The Genesis Secret

27

The rotten, semi-mummified corpse of the baby lay on the floor. A reek of ancient decomposition swirled in the air. Bare bulbs flickered above the monuments and shelves of the museum vault. The approaching men were big, armed, and angry. Rob thought he recognized some from the dig. Kurds. They looked Kurdish.

There was only one door to the vault. And the route to the door was filled with these menacing figures. Eight or nine men. Some of them had guns: an old pistol; a shotgun; a brand new hunting rifle. The rest of them had large knives, one so big it was like a machete. Rob flashed an apologetic and hapless glance at Christine. She smiled, sadly, desperately. And then she walked over, reached out and squeezed Rob’s hand.

They were captured, and separated. The men grabbed Rob by the collar and Christine by the arms. Rob watched as the largest of them, the apparent leader, gazed down the side aisle at the cracked-open urn and the pitiful little corpse with the strange pungent liquor drooling out around it. He hissed at his colleagues and immediately two of the Kurdish men peeled off from the main group and walked down the side aisle, perhaps to deal with the evidence, to do something with the obscene little heap of faintly rotting flesh.

Rob and Christine were marched out of the vault. One of the men holding Rob dug a pistol, hard, into his cheek. The cold muzzle smelled of grease. Another two men grasped Christine fiercely by her bare arms. The tall man with the hunting rifle brought up the rear with a couple of lieutenants.

Where were they taking them? Rob could sense that the Kurds were also scared: maybe as scared as him and Christine. But these men were also determined. They pushed and pulled Rob and Christine down the long lines of antiquities, past the desert monsters, the Roman generals and the Canaanite storm gods. Past Anzu, and Ishtar, and Nimrud.

They climbed the stairs to the main museum chamber. Christine was swearing bravely, in French. Rob felt a surge of protectiveness-for her-and a surge of shame-for himself. He was the man here. He should be able to do something. Be heroic. Kick the knives from the Kurdish hands, turn and wrestle the kidnappers to the ground: grab Christine’s hand and save her, drag her to blazing freedom.

But life wasn’t like that. They were being led, like captured animals, slowly but surely: to their certain fate. And that was…what exactly? Were they being kidnapped? Was this a stunt? Were these guys terrorists? What was going on? He hoped that the Kurds were somehow policemen. But he knew quite surely that they weren’t. They couldn’t be. This wasn’t like an arrest. These guys looked furtive and guilty-and faintly murderous. Images of beheadings flooded his mind. All those poor guys in Iraq, Afghanistan and Chechnya. Held to the ground. The knife sawing across the cartilage and the windpipe. The gaseous exhalation as the headless body pumped air and blood, and then slumped to the ground. Allahu Akhbar. Allahu Akhbar. The grainy internet footage. The horror. A live human sacrifice, on the world wide web.

Christine was still swearing. Rob struggled and writhed but the men had him firmly. He couldn’t be a hero. He could try shouting. ‘Christine? he called. ‘Christine?’

Behind him he heard, ‘Yes!’

‘Are you OK? What the-’

A fist slammed into Rob’s mouth. He felt his palate fill with hot salty blood. The pain was searing: his body sagged.

The leader came around, to face him. He lifted Rob’s bleeding face and said, ‘No talk! No speak!’

The leader’s face wasn’t cruel. His expression was more…resigned. As if this was something they had to do, but didn’t necessarily want to. Something truly terrible…

Like an execution.

Rob watched as one of the Kurds slowly and carefully opened the main door of the museum. The sight of the door kicked off a procession of memories. The last few bizarre hours of his life: the sheep being slaughtered in the Urfan streets; the men in the black holiday pantaloons; their own stealthy ingress into the museum. And then the baby’s silent scream. Buried alive twelve thousand years ago.

The Kurd at the door nodded at his compadres. The coast, it seemed, was clear.

‘Go!’ the leader was shouting at Rob. ‘Go into car!’

Brusquely, the men escorted Rob through the sultry, moonlit car park. The car smeared with figs had been joined by three more vehicles. These were old cars: bashed-up local autos-clearly not police cars. Rob felt the last shred of hope disappear.

Their intent was obviously to take Rob and Christine somewhere a distance away. Out of the city maybe. To some lonely farmhouse. Where they would be chained to the seats. Rob imagined the sound of the knife as it ripped across his gullet. Allahu Akhbar. He shook the idea away. He had to stay lucid. Save Christine. Save himself for his daughter.

His daughter!!

Guilt pierced Rob’s heart like a dagger of glass. His daughter Lizzie! He’d promised her just yesterday that he would be home in a week. Now he might never see her again. Stupid stupid stupid stupid.

A hand was pressing on Rob’s head. They wanted him to stoop: to get into the musty backseat of the car. Rob resisted, feeling as if he was being taken to his death. He turned and saw Christine just behind him, a knife at her throat. She was being hauled across to the other car; there was nothing anyone could do.

Then: ‘Stop!’

The moment froze. Bright lights dazzled across the car park.

‘Stop!’

The lights were utterly blinding. Rob now sensed the presence of many more men. Sirens and sirens. Red and blue lights. Light and noise all about. The police. Was this the police? He wrenched an arm from his captor’s grasp and shielded his face and stared into the dazzling blinding light…

It was Kiribali, with twenty or thirty policemen. They were running into the car park. Crouching. Taking position. Taking aim. But these weren’t ordinary policemen. They wore black, almost paramilitary gear and carried submachine guns.

Kiribali was shouting in Turkish at the Kurds. And the Kurds were backing off. The one nearest Rob dropped his old pistol, then raised his hands. Rob saw Christine struggle from her captors and run across the car park to the safety of the police.

Rob wrenched his second arm free and walked across the car park to Kiribali, whose face was blank to the point of contempt. The officer snapped: ‘Come with me.’

Rob and Christine were sharply led away to a big new BMW outside the museum grounds. Kiribali ordered Rob and Christine in the back: he got in the front, then turned and looked at them. ’I’m taking you to the airport.’

‘But…’ Rob started. His throbbed with pain, where he had been punched.

Kiribali silenced him. ‘I went to the apartment, your hotel room. Empty! Both empty. I knew you must have come here. You are so foolish. Such foolish people!’ The BMW was speeding down the wide, lamplit road. Kiribali spoke in hurried Turkish to the driver; the driver answered obediently.

Then the officer flashed a very dark frown at Rob. ‘You have a couple of bags in the back. Passports. Your laptops. We will send the rest of your possessions. You are leaving Turkey tonight.’ He tossed two items into the back seat. ‘Your tickets. For Istanbul, then London. One way only. Tonight.’

Christine protested, but her reply was faltering, and her voice tremulous. Kiribali gazed at her with infinite disdain, then he and the driver exchanged some more words. The car was now on the outskirts of town. The flat semi-desert was quiet in the night, the colour of tarnished silver in the moonlight.

When they reached the airport the driver handed them their bags from the boot. Inside the tiny airport, Kiribali watched them check in. Then he pointed at the departure gate. ‘I do not expect to see either of you again. If you return the Kurds will probably kill you. Even if they don’t, I will throw you both in jail. For a very long time.’ He clicked his heels together, like a Prussian officer obeying an order, then he gave them another angry, contemptuous glare-and then he was gone.

Rob and Christine filed through security and boarded the plane. It taxied, and took off. Rob sank back into the seats, his whole body throbbing with pain and adrenaline. He could really feel it now: the surge of emotion, the fear; the eager fury. It was the same feeling he had experienced after the Iraqi suicide bomb. Rob clenched and unclenched his jaw muscles. His lip still hurt, his tooth was cracked. He tried to relax himself. His mind was racing, almost painfully. The story wasn’t over. He was a journalist. A good journalist. That’s all he was-but he could use it. He needed to channel this anger, this impotent anger, his humiliated masculinity. If they thought they could frighten him away with guns and knives they were wrong. He would get the story. He wouldn’t be scared away. He had to relax, though he felt like shouting. He looked across at Christine.

And then, for the first time since the baby urn had broken open, she spoke directly to him. Quietly but clearly she said, ‘Canaanites’.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what the ancient Canaanites did. They buried their children. Alive.’ She turned and stared ahead. ‘And in jars.’