The Trespass (28 page)

“So what do you think, eh, boss?” Bek prompted.

Dracup frowned and stroked his beard. Something wasn’t right. “Think? I don’t know what to think, Bek.” He turned and looked at the boy. “How did you find it? It’s well hidden – there’d be no reason to deviate from the path –”

“I told you. Bek knows stuff.”

Dracup smiled. “Yes, I’m coming round to that idea. So – what else can you tell me?”

“Come further in, boss, I know what you want.” Bek ran forward into the building and gesticulated impatiently.

Dracup glanced behind him. The entrance was a reassuring rectangle of light, but his intuition would not be placated. The church possessed an ambience, a stillness that bordered on expectancy. Dracup murmured quietly to himself, his attention concentrated on the young guide.
This feels different. Bek seems very keen...

And then came the sound, a grinding, rolling noise of heavy weights coming together. The light diminished abruptly. Dracup, half prepared for the unexpected, didn’t bother to turn. The entrance had been sealed. Bek was standing to one side, inanimate, as if his sideshow had come to a premature but premeditated conclusion and there was nothing more for him to do. In the darkness, a torch flared. Dracup stood still. There was nothing to be gained by running. He was standing in the central space, the nave of the church. Further pinpricks of fire danced in the darkness until their collective light allowed Dracup to make out at least ten figures advancing towards him. He called over to Bek, alarmed by the boy’s transformation from extrovert guide to forlorn – and clearly frightened – teenager.

“Anything you can tell me about this, Bek?” Dracup spoke kindly, hoping for a few final words of explanation. But Bek was curled into a knee-hugging ball, rocking backward and forward in the shadows. His shoulders heaved in syncopated jerks. Eventually Dracup was able to interpret the repetitive mantra: “I’m sorry, boss. He
made
me do it.”

Dracup turned his attention from the sobbing boy to the procession. It was led by a tall figure in black. The man’s face was partially obscured by the traditional Ethiopian turban-like wrap, but his eyes were bright in the torchlight. As Dracup watched, the figure held up his hand and the procession came to an obedient halt. The man peeled his scarf away and opened his mouth in a wide, gleaming grin. Dracup wasn’t surprised. The runner from the Thames promenade had finally caught up with him.

Dracup walked between two priests – he assumed they were priests – with the man in black leading the way. Towards the altar, Dracup thought. Not good. But as they reached the plain stone block the leader turned. He looked at Dracup for a moment, studying him with interest. His opening words were preceded by a smile of evident pleasure. “Professor Dracup, I shall show you what you have been looking for. It seems only fair. And I have a great sense of fairness, as do all you –
British
people.” He spoke in measured, educated tones and although there was a faint trace of accent it was hard to place. The nose was pure Arabic, his height – very unusual. Dracup had studied African tribes where the least in stature measured six and a half feet, but he had seen nothing outside the Guinness Book of Records to compare with this. His size lent the man an alien quality; there was something otherworldly about him. The voice went on confidently, as did Dracup’s linguistic analysis.

“But I am being rude. I was speaking of fairness whilst all the time retaining an unfair advantage. My name is Mukannishum.” He bowed, his long body folding over at the waist like a hinged gantry. There was something in the vowel inflexion that rang a familiar bell. Where had he heard that same intonation? That odd flattening of vowels?

The torchbearers had formed a circle with Dracup and Mukannishum a few metres apart in the centre. The altar was directly in front of them, and Dracup noticed that raised up on its surface was a curtained container of some sort – a tabernacle perhaps, not domed in the Catholic or High Church tradition, but broader and bigger. Mukannishum issued an order and one of the priests raised his torch, casting a clear orange light onto the altar. The material covering the tabernacle was pure white and the pictorial detail was of a great tree, its branches spreading over the fabric like a protective roof. The embroidered foliage portrayed a density of leaves and fruit through which slanted rays of brilliant sunshine. It was virtuoso art, so lifelike that Dracup could almost smell the fruit and feel the wind against his cheek.

Mukannishum moved the curtain aside with a rapid, precise movement of his fingertips, destroying the illusion. Dracup blinked, suddenly disoriented. He heard a scurrying noise behind. Bek had shuffled up to watch. The boy’s face was grimed with dust and long tear tracks stained his cheeks. Dracup attempted to catch his eye, but he looked away and began to scuff the floor awkwardly with his feet.

“Gaze upon it, Professor.” Mukannishum held an object aloft, the torchlight reflecting along familiar contours.

Dracup felt a mixture of emotions. Here it was – the mirror image of his Scottish find:
Omega
. It was forged exactly like a half section of the Lalibela cross, but the metalwork was covered with indented script. Cuneiform script. In the top left hand corner was a single mark: O He moved his hands slowly to his side. If he could just get one frame. Mukannishum was concentrating on the object, his face radiating satisfaction. The priests watched impassively. Dracup’s hand reached his trouser pocket. And it was empty.
Empty
. How could it be empty? He had checked the camera thirty minutes ago... before or after their last rest break? It must have slipped out. No camera. And little time. Dracup’s brain raced. If he could set up some distraction –

“What is this place?” he asked Mukannishum.

Mukannishum slotted the sceptre into a recess on the altar where it gleamed, reflecting the artificial light.

“This place?” Mukannishum smiled. “It was built by one of the first men to come to Africa. His name was Ham.”

Dracup felt a growing excitement in spite of his predicament. Noah’s sons: Shem, Ham and Japheth.

Mukannishum went on. “And he brought with him a reminder of his roots, a signpost to ensure he would never forget where his kin had settled, so that they could be found – if need be – in times to come.”

Dracup nodded. “The sceptre. Yes. Alpha and Omega – when brought together they complete the stanza that reveals the location of Ham’s brethren. His
special
brethren.” Dracup paused to gauge the reaction. “Ham, Shem and Japheth did what they were told, didn’t they? They moved away from the Ark and spread across the earth. But there was an elite band, a remnant of Noah’s family who were charged with the protection of something, sworn to the preservation of a treasure. And my grandfather found it – with the help of this ‘signpost’.”

“It is so.” Mukannishum’s eyes were black marbles in their deep, hooded sockets.

Dracup wondered how far he could push Mukannishum – too far and he could seal his fate immediately; not far enough and he might lose the only chance he had. He gestured towards the object on the altar. “Well, I have a question for you, then: if it’s so sacred to your people, why have you abandoned it here for so long?”

Mukannishum moved towards him with a lithe, darting motion. Dracup stood his ground. The zealot’s face was centimetres away, the whites of his eyes webbed with tiny rivulets of blood. A thread of spittle clung to the thin lips. “This is not something I would normally share with a godless Westerner, but as your life is at an end I will show you leniency and explain.” Mukannishum took a step back, his long body again performing that strange unfolding motion as he drew himself up to his full height. “It is written that in the fullness of time, the sceptre shall be made whole again and reunited with the one to whom it was given at the beginning.”

Dracup was listening. He was also looking for an escape route, but the encircling priests seemed to sense his intentions. They closed in, tightening the circle. He had to keep Mukannishum talking. “And that time is now?”

Mukannishum smiled, a cynical movement of his lips. “Yes. Our prophet has decreed it to be so.”

Dracup’s brain was racing. “And apart from my grandfather’s diary this is the only means by which your people can be traced, correct?”

“Correct.” Mukannishum opened his robe and slid out a small book. “And I have both
Omega
and the diary in my possession.”

Dracup could sense Mukannishum’s patience slipping away. But if he was going to die he wanted to die with answers. “Why my daughter?”

Mukannishum straightened to his full height. “She is not my responsibility,” he said dismissively. “The prophet will decide her fate.”

“Then take me to him. At least I deserve a hearing.”

Mukannishum threw back his head and laughed. “He is a thousand miles from you – in distance and in spirit.” Watching Dracup carefully, he added, “The girl is useful to him,” he added a final phrase that chilled Dracup’s heart, “in his service.”

Dracup grappled with his conflicting emotions. The words confirmed that she lived. But a thousand miles away? He felt despair seep through his body like a sedative and dug his fingernails into his palms, forcing himself to think. Keep talking, Dracup. Keep him talking. “The Americans have Alpha. They may still be able to trace you.”

“I doubt that,” Mukannishum leered. “I have already made provision to acquire your recently unearthed discovery. US intelligence has already proved itself less than competent. Alpha will be in my hands very soon. As is its sibling.” Mukannishum turned to the altar and unfixed the half-cross from its plinth. Laying it down carefully he produced a soft cloth from his bag and began folding the material this way and that across the object as if to protect it in transit. The priests, silent up to this point, began to murmur amongst themselves. Dracup eyed them with caution. Was this unexpected? They appeared surprised at Mukannishum’s actions. One stepped forward and grasped his arm, said something in the strange language Dracup had heard earlier that day. The gesture was unmistakable.
It is not permitted.

Mukannishum whipped his arm from the point of contact. “Do not touch me,” he hissed in English. “Kadesh himself has decreed that the sign be returned to the
Korumak
.”

Two names.
Kadesh
.
Korumak
. Dracup stored the information and waited to see what would happen next. He realized that, to these priests, Mukannishum was as much an outsider as he was. An important one, maybe, but not one of them. They were suspicious and their suspicions had evidently been confirmed. Mukannishum glared at the men and resumed his task.

What happened next surprised Dracup as much as it surprised Mukannishum. One of the priests produced a long blade from beneath his garment and swept it across Mukannishum’s legs, disabling him in one stroke. The giant fell to the floor with a look of amazed horror on his face. Blood leapt from the wounds and spattered the onlookers in a rush of gore. Dracup heard Bek give a shout of revulsion and stepped back involuntarily, expecting the priest to turn on him as well. But the man with the sword had his attention firmly fixed on Mukannishum, who was lying on his back attempting to sit up. A pool of blood was forming around the stricken man’s body.

Dracup looked from the priest back to Mukannishum, profoundly shocked. Mukannishum was ranting at his assailant. The priest barked a reply and Mukannishum twisted his mouth into a snarl. A sliver of metal appeared in his hand and the wrist twisted to flick the knife at its target, but the priest was quicker: stepping forward he pinned Mukannishum’s arm to the floor and kicked the knife away disdainfully. The other priests, silent up to this point, began chanting rhythmically, their voices echoing round the building like monks at plainsong. Dracup edged back another metre and found Bek squatting miserably behind him. “What are they saying, Bek? What’s happened?”

Bek clung to Dracup’s leg. “They fall out with the long man, boss. He want to take the cross away. They say no, it belongs here. They will not allow him to have it. Long man says they are wrong – he is faithful to the
Korumak Tanri
, to Kadesh. And so should they be. But boss –” Bek grasped Dracup’s arm, “– they think you want the same – they –”

A priest appeared at Dracup’s side and struck Bek across the face. The boy reeled away into the darkness. Dracup’s hands were bound and he was pushed forward. Mukannishum groaned as he was lifted and carried to a low door recessed in the rock immediately behind the altar. Dracup was prompted to follow, and ducked to clear the rough ceiling of the passageway. Hands pushed at his back and shoulders so that he almost stumbled and fell several times as he attempted to negotiate the steep and uneven route chosen for them by the priests.
Priests? What sort of priests carry scimitars under their vestments?

He wondered what had happened to Bek, but couldn’t turn to look in case he did himself an injury on the ceiling or the irregular path. He could hear Mukannishum shouting somewhere up ahead – whether in fear or pain he couldn’t say – and felt his breath hot in his chest as the pace increased. They evidently wanted him somewhere in a hurry. Presently he felt cooler air on his face and was able to straighten his back. He looked up. The passageway was open to the stars, and with the light given by these and a full moon Dracup was at least able to walk without fear of falling. The priests resumed their plaintive hymns as they walked, a spiritual, mournful refrain with a slow, deliberate tempo. The cadences of the melody boded ill for his future. Dracup looked around in desperation but there was nothing to see, just the shadow of the mountain, the silhouettes of his escort and Mukannishum’s arachnid body writhing in protest somewhere up ahead.