? Is she coming here too?”

  Sara swallowed hard and squeezed the girl’s hand. “Hey. Just stop worrying, all right? Jassim will come and get us as soon as he can.”

  “Why did you give him your necklace?”

  Sara hesitated, unsure how much she should divulge. “So that... so that a friend of mine might recognize it and trust Jassim when he meets him.”

  “Who?” the girl pressed. “It’s my daddy, isn’t it?” The tone of hope in her voice was agonising.

  Sara nodded. “Yes. Bright girl.” She smoothed an errant wisp of hair away from Natasha’s forehead. “It’s your daddy.”

  The little girl smiled. “Sara?”

  “Yes?”

  “You can call me ’Tash if you like.”

  Chapter 36

  The machine pistol felt clumsy in Dracup’s inexpert grip. The pilot was steadfastly ignoring his unexpected passenger, concentrating instead on steering the Chinook out of the black pall of smoke that hung over Baghdad International Airport. He shouted and pointed. Dracup looked at him blankly, then he understood. He picked up the headset with his free hand and clamped it over his ears. The pilot’s voice spoke clearly in the space between them.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing? Put that down before you kill us both. Strap in and hold tight.” The accent was unmistakably English, southern counties. Dracup felt strangely comforted. Then the helicopter lurched violently upwards, making him clutch at the belt as he fumbled with the unfamiliar fittings. The pilot flicked a switch on the complex array of dials and buttons spread out across the cockpit interior. Dracup felt the machine yaw violently to the right and from the corner of his eye saw a bright yellow and red streak soar away from them, falling to earth in a long irregular arc.

  “What was that?” he shouted into the microphone.

  “ALQ – anti-missile flares. Sit tight and keep praying.”

  The Chinook climbed and banked as the pilot took evasive action. A dense white stream of smoke hurtled underneath them, chasing the flare like a greyhound running a rat to ground. Somewhere below there was a muffled explosion followed by another cloud of grey, sooty smoke. With clenched jaw the pilot bullied the machine into a rapid climb that left Dracup’s stomach on the other side of the cargo hold.

  At last the helicopter levelled off and Dracup breathed again. The pilot pushed back in his seat and blew his cheeks out in relief. Then he turned his attention to Dracup. “You don’t look like a terrorist,” he said tersely, “so stop acting like one or I’ll have to shoot you myself.”

  “You’re British,” Dracup said. He slid the pistol self-consciously down onto the cockpit floor.

  “Yes. We’re part of the peacekeeping force here. You might have seen us on the news.” He gave Dracup a witheringly sarcastic look. “Make sure the safety’s on.” He glanced down at the pistol.

  “Yes. Right.” Despite the clarity of the headset transmission Dracup had to resist the compulsion to shout above the vibration of the Chinook’s thundering engines. “I was expecting an American.”

  “This isn’t a New York taxi. Perhaps you’d care to explain what on earth you’re playing at.”

  Dracup risked a quick glance earthwards. The landscape was skittering past at an alarming speed. “We’re going down?”

  “Yes. Best to be fast and low, unless you want to be fried by another rocket. It’s harder to get an accurate shot in. Ground fire is a possibility, but your seat is armoured so nothing to worry about. Just ignore it.”

  “Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.”

  “Well? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t chuck you out.”

  “My name is Professor Simon Dracup,” Dracup yelled into the mike. “I flew into Baghdad this morning with James Potzner.” Dracup wondered how thorough the pilot’s briefing had been; he would be surprised if any more than map co-ordinates had been disclosed. “I believe you received instructions from his office for this drop.”

  “Mike Bishop.” The gloved handshake was brief but firm. “US Intelligence, eh?” He appeared to consider for a moment. “Look, I’m going to take you to our flight airstrip and hand you over to my CO. He can decide what to do with you.”

  Dracup thought frantically. He was so close. Potzner would not be far behind, rocket attacks or otherwise.

  “I’d take you straight back to BIA if I could,” Bishop was saying, “but the security boys will have the place sewn up as tight as a duck’s bottom by now. It’ll be hours before they’ll let any air traffic back in.”

  “Have you any idea why I’m here?”

  Bishop was continually searching sky and ground with a repetitive, sweeping movement of his head. “I don’t know and I don’t care,” he said. “Makes no odds to me one way or the other.”

  “I’m here to find my daughter.”

  Bishop said nothing for a minute or so. He appeared to be concentrating on the minutiae of flight, first busying himself amongst the plethora of cockpit switches and buttons and then holding a terse, coded radio conversation with someone called Delta Five, presumably some anonymous airstrip controller.

  Bishop finished his transmission with an unintelligible coded signoff and turned back to Dracup. “Your daughter?”

  “Yes. She’s been kidnapped by terrorists.” It wasn’t far off the mar
k. He hoped his bluntness would get through.

  “Really? I’m sorry, mate.” Bishop gave Dracup a longer look up and down. “And you’re working with the CIA to get her back?” Bishop searched the sky again and wiped the perspiration from his chin with the back of his hand. “I’ve heard about this Potzner guy. It’s not all good.”

  “I’m watching my back.”

  Bishop laughed dryly. “Yeah. You’d better.” There was another short exchange via the headset with Delta Five. Then Bishop said, “I have two boys. Eight and ten. It’s pretty tough leaving them behind.”

  Dracup nodded. “It must be. But I imagine they like the idea of their dad being a pilot.” He hesitated, then plunged in. “Listen, if you drop me at the co-ordinates you’ve been given, you’re only doing your job. I’ll take the responsibility.”

  Bishop said nothing for a minute or so then shook his head. “There’s nothing there, mate. It’s in the middle of nowhere.” He looked at Dracup’s clothing. “You have no provisions, you’re not dressed for the weather – night or day. It’d be irresponsible of me to drop you anywhere except safely back at the airport.”

  “Which you can’t do. Security and all that.”

  “Right. But that doesn’t mean I can dump you wherever it takes my fancy.” Bishop shook his head again.

  Dracup pressed on. “Listen, if I get to her first there’s a chance I can save her. If not –” He paused, wondering how much to say. “Anything could happen.” It sounded weak but it was the best he could come up with.

  Bishop made no reply. The Chinook flew on. Dracup prayed. His eyes lit on the machine pistol. He glanced at the pilot.

  Bishop flicked on the radio. “This is Five Five Alpha calling Delta Five. Advising detour to drop zone co-ordinates zebra one, tango delta fifteen. One visitor to drop, repeat one visitor to drop. Confirm.”

  The headset static buzzed in Dracup’s ear. Then: Five Five Alpha, Delta Five, confirm. Repeat, Delta Five confirm.

  Dracup looked at Bishop. His mouth was dry. “Thanks.” It seemed hardly adequate.

  “I must be out of my mind,” Bishop muttered. “If you get yourself killed, don’t blame me.”

  Chapter 37

  As the sound of the Chinook’s engines receded Dracup took stock of his surroundings. It was late afternoon and the heat from the sun was intense. Bishop had given him a canister of water and two bars of chocolate. As far as the eye could see there was not a soul in sight, and he could see a long way across the flat alluvial plain, with its tussocks of rain-deprived grass and scattering of distant woodland. Above the treetops a shifting pattern of birds wheeled and circled in the still, blue air, their alien cries reinforcing his sense of solitude. Around him lay the remains of ancient Kish, although the only tangible signs were some distance away: a rough rectangular block, doubtless the foundations of some once significant building, and here and there, protruding from the arid soil, the exposed remains that marked the sites of previous excavations.

  The landscape for perhaps two or three kilometres was broken by a number of hill-like swellings, each straining skyward as if the earth itself was bursting to reveal the secrets of the past. These were the ‘Tells’, the mounds that concealed the buried buildings of a once thriving city. The closest of these seemed innocuous enough, rising gently to a height of thirty or so metres and surrounded by the detritus of its own destruction. Dracup set the box down and picked up a fragment of reddish stone. It was well crafted, the mason’s art still visible in the turned corners and gentle lines. Perhaps it had been the corner piece of some decorative window, leaned upon by generations of adults and children alike before time and disaster had caught up with it.

  He replaced the broken shard amongst the debris and, tucking the box under his arm, began to walk slowly around the Tell. Was it his imagination, or did he feel a faint vibration? He set Farrell’s box down and opened it, ran his hand across Alpha’s markings. He withdrew his finger sharply. The metal was hot, hotter than it should have been even in the high temperature of the plain. Dracup resealed the lid and frowned. The answer to this new puzzle would have to wait.

  He wondered if Fish’s analysis was accurate, that beneath this area lay concealed a subterranean anomaly, a leftover from the upheaval caused by the great flood. He paused to take a sip of water, resisting the temptation to pour the clear liquid over his perspiring head. Far off by the distant line of trees some animal was moving sluggishly with lowered head and defeated posture under the ineffectual shade. Dracup squinted to identify it. Perhaps a wolf, or a jackal? He wiped dry lips with the back of his hand and watched until it disappeared. He shook the canister. He’d have to take it easy; he wouldn’t last long out here without water.

  But then he didn’t expect to be alone for long. The explosion at the airport would represent only a minor setback to Potzner’s obsessive mission. Dracup was sure he’d read Potzner correctly; the man was living on a razor edge, his entire focus narrowed to a single objective by some tragedy of circumstance. As Dracup resumed his exploration of the Tell, he considered Moran’s unexpected appearance and the effect it had had on Potzner. The Irish policeman’s tenacity was impressive, but Dracup felt sure that, had the rocket not interrupted the proceedings, Potzner would have responded to Moran’s intrusion equally effectively. Nevertheless Dracup felt confident that Moran would find his way to Kish. Somehow. He didn’t know why he felt this way about Moran’s involvement. He just had a growing certainty that the DCI had a part to play, even if the nature of that part was still unclear.

  With that reassuring thought, he came upon an area of rock and rubble packed loosely up against the main body of the Tell. The blocks were large, hewn monoliths, roughened by age but part of a once mighty building, piled high to a distance of perhaps twenty or thirty metres. Were they the remains of some external stairway? Dracup skirted the site with a rising feeling of awe. Whoever had built this knew a thing or two about construction. He rested on a boulder and thought of Lalibela. There was some similarity between these reddish layers of worked stone and the strange, sunken architecture he had witnessed in the Ethiopian highlands. The cradle of civilization, he thought. I’m standing in the place where life began again after the flood. He shielded his eyes and squinted at the colossus rising above him. And perhaps in a place that predates even that.

  With a shock he realized the import of his words. His thinking was, as Potzner had observed, undergoing reconstruction. The eerie silence unsettled him and he forced himself to his feet for a closer inspection of the scattered ruins. There were some gaps through which it was just possible to squeeze, but they led him only into a wilderness of tangled masonry. He lingered for a while in the comparative coolness, undoing his shirt to let the dense, hot air circulate around his body. He resisted another mouthful of water and instead felt his way back out into the harsh sunlight. Maybe Fish was way off beam. Maybe this is just what it appears to be: derelict.

  As he emerged from the gloom he shielded his eyes from the glare, bending underneath an overturned arch that incongruously called to mind the standing stones of far-off Salisbury Plain. He straightened up and cried out in surprise. A man was watching him from a distance of perhaps ten metres, on a slightly elevated section of the Tell. He was bearded, wearing a long garment of patterned yellows and greens. He stood perfectly still in an attitude of disciplined concentration, as if wanting to be certain of Dracup’s identity before revealing his intentions.

  Dracup stole a glance behind him, suddenly fearful that he had been caught in a trap. The man moved slowly down to his level, picking his way elegantly through the fallen masonry with the ease of long familiarity. Dracup stood his ground and waited.

  “Professor Dracup. I have been told on good authority that you are a man of ability and determination. Now I see that I was correctly informed.”

  There it was again, that accent he had first heard in Sara’s whispered words of love, and from the lips of the doomed Mukannishum in Lalibela. “On wh
at authority?” he called out. His voice sounded puny and flat in the shadow of the great Tell.

  The stranger smiled. “On the best authority.”

  “I can’t trust someone I don’t know. Who are you?”

  “Please do not question me further. Simply follow.”

  Dracup hesitated. He remembered Bek’s similar words of encouragement as he was led into the unknown twelfth church. He pushed the memory aside. You have no other contacts, Dracup old son. No choice.

  “Come. Please.” The man turned and began to ascend the Tell. Dracup followed cautiously, regretting his decision to leave the machine pistol in the Chinook. By the time they reached the halfway point his shirt was soaked with sweat and he began to grunt with exertion as his guide pressed on with confident tread to the Tell’s summit. Dracup laboured up the final few metres and, on reaching the level plateau, bent double, hands on hips, sucking in the dry air.

  “Twelve kilometres to the west is Babylon, the city of Nebuchadnezzar.” The man pointed with his staff. “His palace was considered the greatest building achievement in the world. But, like all dictators, his time passed. Babylon crumbled to dust. Last century’s dictator, Saddam, constructed car parks and concrete palaces on its ruins.” He laughed softly and nodded. “You will know this, Professor Dracup, as a man who has studied the peculiar struggles of mankind through the ages, yes? But Nebuchadnezzar’s grand enterprises of engineering were not confined to Babylon, with its hanging gardens, its fifty-three temples and great tower. Not at all.” He leaned on the staff and looked at Dracup. “The king’s greatest achievement was here, at Kish.”

  Dracup was nodding. “Yes. A greater construction than even the great ziggurat of Babylon took place here. It lies beneath our feet.”

  The smile was genuine. It lit up the man’s face with haunting familiarity. “You are wondering where it can be. And how it has remained undetected for so many centuries.” He wagged a long forefinger at Dracup.