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 –