The Genesis Secret: (31 page)

The police were walking towards them now, their debate apparently concluded.

Rob squeezed Sally’s hand, and Christine’s too. He whispered to them both. ‘OK. Let’s do it. Christine and I will fly to Sanliurfa immediately. We do it alone. And we dig up this secret.’

‘And we don’t tell the police,’ said Christine.

Rob turned to Sally. ‘Are you sure about this, Sally? I need your agreement.’

She stared at Rob. ‘I’m…going to trust you, Rob Luttrell.’ Her eyes filled with tears: she fought them back. ‘I’m going to trust you to bring back our daughter. So, yes. Please do it. Please, please, please. Just
bring Lizzie back.
’

Forrester was rubbing his hands as he approached them. ‘Getting a bit nippy, shall we head for the airport? Have to get the Home Office onto it. We’ll pile the pressure on, I promise.’

Rob nodded. Behind the DCI loomed the sombre grey elevations of Newman House. For a second Rob had an image of the house as it had been when Buck Egan and Buck Whaley had held their roistering parties in the guttering light of Georgian lamps; the tall young men laughing and roaring as they set fire to black cats soaked in whisky.

Christine and Rob flew to Turkey straight from London the same evening, after telling blatant lies to Forrester and Boijer.

They decided to take the Black Book with them: Christine was obliged to show her archaeological credentials at Heathrow and flash her most charming smile to get a strange and arguably human skull past London customs. In Turkey they had to be even more careful. They flew to Dyarbakir, via Istanbul, then made a long, dusty, six-hour cab-ride to Sanliurfa, through the night and the dawn. They didn’t want to announce their arrival to Kiribali by turning up at Sanliurfa Airport, conspicuous, Western and unwanted; indeed they didn’t want Kiribali to know they were anywhere near Turkey.

Just being here, in Kurdistan, was risky enough.

In the thrumming heart of broiling Urfa they headed for the Hotel Haran. Right outside the lobby Rob found his man-Radevan-sheltering
from the hot morning sun, arguing noisily about football with the other cab drivers, and acting a little grouchy. But the grumpiness was due to Ramadan: everyone was grouchy, hungry and thirsty through the hours of daylight.

Rob went straight for it and asked Radevan if he could find some friends to help them dig the Valley of the Slaughter. He also quietly asked him to procure some guns, as well. Rob wanted to be ready for anything.

Initially, Radevan was moody and unsure: he went off to ‘consult’ with his numberless cousins. But an hour later he returned with seven friends and relatives, all smiling Kurdish lads. In the meantime Rob had bought some second-hand shovels and hired a couple of very old Land Rovers.

This was probably going to be the most makeshift archaeological dig of the last two hundred years, but they had no choice. They had only two days to unearth the final answer to all their questions, two days to unearth the Valley of the Slaughter, and lure Cloncurry into a position in which he would have to give up Lizzie. And Radevan had done his job with the guns: they were concealed in a shabby old sack: two shotguns and a German pistol. Radevan winked at Rob as they made the transaction. ‘You see I help you, Mr Robbie. I like Englishman, they help the Kurds.’ He grinned, luxuriously, as Rob handed over the wad of dollars.

As soon as everything was stowed in the cars,
Rob jumped in the driver’s seat and keyed the engine. His impatience was almost unbearable. Just being in the same city as Lizzie, yet not knowing where she was or how she was suffering made him feel as if he was having a serious heart attack. He had pains shooting up his arm; palpitations of anguish. His jaw hurt. He thought of Lizzie, tied to a chair, as the last of Urfa’s suburbs became a haze of dust and greyness in the rearview mirror.

Christine was in the seat beside him. Three Kurdish men were in the back. Radevan was driving the second Land Rover, right behind. The guns were hidden in their sack, under Rob’s seat. The Black Box, in its worn leather box, was firmly wedged in the boot.

As they rattled along, the familiar talkativeness of the Kurds lapsed into whispers, and then into silence. Their silence was matched by the deadness of the landscape as they headed out into the vastness of the desert. The yellow and desolate wastes.

The heat was quite incredible: high summer on the edge of the Syriac wilderness. Rob sensed the nearness of Gobekli as they motored south. But this time they drove straight past the Gobekli turn off, and were waved through several army checkpoints further down the hot Damascus road. Christine had bought a detailed map: she reckoned she knew precisely where to find the valley.

‘Here’, she said, at one turning, very authoritatively. They took a right and barrelled for half
an hour along unmetalled dirt tracks. And then at last they crested a rise. The two cars halted, and everyone climbed out: the Kurds looking dirty, sweaty and mildly mutinous. The shovels were unloaded, the trowels, ropes and backpacks were dumped on the sandy hilltop.

To their left was a bare and narrow valley.

‘That’s it,’ said Christine. ‘The Valley of the Slaughter. They still call it the Valley of Killing. It’s actually marked on the map.’

Rob gazed and listened. He could hear-nothing. Nothing but the mournful desert wind. The site-the entire region-was strangely hushed, even for the deserts near Gobekli.

‘Where is everyone?’ he said.

‘Gone.
Evacuated.
Moved by the government,’ replied Christine.

‘Huh?’

‘That’s why.’ She was pointing left where an expanse of silver flatness glistened in the distance. ’That’s the water from the Great Anatolian Project. The Euphrates. They are flooding the whole region, for irrigation. Several major archaeological sites have already flooded-it’s very controversial.’

‘Christ-it’s only a few klicks away!’

‘And it’s coming in our direction. But that levee will stop it. The earthbank over there.’ Christine pointed, and frowned. Her white shirt was freckled with yellow dust. ‘But we need to be careful: these inundations can be very quick. And unpredictable.’

‘We need to be quick
anyway,
‘ said Rob.

They turned and descended the hill into the valley. Within a few minutes Christine had got the Kurds digging. As they worked, the size of the task assailed Rob. The valley was a mile long, at least. In two days, their team would only be able to turn over a fraction of it. Maybe twenty per cent. Maybe thirty. And they wouldn’t be able to dig very deep.

So they were going to have to be lucky to find anything. The sombreness and fear that Rob had been feeling since they had returned to the Kurdish desert was joined by a rising surge of ennui. A great tide of pointlessness. Lizzie was going to die.
She was going to die.
And Rob felt useless: he felt he would drown in the futility of it all, be entombed like the thirsty lands around him, awaiting that vast silver coffinlid of water. The Great Anatolian Project.

But he knew he had to stay strong, to see this through and so he tried to improve his mood. He reminded himself what Breitner had said of Christine: that she was ‘one of the best archaeologists of her generation’. He reminded himself that the great Isobel Previn had taught Christine at Cambridge.

And the Frenchwoman certainly seemed confident: she was calmly but firmly telling the men where to dig, ordering them this way and that, up and down the valley. For an hour or two the dust rose and settled; the spades rang
and shovelled. The hot, joyless wind whirred over the Valley of Killings.

And then one man dropped his shovel. It was Radevan’s second cousin, Mumtaz.

‘Miss Meyer!’ he cried. ‘Miss Meyer!’

She ran over; Rob followed.

A portion of white bone was lying in the dusty earth. It was the curve of a skull: small but human. Even Rob could tell that. Christine seemed intrigued, but not triumphant. She nodded.

‘OK, good. Now dig laterally.’

The Kurds did not understand. Christine told Radevan, again, in Kurdish:
dig straight across. Don’t bother digging any deeper.
It was a matter of covering the ground now: they had less than two days left.

The men worked to order, apparently charmed by Christine’s wilfulness. Rob joined the shovelling once more. Every few minutes they uncovered a new skull. Rob helped them scrape the earth away with feverish energy. Another skull; another skeleton. Whenever they found the ruins of another body, they didn’t bother uncovering the whole thing-as soon as they got the sense of one skeleton, Christine told them to move on.

Another skull; another skeleton. These, Rob noted, were quite small people. Typical huntergatherers, as Christine explained, five foot tall at most. Sturdy men of the caves and the deserts, with healthy physiques: but no more than averagely tall for the time.

They dug, quicker and quicker. It was messy
and slipshod. The sun was past its zenith and Rob also sensed the great wall of water was getting nearer. The incoming flood was just a few days away.

Still they dug.

And then Rob heard another shout, this time from Radevan.

‘Mr Rob,’ Radevan said. ‘Look at this! A very big man. Like American.’ He was scraping earth from a femur bone. ‘Like American who eat many McNuggets.’ The femur was almost twice as large as any of the others.

Christine jumped down into the trench; Rob joined her. They helped to unearth the rest of the skeleton. It took time because the skeleton was huge: seven foot six at least. They all scraped earth from the pelvis. From the ribs. From the spine, unearthing large white bones in the grimy yellow dust. And then they came to the skull. Radevan pulled it out in one go, and held it up.

Rob gawped. It was enormous.

Christine took the great skull from Radevan’s hands and examined it. It was not an obvious human skull: it was much larger, with slanting, birdlike eyes, stark cheekbones, a smaller jaw and a very large braincase.

Rob looked closer at the grinning jaw, with its teeth still intact. ‘This is…’ He wiped the sweat, salt and dust from his face. ‘This is a hominid, right?’

‘Yes,’ said Christine. ‘But…’ She turned it in the shadeless sun.

The skull was filled with dark yellow earth, giving the large slanted eye sockets a blank and hostile stare. Rob could hear a bird somewhere, calling-a lonely bird circling languidly in the sky. Probably a buzzard, attracted by the bones.

Christine brushed some adhering yellow dust from the skull. ‘Clearly hominid. Clearly non-
Homo sapiens.
Like nothing we have ever found. Very large braincase, presumably highly intelligent.’

‘It looks kind of…Asiatic. No?’

Christine nodded. ‘Mongoloid in certain aspects, yes. But…but look at the eyes, and the cranium.
Amazing.
Yet it fits. Because I think…’ She looked at Rob. ‘I think we have the answer here, to the hybridization. This is the
other
species of hominid. The one that interbred with the smaller people here, to produce the skull from the Black Book.’

The Kurds were still digging. Skeleton after skeleton. The number of bones they had uncovered was almost sickening. The sun was nearing the horizon: the day’s fast would soon be over and the men were keen to get home for the feast, the end of the day’s Ramadan famine.

When he was too exhausted to continue, too nauseated by the white of the bones, and the grins of the enormous skulls, Rob lay back on the dusty slope and just watched. Then he took out his notebook and began to scribble. To piece the story together. This was the only way he knew to unlock a puzzle: to write it down; set it out. And thereby
piece together a narrative. He sensed the light fading as he wrote.

After he’d finished his notes he looked up: Christine was measuring bones, and taking photos of the skeletons. But the day was over. The desert breeze was mild, and freshening. The inundating water was now so near that Rob could smell it in the air. Probably no more than two or three miles away. He gazed down the trenches with his tired eyes. They had uncovered an enormous and mournful graveyard: a charnel house of protohumans, lying next to near-human giants. But the real puzzle remained hidden; Rob hadn’t worked it out; his notes didn’t make sense. They hadn’t yet managed to solve the secret. And the darkness of the desert meant they had just one day left.

Rob’s heart cried out for his daughter.

On the drive back to Sanliurfa they talked about the document, the reference to the Book of Enoch. Rob shifted gears, vigorously, as Christine shouted her theories across the rattling car.

‘The Book of Enoch is a piece of…pseudoscripture.’

‘Which means?’

‘That means it’s not part of the official Bible but it is regarded by some ancient branches of Christianity, like the Ethiopic Church, as being truly sacred.’

‘OK…’

‘The Book of Enoch is about 2200 years old and was probably written by Israelis, though we are not entirely sure.’ She stared ahead at the unrolling desert. ‘It was found amongst those documents preserved in what we know as “The Dead Sea Scrolls”.

‘The Book of Enoch describes a time when five fallen angels-the Five Satans, or the
Watchers-and their minions came amongst early men. These angels were supposedly close to God but they could not resist the beauty of women. The daughters of Eve. So the bad angels took these women, and in return promised the human males the secrets of writing and building, of artistry and carving. These…demons also taught the women to “kiss the phallus”.’

Rob gazed across the car and managed a smile. Christine smiled back. ‘That’s the exact phrase the Book of Enoch uses,’ Christine said, drinking some water from a bottle. ‘Yuk. This water’s warm.’

‘Go on,’ said Rob. ‘The Book of Enoch.’

‘OK. Well…this intermarrying between demons and men created a race of evil raging giants, the Nephilim, again according to the Book of Enoch.’

Rob stared at the twilit road ahead. He wanted to comprehend what she was saying. He really wanted to. He tried hard. He got her to repeat it…but then he gave up. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lizzie. He wondered if they should call Cloncurry. But he knew that was stupid; they had to surprise him. They had to announce suddenly that that they had unearthed the secret-if they ever unearthed it: that was the way their plan worked.

But he was tired, sunburnt and frightened, and still feeling that spookiness of the desert. He could sense the nearness of the stones of Gobekli. Still out there in the wilderness. He remembered that carving of the woman, staked and pinioned, ready
to be raped by the wild boars with the penises. He thought about the babies, screaming in their ancient jars.

And then he thought of Lizzie again, and Cloncurry-and tried to shunt the thought from his mind.

The conclusion of the drive was silent. And anxious. The Kurds said a muttered goodbye and went off to eat and drink; Rob and Christine parked the cars, wearily, and sloped quietly into the Hotel Haran. Rob carried the Black Book close to his chest, the exhaustion rippling through his arms.

But they didn’t have time to relax. Rob was tired, but he was febrile with determination, and he wanted to talk through his notes. As soon as they reached their hotel room, before Christine had even showered, he quizzed her again.

‘One thing I don’t understand is the jars. The jars with the babies, in Gobekli.’

Christine looked at him. Her deep brown eyes were loving, but bloodshot with tiredness but Rob persisted.

‘You mean…the mere fact they were jars. That confuses you?’

‘Yes. I always thought the culture around Gobekli Tepe was…what was the word Breitner used…
aceramic?
Without pottery. But then, suddenly, someone came along and taught these guys how to make jars, long before any other culture in the region. Long before anywhere else on earth.’

‘Yes, it’s true…’ Christine paused. ‘Except one
place…There was one place that had pottery before Gobekli.

‘Yeah?

‘Japan.’ Christine was frowning. ‘The Jomon of Japan.’

‘The what?’

‘A very early culture. Aboriginal Japanese. The Ainu, who still live in northernmost Japan, may be related…’ She stood and rubbed her aching back, then went to the minibar, took out a cold bottle of water and drank, thirstily. Lying back down on the bed, she explained, ‘The Jomon came literally from nowhere. They were maybe the first to cultivate rice. And then they started producing sophisticated pottery-cordware it is called.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Sixteen thousand years ago.’

‘Sixteen thousand years ago?’
Rob stared across the room. ‘That’s more than three thousand years before Gobekli.’

‘Yes. And some people think the Jomons of East Asia may have learned their techniques from an even
earlier
culture. Like the Kondons of the Amur. Maybe. The Amur is a river north of Mongolia, where there are arguably signs of pottery going back even further. It is most mysterious. They come and they go, these peculiarly advanced peoples of the north. They are basic hunter-gatherers, yet suddenly they make a wild and irrational technological leap.’

‘What do you mean?
Irrational?
’

‘This is not the most promising territory for early civilization. Siberia, inner Mongolia, the far north of Japan. These places are not the warm, sunny fertile crescent. These are the freezing and intractable lands of north Asia. The Amur basin is one of the coldest places on earth in the winter.’ She gazed at the bare hotel ceiling. ‘In fact I’ve sometimes wondered, could there have been one protoculture north of there? In Siberia? Now lost to us? Some culture that was influencing all these tribes? Because otherwise it is too bizarre…’

Rob shook his head. He had his notebook flat on his lap; pen poised. ‘But maybe they didn’t go, Christine. These cultures. Mmm? Maybe they didn’t disappear.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The skulls, they look Asiatic. Mongoloid. Maybe these eastern cultures didn’t vanish. They just moved…west. Could there be some link between these advanced Asiatic tribes and Gobekli?’

Christine nodded, and yawned. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Yes, I guess. Jesus, Rob, I’m tired.’

Rob mentally admonished himself. They hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours; they’d done as much as they could. He was pushing Christine too hard. He said sorry and came over, and lay down besides her on the bed.

‘Robbie, we
will
save her,’ said Christine. ‘I promise.’ She hugged him. ‘I promise.’

Rob shut his eyes. ‘Let’s sleep.’

The next morning Rob was woken by a dream of great violence. He dreamed for a few moments he was being hit, being pummelled by Cloncurry, but when he woke he realized it was drumming: real drumming. Men were walking down the dark streets of Sanliurfa, outside the hotel, banging big bass drums, rousing people for the pre-dawn meal. The traditional Ramadan ritual.

Rob sighed and tilted his wristwatch, which was lying on the bedside table. It was just 4 a.m. He stared at the ceiling and listened to the thumping and booming of the drums, while Christine snored gently next to him.

Two hours later Christine was nudging him awake in return. He stirred, feeling sluggish. He got up and showered in bracingly cold water.

Radevan and his friends were waiting outside. They helped stow the Black Book in the boot. Rob ate a hardboiled egg and some pitta bread in the car as they rattled across the desert to the Valley of the Slaughters. They didn’t have time to linger for breakfast at the hotel.

Rob watched the Kurds as they dug. It was as if they knew their job was nearly over, whatever happened: they were demob happy. This was the last day. Tomorrow morning the time was up.
Whatever happened.
Rob’s stomach twisted with the tension.

At eleven Rob climbed the hill next to the valley and gazed across the flat, silvery lakewater of the Great Anatolian Project. It was no longer in the
distance but only about a mile away, and the water seemed to be accelerating, pouring over hills and filling the dales. The levee would defend them, but the encroaching flood was still a menacing sight. There was a small shepherd’s hut on top of the levee. Like a sentinel, protecting them from the waters.

He sat down on a boulder and made some more notes, threading the precious pearls of evidence onto the necklace of the narrative. One quote kept striking home. He remembered his father, in the Mormon church, reciting it. From Genesis Chapter 6:
‘And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them…that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose…’

For half an hour he scribbled, and crossed out, and scribbled again. He was nearly there; the story was nearly finished. Shutting the notebook, he turned and paced down the hill into the valley. He found Christine lying flat on the ground, as if she was asleep. But she wasn’t asleep: she was staring hard and flat across the dust.

‘I’m looking for anomalies,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘And I’ve found some. There!’ She stood up and clapped her hands and the young Kurds stared at her. ‘Please, gentlemen,’ she said. ’Soon you can go home to your families and forget about the madwoman from France. But just one more effort, please. Over there.’

Radevan and his friends picked up their shovels and followed Christine to another corner of the valley.

‘Dig down straight down. Here. And not too deep. Dig wide and shallow. Thank you.’

Rob went to find his spade so he could join in. He liked digging with the Kurds. It gave him something to do other than worry about the possible pointlessness of what they were doing. And Lizzie. And Lizzie and Lizzie and Lizzie.

As they dug, Rob asked Christine about the Neanderthals. She had been explaining how she had worked on several sites where Neanderthals had lived. Like Moula-Guercy, on the banks of the Rhone, in France.

‘Do you think they interbred with
Homo sapiens?
’

‘Possibly.’

‘But I thought there was a theory that they just died out? The Neanderthals?’

‘There was. But we also have evidence that they may have bred with humans.’ Christine sleeved the sweat from her face. ‘The Neanderthals may even have raped their way into the human gene pool. If they were dying out, unable to compete for food or whatever, they would have been desperate to preserve their own species. And they were bigger than
Homo sapiens.
Albeit possibly more stupid…’

Rob watched a bird circling in the air: another vulture. He asked a second question. ‘If they did interbreed, might that have altered the way humans behaved? Human culture?’

‘Yes. One possibility is cannibalism. There is no record of organized cannibalism in the human repertoire before about 300,000
BC
. Yet the Neanderthals were definitely cannibalistic. So…’ She tilted her head, thinking. ‘So it is possible the Neanderthals might have introduced some traits of their own. Like cannibalism.’

A Turkish Air Force plane streaked across the sky. Christine added one more thought. ‘I was wondering, this morning, about the size of the hominids, the large ones. The bones we found.’

‘Go on…’

‘Well…Your theory that there might be a link with Central Asia, that fits. In a way.’

‘How?’

‘The largest hominid ever found was in Central Asia. Gigantopethicus. Absolutely enormous: an apeman maybe nine foot tall. Like a kind of…yeti…’

‘Seriously?’

His girlfriend nodded. ‘They lived around three hundred thousand years ago. They might have survived longer-and some think that Gigantopethicus might have survived long enough-for memories to persist in
Homo sapiens.
Memories of enormous apemen.’ She shook her head. ‘But of course this is very fanciful. What’s more likely is that Gigantopethicus died out due to competition from
Homo sapiens.
No one is quite sure what happened to Gigantopethicus. However…’ She
paused, leaning on her spade like a farmer contemplating his fields.

The obvious conclusion dawned on Rob. He took out his notebook, and scribbled excitedly. ‘What you mean is, maybe there is a
third
explanation, right? Maybe Gigantopethicus
did
evolve-but into a much more serious rival to
Homo sapiens.
Isn’t that possible, too?’

Christine nodded, frowning. ‘Yes. It is possible. We have no evidence either way.’

Rob went on. ‘So. Let’s just say that
did
happen. Then that new hominid-that would be a very large, aggressive and highly intelligent hominid, wouldn’t it? Something evolved to cope with harsh and brutal conditions. A fierce competitor for resources.’

‘Yes. I agree. It would.’

‘And this large, aggressive hominid would also have an instinctive fear of nature, of endless lethal winters, of a cruel and severe God. And it would have a desperate need to
propitiate.
’

Christine shrugged, as if she didn’t quite follow this latest concept; but she didn’t have time to reply, because Radevan was calling them over. Even as Rob reached the scene, Christine was already on her hands and knees, scraping at more remains.

Three large dirty jars were lying by Radevan’s feet.

They were marked with sanjaks.

Rob knew at once what the jars would contain. And he didn’t have to tell Christine, but she was
cracking one of the jars open, anyway, with the handle of a trowel. The ancient jar crumbled and a slimy, fetid-smelling thing oozed into the dust: a half-mummified, half-liquefied baby. The face was not quite as intact as the babies they had found in the Edessa Vault. But the scream of terror and pain on the tiny child’s face was just the same. It was another child sacrifice. Another infant buried alive in a jar.

Rob tried not to think of Lizzie.

Some of the Kurds had spotted the jar, and the remains. The dead and rotting baby. They were pointing, and arguing. Christine asked them to continue digging. But they were shouting now.

Mumtaz approached Rob. ‘They say it is dangerous here. This place is cursed. They see the baby and they say they must go. The water will be here soon.’

Christine pleaded with the men, in English and Kurdish.

The men gabbled at Mumtaz and he interpreted. ’They say the water comes. To bury these bodies and that is good. They say they go now!’

Christine protested again. The argument continued. Some of the Kurds dug, some just stood and debated. The sun rose all the time, hot and menacing. The spades and trowels lay unused, glinting in the merciless light. The sun was baking the small slimy corpse of the baby. That obscene little package of flesh. Rob had an enormous urge to bury it again, to cover up the obscenity. He knew
he was close to unlocking the puzzle, but he also felt close to some kind of nervous surrender. The tension was hideous.