by Tom Knox
Kiribali frowned. ‘And this significance was?’
‘Jerusalem Whaley had, therefore, learned the truth about the descent of Man, and the genesis of religion. He had proved that religion was a charade, a folk memory, a relived nightmare. But he had also discovered something else: that an evil trait has infiltrated itself into the human bloodline, and that this trait gifts its carriers with great talent, intelligence and charisma. It makes them leaders. Yet leaders tend to sadism and cruelty because of this same gene cluster. Jerusalem Whaley only had to look at his own bloodline for proof, especially his brutal father, descended in turn from Oliver Cromwell. In other words, Whaley had discovered an appalling fact: that the fate of man is to be led by the cruel, because sadism and cruelty are linked to the genes that make men intelligent and charismatic leaders. The genes of the Northmen.’
Kiribali went to speak; but Rob stalled him with a gesture; he had nearly finished. ‘Shattered by this revelation, Jerusalem Whaley hid the evidence: the skull and the map; the Black Book that Christine and I found in Ireland. And then he retired to the Isle of Man, broken and frightened. He was convinced that the world could not bear the truth-not just that all the Abrahamic religions were based on a falsity, an amalgam of remembered terrors and sacrificial urges-but that all political systems, aristocratic, feudal, oligarchic or even democratic, are bound to produce leaders predisposed to violence. Men who like to kill and to sacrifice. Men who will send thousands over a trench. Men who will fly a plane into a tower of innocents. Men who will clusterbomb a helpless desert village.’
Kiribali regarded him, grimly.
‘And so the Hellfires disbanded, and the matter was suppressed. But one family preserved the terrible truth discovered by Jerusalem Whaley.’
‘The Cloncurrys.’
‘Exactly. The descendants of Jerusalem and Burnchapel Whaley. Rich, privileged and blood-thirsty, the Cloncurrys carried the Gobekli gene. They also passed down the knowledge once given to them by Tom Whaley. This knowledge was the deepest family secret, never to be revealed. If the knowledge was ever broadcast, elites across the world would be overthrown, and Islam and Judaism and Christianity likewise destroyed. It would be apocalyptic. The end of everything. The Cloncurrys’ job, as they saw it, was therefore to ensure that this hideous truth remained suppressed.’
‘And then poor Breitner came along.’
‘Quite. After centuries of silence, the Cloncurrys learned that Gobekli was finally being dug up, by Franz Breitner. This was ominous. If the skull and the map were also found, and someone placed the pieces together, the truth would come out. The youngest scion of the family, Jamie Cloncurry, therefore recruited some rich kids, his acolytes, into a cultic gang with just this aim. To find and destroy the Black Book.
‘But Jamie Cloncurry suffered another dynastic curse: he carried an intense version of the Gobekli gene cluster. Handsome and charismatic, a gifted leader, he was also psychotic. He believed it was his right to kill at will. Whenever he was thwarted in his quest for the skull and the map, the Gobekli gene revealed itself.’
There was a long, long silence.
At last Kiribali stood up. He shot the cuffs of his shirt, and adjusted his tie. ‘Very good. I do so like stories.’ He gazed directly at Rob. ‘The best bits of the Bible and the Koran-those are the best stories. Don’t you think? I have always believed that.’
Rob smiled.
Kiribali walked a few yards towards the megaliths, the polished toecaps of his shoes gleaming in the moonlight. He looked back. ‘There is an interesting coda, Robert…to all of this.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes…’ The detective’s voice was sibilant in the quietness. ‘I was talking to Detective Forrester.’
‘The DCI.’
‘Correct. And he told me something curious, about you and Cloncurry. You see, I rather pressed him for information.’ The detective shrugged, in an unembarrassed way. ‘You know how I am. And after some interrogation, Forrester admitted to me what he had found, in his research. On the internet.’
Rob gazed at Kiribali.
‘Robert Luttrell. It’s a fairly unusual name. Distinct. Is that not right?’
‘It’s Scotch-Irish, I think.’
‘That’s right. In fact,’ said Kiribali, ‘it is also found around Dublin. And it’s that branch that mostly emigrated to America, to Utah. Where you come from.’ Kiribali straightened his jacket. ‘This is, therefore, the intriguing coda: it seems almost certain you are descended from them: from the Dublin Luttrells. And they were also members of the Hellfire Club. Your ancestors were related to the Cloncurrys.’
There was a significant pause. Then Rob said, ’I knew that already.’
‘You did?’
‘Yep.’ Rob confessed. ‘At least I guessed. And Cloncurry knew it too. That’s why he kept hinting about family ties.’
‘But that means you possibly carry the Gobekli gene? You do know that?’
‘Of course,’ Rob said. ‘Although it is a gene cluster, even if I carry it at all. I am my mother’s son as well as my father’s.’
Kiribali nodded, keenly. ‘Yes. Yes, yes. A man’s mother is very important!’
‘And even if I do carry some of those traits, it doesn’t mean I am bound to my destiny. I would have to be in a certain situation, my environment would also play a part. The interaction is very complex.’ He paused. ‘I probably won’t go into politics…’
The detective laughed. Rob added, ‘So I think I’ll be OK. As long as no one gives me any missiles.’
Kiribali snapped his heels together, as if obeying an invisible commandant’s orders. Then he turned and took his mobile phone from his jacket and walked back to the car, perhaps sensing that Rob wanted to be alone.
Rob stood and brushed the dust from his jeans, then strode down the familiar gravel path into the heart of the temple.
When he reached the floor of the excavations, he gazed about him, remembering the laughter he had experienced here at Gobekli, joking with the archaeologists. He had first met Christine here, too: the woman he now loved. But this was also where Breitner had died: and this was where the sacrificial terrors had begun. Ten thousand years ago.
The moon was rising, white and aloof. And there were the stones. Silent and imperious in the night. Rob walked between the megaliths. He leaned and touched the carvings: gently, almost warily, lost in a kind of awe, a reluctant but distinct respect. For these great and ancient stones, for this mysterious temple in Eden.
51
Rob and Christine wanted a small and simple wedding: on that they were agreed. The only question was where to have it. But when Christine heard that she had inherited Isobel’s house in the Princes Islands, the dilemma was solved. ‘And it’s a way of honouring her memory: she’d approve, I know it.’
Isobel’s beautiful garden was the obvious place. So they co-opted a beardy and bibulous Greek Orthodox priest, and hired some singers who were happy to be paid in beer, and even found a trio of very excellent bouzouki players. Close family and best friends were invited. Steve came over from London, with a smattering of Rob’s colleagues; Sally brought a big present; Rob’s mother was smiling and proud in her finest hat. And Kiribali attended in an extremely white suit.
The ceremony was sunlit and simple. Lizzie was a barefoot bridesmaid in her best summer dress. The priest stood on the terrace and intoned the magic spell. The sunshine filtered through the pines and the tamarisks, and the Bosphorus ferry hooted as it crossed the deep blue waters to Asia. And the singers sang and Rob kissed Christine and then it was done: they were married. Rob was wived, again.
There was a party afterwards. They all had lots of champagne in the garden, and Ezekiel chased a golden butterfly into the rosebushes. Steve chatted with Christine, Christine’s mum chatted with the priest, and everyone danced very badly to the bouzouki players. Kiribali quoted poetry and flirted with all the women, especially the older ones.
Halfway through the afternoon, Rob f
ound himself standing next to Forrester, in the shade of the trees at the very edge of the lawns. Rob took the chance to thank the detective, at last: for turning a blind eye.
Forrester blushed, his champagne glass poised at his lips. ‘How did you guess?’
‘You’re an astute guy, Mark. You let us just walk off with the Black Book. That’s why you were arguing with Dooley, in Dublin. No?’
‘Sorry?
‘You knew where we were going. You wanted to cut us some slack, and you persuaded Dooley to let us keep the box.’
Forrester sighed. ‘I suppose I did. And yes I knew where you were heading. But I couldn’t blame you, Rob. I’d have done the same, if…if a child of mine had been in danger. Taking the official route might have been disastrously slow.’
‘Yet you rang Kiribali just in time. So I really mean it. Thanks for…keeping an eye on us.’ Now Rob was struggling for words. A fleeting and terrible image of Cloncurry, white teeth bared, passed through his mind. ‘I just dread to think,’ he added, ‘what would have happened if you hadn’t got involved.’
Forrester knocked back some of his champagne, and nodded. ‘How is she?’
‘Lizzie? She’s amazing. She seems to have, basically, forgotten it all. A little frightened of the dark. Think that was the hood.’
‘But no other traumas?’
‘No…’ Rob shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘The charm of being five years old,’ said Forrester. ‘Kids can bounce back. If they survive.’
The conversation dwindled. Rob looked at the dance party at the far end of Isobel’s lawns. Kiribali was leaping up and down, clapping; doing a sort of impromptu Cossack dance.
Forrester nodded in Kiribali’s direction. ‘He’s the man you should be thanking.’
‘You mean the shooting?’
‘I heard all about it. Incredible.’
‘Apparently he was an Olympic marksman or something. Expert shot.’
‘But it was crucial, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Rob agreed. ‘Kiribali could see how far away Cloncurry was, and they couldn’t reach us in time, because of the floods. So he took out his hunting rifle…’
The music was boisterous. The bouzouki players were really going for it. Rob drained the last of his champagne.
The two men walked back towards the wedding party. As they did, Lizzie came running over, laughing and singing. Rob leaned down and tenderly stroked his daughter’s shining hair; the little girl giggled and reached for her father’s hand.
Gazing at the father and the daughter, strolling hand in hand, smiling and alive, Forrester felt a stab of sharp emotion: the usual grief and regret. But his sense of loss was touched by something else, something much more surprising: the faint and fleeting shadow of happiness.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Klaus Schmidt, and the rest of the German Archaeological Institute at Gobekli Tepe; my editors and colleagues Ed Grenby, David Sutton, Andrew Collins and Bob Cowan; everyone at William Morris London - in particular my agent Eugenie Furniss; and Jane Johnson from HarperCollins UK.
I would also like to thank my daughter Lucy - for still recognizing me, after I disappeared for several months to write this book.
THE GENESIS SECRET
Tom Knox is the pseudonym of the author Sean Thomas. Born in England, he has travelled the world writing for many different newspapers and magazines, including The Times, the Guardian, and the Daily Mail. His last book was a memoir, translated into eight languages; he also writes on art, politics and ancient history. He lives in London.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright © Tom Knox 2009
The author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JULY 2009 ISBN: 978-0-007-34147-4
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com