The Genesis Secret

46

Reaching in to the echoey darkness, and slightly grunting from the exertion, Rob pulled the box along the planks and dragged it onto the stairway.

The round, flat-topped box was made of ancient leather, cracked, worn and battered black leather. It had the distinct air of something from the eighteenth century, something aristocratic. Like the luggage of a lord on the Grand Tour. The case seemed to match the architectural style of the house wherein it had lain, secretly concealed, for so long.

The box was also covered with thick cobwebby dust. Christine brushed way the top layers of grease and dirt, and a series of letters and words appeared on the lid, inscribed in a thin, delicate gold:

TW, Anno Domini. 1791

The lovers exchanged glances. Christine said, ’Thomas Whaley.’

‘Before he went to Israel. And became Jerusalem Whaley…’

The principal of the college was looking agitated. Hopping from one elegantly-shod foot to another. ’Guys, look, sorry, but do you mind if we take this somewhere else? We have students coming up and down these stairs all the time, and…Not sure I want all the…brouhaha?’

Forrester and Dooley saw the point; they all agreed to shift elsewhere. Rob picked up the box again, holding it like a drum in front of him. The box wasn’t that heavy: just unwieldy. Something quite large was rattling inside it. He tried to hold it as steady as possible as they walked. Every second that passed, every second they wasted, he thought of Lizzie. Every second took her closer to death.

Rob was finding it hard not to shout at people; setting his jaw into determined silence, he followed Principal Matthewson up the rest of the stairs and along a short corridor. And then at last they were in a bright, elegant office: the principal’s study, overlooking the trees and sunlit lawns of St Stephen’s Green.

Forrester glanced through the windows at Sally and Boijer sitting there, on a bench, in the Green. Waiting. ‘Just a moment,’ he said. He took out his mobile.

The box was clunked on Mathewson’s desk, sending a cloud of dust flying out of the venerable leather casing.

‘OK,’ said Dooley. ‘Let’s open it.’

Christine was already examining the box. ‘These old straps and buckles,’ she muttered, trying one. ’They won’t undo.’

Dooley struggled with another buckle. ‘Totally rusted.’

Rob stepped forward, his knife out. ‘My daughter is waiting!’ He knelt and slashed the straps open. The very last strap was the toughest of all: he had to saw at it for a while: viciously; then at last it gave up, and flopped away.

He stood back. Forrester was lifting off the black leather lid, with the printed gold lettering. They all peered into the depths of the historic box and found themselves looking down at the Black Book, the first time it had been seen in two hundred and fifty years.

Except that it was not a book that stared back at them; but a face.

‘Jesus!’ said Dooley.

Sitting at the bottom of the box was a skull.

It was a very strange skull. Obviously human, yet not quite human. It had slanting cheekbones, and almost birdlike, snakelike eyes, handsome and Asiatic, yet oddly broad, and cruelly smiling.

Rob recognized it immediately. ‘That’s exactly what I saw in Lalesh. The same kind of skull. Sort of half man…half bird. What the hell is that? Christine, you’re an osteo…expert. What is it?’

With a confident dexterity, Christine reached inside the black leather case, and took out the skull. ‘It’s very well preserved,’ she said, examining the cranium and the lower jawbone. ’Someone has had it treated it to prevent it from decaying.’

‘But how old is it? What is it? Is it human? What’s with the eyes?’

Christine walked to the light of the long sash windows. She held the skull up, in the slanting sunshine. ‘It’s definitely hominid. But it’s hybrid.’

The door to the office pushed open. It was Sally and Boijer. They stared in shock, at the skull in Christine’s hands.

‘That’s it?’ said Boijer. ‘That’s the Black Book? A human skull?’

Rob nodded. ‘Yep.’

‘Not quite human.’ Christine twisted the skull in her hands. ‘It’s hominid, but there are stark differences between this and a normal Homo sapiens skull. Here, look. The large braincase size, the sagittal size, and the orbitals, very intriguing…’

‘So it’s a crossbreed between humans and…and what?’ asked Rob.

‘No idea. Not Neanderthals. Not Homo habilis. This seems to be some unknown human type; and one with a very large braincase.’

Rob was still in the dark. ‘But I thought humans couldn’t breed with other species? I thought different species couldn’t breed?’

Christine shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. Some species can interbreed. Tigers and lions, for instance. It’s rare but it happens. And this kind of hybridization is not unknown in human evolution. Various experts think we interbred with the Neanderthals.’ She set the skull on the table. Its white teeth glittered in the lamplight. The skull was yellowy cream, and very large.

Dooley was still looking in the musty leather case. ‘There’s something else.’ He reached in, and pulled out a folded document. Rob watched, transfixed, as the Irish detective carried the document to the principal’s desk and laid it next to the skull.

The document was weathered and creased, and made from some form of robust parchment. Yellowed and old: maybe hundreds of years old.

Very carefully, Rob unfolded it; as he did so, the parchment creaked and gave off a distinct and not unpleasant fragrance. Of sadness, and age, and funeral flowers.

They leaned over the parchment as Rob flattened it out. Christine looked down, frowning. The parchment was inscribed with very dark ink, showing a cursory map, and a few lines in a scrawled and archaic script.

‘Aramaic,’ said Christine, almost immediately. ‘It’s Aramaic. Seems to be a fairly unusual form…Let me have a proper look.’

Rob sighed with frustration: the passing of every second was painful. He glanced at the skull, sitting there on the desk next to the parchment. It seemed to be sneering at him. Sneering like Jamie Cloncurry.

Cloncurry! Rob shook himself. They had the Black Book! And Cloncurry needed to know this at once. Rob asked Matthewson if he could use the office computer and the principal nodded his assent.

Rob went to the principal’s desk, logged on the computer, and got straight through to Cloncurry. The videolink buzzed into life. The webcam was working. Within a few seconds Cloncurry came briskly and suddenly into view. He was grinning, maliciously. ‘Ah, so I suppose you have found it. In a bus stop perhaps? Maybe in a bingo hall?’

Rob silenced him by lifting up the skull.

Cloncurry stared. He swallowed, and stared. Rob had never seen the gang-leader nonplussed like this: but the killer seemed discomfited, anxious, almost stunned.

‘You have it, you actually have it.‘ Cloncurry’s voice was phlegmy with anxiety. He started again. ‘And what about…the documents, was there anything else? In the box?’

Sally handed across the parchment. Rob lifted it up and showed it to him. Cloncurry breathed out, long and hard, as if he had been relieved of a terrible burden. ‘All this time. All this time. And in Ireland! So Previn was wrong. I was wrong. Layard was a dead end. And it’s not even in cuneiform!’ Cloncurry shook his head. ‘So. Where was it exactly?’

‘Newman House.’

Cloncurry went quiet. Then he shook his head and laughed, bitterly. ‘Christ. Under the secret stairs!? Jesus Christ. I told them to search properly. Those rancid imbeciles.’ Now he stopped laughing and gazed insolently and contemptuously at the webcam. ‘Still, nothing to be done about it now. My colleagues are lying in coffins. But you can save your daughter’s life-as long as you bring me the Book-the skull and the document. OK? And I want it here within…oh God. Here we go again. Another deadline. How long will it take you morons to get here?’

Rob started to speak but Cloncurry lifted a hand. ’Shut up. Here’s the deal. I’ll give you three more days. That’s surely enough time. Possibly too generous. But that’s me for you, super generous. But please believe me, my patience is running out. Recall that I am psychotic.’ He chortled, and did an exaggerated facial tic, mimicking his own madness. ‘And, guys, when you come, don’t bother bringing your police chums. They’ll be of no use to you. Will they? Because they won’t get much help from Kiribali, or the Kurds. As I think you realize very well. So get on with it, Rob. Fly here, bring the Book, and you can have your Lizzie back, unpickled. You’ve seventy-two hours, and that’s that. The final deadline. Ciaociao.’

The screen went black.

Forrester broke the silence. ‘Of course, we will have to go through the local police, in Turkey. I’ll speak to the Home Office. We can’t have you guys just flying out there. This is a murder case. It’s very complex. As I’m sure you realize.’

Rob narrowed his eyes. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m sorry if this seems bureaucratic, but we’ll be quick, very quick. I promise. It’s just that we need to be careful. And this guy is a nutcase, if you go in alone there’s no guarantee he won’t just, you know. We need local back up. And that means official involvement, approval from Ankara, liaisons with Dublin. All that.’

Rob thought about Kiribali. His lizardly smile. His threats at the airport. ‘Of course.’

Matthewson was hopping from foot to foot again. He evidently wanted this troublesome entourage out of his office but was too polite to say as much. Obediently they all filed outside, led by Rob, carrying the ‘Black Book’-the skull and the map in the old leather box. Sally and Christine came behind, talking quietly. The police, bringing up the rear, were animatedly conversing, almost arguing.

Rob watched the London detective jabbing a finger at Boijer. ‘What the hell are they arguing about?’

Christine shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ Her expression was sardonic. They walked on ahead.

Rob glanced to his left, at Sally, and to his right, at Christine. Then he said, ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘Yes,’ said Christine. ‘The police will screw it all up.’

‘Exactly. All that “talk to the Home Office” stuff. Jesus.’ Rob felt the anger and frustration surge inside him. ‘And talk to bloody Kiribali? What are they on? Kiribali is probably in league with Cloncurry anyway. Who else is helping that bastard?’

‘And if they go through Ankara it will take ages,’ Christine went on, ‘and they will antagonize the Kurds, the whole thing will be a terrible fiasco. They don’t understand. They’ve never been there, never seen Sanliurfa…’

‘So maybe you have to go. Now.’ Sally leaned and squeezed Rob’s hand. ‘Just do it. Take the Black Book, the skull-whatever it is-just take it to Cloncurry, and give it to him. Just fly there, now, tomorrow: the police can’t stop you. Do what Cloncurry wants. She’s our daughter.’

Rob nodded slowly. ‘Absolutely. And I know someone who can help…in Sanliurfa.’

Christine raised a hand. ‘But we still can’t trust Cloncurry. Can we? Forrester is right about that, at least.’ With the last rays of the setting sun soft on her face, Christine looked earnestly at Rob and then at Sally. ‘Sure he’s hunting for the Book. But once he’s got it, once we give him the Black Book he may just…do what he wants anyway. You see? He’s psychotic. As he says. He enjoys killing.’

‘So what do we do?’ Rob said despairingly.

“There may be a way. I saw the map.’

‘What?’

‘When we were in the office,’ Christine explained. ‘The parchment is written in Late Ancient Aramaic. The language used by the Canaanites. And I think I can read that. Just about.’

‘And?’

Christine looked down at the leather box, sitting at Rob’s feet. ‘Show me again.’

Rob bent and opened the box, retrieved the parchment and flattened it on his knee. Christine nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ She pointed at a line of ancient handwriting. ‘It says the “great skull of the ancestors” comes from…“the Valley of the Slaughter”.’

‘So, what’s that then?’

‘It doesn’t say.’

‘Great. OK. So what about the writing? Here. What does that mean?’

‘It mentions the Book of Enoch. It doesn’t quote it.’ She frowned. ‘But it refers to it. And then it says, here: “The Valley of the Slaughter is where our forefathers died”. Yes. Yes, yes.’ Christine pointed at one line on the parchment. ‘And here it says the valley is a day’s walk towards the setting sun, from the “place of worship”.’

‘And this…?’

‘That shows a river and the valleys. And here’s another clue. It says the place of worship is also called “the hill of the navel”! That’s it!’

Rob’s mind was blank. He felt so tired, and so stressed about Lizzie. He glanced at Christine. Her expression was the opposite of his: alert and eager.

She eyed him. ‘The hill of the navel. You don’t remember?’

Rob shook his head, feeling an idiot.

‘Hill of the Navel is the English meaning of the Turkish phrase…Gobekli Tepe.’

A light dawned in Rob’s head.

Across the lawns, the police were evidently concluding their debate, and shaking hands. Christine went on, ‘So. According to this parchment, a day’s walk from Gobekli Tepe, walking west, away from the sun, is the Valley of the Slaughter. And that’s where this skull comes from. And that’s where, I suspect, we will find many others like it. We have to be proactive. Think a few moves ahead. We can bring Cloncurry to us. We need to have something so powerful that he has to hand Lizzie over unharmed. If we actually unearth the secret, implied by the Black Book, contained in the skull and the map, if we dig up the Valley of the Slaughter and find out the truth behind all of this, then he will come to us in supplication. Because that valley is where the secret is hidden. The secret he keeps banging on about. The secret revealed to Jerusalem Whaley that ruined his life. The secret that Cloncurry wants hidden for ever. If we want to have power over Cloncurry we need to go right past him, dig up this valley, find out the secret, and threaten to reveal the mystery, unless he hands over Lizzie. That’s how we win.’

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.