The Genesis Secret: (7 page)

In the fishponds of Abraham, the carp were roiling excitedly, clamouring for the tiny bits of pita bread he was throwing into the water. Rob watched them, mesmerized. Their desperate frenzy was a repulsive sight.

He had come here to calm down-it was the only bit of tranquil green space he knew in the crowded city. But the tranquillity wasn’t working. As he watched the thrashing fish, Rob kept twisting in his mind the events of the previous day. The hideous sight of Franz pinioned on the pole. The frantic mobile phone calls. The fateful decision, in the end, to saw the pole in half and drive Franz-still skewered-all the way to Sanliurfa in Christine’s car.

Rob had followed with Radevan. The battered Toyota pursued the Land Rover down the hills and across the plains to the Haran University Hospital in the new quarter of town. There Rob waited in the slightly shabby corridors with
Christine and Ivan and Franz’s sobbing wife. He was still there when the doctors came out with the inevitable news: Franz Breitner had died.

The carp were now fighting for the very last bit of bread. Biting each other. Rob turned away. He saw a submachine-gun toting Turkish soldier lounging by a jeep parked at the edge of the greenery. The soldier scowled at him.

The city was on a special edge-and it had nothing to do with Breitner’s death. A suicide bomb had gone off in Dyarbakir, the Kurdish-Turkish city two hundred dusty miles east, the centre of Kurdish separatism. No one had died but ten people had been injured, and it had notched up the tension of the area once more. The police and the army were visible and everywhere, this afternoon.

Rob sighed, wearily. Sometimes it felt as if violence was universal. Inescapable. And Rob wanted to escape it.

Crossing a small wooden bridge over a tiny canal he sat at a wooden table. The tea house waiter came over, wiping his hands on a towel hanging from his waistband, and Rob ordered water, tea and some olives. He really had to try and not think about Franz for a moment. About the sight of the blood in Christine’s car. The pole sticking obscenely out of Franz’s torso…

‘Sir?’

The waiter had brought Rob’s tea. The teaspoon clinked. The sugar lump dissolved in the dark red
liquid. The sun was shining through the trees of the little park. A small boy wearing a Manchester United shirt was playing with a football across the lawns. His mother was shrouded in black.

Rob finished the tea. He had to get proactive. Checking the time in London, he picked up his mobile phone and dialled.

‘Yup!’ Steve’s normal gruffness.

‘Hi, it’s…’

‘Robbie! My archaeological correspondent. How are the stones?’

The cheery cockney accent lifted Rob’s spirit a little. He wondered whether to ruin the mood by telling Steve what had happened. Before he could decide, Steve said, ‘Liked the notes you sent. Looking forward to the piece. When’s your deadline?’

‘Well, it was tomorrow, but…’

‘Good lad. File by five.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘And send me some jpegs! Nice shots of the—’

‘Steve there’s a problem.’

The end of the line went silent. Finally. Rob seized the opportunity and launched into it. He told Steve everything. The strange mysteries and difficulties surrounding the dig, the resentment of the workers, the weird death chant, the envenomed local politics, the odd nocturnal diggings. He explained to his editor that he hadn’t mentioned all this stuff before, because he wasn’t sure of the relevance. Steve snapped back, ‘And it’s relevant now?’

‘Yes. Because…’ Rob looked at the castle on the cliff with the big red Turkish flag. He took a deep breath. Then he told Steve the horrible story of Franz’s death. At the end of which Steve simply said, ‘Jesus. What are you like?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I sent you to this dig cause I thought you needed a break. Somewhere nice and quiet. A few fucking stones. No drama. No Luttrell in Trouble.’

‘Yes, I guess…and…’

‘And you end up in the middle of a civil war with a bunch of devil priests and then some Hun gets kebabbed.’ Steve chuckled. ‘Sorry, mate, shouldn’t make light of it. Must have been shite. But what do you wanna do now?’

Rob thought hard. What did he wanna do? He didn’t know. ‘I’m not sure…I think I actually need some editorial guidance.’ He stood up, his phone still pressed to his ear. ‘Steve, you’re the boss. I’m at a loss. Tell me what to do-and I’ll do it.’

‘Trust your instinct.’

‘You mean?’

‘Trust yourself. You’ve got a great nose for a story. You’re like a fucking bloodhound.’ Steve’s voice was firm. ‘So tell me. Is there a story here?’

Rob knew at once. He turned and looked at the waiter and motioned for the bill. ‘Yes. I think there is.’

‘There you are then. Do it. Dig around. Stay another two weeks, minimum.’

Rob nodded. He felt a professional excitement-but it was tainted with sadness. Breitner’s death had been so sickening. And he was yearning to go home and see his daughter. He decided to confess. ‘But Steve, I want to see Lizzie.’

‘Your little girl?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Softboy.’ Steve laughed. ‘How old is she now?’

‘Five.’

The editor went quiet. Rob glanced at the old mosque across the glittering fishpond. Christine had told him it was once a church-a Crusader church.

‘All right, Rob. If you do this for me we’ll fly you home straight afterwards. Business class, OK?’

‘Thanks.’

‘We like to encourage good parenting at
The Times.
But I’ll need something from you in the meantime.’

‘Like what?’

‘Give me the basic stones story. Need copy for Thursday. But I’ll put a little teaser in, hint that there’s more. We can make it a series. From our man in the Stone Age. With the demons in the desert.’

Rob laughed, despite himself. Steve always had the ability to cheer him up with his naked Fleet Street cynicism, his ruthless humour. ‘Cheers, Steve.’

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, feeling a lot better. He had a job to do, a story to
write, a lead to investigate. And then he could go and see his daughter.

Exiting the quiet of the parks, Rob walked out into the Kurdish street. Where taxi drivers were shouting at each other. Where a man was tugging a donkey as it pulled a cart stacked high with watermelons. It was so busy and noisy Rob could barely hear his phone. He felt its vibration instead.

‘Yes?’

‘Robert?’

Christine. He stopped on the dusty pavement. Poor Christine. She’d had to drive Franz to the hospital. She wouldn’t let anyone else do it. Rob had seen the blood all over her car, the blood of her friend. Gruesome and harrowing. ‘Are you OK? Christine?’

‘Yes, yes, thank you. I’m OK…’

She didn’t sound OK. Rob tried to make sympathetic conversation; he didn’t know what else to do. Christine wasn’t interested. Her speech was clipped, as if she was holding in the emotion. ‘Are you still flying out tonight?’

‘No.’ Rob said. ‘I’ve got more to write. I’m staying on for a week or two, at least.’

‘Good. Can you meet me? At the caravanserai?’

Rob was perplexed. ‘OK, but…’

‘Now?’

Still confused, Rob agreed. The phone went dead. Turning left, Rob strode back up the hill, right into the hubbub of the covered market.

The souk was a classic Arab market, the kind
that was fast disappearing from the Middle East. Full of gloomy passages, grimy blacksmiths, beckoning carpet sellers, and entrances to tiny mosques. The brilliant sunlight came down in javelins through holes in the corrugated roof. In dark, ancient corners, knife grinders squirted golden sparks into the spice-scented air. And there, in the middle of it all, was a real old-fashioned caravanserai: a cool and spacious courtyard with café tables and beautiful stone arcades. A place for trade and gossip, a place where merchants had haggled for silk, and men had wived their sons, for maybe a thousand years.

Stepping into the busy open plaza, he scanned the many tables and groups of people. Christine wasn’t hard to spot. She was the only woman.

Her face was drawn. Rob sat down opposite her. She looked deep into his eyes as if she was seeking something. Rob had no idea what. She was silent; awkwardly so.

‘Look Christine I’m so…sorry about Franz I know you were close and…’

‘Please. No.’ Christine was looking down. Stifling tears, or anger, or something. ‘Enough. It’s very kind of you. But enough.’ She looked up again, and Rob became uncomfortably aware of the topaz brown of her eyes. Deep and languishing. Beautiful, and brimming with tears. She coughed to clear her throat. Then she said, ‘I think Franz was murdered.’

‘What?’

‘I was there, Rob. I saw. There was an argument.’

The clapping sound of pigeons, flying away, filled the caravanserai. Men were sipping Turkish coffee and sitting on vermillion rugs. Rob turned back to Christine. ‘An argument doesn’t mean murder.’

‘I saw, Rob. They pushed him.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Exactly. And it wasn’t an accident: they pushed him deliberately right onto that pole.’

Rob frowned. ‘Have you been to the police?’

Christine waved the idea away, like an irritating fly. ‘Yes. They don’t want to know.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘I was practically marched out of the police station. A mere woman.’

‘Wankers.’

‘Maybe.’ Christine forced a smile. ‘But it is difficult for them, too. The workers are Kurds, the police are Turkish. The politics are impossible. And yesterday there was a bomb in Dyarbakir.’

‘I saw the TV news.’

‘So,’ Christine said, ‘just walking in and arresting a load of Kurds for a murder…that isn’t so simple, right now. Oh God…’ She leant her forehead on her folded arms.

Rob wondered if she was going to cry. Behind her a minaret rose above the arcading of the caravanserai. It had big black loudspeakers wired to the top, but they were silent for the moment.

Christine regained herself, sat back again. ‘I want to know, I want to do some…investigating.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I want to know everything. Why he was digging at night, why they wanted to kill him. Franz was my friend. So I want to know why he died. Will you come with me? I want to go to Gobekli and look at Franz’s notes, his materials, the works…’

‘But surely they have taken all that? The Turkish police?’

‘He kept a lot of stuff secret,’ Christine said. ‘But I know where. In a little locker in his cabin at the site.’ She leaned forward, as if she confessing something. ‘Rob we need to break in. And steal it.’

The flight to the Isle of Man, across the Irish Sea, was bumpy but brief. At Ronaldsway airport Forrester and Boijer were greeted in the arrivals lounge by the Deputy Chief Constable, and a uniformed sergeant. Forrester smiled and shook hands. The four policemen swapped names: the DCC was called Hayden.

They walked out into the car park. Forrester and Boijer exchanged glances-and shared a brief, knowing nod at the Manx sergeant’s rather odd white helmet. Very different to anything on the mainland.

Forrester already knew of the Isle of Man’s special status. A Crown colony, with its own parliament, its own flag, a heritage of ancient Viking traditions, and its own unique police force, Man was not an official part of the United Kingdom at all. They’d abolished flogging only a few years ago. Forrester’s SIO back in London had briefed Forrester carefully on the
slightly unusual protocols involved in visiting the Isle.

The car park was cold, with a hint of rain in the air; the four men walked briskly to Hayden’s big car. Silently they sped through farmland, down to the outskirts of the main town, Douglas, on the western coast. Forrester buzzed down his window and looked out, trying to get a feel for the place: a sense of where he was.

The lush green farmland, the rainy oak woods, the tiny grey chapels: they looked very British and Celtic. Likewise, as they reached Douglas, the huddled houses along the beach, and the flashier office blocks, reminded Forrester of the Scottish Hebrides. The only indication they were outside the UK proper was the Manx flag; the symbol of a three-legged man on a bright red background, which rippled in the drizzly wind on several buildings.

The silence in the car was broken by occasional chit chat. At one point Hayden turned and looked at Forrester and said, ‘Of course we’ve kept the body at the scene. We’re not amateurs.’

It was a strange remark. Forrester guessed these policemen, from this tiny force-two hundred officers or fewer-might resent his presence. The big man from the Met. The interfering Londoner.

But Forrester had a serious task in hand; he was very keen to see the crime scene. He wanted to get to work straight away. Protocols or no protocols.

The car swerved out of the town and threaded down a narrower road with high woods to their right and the choppy Irish Sea to their left. Forester noted a jetty, a lighthouse, some small boats bobbing on the grey waves, and another hill. And then the car dived between some rather grand gates and swept up to a very big, old, castellated white building.

‘St Anne’s Fort,’ said Hayden. ‘It’s offices now.’

The place was roped off with police tape. Forrester saw that a tent had been erected on the front lawns and glimpsed a policeman carrying an old Kodak fingerprint camera into the building. Climbing out of the car Forrester wondered about the capabilities of the local force. When had their last homicide been? Five years back? Fifty? They probably spent most of their time busting dope smokers. And underage drinkers. And gays. Wasn’t this the place where homosexuality was still illegal?

They went straight into the house, through the main doors. Two younger men wearing antiputrefaction masks glanced at Forrester. One of them was holding a tin of aluminium powder. They stepped into another room. Forrester went to follow the forensic officers but Hayden touched him on the arm. ‘No,’ he said, ‘the garden.’

The house was enormous, yet characterless inside. It had been brutally converted into offices: someone had ripped out the previous interiors and installed strip lighting and grey partitions, filing
cabinets and computers. There were models of boats and ferries on some of the desks. A couple of nautical charts hung on a wall; the offices presumably belonged to a shipping corporation or marine design company.

Following the Deputy Chief, Forrester stepped into a hallway from which big glass doors opened on to a wide rear garden, closed in on all sides by high hedges, and a wooded rise right at the back. The garden had been rudely dug up in various places; in the middle of these chewed-up green lawns was a large, yellow, crime scene tent, the flap zipped shut, concealing whatever was inside.

Hayden opened the glass doors and they walked the few yards to the yellow tent. He turned to the two London officers. ‘Are you ready?’

Forrester felt impatient. ‘Yes, of course.’

Hayden pulled back the flap.

‘Fuck,’ said Forrester.

The corpse was of a man in his thirties, he guessed. It had its back to them; and it was stark naked. But it wasn’t that which caused him to swear. The man’s head had been buried headdown in the lawn-with the rest of his body sticking out. The position was at once comical and deeply unsettling. Forrester immediately guessed the victim must have asphyxiated. The murderers must have dug a hole, forced the man’s head in, then packed the soil around, suffocating him. A nasty, weird, cold way to die. Why the hell would you do that?

Boijer was walking around the corpse, looking appalled. Even though the tent seemed to be colder than the windswept garden outside, a distinct smell came off the body. Forrester wished he had one of the SIRCHIE masks to block out the odour of decomposition.

‘There’s the Star,’ said Boijer.

He was right. Forrester walked around and looked at the front of the corpse. A Star of David had been gouged into the man’s chest; the wound looked even deeper and nastier than the torture inflicted on the janitor.

‘Fuck,’ Forrester said, again.

Standing next to him, Hayden smiled, for the first time this morning. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you feel the same way. I thought it was just us.’

Three hours later Forrester and Boijer were sharing plastic cups of coffee in the big tent at the front of the mansion. The local cops were arranging a press conference, in the ‘fort’. The two Met officers were alone. The corpse had finally been moved, after thirty-six hours, to the coroner’s lab in town.

Boijer looked at Forrester. ‘Not sure the natives are very friendly.’

Forrester chuckled. ‘I think they had their own language until…last year.’

‘And cats.’ said Boijer, blowing cool air across his coffee. ‘Isn’t this the place where they have those cats without tails?’

‘Manx cats. Yep.’

Boijer stared out through the flapping open doorway of the police tent, at the big white building. ‘What would our gang be doing out here?’

‘Christ knows. And why the same symbol?’ Forrester knocked back some more coffee. ‘What more do we know about the victim? You spoke to the scene of crime guy?’

‘Yacht designer. Working upstairs.’

‘On a Sunday?’

Boijer nodded. ‘Yep. Usually the place is deserted, at weekends. But he was working his day off.’

‘So he just got unlucky?’

Boijer swept his blonde Finnish hair back from his blue Finnish eyes. ‘Like the guy in Craven Street. Probably heard a noise.’

‘Then came downstairs. And our lovely killers decided to cut him up, then stick his head in the ground like a croquet hoop. Till he died.’

‘Not very nice.’

‘What about the CCTV?’

‘Nothing.’ Boijer shrugged. ‘The woodentop told me they’d drawn a blank on the cameras, all of them. Zip.’

‘Of course. And the prints and footwear marks. They’ll get nothing. These guys are insane, but not stupid. They are the opposite of stupid.’

Forrester stepped outside the tent and gazed up at the house, blinking away the soft drizzle that was now falling. The building was dazzling white. Newly painted. Quite a landmark for local sailors.
High and white and castellated, right above the jetty and the port. He scanned the battlements and scrutinized the sash windows. He was trying to work out what linked an eighteenth century house in London with what looked like an eighteenth century house in the Isle of Man. But then something struck him. Maybe it wasn’t. He squinted. There was just something wrong with this building. It wasn’t the real deal-Forrester knew enough about architecture to surmise that. The brickwork was too neat, the windows all recent-no more than ten or twenty years old. The building was evidently a pastiche, and not an especially good one. And, he decided, it was possible the killers knew this. The modern interior of the modern house was entirely undisturbed. Only the gardens had been dug up. The gang had obviously been looking for something, again. But they weren’t looking in the house. Only the garden. Apparently, they knew where to look. Apparently, they knew where
not
to look.

Apparently, they knew quite a lot.

Forrester turned his collar up against the chilly drizzle.