A final, it seems to me, defining observation is that the name Adam [Adamah] in the Hebrew means ‘earth’, the red earth of the Euphrates from which, according to the Bible, Adam was formed. This, I believe was also the name your American friend gave as the codeword for his little operation?
Dracup was gawping at the screen. He recalled Potzner’s lugubrious face referring to his remit for recovery of the stolen material: Operation Red Earth.
I must press on – there is much more to discover, I am sure. I trust this will suffice for the time being. My thoughts are with you and my prayers also – I know that young Natasha will be reunited with you in due course. Press on, Simon, and God speed.
Yours,
Charles.
PS – I can see your expression, Simon – have a look at Luke 3:23; it may help. Do note that the last line of the genealogy ‘son of God’ is lower case – i.e. it doesn’t refer to Jesus – otherwise it would be u/case. Jesus, of course, in the New Testament is referred to as the second Adam, the one sent to reverse the curse of Eden. Now dammit, there’s someone at the door. No rest for the wicked, eh? Must go – C.
Dracup’s mind was paralyzed, almost numb. Charles’ assertions rang in his head like a detuned bell. It wasn’t Noah’s body Potzner was after. Noah’s body had been a mental stretch for Dracup to accommodate, but Adam’s? Adam and Eve? The Garden of Eden? Dracup’s anthropological professionalism fought against Charles’ conclusions for all it was worth. The Genesis story was a fable, a helpful story of origins for an ancient and unscientific people. Adam’s body? No, no, no. The Ark, maybe. But Eden? No. Never. He closed the email and with both elbows on the desk cradled his head in his hands. Luke 3:23. All right, Charles. Just for you. Dracup pulled a Bible from his shelf and flicked through the pages to the New Testament. He began to read:
Now Jesus himself was about thirty years old when he began his ministry. He was the son, so it was thought, of Joseph, the son of Heli, the son of Matthat,
the son of Levi, the son of Melki,
the son of Jannai, the son of Joseph,
Dracup scanned down the list.
the son of Kenan, the son of Enosh,the son of Seth,
the son of Adam,
the son of God.
Dracup recalled Charles’ argument during a heated and lengthy discussion about the Bible and its place in ancient literature: The Jews were scrupulous record keepers, Simon. And then, with a bitter taste of shock, he remembered Mukannishum’s strange words in the lion pit: Your forefather betrayed the son of God. He was shaking his head. It’s not possible. It simply can’t be. When four sharp knocks on the door interrupted him he was almost pleased to see the thin figure of DCI Moran standing impatiently on the threshold. There was something reassuringly routine about the crumpled raincoat and the cynical expression on the policeman’s face.
“Welcome back, Professor Dracup. Phelps?”
Moran’s assistant stepped forward. “Simon Dracup: I am arresting you on the suspicion of conspiracy to murder Charles Anthony Sturrock. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense –”
“You don’t have to arrest me.” Dracup sat heavily in his chair. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
Phelps glanced at Moran. The DCI shrugged, produced a pocket tape machine and clicked it on. “Let’s fill in some gaps. I asked you not to leave the country. It wasn’t a joke.” He walked to the corner of Dracup’s study and sat in an old armchair, crossing his legs.
“I had to. To find out where my daughter is being held.”
Moran looked at him analytically. “And did you?”
“Yes. In a way.”
“Meaning?”
Dracup sighed. “You’ve probably read my emails. You work it out.”
Moran got up and strolled to the window. He lurked behind Dracup. “As far as we know, you’re the last person to see Charles Sturrock alive. He dies. You disappear.”
Dracup shook his head. “It was the other way round. Charles was fine when I left him in Toulouse.”
“Go on.”
“He flew me to Toulouse. The last I saw of him, he was picking his way round the duty-free shop.”
“So you’re saying you know nothing about his murder.” Moran began pacing the room. He stood behind Dracup again, gripped the back of his chair.
Dracup thought of Mukannishum. It wasn’t hard to piece it together. His flat. His home PC. Charles’ email and address. And then what? An interruption – probably Potzner. And Mukannishum’s solution – an evidence-shredding explosion. Then a tidying of loose ends before following in his footsteps to Africa. Charles wouldn’t have had a chance.