The Genesis Secret

by Tom Knox

  ‘In a nutshell. Yes. He shifted a huge boatload of soil to the Isle of Man, and thereby fulfilled his vows. Or so they say…’

  Forrester laid a palm on the damp dark earth, now spotted blackly with rain. ‘So the whole building is built on that same Irish earth. This soil here now?’

  ‘Very possibly.’

  Forrester stood up. He wondered if the murderers knew this bizarre story. He had a firm sense they did know. Because they had ignored the building and instead had gone straight for the last possible authentic remnant of Whaley’s Folly. The earth on which it was built.

  Forrester had one more question. ‘OK, Mr Harnaby, where would the soil have come from?’

  ‘No one is entirely sure. However,’ the journalist took off his spectacles to rub some rain from the lenses. ‘However…I did once have a theory-that it came from Montpelier House.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Harnaby blinked. ‘The headquarters of the Irish Hellfire Club.’

  17

  Rob and Christine retreated to her neighbourhood. They parked, with a jolt, at the corner of her street. As he climbed down from the Land Rover, Rob looked left and right. At the end of Christine’s street was a mosque, its minarets were slender and lofty, bathed in lurid green floodlighting. Two moustached men in suits were arguing in the shadows down the way, right next to a big black BMW. The men briefly looked at Rob and Christine, then went back to their angry exchange.

  Christine led Rob into a dusty hallway of a modern block. The lift was busy, or out of order, so they took three flights of stairs. The apartment was large, airy and bright-and almost devoid of furniture. Neat piles of books were simply stacked on the polished wooden floor, or shelved in their hundreds along one wall. A big steel desk and a leather sofa were set to one side of the living room. A wickerwork chair was in the opposite corner.

  ‘I don’t like clutter’, she said. ‘A house is a machine for living in.’

  ‘Le Corbusier.’

  She smiled and nodded. Rob smiled too. He liked the flat. It was very…Christine. Simple, intellectual, elegant. He checked out a picture on the wall: it was a large and eerie photograph of a very strange tower. A tower of orange gold bricks surrounded by desultory ruins, with vast tracts of desert beyond.

  The two of them sat side-by-side on the leather sofa and Christine got out the book again. As she leafed once more through Breitner’s scrawled pages, Rob had to ask, ‘So. Einkorn wheat?’

  But Christine wasn’t listening; she was holding the book very close to her face, ‘This map?’ she said to herself. ‘These numbers…and these here…The woman Orra Keller…Maybe…’

  Rob waited for his reply. There was no reply. He felt a breeze in the room: the windows were open to the street outside. Rob could hear voices-out there. He went to the window and stared down.

  The moustached men were still hanging around, but now they were standing right beneath Christine’s block of flats. Another man in a dark puffy anorak was lurking in the doorway of the shop opposite: a big Honda motorbike showroom. The two moustached men looked up as Rob leaned out of the window. They stared at him wordlessly. Just looking up at him. The anoraked man was also looking up. Three men were staring at Rob. How menacing was this? Then Rob decided he was being paranoid. The whole of Sanliurfa could not be following them; these men were just…just men. It was just coincidence. He pulled the window to, and looked around the room.

  Maybe one of the many books on the shelves could help. He thumbed his way past a few titles. The Syrian Epipaleolithic…Modern Electron Microanalysis…Pre-Columbian Anthropophagy… Not exactly bestsellers. He saw a more general book. Encyclopaedia of Archaeology. Slipping it down from the shelf, he flicked straight to the index and found it right away. Einkorn wheat, page 97.

  With Sanliurfa’s night breezes filling the room, and Christine silently perusing the notebook, Rob scanned and digested the information.

  Einkorn wheat, it turned out, was a kind of wild grass. According to the book it grew naturally in south-east Anatolia. He looked at a small map on the facing page of the encyclopaedia which showed that Einkorn was local to the area around Sanliurfa. In fact, it seemed to grow in very few other regions. Rob read on.

  Einkorn was apparently a grass of the lower mountains and the foothills. It was crucial to the first agriculture, the move from hunter gathering to farming. Along with Emmer wheat it was probably ’the first ever life form domesticated by man’. And that first domestication had occurred in and around south-east Anatolia. Around Sanliurfa.

  The page he was reading linked him to another article: on the origins of agriculture. Judging by the Einkorn, this subject was important to the whole Gobekli mystery-so Rob turned to this article, too. He speed-read the pages. Pigs and chickens. Dogs and cattle. Emmer and einkorn. But then the final paragraphs caught his eye.

  ‘The great mystery of early agriculture is the Why, not the How. There is ample proof that the transition to early agriculture meant great hardship for the first farmers, certainly when compared to the relatively free and generous lifestyle of a hunter-gatherer. Skeletal remains show that these primal farmers were subject to more diseases than their hunting forebears, and had shorter and harder lives. Domesticated animals in the early stage of farming have, likewise, scrawnier physiques than their wild ancestors…’

  Rob thought about the little stalk of wheat, then read on. ‘Contemporary anthropologists further attest that hunter-gatherers lead a relatively leisured existence, toiling no more than two or three hours a day. Yet farmers need to work most of the hours of daylight, especially in spring and summer. Much of primitive farming is backbreaking and monotonous.’ The article concluded: ‘Such is the striking shift in conditions that some thinkers have seen a certain tragic decline in the onset of agriculture, from the Edenic freedom of the hunter, to the daily labour of the farmer. Such speculations are clearly beyond the remit of science, and this article, nonetheless…’

  Rob shut the book. He could hear the breeze in the curtains. The cool, slightly mournful desert wind was really picking up now. Rob slotted the book back on the shelf, and momentarily closed his eyes. He was tired again. He wanted to go to sleep, lulled by this lovely wind. Its soft and gentle reproach.

  ‘Robert!’ Christine was scanning the last page of the notebook minutely.

  ‘What?’

  ‘These numbers. You are a journalist. You know a story. What do you think?’

  Rob sat down beside Christine and looked at the last pages of the book. Again there was the ’map’. One waggly line which became four lines, which looked maybe like rivers. The bobbly lines seemed to be mountains. Or sea. Probably mountains. And then there was a crude symbol of a tree-indicating a forest perhaps? Besides, that was some kind of animal. A horse or a pig. Breitner was definitely no Rembrandt. Rob leaned closer. The numbers were bizarre. On one page was a simple list of digits. But many of these same numbers were repeated on the page with the map. Above the map was a compass sign with the number 28 by the arrow for east. Then 211, next to one of the waggly lines. Twenty-nine was written by the tree symbol. And there were more: 61, 62-and some much higher numbers: 1011, 1132. And then that last line about Orra Keller. There were no more numbers after that. No more of anything. The notebook ended poignantly-halfway down a page.

  What did it mean? Rob started adding the numbers together. Then he stopped doing that because it seemed pointless. Maybe they were connected to the dig-maybe the numbers were a code for finds, and these marks showed places where the finds has been unearthed? Rob had already speculated that the map was a map of Gobekli. It was the obvious solution. But it didn’t seem to fit. There was only one river near Gobekli-the Euphrates, and that was a good thirty miles off. The map moreover had no symbol for Gobekli itself-nothing indicating the megaliths.

  Rob realized he had been in a reverie for several minutes. Christine was looking at him.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m intrigued.
It’s intriguing.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Like a puzzle.’

  ‘I was wondering if the numbers mean finds? Things you have discovered in Gobekli? I remember seeing numbers written on some of those little bags you have…where you put arrowheads and stuff?’

  ‘No. It’s a nice idea, but no. The finds are numbered when they go to the vaults, in the museum. They have letters joined with numbers.’

  Rob felt he had left her down. ‘Ah well. Just a theory.’

  ‘Theories are good. Even if they are wrong.’

  Rob yawned again. He had done enough for one day. ‘Do you have anything to drink?’

  The simple question had a bracing effect on the Frenchwoman. ‘My God.’ She stood up. ‘I am so sorry. I am not being very hospitable. Do you want a whisky?’

  ‘That would be fantastic.’

  ‘Single malt?’

  ‘Even better.’

  He watched as she disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, she came back with a tray bearing a mug filled with ice, two chunky glass tumblers and a bottle of mineral water alongside a tall bottle of Scotch. She set the glasses on the desk and unscrewed the bottle of Glenlivet, pouring out two serious inches of Scotch. The dark, tigery liquor glittered in the light from the sidelamp.

  ‘Ice?’

  ‘Water.’

  ‘Commes les Brittaniques.’

  She splashed some water out of the plastic bottle, handed Rob the glass and sat down beside him. The glass was cold in Rob’s grasp, as if it had been kept in the fridge. He could still hear the voices outside. They had been arguing for an hour. What about? He sighed and pressed the cold glass to his forehead, rolling it from side to side.

  ‘You are tired?’

  ‘Yeah. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘So. Do you want to sleep here? The sofa is very nice.’

  Rob thought about this: about the moustached men outside. About the dark loitering figure in the doorway. He suddenly felt a very strong urge not to be alone, and he really didn’t want to walk the half a mile to his hotel. ‘Yeah, if it’s OK.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ She quickly swallowed the rest of her scotch, then went about the flat, finding him a duvet and some pillows.

  Rob was so tired he fell asleep the moment Christine turned off the lamp. And as soon as he slept, he dreamed. He dreamed of numbers, he dreamed of Breitner and a dog. A black dog streaking along a path and a hot sun. A dog. A face.

  A dog.

  And then his dreams were interrupted by a bang. He was woken by a very loud bang.

  He jumped up from the sofa. It was light. How long had he been asleep? What was that noise? Groggily, he checked his watch. It was nine in the morning. The flat itself was quiet. But that repeated banging, what was it?

  He rushed to the window.

  18

  Rob leaned out of the apartment. The city was thrumming. Bread-sellers were parading the busy streets, carrying on their head big trays of rolls and sweet pastries, and pretzels with sesame. Mopeds rode the pavements, avoiding dark-skinned schoolgirls with satchels.

  Rob heard the bang again. He scanned the scene. A man was cutting baklava with a pizzaslicer in a shop across the way. And once more: Bang!

  Then Rob saw a motorbike: an old, black, oily British Triumph. Backfiring. The owner was off the bike, and was now angrily hitting the machine with his left shoe. Rob was about to duck back inside when he saw something else.

  The police. There were three policemen climbing out of two cars along the street. Two of them were in sweat-stained uniforms, the third in a dapper blue suit and a pale pink tie. The policemen walked to the front door of Christine’s block, sixty feet below and paused. Then they pressed a button.

  The bell in Christine’s flat buzzed, very loudly.

  Christine was already out of her bedroom, fully dressed.

  ‘Christine the police are—’

  ‘I know, I know!’ she said. ‘Good morning Robert!’ Her face looked strained, but not frightened. She went to the intercom and buzzed the door open.

  Rob pulled on his boots. Seconds later the police were in the flat-in the sitting room-and in Christine’s face.

  The dapperly-suited man was courteous, wellspoken, faintly sinister and barely thirty years old. He gazed curiously at Rob. ‘You must be?’

  ‘Rob Luttrell.’

  ‘The British journalist?’

  ‘Well, American, but I live in London…’

  ‘Perfect. This is most convenient.’ The officer smiled as if he had been given an unexpectedly large cheque. ‘We are here to interview Miss Meyer about the terrible murder of her friend, Franz Breitner. But we would also like to talk with you, similarly. Perhaps afterwards?’

  Rob nodded. He had anticipated a meeting with the police, but he felt oddly guilty being cornered here: in Christine’s flat, at 9 a.m. The policeman was maybe playing on this guilt. His smile was suggestive and superior. He sidled to the desk, then flicked another supercilious glance at Rob. ‘My name is Officer Kiribali. As we wish to speak with Miss Meyer first, in private, it would be beneficial if you could step outside for an hour or so?’

  ‘Well, OK…’

  ‘But don’t go far. Just for one hour. Then we can proceed with you.’ Another serpentine smile. ’Is that agreeable, Mr Luttrell?’

  Rob looked at Christine. She nodded unhappily. Rob felt more guilt: at leaving Christine alone with this creepy guy. But he had no choice. Grabbing his jacket, he left the flat.

  He spent the following hour on a sweaty plastic seat in a noisy internet café, trying to ignore the grunting older man, in baker’s overalls, openly surfing lesbian porn on his right.

  Rob worked the numbers from Breitner’s book. He stuck them in every search engine possible: juggling them and rearranging them. What could the numbers be? They surely were a clue, maybe the key. One likelihood was page numbers. But what book? And surely they went too high-1013?

  The Turkish baker had finished his surfing. He brushed past Rob with a petulant expression. Rob squinted into his screen, and juggled the numbers again. What was all this about? Were they geographical coordinates? Calendar years? Carbon dates? Rob had no idea.

  He was sensing that the best method of cracking a puzzle like this was to let it lie: to let the subconscious get to work. Like a computer humming away in a backroom. The idea had a good pedigree. Rob had once read about a scientist called Kekule who had been striving to establish the molecular structure of Benzene. Kekule toiled for months with no success. But then one night he dreamed of a snake with its tail in its mouth: an ancient symbol called an ouroboros.

  Kekule then woke, recalled the dream, and realized his unconscious mind was speaking to him: the molecule for Benzene was a ring, a circle, like a snake chewing its tail. Like the ouroboros. Kekule rushed to the laboratory to test the hypothesis. The solution he had dreamed was correct in all parts.

  That was how powerful the unconscious was. So maybe Rob had to leave the problem in the mental cellar for a while, to let it ferment. Then the solution to Breitner’s numbers might pop into his mind when he was thinking of something else: when he was showering, shaving, sleeping, or driving. Or being interviewed by the police…

  The police! Rob checked his watch. An hour had passed. Thrusting his chair back, he paid the net café owner and walked swiftly to Christine’s flat.

  One of the uniformed policemen opened the door. Christine was sitting on the sofa, dabbing at her eyes. The other constable was handing out tissues. Rob bristled.

  ‘Do not worry Mr Luttrell.’ Officer Kiribali was sitting on the desk, his legs neatly crossed at the ankle. His tone-of-voice was casual and presumptuous. ‘We are not Iraqis here. But Miss Meyer found talking of her friend’s death rather…discomfiting.’

  Christine glanced warily at the policeman and Rob detected plenty of resentment in her expression. Then she walked to her bedroom and slammed the door shut.

  Kiribali shot his dazzling white cuff
s, and wafted a manicured hand across the sofa, gesturing Rob to sit down. The two other policemen were standing across the room. Mute and sentinel. Kiribali smiled down at Rob. ‘So you are a writer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How charming. I rarely get to meet genuine authors. This is such a primitive town. Because, you know, the Kurds…’ He sighed. ‘They are not exactly…scholars.’ He tapped his chin with his pen. ‘I studied English literature at Ankara. It is my private delight, Mr Luttrell.’

  ‘Well, I’m just a journalist.’

  ‘Hemingway was just a journalist!’

  ‘Really. I’m just a hack.’

  ‘But you are too modest. You are a gentlemen of letters. And of English letters, at that.’ Kiribali’s eyes were a very dark blue. Rob wondered if he was wearing tinted contacts. Vanity oozed from him. ‘I always liked American poets. The women in particular. Emily Dickinson. And Sylvia Plath? You know them?’ He looked at Rob, an inscrutable expression on his face. ‘An engine, an engine, chuffing me off like a Jew…I think I may well be a Jew!’ Kiribali smiled, urbanely. ‘Aren’t they some of the most frightening lines in literature?’

  Rob didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to discuss poetry with a policeman.

  Kiribali sighed. ‘Another time, maybe.’ He waggled the pen between his fingers. ‘I only have a few questions. I am aware you did not witness the alleged murder. Consequently…’

  And so the interview proceeded. It was brief to the point of perfunctory. Almost pointless. Kiribali barely noted Rob’s answers, one of the policemen turned a tape recorder on and off, in an apathetic way. Then Kiribali concluded with some more personal inquiries. He seemed more interested in Rob’s relationship with Christine. ‘She is a Jewess, is she not?’

  Rob nodded. Kiribali smiled, contentedly, as if his biggest problem had been solved, then he laid the pen down. Resting it precisely in line with the edge of the desk. He clicked his fingers, the somnolent constables stirred; and the three policemen walked to the door. Pausing at the threshold, Kiribali asked Rob to tell Christine that she might be required for further questions, at ‘some point in the future’. And then he was gone, with a final noxious waft of cologne.