by Tom Knox
‘Sorry?’
The idea of this ultra-fashionable restaurant, it seemed, was that you kept ordering tiny bits of food. You didn’t order everything at the start: you kept going until you were full. It was fun. Forrester had never been anywhere like it. He wondered who could afford the prices. Soft shell crab sushi, flown in from Alaska. Toro with asparagus and sevruga caviar. What was toro?
‘The rock shrimp tempura is amazing,’ said De Savary.
‘Tell you what,’ Forrester said, ‘you order. Then tell me what you think about the gang…’
De Savary smiled gravely. ‘Yes of course. My lecture is at three. Let’s crack on.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘Your gang seems obsessed with human sacrifice.’
‘That much we know.’
‘But it’s an eccentric congeries of praxes.’
‘You what?’
‘They are carrying out sacrifices from different cultures. The tongue excision is perhaps Nordic, the burying of the head Japanese, or Israelite. The shaving is clearly Aztec. The Star of David is Solomonic, as you say.’
A young Thai waitress approached them and De Savary ordered. The waitress gave a tiny curtsey and went away. De Savary faced Forrester again.
‘And now we have the damu, buried at a spot dedicated to sacrifice. That’s what African witch doctors do, before a major muti killing. They bury the damu in hallowed ground. Then they carry out the sacrifice.’
‘So…You think they’ll kill again?’
‘Naturally. Don’t you?’
Forrester sighed, and assented. Of course the gang was going to strike again. ‘So what’s with the Hellfire stuff? How does that fit in?’
‘I’m not quite sure. They are, self-evidently, seeking something to do with the Hellfires. What that might be is less obvious.’
Three plates were set on the oak counter before them. The aroma was delicious. Forrester yearned to be allowed a spoon.
De Savary went on, ‘What I can tell you now is how these satanic cults work, the psychology of the groupuscule. They tend to come from the middle or even upper classes. Manson and his followers weren’t scumbag lowlifes, they were rich kids. It is the bored, intelligent rich who commit the most terrible crimes. One can see a parallel with the Baader Meinhof terror gang in Germany. Sons and daughters of bankers, millionaires, businessmen. Children of the élite.’
‘Then there’s Bin Laden…?’
‘Exactly! Bin Laden is the smart, charismatic son of a famous billionaire, yet he was drawn to the most nihilistic, psychopathic brand of Islam.’
‘So you see a parallel with the Hellfire Club?’
De Savary deftly chopsticked some of the yellowfin tuna. Forrester just about managed to do the same. It was unbelievably delicious.
‘Again, quite right. The Hellfire Cub provided the template, if you like, for the bon chic bon genre death cults of today. A group of English aristocrats, many of them very talented-writers, statesmen, scientists-yet drawn to deliberately transgressive acts. To épater les bourgeois, perhaps?’
‘But some people say the Hellfire Club was just a drinking club. A society of pranksters.’
De Savary shook his head. ‘Sir Francis Dashwood was one of the better religious scholars of his time. He went to the Far East to pursue his more arcane interests-religious esoterica. That’s not the action of a dilettante. And Benjamin Franklin was one of the finest minds of the century.’
‘So they wouldn’t have got together just to drink gin. And play naked Twister.’
‘No I don’t think so.’ De Savary chuckled. The Japanese chef in front of them was using two knives at once. Filleting and dicing a slippery long eel. The eel’s body danced on the chopping board as it was sliced, as if it was alive. Maybe it was alive. ‘It’s a matter of some dispute, what they got up to, the English Hellfire Club. We do know that the Irish Hellfires were hideously violent. They used to pour alcohol over cats, then set them on fire. The screams of the dying animals kept half of Georgian Dublin awake. And they murdered a servant in the same fashion. For a bet.’ He paused. ’I think the Hellfire Club and some of the other Satanic cults we see in Europe can help us understand what your gang will be like. Hierarchically. Motivationally. Psychologically. There will be a definite leader. Charismatic and highly intelligent. Probably someone very well-born.’
‘His followers?’
‘Close friends; weaker personalities. But still intelligent. Seduced by the cult leader’s Satanic charm. They are likely also to come from a privileged background.’
‘That fits with the descriptions, posh voices etcetera.’
De Savary took a plate from the counter. He thought for a moment, staring at the food, then continued, ‘However I think your gang leader is completely mad.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Don’t forget what he is doing. The ahistorical mixture of sacrificial elements. Indeed the very idea of sacrifice-it’s palpably insane. If he is looking for something connected with the Hellfires he could have done it in a much more discreet fashion. Rather than driving around the British Isles butchering people. Yes, the gang’s murders are planned and executed with a certain finesse, they cover their tracks as you say, but why murder at all-if your intention is principally to retrieve? To uncover something hidden?’ De Savary shrugged. ‘Et voila. This is no louche but logical Francis Dashwood, this is more of a Charles Manson. A psychotic. A genius, but psychotic.’
‘Which means?’
‘You are the detective. I think it means he will go too far. They will make a mistake in their frenzy. The only question is…’
‘How many people they will kill first?’
‘Exactly. Now you’ve got to try this daikon. It’s a kind of radish. Tastes like paradise.’
Back at Scotland Yard, Forrester relived the lunch with a happy burp. Then he sat in his swivel chair and spun around, like a kid. He was mildly drunk from the sake. But he could justify it. The lunch had been very useful. With his new friend Hugo. Forrester picked up the phone and called Boijer.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Boijer, I need a search. A trawl.’
‘What of?’
‘Ring around the classier public schools.’
‘OK…’
‘Start with Eton. Winchester. Westminster. Don’t go any lower than Millfield. Do Harrow. Check the list with the Headmasters’ Conference.’
‘Right. And…what do we ask them?’
‘For missing boys. Missing pupils. And try the better universities, too. Oxbridge, London, St Andrews. Durham. You know the roster.’
‘Bristol.’
‘Why not. And Exeter. And the agricultural college at Cirencester. We need to find students who dropped out, suddenly and recently. I want posh boys. With problems.’
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.’
28
Rob put down his phone and surveyed the tedious bustle of Istanbul airport. He’d spent an hour talking to his daughter: a happy, chatting, wistful, delightful hour. He’d then spent a slightly fractio
us and annoying ten minutes talking to her mother. His ex-wife, it turned out, was taking his daughter Lizzie to the country for a fortnight, starting today. Even if he flew home this minute he would miss her.
Rob rubbed the tiredness from his face. They’d arrived in the middle of the night and grabbed some frazzled sleep on the airport seats. It hadn’t really de-stressed him. What an incredible twentyfour hours it had been. What a bizarre chain of events. And what was he going to do now?
‘Hey soldier.’ Christine was brandishing cans of Diet Coke. ‘Thought you could use one of these.’
Rob took his can, gratefully, and cracked it open; the icy cola stung his broken lip.
‘Is everything OK at home, Robert?’
‘Yes…’ He watched a Chinese businessman hawking exuberantly into a rubbish bin. ‘No. Not really. Family stuff…’
‘Ah.’ She gazed levelly across the transit lounge. ’Look at it. All so ordinary. Starbucks. McDonalds…You’d never think we were nearly kidnapped. Just last night.’
Rob knew what she meant. He sighed, and gazed resentfully at the Departures screen. Their flight for London was many hours away. He really didn’t want to be here, killing time. But he didn’t want to go back to London if his daughter wasn’t there. What was the point? What he wanted to do was to resolve the story, finish the deal. He’d already spoken to his editor and told him a slightly bowdlerized version of the latest developments. Steve had sworn, twice, and then asked Rob if he felt safe. Rob had said that, despite it all, he felt fine. So Steve had tentatively agreed that Rob could continue-‘as long as you avoid getting shot in the head’. He had even promised to put some more money in Rob’s account to help things along. So the compass was pointing in one direction. Don’t quit. Don’t give up. Press on. Get the story.
But there was a big problem with pressing on: Rob didn’t know how Christine was feeling. The ordeal at the museum had been extremely frightening. He felt he could deal with what had happened, because he was used to danger. He’d handled Iraq. Just about. Could he expect Christine to be equally stoical? Was it asking too much of her? She was a scientist, not a news journalist. He finished the Coke and wandered over to the rubbish bin to toss the can. When he came back Christine scrutinized him with a faint smile. ‘You don’t want to fly home, do you?’