The Genesis Secret: (19 page)

‘You’re joking.’

‘No. Only the casts were supposed to be left. But lo and behold! One more piece remained. It was recognized as the real thing, although covered by layers of white vinyl emulsion. The relief was taken down and sent to London, where it was offered for sale at auction by Christie’s. It was bought by a Japanese dealer, apparently acting on behalf of a religious sect. The price was, I think, around eight million pounds. The highest amount ever paid for an antiquity anywhere in the world.
Et voilà.
’

They had reached the riverbank. The rushing River Stour was before them; sunlight dappled across the waters, spangled by the arch of leaves above.

‘I still don’t get it,’ said Forrester. He picked up a stick and threw it into the river. ‘What links this with the Hellfire stuff?’

‘You remember what I told you on the phone the other day?’

‘About the Yezidi and the Black Book? How that might be what they are seeking?

‘Precisely. Austen Henry Layard, you see, was one of the first ever westerners to meet the Yezidi, in 1847. He was excavating in northern Iraq, in Ur and Nineveh. The early years of modern archaeology. Then he heard about this strange sect that lived near Mosul, around Dahuk. Layard made contact with the Yezidi. Then he was invited to their sacred capital Lalesh. In the mountains. It’s a dangerous place, hostile to this day.’

‘What did he do there?’

‘Now that’s a question. We know he was invited to witness some of their most secret ceremonies. A privilege, as far as I know, afforded to no one else before or since.’

‘Did they give him the Black Book?

De Savary smiled. ‘Detective! First rate work. Yes, that’s one theory. Scholars have speculated that Layard must have had a very close relationship with the Yezidi, to be treated the way he was. Some think he may have taken the Black Book with him. Thus giving rise to their legends that it came to England.’

‘So, if he had brought it back he might have brought it here, to the building designed for the best antiquities, the ones he kept to himself? Right?’

‘
Vraiment
!’

Forrester frowned. ‘But I thought we established that Jerusalem Whaley already had the Black Book. How does Layard get involved?’

De Savary shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe Jerusalem Whaley thought he had the Book, but
didn’t. Maybe he gave the Book back to the Yezidi and Layard went to get it again, a century later. Shuttling back and forth! My personal hunch, for what it is worth, is that Jerusalem Whaley had the Book all along, and Layard is just a diversion.’

‘But the main thing is we can assume that this is what the gang are after. Otherwise they wouldn’t have come here. So it’s not necessarily anything to do with the Hellfire Club in itself. The gang are actually after the Black Book of the Yezidi. That’s their real prize.’

‘Yes.’

Forrester whistled, almost cheerfully. He slapped De Savary on the back. ‘Thanks for coming, Hugo.’

De Savary smiled, though he felt guilty for doing so. The smell of the man’s exposed flesh had not quite left his nostrils.

A loud shout ripped through the silent wood.

‘Angus!
Angus!
’

Something was up. Another shout echoed across the parkland. The shout was coming nearer.

De Savary and Forrester scrambled up the rise. A constable was running across the lawns, chasing something. Shouting out the name
Angus.

‘That’s the dog handler,’ said Forrester. ‘Lost his dog. Hey, Johnson! Where’s the dog?’

‘Sir! Sir!’ The constable kept running. ‘Just gone past you, sir. Over there!’

De Savary swivelled and saw a large dog galloping towards the school buildings. It was having trouble running. Because it was dragging
something. Something long, and slippery, and sullen grey. What was that? It looked very strange. For a moment the professor got the surreal and sickening idea that the dog was dragging a kind of ghost. He ran across to it. The dog turned, guarding its prize. It growled as De Savary approached.

The professor shuddered as he looked down. The dog was drooling over a long and stinking sheath, frayed into ribbons and strips.

It was a complete human skin.

Rob had been in Dahuk for ten days. The taxi driver from Habur had refused to go any further.

At first Rob had been reasonably content with this. Dahuk was a likeable and animated Kurdish city: poorer than Sanliurfa, but without the sense of brooding Turkish oversight. Dahuk was also enticing because the Yezidi were a visible presence. There was even a Yezidi cultural centre-a big old Ottoman house on the outskirts of town, ramshackle and noisy. Rob spent the first few days hanging around the centre. It was full of beautiful dark-haired girls with shy smiles and long embroidered dresses and laughing lads with Barcelona football shirts.

On the wall inside the centre’s hall was a striking picture of the peacock angel, Melek Taus. When he first saw it, Rob had stared at it for a good ten minutes. It was a strangely serene image, the demongod, the fallen angel, with his splendid tail of emerald and aquamarine. The tail of a thousand eyes.

The Yezidi at the centre were wary but not that unfriendly. The moustachioed Yezidi men gave him tea and pistachios. A couple of them spoke faltering English, more than a few spoke German. They told him this was because there was a strong Yezidi presence in Germany. ‘We have been destroyed everywhere else, we have no future here, now only you Christians can help us…’

What the Yezidi would not do was discuss the finer points of their faith. As soon as Rob started asking about the Black Book, or Sanliurfa, or the sanjak, or the worship of Melek Taus, the expressions turned to scowls, or disdain, or a defensive incomprehension. And then the moustached men got shirty, and stopped handing over saucers of pistachios.

The other sticking point was Lalesh itself. It turned out-and Rob was annoyed at himself for his lack of prior information, for rushing into this so impetuously-that no one actually lived in Lalesh. It was a sacred city in the truest sense of the phrase: a ghost town for angels, a city for exclusively sacred things: holy spirits, ancient texts, venerable shrines. The villages around Lalesh were busy and thronging, but the Yezidi only went into Lalesh itself to pray or worship, or for festivals, which would make any outsider conspicuous.

Moreover, just getting to Lalesh for a non-Yezidi was a difficult and even dangerous task, it seemed. Certainly no one wanted to take Rob. Not even after a hundred-dollar bribe. Rob tried more than
once. The taxi drivers just looked at his money mistrustfully, and said a curt
‘La!’

By the tenth night Rob felt like giving up. He was lying on his bed in his hotel room. The city was noisy and fervid outside. He went to his open window and gazed across the concrete rooftops and the dark winding alleys. The hot Iraqi sun was going down over the grey-gold Zagros Mountains. Old women in pink headscarves were hanging out washing next to enormous satellite dishes. Rob could see plenty of church spires amongst the minarets. Churches of the Gnostics maybe. Or the Mandeans. Or the Assyrian Christians. The Chaldeans. There were so many ancient sects here.

Closing the window to block out the evening call to prayer, Rob returned to his bed and picked up his mobile. He found a good Kurdish network and called England. After a few long beeps Sally came on the line. Rob expected his ex-wife to be her usual curt but polite self. But Sally was oddly warm and enthusiastic: then she explained why. She told Rob she had met his ‘new girlfriend’ and actually liked her, a lot. Sally told Rob she approved of Christine, and that he must have finally returned to his senses if he’d started dating real women, not those bimbos he normally went for.

Rob laughed and said he’d never regarded Sally as a bimbo; there was a pause, and then Sally laughed, too. It was the first laughter they had exchanged since the divorce. They chatted some
more, as they had not chatted in quite a while. And then Rob’s ex-wife handed the phone to their daughter. Rob felt piercingly sad when he heard his daughter’s voice. Lizzie told her dad that she had been to the zoo to see ‘nanimals’. She said she could raise her arms right above her head. Rob listened with a mixture of joy and grief and he said he loved her and Lizzie demanded daddy come home. Then he asked her if she had met the French lady Christine. Lizzie said yes and she really liked her and mummy liked her too. Rob said that was great, and then he blew a kiss to his giggling daughter. He rang off. It felt slightly weird, his new girlfriend and his ex-wife making friends. But it was better than mutual animosity. And it meant there were more people looking after his daughter when he wasn’t there.

But then it occurred to him that maybe it was time he was ‘there’: maybe it was time he went back home. Maybe he should just quit. The story hadn’t panned out as he’d hoped. He hadn’t even made it to Lalesh, but it didn’t look like there was any point anyway. The Yezidi were too opaque. He couldn’t speak enough Arabic or Kurdish to get beyond their ancient obscurantism. How could he hope to unlock the secrets of a six thousand year old faith by just pottering around this ancient city saying ‘Salaam’? He was stymied; his hopes were dwindling by the hour. Sometimes that happened. Sometimes you didn’t get the story.

Grabbing his door key, Rob left his hotel room.
He was hot and bothered and he needed a beer. And there was a nice bar on the corner of his street. He slumped into his usual plastic seat outside the Suleiman Café. Rob’s temporary friend, Rawaz the café owner, brought him some chilled Turkish beer, and a saucer of green olives. The life of the Dahuk streets passed on by. Rob rested his forehead in his hands and thought again about the article. Looking back on his determined and impulsive excitement at Isobel’s house, he wondered what he had really wanted. Some mysterious priest to explain everything, perhaps in a secret temple, with savage carvings on the wall. And flickering flames from the oil lamps. And of course a couple of handy devil worshippers, happy to be photographed. But instead of realizing his naive journalistic dream Rob was drinking Efes beer and listening to gaudy Kurdish pop from the music store next door. He might as well have been in Sanliurfa. Or London.

‘Hello?’

Rob looked up. A young man was standing, slightly hesitantly, by his table. He wore clean jeans and a well-pressed shirt. He had a round face. He looked scholarly. Geeky even. Yet prosperous and kind. Rob asked the man to sit down. His name was Karwan.

Karwan smiled. ‘I am a Yezidi.’

‘OK…’

‘Today I go to the Yezidi cultural centre and
some women told me about you. An American journalist. Wanting to know about Melek Taus?’

Rob nodded: mildly embarrassed.

Karwan went on. ‘They said you were staying here. But they say you might go soon, because you were not happy.’

‘I’m not unhappy. I’m just…frustrated.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am writing an article. About the Yezidi faith. You know, what you guys really believe. It’s for a British newspaper. But no one will tell me, so it’s a little frustrating.’

‘You must understand why this is.’ Karwan leaned forward with an earnest expression on his face. ‘For many thousands of years, mister, we have been killed and attacked for what we believe. What people say we believe. The Muslims kill us, the Hindus, the Tartars. Everyone says we worship Shaitan, the devil. They kill us and drive us away. Even Saddam killed us, even our fellow Kurds they kill us, Sunni and Shiite, they all kill us. Everyone.’

‘But that’s why I want to write my article. Tell the real story. What the Yezidi really believe.’

Karwan frowned, as if he was deciding something. He was silent for more than a minute. And then he said, ‘Yes, OK. This is how I see it. You Americans, the great eagle, you helped the Kurds, and you have protected the Yezidi people. I see American soldiers, they are good. They really try to help us. So…now I will help you. Because you are American.’

‘You will?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes and I will help you because I studied one year in America at Texas University. This is why my English is not so bad. Americans they were good to me.’

‘You were at UT?’

‘Yes, you know? The cowhorns. In Austen.’

‘Great music in Austen.’

‘Yes. A nice place. Except,’ Karwan nibbled an olive, ‘except women in Texas have the most enormous asses. This is problem for me.’

Rob laughed. ‘What did you study, at UT?’

‘Religious anthropology. So, you understand, I can tell you everything you need to know. And then you can go away and tell everyone we are not…Satanists. Shall we start?’

Rob reached for his notebook; he ordered two more beers. And for an hour he plied Karwan with questions. Most of the information he already knew, from Isobel, and from his own research. The origins of Yezidism and the Cult of Angels. Rob was slightly disappointed. But then Karwan said something which made him sit up, very straight.

‘The tale of the Yezidis’ origin comes from the Black Book. Of course the Black Book has gone now but the story is handed on. It tells us we have a distinct…bloodline, it shows how we are different from all other races.’

‘How?’

‘Maybe it is best expressed in a myth, in Yezidi myth. In one of our creation legends there were seventy-two Adams, each Adam more perfect than the one before. Then the seventy-second Adam married Eve. And Adam and Eve deposited their seed in two jars.’

Rob interrupted, his pen poised over his notebook. ’Two jars?’

Karwan nodded. ‘These jars were sealed for nine months. When the jars were opened, the jar containing Eve’s seed was full of insects and terrible things, snakes and scorpions. But when Adam’s jar was opened, they found a lovely boy child.’ Karwan smiled. ‘The boy was called Shahid ibn Jayar-“the Son of the Jar”. And this name is also used for the Yezidi. You see: we are the Sons of the Jar. These children of Adam became the ancestors of the Yezidis. Adam is our grandfather. Whereas all other nations are descended through Eve.’

Rob finished scribbling his notes. A white UN Chevrolet was trundling across the junction opposite the café.

Karwan said, quite abruptly, ‘OK. That is that! Now I must go. But, mister, the Yezidi at the centre, they also tell me you want to go to Lalesh, as well? Yes?’

‘Yes. I do! But everyone says it’s dangerous. They just won’t take me. Can it possibly be arranged?’

Karwan curved a smile. He was nibbling discreetly
on another olive; he cupped his hand, and deposited the olive stone on the edge of the ashtray. ‘I can take you there. We are having a festival. It is not so dangerous.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. Five a.m. I will meet you here. And then I will bring you back. And then you can go and write about us, in that famous newspaper
The Times,
in England.’

‘That’s great. That’s fantastic-
shukran!
’

‘Good.’ The young man leaned and shook Rob’s hand. ‘Tomorrow we meet. Five a.m. So we must sleep now. Goodbye.’ And with that he stood up and disappeared along the sultry road.

Rob guzzled the last of his beer. He was happy. He was almost very happy. He was going to get the story. The first man to visit the sacred capital of the Yezidi! Our man with the Cultists of Iraq. He almost ran back to the hotel. Then he phoned Christine and excitedly told her the news; her voice sounded worried and pleased at the same time. Rob lay back on the bed with a smile, as they talked: he was going home soon, and he would see his daughter, and his girlfriend-with the job safely done.

The next morning Rob found Karwan waiting, as promised, by the café tables. Parked by the shuttered café was an old Ford pickup truck: loaded with flat bread, and fruit in plastic sacks.

‘Fruit for the festival,’ said Karwan. ‘Come. Is not very much room.’

There were three of them squeezed in the cabin of the truck. Karwan, Rob, and a whiskery old guy. The driver was Karwan’s uncle, it seemed. Rob shook hands with Karwan’s uncle, and Karwan said, ‘He has only crashed three times this year. So we should be OK.’

The truck rattled out of Dahuk up into the mountains. It was a long and spine-jarring journey, but Rob didn’t care. He was surely close to his story.

The road led up into pine forests and oak woods. As they ascended, the grey morning air began to clear. The sun was coming up bright and warm. Then the road dipped into a vivid green valley. Poor but pretty stone houses stood over rushing streams. Dirty children with dazzling smiles rushed down to the truck and waved. Rob waved back and thought about his daughter.

The road went on, and on. It snaked around a great mountain. Karwan told Rob the mountain was one of the Seven Pillars of Satan. Rob nodded. The road negotiated rushing rivers, on rickety wooden bridges. And then at last they stopped.

Karwan nudged him. ‘Lalesh!

He’d made it. The first thing he saw was a strange conical building, its roof oddly fluted. There were more of these conical buildings, placed around a central square. This central plaza of Lalesh was alive with people: parading and chanting and singing. Old men were walking in single file, playing long wooden flutes. Rob got
out of the truck, along with Karwan, and watched.

A black-cloaked figure emerged from a grimy building. He walked over to an array of stone pots from which small fires were billowing. More men, in white robes, processed behind.

‘These are the sacred fires,’ said Karwan, gesturing at the yellow flames dancing in the stone pots. ‘The men must circle the sacred fires seven times.’

Now the crowd pressed forward, calling out a name. ‘Melek Taus, Melek Taus!’

Karwan nodded. ‘They are praising the peacock angel, of course.’

The ceremony continued. It was picturesque, and strange, and oddly touching. Rob watched the bystanders and the onlookers: after the initial flurry of ceremonial, many ordinary Yezidi had moved on to nearby patches of grass and the hillsides overlooking the conical towers of Lalesh: they were laying out picnics of tomatoes, cheese, flatbread and plums. The sun was high in the sky. It was a warm mountain day.

‘Every Yezidi,’ Karwan told Rob, ‘must, at some point in life, come here to Lalesh. To make a pilgrimage to the tomb of Sheikh Mussafir. He established the ceremonies of the Yezidis.’

Rob edged closer to peer through the dingy doorway of a temple. Inside it was dark: but Rob could just discern pilgrims wrapping coloured cloths around wooden pillars. Others were laying bread on low shelves. On one wall Rob saw writing
that was distinctly cuneiform: it had to be cuneiform: the very oldest, most primitive alphabet in the world. Dating back to Sumerian times.