The Genesis Secret

40

Rob sat in his flat and watched the video obsessively. Cloncurry had sent it three days before, in an email.

The video showed his daughter and Christine in a nondescript little room. Lizzie's mouth was gagged, as was Christine's. They were tied, firmly and lavishly, to wooden chairs.

And that's all it showed of them. They were in clean clothes. They didn't look injured. But the tight leather gags around their mouths and the terror welling in their eyes made the video almost unwatchable, for Rob.

So he watched it every ten or fifteen minutes. He watched it and watched it, and then he wandered around his flat, in his underwear, unshaven, unshowered, in a daze of despair. He felt like a deranged old saint in the Desert of Anguish. He tried to eat some toast and then gave up. He hadn't eaten a proper meal in a long time. Apart from the breakfast his ex-wife had cooked him a few days back.

He'd been over to Sally's to discuss their daughter's fate and Sally had, in her generous way, made him bacon and eggs, and for the first time in ages Rob had felt hungry and he had got halfway through the meal but then Sally had started crying. So Rob had stood up and comforted her with a hug: but that just made it worse: she had shoved him away and said it was all his fault and she yelled and cried and slapped him. And Rob had just stood there as she slapped him and then thumped him in the stomach, flailing. He took the blows, placidly, because he felt she was right. She was right to be angry. He had brought this terrible situation upon them. His ceaseless pursuit of the story, his selfish desire for journalistic fame, his mindless denial of the increasing danger. The mere fact he wasn't in the country to protect Lizzie. All of it.

The drenching guilt and the self-hatred Rob felt at that moment felt almost good. A least it was real: a genuine, searing emotion. Something to pierce the oddly numb despair he felt so much of the time.

His only other lifeline to sanity was the phone. Rob spent hours gazing morosely at it, willing it to ring. And the phone did ring, many times. Sometimes he got calls from friends, sometimes from colleagues at work, sometimes from Isobel in Turkey. The callers were all trying to help, but Rob was impatient-for the one communication he wanted: the call from the police.

He already knew they had a promising lead: Forrester had rang four days back saying they now reckoned the gang was possibly somewhere around Montpelier House, south of Dublin. The home of the Irish Hellfire Club. The detective had explained Scotland Yard's route to this conclusion: how the killers were surely moving in and out of the country, because of their ability to totally disappear, yet they weren't being traced by Customs and passport checks. That meant they must be escaping to the one foreign country for which you didn't need passport checks-when leaving the UK.

They must have driven or flown to Ireland.

All that was very plausible. But Forrester had felt it necessary, when talking to Rob, to add some strange supporting theory-about buried victims and the Ribemont death-pit and Catalhoyuk and a murderer called Gacy, and the fact that Cloncurry would choose somewhere near his ancestors' victims…And Rob had switched off at that point.

He was far from convinced that Forrester was right with these psychological speculations. It just seemed to be a hunch and Rob didn't trust hunches. He didn't trust anyone. He didn't trust himself. The only thing he could trust was the sincerity of his own self-loathing, and the fierceness of his anguish.

That night he went to bed and slept for three hours. He dreamed of a crucified animal, screaming on a cross, a pig or a dog maybe. When he woke it was dawn. The image of the nailed animal persisted in his mind. He took some Valium. When he woke again it was noon. His mobile phone was ringing. Ringing! He ran to the table and picked up.

'Hello? Hello.'

'Rob.'

It was…Isobel. Rob felt his mood dive precipitously; he liked and admired Isobel, he craved her wisdom and succour, but right now he just wanted to hear from the police, the police, the police.

'Isobel…'

'No news then?'

He exhaled. 'Not since last time, no. Nothing. Just…just these fucking emails. From Cloncurry. The videos…'

'Robert, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But…' She paused. Rob could picture her in her gracious wooden house, staring at the blue Turkish sea. The mental image was piercing, reminding Rob of how he and Christine had fallen in love. There, under the Marmara stars.

'Robert, I have an idea.'

'Uhn.'

'About the Black Book.'

'OK…' He could barely muster any interest.

Isobel was not dissuaded. 'Listen, Rob. The Book. That's what these bastards are looking for, right? The Black Book? They are absolutely desperate. And you've told them you can find it, or you've found it, or whatever, to keep them going…Correct?'

'Yes, but…Isobel we haven't got it. We have no idea where it is.'

'But that's it! Imagine if we do find it. If we do locate the Black Book then we've got some real leverage over them, haven't we? We can…swap…negotiate…you see my meaning?'

Rob assented gruffly. He wanted to be energized and excited by this phone call. But he felt so tired.

Isobel talked on. As she did, Rob wandered barefoot through the flat, cradling the phone under his chin. Then he sat at his desk and gazed at the shining laptop. There was no email from Cloncurry. No new email, at least.

Isobel was still talking; Rob tried to focus. 'Isobel, I'm not with you. Sorry. Say again?'

'Of course…' She sighed. 'Let me explain. I think they-the gang-might be barking up the wrong tree. Vis a vis the book.'

'Why?'

'I've been doing some research. We know, at one point, the gang were interested in Layard. The Assyriologist, who met the Yezidi. Correct?'

A dim memory wafted across Rob's distractions. 'The break-in, at the school, you mean?'

'Yes.' Isobel's voice was crisp now. 'Austen Henry Layard, who instigated the Nineveh Porch. At Canford School. He is famous for meeting the Yezidi. In 1847.'

'OK…we know that…'

'But the truth is he met them twice! He met them again in 1850.'

'Rrright…so…'

'It's all in this book I've got-I've only just remembered. Here. The Conquest of Assyria. Here's what it says: Layard went to Lalesh in 1847. As we know. Then he returned to Constantinople and there he met the British ambassador to the Sublime Porte.'

'Sublime…'

'Porte. The Ottoman Empire. The ambassador was called Sir Stratford Canning. And that's when it all changes. Two years later, Layard goes back to the Yezidi again-and this time is met with inexplicable triumph, and he finds all the antiquities that made him famous. And all this is true. It's in the history books. So you see…?'

Rob forced the image of his daughter from his mind. The leather gags…'Actually, no, I haven't the foggiest what you're on about.'

'OK, Rob, I'm sorry. I'll get right to the point. On his first expedition Layard went to Lalesh. My guess is that when he was there he was told by the Yezidi about the Black Book, how it had been taken from them by an Englishman, Jerusalem Whaley Layard was the first Brit the Yezidi had met, probably the first westerner-since Whaley's visit-so it makes perfect sense. They must have told him they wanted the Book returned.'

'Mmmmaybe…'

'So, Layard then goes to Constantinople and tells the ambassador, Canning, about his findings. We certainly know they met. And we also know Sir Stratford Canning was Anglo-Irish, of the Protestant ascendancy.'

Rob dimly discerned, at last, where this might be going. 'Canning was Irish?'

'Yes! The Anglo-Irish aristocracy. A tiny coterie. People like Whaley and Lord Saint Leger. The Hellfires. They are all related.'

'Well yes, that's curious. I s'pose. But how does it all fit in?'

'Around the same time, rumours were flying around Ireland, about a certain Edward Hincks.'

'Sorry? Right over my head.'

'Hincks was an obscure Irish parson from Cork. Who single-handedly managed to decipher cuneiform! All this is true, Rob. Google it. This is one of the great mysteries of Assyriology. The whole of educated Europe was trying to decipher cuneiform, then this rural Irish vicar beats them to it.' Isobel was rushing her words in her enthusiasm. 'So let's put two and two together. How did Hincks suddenly decipher cuneiform? He was an obscure Protestant cleric from the middle of nowhere. The bogs of Eire.'

'You think he found the Book?'

'I think Hincks found the Black Book. The book was almost certainly written in cuneiform-so Hincks must have somehow found it, in Ireland, and translated it, and deciphered cuneiform, and realized he'd found the Whaley treasure. The famous text of the Yezidi, once owned by the Hellfires. Maybe he tried to keep it secret-only a few Protestant Irish toffs would have known what Hincks had found, people already aware of the Whaley story, and the Irish Hellfires, in the first place.'

'You mean Irish aristos. People like…Canning?

Isobel almost yelped. 'That's it, Rob. Sir Stratford Canning was hugely important in Anglo-Irish circles. Like many of his type he was no doubt ashamed of the Hellfire past. So when he heard that Whaley's book had been found Canning had the perfect idea to solve all their problems. They wanted rid of the Book. And he knew that Layard needed the Book to give to the Yezidi. And Hincks had just found the Book.'

'So the Black Book was sent back to Constantinople…'

'And then finally it was returned to the Yezidi…via Austen Layard!'

The phone went silent. Rob pondered the concept. He tried not to think about his daughter. 'Well. It's a theory…'

'It's more than a theory, Rob. Listen to this!' Rob could hear the pages of a book being flipped. 'Here. Listen. Here's the actual account of Layard's second visit to the Yezidi. "When it was rumoured among the Yezidi that Layard was back in Constantinople, it was decided to send four Yezidi priests and a chief"-and they went all the way to Constantinople.'

'So-'

'There's more. After some "secret negotiations" with Layard and Canning in the Ottoman capital, Layard and the Yezidi then headed east into Kurdistan, back to the lands of the Yezidi.' Isobel drew breath, then quoted directly: '"The journey from Lake Van to Mosul became a triumphal procession…Warm feelings of gratitude poured over Layard. It was to him the Yezidi had turned and he had proven worthy of their confidence." After that the group made their way through the Yezidi villages, to Urfa, accompanied by "hundreds of singing and shouting people".'

Rob could sense Isobel's excitement, but he couldn't share it. Staring glumly at the cloudy London sky he said, 'OK. I get it. You could be right. The Black Book is therefore in Kurdistan. Somewhere. Not Britain, not Ireland. It was returned by Layard after all. The gang are wrong. Sure.'

'Of course, darling,' Isobel said. 'But it's not just in Kurdistan, it's in Urfa. You see? The book says Urfa. Lalesh is of course the sacred capital of the Yezidi. But the ancient administrative capital, the political capital, is Urfa. The Book is in Sanliurfa! Hidden away somewhere. So Layard took it there, to the Yezidi. And in return the Yezidi told him where to find the great antiquities, the obelisk of Nineveh, and so on. And Canning and Layard got the fame they wanted. It all fits!'

Rob's mouth was dry. He felt a surge of sarcastic despair. 'OK. That's great, Izzy. It's possible. But how the hell do we get hold of it? How? The Yezidi just tried to kill us. Sanliurfa is a place where we are not wanted. You suggest we just march back in and demand they hand over their sacred text? Anything else we should do while we're at it? Walk across Lake Van perhaps?'

'I'm not talking about you,' Isobel sighed, firmly. 'I mean me. This gives me a chance! I have friends in Urfa. And if I can get to the Black Book first-even just borrow it for a few hours, just make a copy-then we have something on Cloncurry. We can exchange our knowledge for Lizzie and Christine. And I really do know Yezidi people. I believe I can find it. Find the Book.'

'Isobel-'

'You can't dissuade me! I'm going to Sanliurfa, Rob. I'm going to find the Book for you. Christine is my friend. And your daughter feels like my daughter. I want to help. I can do it. Trust me.'

'But, Isobel, it's dangerous. It's a wild theory. And the Yezidi I met certainly thought the Book was still in Britain. What's that about? And then there's Kiribali-'

The older woman chuckled. 'Kiribali doesn't know me. And anyway I'm sixty-eight. If I get beheaded by some psychotic Nestorians so be it, I won't have to worry about a new prescription for my spectacles. But I think I'll be all right, Rob. I already have an idea where the Book might be. And I'm flying to Urfa tonight.'

Rob demurred. The hope Isobel offered was faint, very faint, yet it also appealed to him-perhaps because he had no other real hopes. And he also knew Isobel was risking her life, whatever the outcome. 'Thank you, Isobel. Thank you. Whatever happens. Thank you for this.'

'De nada. We're going to save those girls, Rob. I will see you soon. All three of you!'

Rob sat back and rubbed his eyes. Then he went out for the afternoon, and drank alone in a pub. Then he came back, for a few minutes, and couldn't bear the silence so he returned to the streets and carried on drinking. He went from pub to pub, drinking slowly and alone, staring at his mobile every five minutes. He did the same the next day. And the next. Sally rang five times. His friends from The Times rang. Steve rang. Sally rang. The police didn't ring.

And through it all Isobel called, almost every other hour, giving him her progress in Urfa. She said she felt she was 'close to the truth, close to the Book'. She said some of the Yezidi denied they had the Book, yet some thought she was right, that the Book had been returned, but they didn't know where it was kept. 'I'm close, Rob,' she said. 'I'm very close.'

Rob could hear the sound of the muezzin in the background of this last call, behind Isobel's earnestly encouraging voice. It was a strangely horrible feeling, hearing the hubbub of Sanliurfa. If he'd never gone there in the first place none of this would have happened. He never wanted to think about Kurdistan ever again.

For two more days Rob did nothing but agonize. Isobel stopped calling. Steve stopped calling so much. The silence was unendurable. He tried to drink tea and he tried to reassure Sally and he went to the supermarket to buy some vodka; then he got back home and went straight to his laptop, yet again. He was doing it by rote, now: expecting nothing.

But this time there was the little symbol of an envelope on his screen. A new email had arrived, and the new email was from…Cloncurry.

Rob opened up the message, his teeth gritted with tension.

The email was empty: apart from a link to a video. Rob clicked the videolink: the screen fizzed and cleared, and then Rob saw Christine and his daughter in a bare room, again tied to chairs. The room was a little different, smaller than the last one. The prisoners' clothes had changed. Obviously Christine and Lizzie had been moved.

But it wasn't any of this that caused Rob to shiver, with a harsh new fear, and a deeper anguish: it was the fact the two hostages were hooded. Someone had put thick black hoods over the heads of the girls.

Rob grimaced. He remembered his own terror in that foul black hood in Lalesh. Staring at the darkness.

These new, chilling scenes on the video-of Lizzie and Christine, silent, hooded, and lashed to the chairs-lasted a long three minutes. After then Cloncurry appeared, talking directly to the webcam.

Rob stared at the lean and handsome face.

'Hello, Rob! As you can see we've moved to more exciting accommodation. The girls have got hoods on because we want to frighten the living fuck out of them. So. Do tell me about the Black Book. Are you really on to it? I need to know. I need to be kept fully informed. Please don't keep secrets. I don't like secrets. Family secrets are such terrible things, don't you think? So tell me. If you still want a family, if you don't want your family dead, tell me. Tell me soon. Don't make me do what I don't want to do.'

Cloncurry turned away. He seemed to be talking to someone behind the webcam. Murmuring. Rob could hear laughter from somewhere off-cam. Then Cloncurry faced the camera again. 'I mean, let's get down to basics, Rob. You know what I like to do, you know my metier. It's sacrifice, isn't it? Human sacrifice. But the trouble is I am spoiled for choice. I mean: how shall I kill your daughter? And Christine? Because there are so many methods of sacrifice, aren't there? What are your favourites, Rob? I rather like the Viking ones. Don't you? The blood eagling, for example. The professor was quite alarmed I believe, when we took out his lungs. Alarmed and somewhat impressed, if I say so myself. But we could have been so much…crueller.' Cloncurry smiled.

Rob sat in his flat, sweating.

Cloncurry edged nearer the camera. 'For instance, there is a delightful rite the Celts had. They would impale their victims. Especially young women. First they would strip them naked, then they would carry them to a field, lift them up on top of a sharp wooden stake, and pull their legs apart, and then-well then just kind of yank them down, onto the stick. Impaling them. Through the vagina. Or the anus maybe.' Cloncurry yawned, then continued, 'I really don't want to do that to your lovely girlfriend, Rob. I mean, if I did shove a pike up her snatch she would just bleed all over the rug. And then we'll have to buy a big carpet cleaner. A needless expense!' He smiled again. 'So just give me the fucking Black Book. The Tom Whaley shit. Stuff you found in Lalesh. Give it over. Now.'

The webcam wobbled slightly. Cloncurry reached out and steadied it. Then he said, direct to camera, 'And as for child sacrifice, with little Lizzie over here. Well now…'

He got up and walked over to Lizzie's chair. With a magician's flourish, Cloncurry whipped off the hood-and there was Lizzie. Staring, terrified, at the camera, the leather gag tight around her mouth.

Cloncurry stroked the girl's hair. 'So many methods, just the one little girl. Which one shall we choose? The Incans would take children up mountains and just kill them by exposure. But that's rather slow, I feel. Rather…boring. But how about one of the more refined Aztec methods? You may, for instance, have heard of the god Tlaloc?'

He moved around Lizzie's chair. 'The god Tlaloc was a bit of a cunt, to be perfectly frank, Rob. He wanted his thirst slaked with human tears. So the Aztec priests had to make the children cry. So they did this by tearing off the childrens' fingernails. Very slowly. One by one.'

Cloncurry was unstrapping one of Lizzie's hands now; Rob saw that his daughter's hand was shaking with fear. 'Yes, Rob, they would rip out the nails, then cut off little fingers like these.' He caressed her fingers. 'And that made the children cry, of course. Having their fingernails ripped away. And then as they tore off the nails the Aztecs would capture the tears of the sobbing children, and give the liquid to Tlaloc. Then the kids were decapitated.'

Cloncurry smiled. Then, brusquely, he tied Lizzie's hand to the arm of the chair again. 'So that's what I may do, Rob, I may follow the old Aztec method. But I really think you should try and dissuade me. Don't make me rip off her nails, slice off her fingers, and then chop her head off. But if I am forced by your obstinacy to do any of that, I shall be sure to send her tears to you in a little plastic pot. So get cracking, get moving, get working.' He smiled. 'Chop chop!'

The killer leaned forward, looking for a switch. The video paused; the clip was frozen.

Rob stared at the silent computer for ten minutes afterwards. At the final frozen image of Cloncurry's half smile. His high cheekbones; his glittering green eyes; his dark hair. Sitting in the room behind him were Rob's daughter and Rob's girlfriend, tied to chairs, waiting to be impaled, to be mutilated and killed. Rob had no doubt that Cloncurry would do these things. He'd read the report of De Savary's murder.

The following day Rob spent with Sally. And then he got another email. With another video. And this one was so grotesque that Rob vomited as he watched.