The Genesis Secret: (13 page)

Kiribali appeared to be alone, though Rob could still see the parked police car, silent and waiting, at the edge of the Golbasi Gardens.

The Turkish detective was in another smart suit; this time of cream linen. He was wearing a very British tie, striped green and blue. As he crossed the little bridge and approached their table, his smile was wide and saurian. ‘Good morning. My constables told me you were here.’ He leaned and kissed Christine’s hand, pulled up a chair. Then he turned to a hovering waiter and his demeanour changed: from obsequious to domineering.
‘Lokoum!’
The waiter winced, fearfully, and nodded. Kiribali smiled across the table. ‘I have ordered some Turkish delight! You must try it here in Golbasi. The best in Sanliurfa. Real Turkish delight is quite something. You know of course the story of its invention?’

Rob said no. This seemed to please Kiribali: who sat forward, pressing his manicured hands flat on
the tablecloth. ‘The story is that an Ottoman sheikh was tired of his arguing wives. His harem was in disorder. So the sheikh asked the court confectioner to come up with a sweetmeat so pleasing it would silence the women.’ Kiribali sat back as the waiter set a plate of the sugar-floured sweets on the table. ‘It worked. The wives were placated by the Turkish delight and serenity returned to the harem. However the concubines became so fat on these calorific delights that the sheikh was rendered impotent in their company. So…the sheikh had the confectioner castrated.’ Kiribali laughed loudly at his own story, picked up the plate and offered it to Christine.

Rob felt, not for the first time, a strange ambivalence about Kiribali. The policeman was charming, but there was a very menacing element to him, too. His shirt was just too clean; the tie just too British, the eloquence too studied, and deft. Yet he was obviously very clever. Rob wondered if Kiribali was close to any solution: to Breitner’s murder.

The Turkish delight was delicious. Kiribali was regaling them again: ‘You have read the Narnia books.’

Christine nodded; Kiribali continued:

‘Surely the most famous literary reference to Turkish delight. When the Snow Queen offers the sweetmeats…’

‘
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?
’

‘Indeed!’ Kiribali chortled, then sipped piously
at his glass thimble of tea. ‘I often wonder why the British are so adept at children’s literature. It is a peculiar gift of the island race.’

‘Compared to Americans you mean?’

‘Compared to anyone, Mr Luttrell. Consider. The most famous stories for children. Lewis Carroll, Beatrix Potter, Roald Dahl. Tolkien. Even the vile Harry Potter. All British.’

A welcome breeze was stealing over the Golbasi rosebushes. Kiribali averred: ‘I think it is because the British are not afraid to scare children. And children love to be scared. Some of the greatest children’s stories are truly macabre, wouldn’t you say? A psychotic hatmaker poisoned by mercury. A reclusive chocolatier who employs miniature negroes.’

Rob raised a hand. ‘Officer Kiribali—’

‘Yes?’

‘Is there any particular reason you have come here to talk to us?’

The policeman wiped his feminine lips with a fresh corner of napkin. ‘I want you to leave. Both of you. Now.’

Christine was defiant. ‘Why?’

‘For your own sake. Because you are getting into things you do not understand. This is…’ Kiribali wafted a hand at the cliffs behind them, a gesture that took in the citadel, the two Corinthian columns at the top, the dark caves underneath. ‘This is such an ancient place. There are too many secrets here. Dark anxieties, which
you cannot comprehend. The more you are involved, the more dangerous it will be.’

Christine shook her head. ‘I’m not going to be chased away.’

Kiribali scowled. ‘You are very foolish people. You are used to…to Starbucks and…laptops and…sofabeds. To comfortable lives. This is the ancient east. It is beyond your comprehension.’

‘But you said you may want to question us—’

‘You are not suspects!’ The detective was scowling. ‘I have no need for you.’

Christine was unabashed. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be ordered about. Not by you, not by anyone.’

Kiribali turned to Rob. ‘Then I must appeal to masculine logic. We know how women are…’

Christine sat up. ‘I want to know what’s in the vault. The museum!’

This outburst silenced the Turkish detective. An unusual and confused expression came over his face. Then his frown darkened. He glanced around as if he was expecting a friend to join them. But the café terrace was empty. Just a couple of fat besuited men were left, smoking shishas in a shady corner. They stared languidly at Rob, and smiled.

Kiribali stood up. Abruptly. He took some Turkish lire from a handsome leather wallet, and set the cash very carefully on the tablecloth. ‘I’ll say this quite clearly, so you understand. You were spotted breaking into the site, at Gobekli Tepe. Last week.’

Apprehension shivered through Rob. If Kiribali knew this, then they were in trouble.

The Turk went on. ‘I have friends in the Kurdish villages.’

Christine tried to explain. ‘We were just looking for—’

‘You were just looking for the Devil. A Jewess should know better.’

Kiribali said the word
Jewess
with such sibilance that Rob got the impression of a snake: hissing.

‘My forbearance…is not infinite. If you do not leave Sanliurfa by tomorrow you will find yourself in a Turkish prison cell. There you may discover that some of my colleagues in the judicial process of the Ataturk Republic do not share my humanitarian attitude to your wellbeing.’ He smiled at them in the most insincere way possible, and then he was gone, brushing past the fat pink roses, which nodded, and shed a few scarlet petals.

For a minute Rob and Christine sat there. Rob felt the imminence of trouble: he could almost hear warning klaxons going off. What were they getting into? It was a good journalistic story, but was it worth real danger? The train of thought led Rob, reflexively, back to Iraq. Now he was remembering the suicide bomber in Baghdad. He could still see the woman’s face. The bomber was a beautiful young woman, with dark long hair; and bright scarlet, lushly lipsticked lips.
A suicide bomber in lipstick.
And then she’d smiled at him,
almost seductively: as she reached for her switch to kill them all.

Rob shuddered at the recollection. Yet this awful memory also gave him a kind of resolve: he’d had
enough
of being threatened. Of being chased away. Maybe this time he should stay, and get beyond the fears?

Christine was certainly undivided. ‘I’m not leaving.’

‘He will arrest us.’

‘For what? Driving at night?’

‘We broke into the dig.’

‘He can’t sling us in jail for that. It’s a total bluff.’

Rob demurred, ‘I’m really not so sure. I…dunno…’

‘But he’s so effete, surely? It’s just a game—’

‘
Effete?
Kiribali?’ Rob shook his head, firmly. ’No, he’s not that. I did a little research on him. Asked around. He’s respected, even feared. They say he’s an expert shot. He’s not a good enemy to have.’

‘But we can’t go yet. Not until I know more!’

‘You mean this vault thing? The museum? What was all that about?’

The waiter was hovering, expecting them to leave. But Christine ordered another two glasses of sweet, ruby-coloured cay. And then she said, ’The last line in the notebook.
Cayonu Skulls, cf Orra Keller.
You remember the Cayonu skulls?’

‘No,’ confessed Rob. ‘Tell me.’

‘Cayonu is another famous archaeological site. Almost as old as Gobekli. It’s about a hundred miles north. It’s where the pig was first domesticated.’

The waiter set two more glasses on the table and two silver spoons. Rob wondered if you could get tea-poisoning, from too much tea.

Christine continued, ‘Cayonu is being dug up by an American team. A few years ago they found a layer of skulls and dismembered skeletons under one of the central rooms of the site.’

‘Human skulls?’

Christine nodded. ‘And animal bones too. Tests also showed a lot of human blood had been spilt. The site is now called the Skull Chamber. Franz was fascinated by Cayonu.’

‘So?’

‘The evidence at Cayonu points to some kind of human sacrifice. This is controversial. Kurds do not want to think their ancestors were…blood-thirsty. None of us wants to think that! But most experts now believe the bones in the skull room are the residue of many human sacrifices. The people of Cayonu built their houses on foundations made out of bones, the bones of their own victims.’

‘Nice.’

Christine stirred some sugar into her tea. ‘Hence the final line in the book. The Edessa Vault.’

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s what the curators of Sanliurfa Museum
use as a name for the most obscure archives in the museum, dedicated to pre-Islamic remains. That section is called the Edessa Vault.’

Rob grimaced. ‘Sorry Christine, you’re losing me.’

Christine elaborated. ‘Sanliurfa has had many many names. The Crusaders called it Edessa, like the Greeks. The Kurds call it Riha. The Arabs, al-Ruha. The city of prophets. Orra is another name. It’s a transliteration of the Greek name. So Edessa means Orra.’

‘And Keller?’

‘Is not a name!’ Christine smiled, triumphantly. ’It’s the German for cellar, basement, vault. Franz capitalized it because that’s what Germans do, they capitalize nouns.’

‘So…I think I see…’

‘When he wrote “Orra Keller” he basically meant the Edessa Vault. In the basement of the Urfa museum!’

Christine sat back. Rob leaned forward. ‘So he’s telling us that something is in the Edessa Vault. But didn’t we already know that?’

‘But why put it in the notebook? Unless he is reminding himself? About something special? And then…what does “cf” mean?’

‘Can find…er…can…’

‘It is from the Latin. Confer. Meaning compare or contrast. It’s an academic shorthand. Cf. He is saying compare the famous Cayonu Skulls with something in the museum vaults. But there is, or there was, nothing of significance down there.
I went through the archives myself when I first came here. But remember,’ she wagged a finger, in a teacherly way, ‘Franz was digging up things at Gobekli, secretly, at night-just before he was murdered.’ Her face was flushed with excitement, and maybe even anger.

‘And you think he put his finds in there? In the pre-Islamic vaults?’

‘It’s an ideal place. The dustiest part of the museum basement, the furthest reach of the cellars. It’s secure, concealed and virtually forgotten.’

‘OK.’ said Rob. ‘But it’s still a pretty wild theory. Tenuous.’

‘Maybe. However…’

It dawned on Rob. ‘You were testing Kiribali.’

‘And you saw how he reacted! I was right. There’s something in those cellars.’

The tea was nearly cold. Rob drained his glass and looked across the table. Christine had hidden depths. Hidden cunning. ‘You want to go and look?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s locked. And the door is keycoded.’

‘Another break-in? Way too dangerous.’

‘I know that.’

The wind sussurated in the limes. Over the bridge, a woman in full chador was holding her baby and kissing the baby’s fat pink fingers, one by one.

‘Why do you want to do all this, Christine? Who go to these lengths? On a hunch?’

‘I want to know how and why he died.’

‘So do I. But I’m getting paid for it. This is my job. I’m on a story. You are taking big risks.’

‘I do it…’ She sighed. ‘I do it because…he would have done it for me.’

A realization, half-formed, crept over Rob. ‘Christine, forgive me. Were you and Franz…ever…?’

‘Lovers? Yes.’ The Frenchwoman turned away, as if concealing her emotions. ‘A few years ago. He gave me my first real chance in archaeology. This amazing site. Gobekli Tepe. There weren’t any bones then. He didn’t need an osteoarchaeologist. Yet he invited me because he admired my work. And a few months after I came we…fell in love. But then it ended. I felt guilty. The age difference was too much.’

‘You ended it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he still love you?’

Christine nodded, and blushed. ‘I think he did. He was so gracious and courteous about it. Never let it interfere. Could have asked me to go, but didn’t. It must have been very difficult for him, having me there, still with those feelings. He was a fine archaeologist, but he was an ever finer man. One of the nicest men I have ever known. When he met his wife it was easier, thank God.’

‘So you think you owe him this?’

‘I do.’

They sat in silence for several minutes. The
soldiers were feeding the carp in the pond. Rob watched a waterman on his donkey, loping down a path. But then, he had an idea. ‘I think I know how you can get the code.’

‘How?’

‘The curators. At the museum. Your pals.’

‘Casam? Beshet? The Kurdish guys?’

‘Yes. Beshet particularly.’

‘But…’

‘He’s got a huge crush on you.’

She blushed again, this time fiercely. ‘Not possible’.

‘Yes, yes possible. Totally.’ Rob leaned across. ’Trust me, Christine, I know what pathetic male adoration looks like. I’ve seen how he stares at you, like a spaniel…’ Christine looked mortified. Rob chuckled. ‘I’m not sure you realize the effect you have on men.’

‘But what does that matter?’

‘Go to him! Ask him for the code! Odds on he’ll give it you.’

The woman in the chador had stopped kissing her baby. The tea-house waiter was staring at them, wanting the table for new customers. Rob took out some money and laid it on the cloth. ‘So you go and get the code. And then we’ll go to the museum and see what’s in there. And if there’s nothing we go. Agreed?’

Christine nodded. ‘Agreed.’ Then she added, ’Tomorrow’s a holiday.’

‘Even better.’

They both stood. But Christine looked hesitant and troubled.

‘What?’ said Rob. ‘What else?’

‘I’m frightened, Robert. What could be so important that Franz hid it in the vault without telling us? What could be so horrifying that it had to be hidden? What was so terrible that it must be compared with the Cayonu skulls?’