The Trespass(121)

I won’t let this happen.

Moran’s eyes were closed. Dracup crawled to Natasha. By the time he reached her she was unconscious. He leaned over and pressed his mouth to hers, forcing in the last breath from his own lungs. His head swam.

Breathe, please breathe.

But breathing was becoming his own imperative. A cloud was descending, a smoky darkness, but a darkness interspersed with vivid colour. His mind began to replay scenes from the past, as if a giant spool had been placed on some eternal tape deck and the play button had clicked on of its own volition. There was his childhood. The Indian sunrise. His marriage, a warm July afternoon in Surrey. The hospital and a newborn baby. Yvonne’s face, exhausted but radiant. Natasha’s first stumbling steps. The tears in his eyes as she articulated her first word. His appointment at Reading; his first student address. The campus on a windy November morning, student bicycles competing for space on the narrow campus pathways. Sara’s face in the lecture room, attentive, beautiful. Charles’ empty study, the house wrapped in blue and white police tape. He was falling into space from a tiny silver aeroplane. His hand clutched at and missed every handhold. He heard Charles’ voice clearly. Calling to him: “Hold on, Si. Just a while longer. Just a while –”

Dracup fought to remain conscious. He heard a faint scrabbling from Moran’s end of the chamber. Dracup forced his eyes open. Moran was spread-eagled on the floor. The scrabbling persisted, as if a family of mice was scratching at the wall, trying to find a way in.

Then the world exploded. A crush of hot air ballooned into the chamber, followed by flying debris from the wall itself. Something struck Dracup on the side of his forehead, drawing blood. Smoke trailed into the chamber in a white, acrid afterstorm. But he could breath. Just about. Dracup rolled over and drew a lungful of air laced with swirling smoke and dust; he transferred it into Natasha’s mouth. She coughed twice and was sick.

Dracup was elated. He turned his head and peered through the smoke. A powerful light shone into the chamber, silhouetting a lone figure standing in the debris where the wall had been. The attitude was unmistakable, as was the voice.

“Professor Dracup. If you’d like to step outside. Right this way, please.” James Potzner spoke as though he had arrived to welcome candidates for an interview or conduct a tour of some city museum. Dracup blinked. Behind Potzner’s tall shape he could see a supporting group of marines. They were positioned by the blown entrance, assault rifles raised, covering the interior of the chamber. He took stock of his surroundings. The force of the blast had rolled him alongside Jackson, who lay in the same position against the wall, rifle propped up on his raised knees. The boy was breathing, but in shallow, gasping intervals. Moran was struggling to his feet, coughing and cursing. Natasha was on all fours, hair covering her face as she tried to get up.

“Quick as you can, please.” Potzner was standing by the sarcophagus. He swept a layer of dust and bits of rock from the lid with an impatient gesture.

Dracup helped Natasha to her feet. She had a small cut above her eyebrow from a rock splinter, but was otherwise unharmed. As his head began to clear he remembered the voice from the hidden speaker. Kadesh. He would surely be on his way.

As if in response to his thoughts the speaker crackled briefly, and Dracup froze in surprise at the unexpected voice. Farrell’s southern drawl filled the chamber:





“Professor and all? Get yourselves out of there as soon as – bad company on its way – south side. We can’t hold them – have to go – out.”





Dracup turned to Potzner, but before he could articulate his question he felt rather than heard the cuneiform door slide open behind him.

Potzner ducked behind the sarcophagus. Dracup spun around, reached for Natasha but grasped only the circulating dust. And then he became very still.

A tall, thin man stood in the doorway. His skin was dark, of Asian rather than African pigmentation. His bearing was aristocratic, an impression reinforced by the long nose and slim, refined hands. Hands that held a knife to Natasha’s throat.

Behind him were a group of armed men, the jihadis who had waited outside the chamber. But Dracup had eyes only for the thin, brown fingers and the silver of the blade that played slowly up and down Natasha’s exposed neck.

Kadesh’s first words were for the crouching Potzner. “You appear to have mislaid part of your escort, Mr Potzner. The stairway can be treacherous.”

“They were good men, you murdering son of a bitch.” Potzner’s voice was steady, but Dracup saw the smouldering hate in the American’s eyes.