Little filaments of light seemed to dart in the centre of Florence’s pupils and her face was contorted in triumph; the sinews stood out in her neck. Jake had never seen her like this before.
“Do you realize what we’ve done?” she hissed. “Do you realize what this is? A new inscription. A genuinely new inscription.”
She began pumping at the wall with her crayon, panting with the exertion. Soon the shirt was covered in the horny script and the rubbing began to inch down both sleeves.
“We’ve still got to check Alexander,” she said. “Can you check the janitor will keep this place open?”
Jake picked his way back through the cistern, sodden but exhilarated, only the light of his phone to guide him. When he got back he would have a noggin of Scotch to warm himself up properly. And then he would write one heck of a feature. Heston could put that in his pipe and smoke it.
A shape flitted across the walkway, stopping Jake dead. But the glow of his phone was lost in the blackness, and when he willed his eyes to make sense of the gloom his vision swam with imaginary blotches.
“Merhab?” he said. “Hello?”
Silence.
“Is someone there?” he shouted.
The salutation bounced off all four sides of the cistern. It was answered by nothingness, save for the drips all around him and the far-off splashes of Florence at work. Jake laughed. The dark was playing tricks on him.
*
On the other side of the column Jess Medcalf clung to the masonry, her cheek pressed to stone. After an eternity the journalist moved on. When his footsteps had receded to silence she breathed again, oxygen rushing into her bloodstream. Finally she peeped from around the column. In the distance Medcalf could make out the cobalt flicker of the journalist’s phone, a fairy dancing through the hall of the mountain king. She stole in the other direction. It was pitch black as she closed on the archaeologist – Florence’s back was to the agent and her breath misted the air. The archaeologist stood to unveil a dripping shirt, strange writing imprinted upon it.
Then something unexpected happened.
Florence glanced in the direction of the exit and, satisfied she was alone, produced a rock hammer. She raked the sharp end back and forth along the masonry, grunting as she worked. Occasionally the tool broke the surface – Medcalf could hear steel bite into water-corrupted rock – then she darted to the second statue and repeated the vandalism. Soon the work of destruction was done. Florence tucked away her hammer, Jake returned and they were gone.
Medcalf flicked on her own torch and ran to the statue. Limestone dust floated on the water. The rock beneath the surface felt crude, and a chip of stone came away beneath her fingers. Whatever had been written there was no more.
*
Jenny was sleeping when the phone call came. Medcalf was cogent and concise as she relayed what had happened, and she was impressed at the Ulsterwoman’s daring. If she hadn’t risked entering the reservoir they might never have known of the inscription at all. When the call ended Jenny bit her lip; her phone hovered in the air. But there was nothing else for it.
“Our woman in Istanbul!” cried Waits. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Glasses tinkled in the background and Jenny heard the burble of genteel conversation.
“There’s been a development,” she said. “Thought you’d want to know right away.”
“Very well, just give me a minute. I’m at Gormley’s new show in the Tate. Private viewing.” The noise faded into silence. “Right. What’s going on?”
Waits was rapt as Jenny told him of the inscription. And as she described Florence’s vandalism the silence magnified in intensity.
“Goodness gracious,” he said at last. “Where’s Jess now?”
“She’s trying to catch up with them. They’re both soaked – heading back to their hotel, I’d have thought.”
“How soon can she be armed?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said how soon can she be she armed? You heard me the first time, so for pity’s sake don’t dick about.”
Jenny was even more taken aback – Waits was never coarse. “It’ll take a while,” she managed.
“And where’s Alexander Guilherme?”
“He’s off duty, could be anywhere.”
Waits exhaled sharply. “Right. Call him now and tell him to collect the guns I sent by dip-post.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When he and Jess get an opportunity I want that shirt collected from Wolsey and Chung. By force of arms if needs be.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I urge you not to say ‘I beg your pardon’ one more time.”
Jenny recovered herself. “Those guns are for self-defence, the last resort. We aren’t trained for that sort of thing. Get someone else in.”
“That could take an hour,” barked Waits. Then in a murmur, almost to himself: “Nobody expected they’d actually find anything.”
“Who could you get in an hour? Are there others here? If so the least you could do is tell me – call it operational courtesy.”
There was a pause. Then Waits said: “Oh, all the major embassies have a few smooth operators I can call on in absolute emergencies. E Squadron personnel – that’s SAS or SBS types to you and me.” He spoke like an office worker confessing to a stash of aspirin.
“Then bloody well call them,” said Jenny. “Don’t make my team carry out work we’re not supposed to do.”
Waits weighed it up. “Maybe you’re right. Let me have a think about it. But don’t let Wolsey and Chung out of your sight in the meantime. If they try to enter a hotel, a taxi – whatever – you move and you get that rubbing by whatever means necessary.” He cleared his throat. “Consider that a direct order of Her Majesty’s government.”