He took a deep breath. “I know.” Potzner cleared his throat. “I just need a little longer. I have to fix something for our guys, then they’ll be on the case for us. They know how important it is.”
“Just come home soon.”
“I will. You bet.”
The signal broke up; his phone gave three short beeps. Disconnected. He put it back in his pocket. That’s how it would be at the end, he knew. One last word, a last thought. Then disconnection.
Chapter 18
By the time they began their descent Dracup was past caring. He had experienced every conceivable discomfort, ranging from airsickness to paralysing terror. Closing his eyes brought little relief. He knew only a thin Perspex bubble separated him from several thousand feet of nothing. Sturrock was babbling stuff about vectors and altitude, giving the impression of thoroughly enjoying himself. Dracup risked a quick look out of his window just as Sturrock banked. Dracup groaned and closed his eyes again. He hoped he could hold out a little longer; he’d run out of brown bags.
Twenty minutes later Dracup’s feet were in contact with French soil, and the object of his misery was parked securely in a hanger reserved for light aircraft. His legs were rubber as they walked to the exit. Sturrock clapped him on the back. “Wasn’t so bad, eh? Bit blustery over the Channel, though – still, soon cleared up. Listen, while you’ve been retching I’ve been thinking. I have an idea about that stanza – I’ve seen a reference in a late apocryphal tome – twelfth or thirteenth century, I recall. Have you heard of ‘The Book of the Bee’ or ‘The Cave of Treasures’?”
Dracup shook his head. His mouth felt gritty, acidic. “B what? No. Why?”
“Well, I don’t think Theodore’s sceptre, or staff if you will, was originally Noah’s at all.” Sturrock smiled cryptically.
Dracup fought a new wave of nausea. “Charles, I need a while to restore my faculties –”
Sturrock laughed and punched him playfully on the arm. “Understood, understood. Well, listen, I tell you what: if I find anything useful, I’ll drop you a line. Have you still got your hotmail account?”
“I think so – I haven’t used it for a while.”
“Right, splendid. I’ll pop something in the old electro-post if I think it’s worthwhile.” He wagged a finger at Dracup. “Don’t forget to check.”
Dracup smiled weakly. He was going to miss Charles. “Thanks. I won’t – if I can get online in Addis.”
Sturrock groaned theatrically. “Simon, you can get online from anywhere these days.” A French official appeared, gesticulating with a clipboard. “Ah, oui m’sieur, nous allons vite – come on, Si, buck up. We’ve got to check in at security.” Sturrock rubbed his hands gleefully. “Quick toddle around duty-free then back over the water in time for supper. Can’t be bad, eh?”
The airliner was half empty. Dracup chose a window seat, closed his eyes and tried to piece together everything he had discovered. He remembered the conversation in Potzner’s office: “I’m talking breakthrough here. No theories. This is the real McCoy.” The American had spoken of longevity research, a critical program utilizing some material that was quite irreplaceable. The artefact – no, organic tissue. Stolen – reclaimed rather – by its original owners. People who held a century-spanning resentment of his family line; a covert, intelligent, persistent organization who had targeted himself and his family for some act of sacrilege committed by his grandfather. Dracup smiled bitterly. The sins of the fathers. Not for the first time, he wished they had taken him. He would be a willing substitute for his child. Let them do whatever they wished to him. Just let Natasha go. Natasha. My baby.
He remembered his child when she was small. He wondered at her uniqueness, so like her mother and father yet very much an individual. She was headstrong, like him. She was focused, like her mother. Had they taught her enough to survive a crisis? Did she have the required skills to emerge from her ordeal unscathed? Her survival depended on a combination of both instinctive and accumulated resources. And on his deductions, his actions.
Dracup looked out of his window and for the first time wondered if he would ever see his daughter again. The thought was terrifying. He racked his brains. Organic tissue, stolen. Noah’s sceptre. Alpha. Alpha and Omega. The aeroplane droned on, passing out of French airspace into the open skies above the Mediterranean. Stewards moved up and down the aisle, smiling and attentive. He smiled back automatically, ate the proffered plastic food, read the in-flight magazine from cover to cover. There was a photograph, a young girl modelling executive yachts. She looked a little like Sara. Sara, the girl who had come into his life and saved his sanity; the girl who seemed to him like an Egyptian queen. The girl who had rekindled love in his bruised and battered heart; the girl he thought was his, however unlikely it had seemed. He couldn’t believe she’d had anything to do with Natasha’s abduction. No, that wasn’t true; he didn’t want to believe it. But without her, he had nothing left. Dracup replaced the magazine in its elastic folder and reached for his earphones, listened to the piped classical music. He felt nothing but emptiness. After a while he slept.