3 Great Thrillers

by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric

‘I can see him bending a few rules – if he was on to something.’

  ‘Some rules you don’t bend. He knows that as well as anyone.’ Richmond cleared his throat. ‘Unfortunately, Toby, this makes things difficult for you. Without your source handler, you’re wasting your time here.’ Richmond paused. ‘And ours.’

  Ashe sighed. ‘Just as things were getting interesting.’

  Richmond scratched the back of his neck. ‘Desk has taken a remarkable interest in your welfare, Toby. Not that you heard that from me, you understand.’

  ‘Crayke or no Crayke, I take it the mystery tour leads straight to the airport.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Richmond turned to the Kochek, who was sitting next to Jolo on the back seat. ‘Tell him, Jiddan.’

  Jiddan’s face lit up. ‘It leads to Lalish! The pilgrimage site all Yezidi must visit once in their lifetime.’

  Ashe liked the sound of that. ‘And the occasion?’

  ‘A little ceremony. Jolo’s horsemen are handling security. Watching the passes. I’m Crayke’s representative. All part of my liaison work with the Yezidi community. Respect breeds security. You can often accomplish a lot more by showing up at a family event – provided you’re invited of course – than with a squadron of tanks.’

  Ashe pondered the situation. There was no way the British and American security effort in Baghdad could afford to part with one of its best officers for a community liaison exercise. There was obviously more to it.

  ‘You sure that’s the only reason for this journey, Simon?’

  Richmond turned to Ashe and smiled a smile that felt like a wink. ‘Need-to-know basis, Toby.’

  The Snatch stopped at a T-junction. The metalled road continued to the left, signposted to Tel Kef. To the right, the road became a track: red earth, muddy, full of potholes. This route was signposted in Arabic, but an English translation had been painted beneath it: ‘Esiyan’.

  ‘Guess which way, Toby?’

  ‘By the steep and rugged pathway must we tread rejoicingly!’

  ‘Where would we be without Hymns Ancient & Modern?’

  ‘Modern Britain, dear boy.’

  Richmond laughed. ‘That path leads to your pot of gold, says the little one.’

  ‘Little one?’

  ‘That’s what “Kochek” means.’

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’

  ‘That’s not believing at all.’

  Richmond turned the Land Rover to the right.

  ‘Did you know the Yezidis invented the Ark?’

  Jiddan chipped in. ‘Noah, he true son of the tradition.’

  ‘The Yezidis have a story there was another Flood.’

  ‘Like the one in the Bible?’

  ‘They say there were two. They say the great ship started at a village called Ain Sifni. That’s a few miles northwest of here.’

  Ashe had the distinct feeling that they were driving across some vast, cuneiform-inscribed tablet; the tracks were like the ancient Babylonian letters. But what was its message?

  ‘The water rose and the ship sailed off.’

  ‘Any particular direction?’

  ‘Who can say? Anyhow, it sort of ran aground on the peaks of Mount Sinjar, where a rock pierced the hull.’

  Jiddan, who was trying hard to follow Richmond’s telling of the story, interjected. ‘Snake! Snake!’

  ‘As Jiddan says, there was this great serpent in the ship. And the snake curled itself up into a cake. And that plugged the ship. Then the ship floated off again until it rested on Mount Judi, ninety miles northeast of here. Used to be pilgrimages to see the remains.’

  The Defender ground its way northwards, passing groups of armed Kurdish fighters on the way. Some of the Kurds cheered at the sight of a Coalition vehicle; some just nodded. They all looked dog-tired.

  After long miles of trundling northeast, the Snatch took a left at the crossroads. Direction: Atrush. Ahead, Ashe could see a cluster of gentle, green mountains.

  ‘Why approach from the east? Lalish is north of Bashiqa.’

  ‘If we’d come from the south, we’d have had to take the footpath from Ba’dre – through the mountains. Bit of a hike.’

  In the distance, Ashe could see the shell of an ancient building.

  ‘Khana Êzî,’ said Jolo.

  ‘Khana Êzî?’

  ‘House of Ezîd. “Ezîd” is other name for God.’

  ‘Sultan Ezîd,’ added Jiddan.

  ‘Yes. This was Yezidi caravanserai. Many pilgrims come to Lalish in old times.’

  Ashe got the feeling Jolo could actually envision lines of camels and horses and pilgrims: richly dressed, poorly dressed, brightly dressed, happily approaching… But wait! thought Ashe, that is what I’m seeing – in my mind’s eye. He looked round at the Kochek. The Kochek was staring at him, his face glowing.

  ‘There!’ Jolo pointed right, to the mountain rising in the north. ‘There!’

  ‘Mount Erefat,’ added Richmond coolly.

  ‘Yes, Erefat, Tobbiash. High on Mount Erefat is holy spring.’

  ‘Kanî Baykî.’ Jiddan nodded knowingly.

  ‘This, Tobbiash, is where Sheykh Adi beat rock with his gopal.’

  ‘Gopal?’

  ‘Like stick for guiding sheep. He beat rock with stick. Water flow from rock. Living water. Holy water. Spring still there. Kanî Baykî.’

  ‘And who was Sheykh Adi?’

  The two Yezidis were astounded Ashe had never heard of Sheykh Adi. To them, Adi was clearly the most important being who had ever lived.

  Jiddan put his large hand gently on Richmond’s shoulder. ‘Here, Major, we stop.’

  The Snatch came to a quiet rest near a burbling mountain stream. Jolo pointed to a small, white, stone bridge. ‘Pira Silat.’

  Jolo and Jiddan took their shoes off and stepped to the edge of the sparkling water. They washed their hands, faces and necks. Ashe followed them.

  Richmond gripped his Browning, holstered onto his thigh. His cotton trousers stuck uncomfortably to his leg. The holster had been rubbing it all day long. He looked about him, then reached for a pair of field glasses to study the dense woodland.

  Rising from the water, Jolo shook his head dry, then pointed to the major. The Yezidis laughed. Jolo made an ear-piercing whistle. From out of the woods, on both sides of the road, emerged a dozen of Jolo’s irregular cavalry. Forming a sixty-metre ring around the Land Rover, they dismounted, withdrew their M16s from their saddles, and vanished into the bushes and grasses.

  Jolo and Jiddan then crossed the bridge three times, clapping. As they made their way back and forth, they solemnly intoned the words:

  Pira Silat, aliyek doje, êk cennete

  ‘We’re leaving the car and travelling on foot, so I should stick your boots back on, Toby. Those guys will walk barefoot the rest of the way, but they’re used to it. We don’t want to have to carry you back.’

  ‘Just getting in the spirit of things.’

  ‘Think of yourself as an official observer, OK?’

  ‘And this?’ Ashe patted his sidearm.

  ‘There may not be much verbal objection to your having it, under current circumstances, but keep it covered.’

  Ashe looked over to the two pilgrims on the other side of the bridge. ‘What did those words mean?’

  Jiddan gestured permission for Jolo to answer. ‘Being interpreted, Tobbiash, the words are saying: “On the one side is hell; on the other Paradise”.’

  Richmond nudged Ashe across the bridge. ‘D’you hear that, Toby? Paradise.’

  57

  ‘This is Mrs Valdès, Agent Beck.’

  Clay from Homeland Security pointed to al-Qasr’s chubby housekeeper. ‘Now she’s out of a job, her memory’s improved. Says she reckons al-Qasr had a little drive-in joint about a mile down the road, off track. That right, Mrs Valdès?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. I think I see him drive into trees once maybe.’

  ‘I’ve sent people down there. They’re check
in’ out Mrs Valdès’ story.’

  Gresham and Beck explored al-Qasr’s house. It was neat, well furnished, a little austere perhaps. There was the odd enlargement of NASA’s more colourful galactic adventures, and scattered sepia prints showing scenes from pre-Saddam Iraq.

  ‘Seems our doctor was a bit on the dull side, wouldn’t you say, Sherman?’

  ‘The “banality of evil”, you mean? Does that cover forcing cyanide down Fiona Normanton’s throat?’

  ‘Sorry, I mean there’s nothing to suggest he was a fanatical type. No diaries with prayerful confessions. Not even a copy of the Koran.’

  ‘Maybe taken it with him.’

  They heard a shout from downstairs. It was Clay. ‘Just got a call from your explosives people. Seems they got something. Can you take a look?’

  Gresham looked to Beck. ‘You coming?’

  ‘I’ll come down soon. I want to speak with this Mrs Valdès while the heat’s on and the memory’s warm.’

  Leanne stifled the urge to kiss him. ‘I’ll check it out and call. Oh damn it, Beck! I left my cellphone in my bag up at RIBOTech.’

  ‘Use mine. Maybe I’ll call you first.’ Beck winked.

  Bob Lowenfeld had been found in al-Qasr’s bunker. The investigators had lowered a brace into the bunker to lift out the body, in case of further booby traps. Lowenfeld was still lying on the ground, uncovered. Gresham noted Lowenfeld’s swollen lips. Cyanide again.

  The young explosives expert wiped the sweat off his hot brow and rubbed his eyes. ‘Mrs Gresham, I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier. When we finally found the hatch to this thing, we thought of what happened to you up at RIBOTech. Lucky we did. Al-Qasr had booby-trapped the hatch. After we cleared that, we then found he’d fixed a vibration mechanism to Mr Lowenfeld’s body.’

  ‘How did you…?’

  ‘We got all the al-Qaeda training stuff. Booby trap was standard.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘We’ve swept the place. Take a look. If you really want to.’

  Leanne hitched her skirt up around her hips. The young man looked away. She eased her way down into the tiny bunker and sat on al-Qasr’s stool. She checked out the CCTV monitor linked up to the RIBOTech lab in the corner. She examined his table and noticed the staining around what might have been a laptop. She checked for a phone link.

  ‘Looks like he had a secure link down here. That’s why we never got anything from his office or home computers.’

  The cellphone on the table rang. ‘I guess that’s Sherman.’

  Gresham picked it up.

  Up at al-Qasr’s house, Beck heard the muffled explosion.

  Leanne Gresham was dead.

  58

  As Ashe followed the group down from the sacred bridge at Pira Silat towards the Lalish valley, he wondered what had happened to the Kochek.

  ‘Jiddan cuts wood for the sanctuary.’

  Ashe stopped dead. Gunshots. He reached for his Browning.

  Jolo laughed. ‘Pilgrims at Silavgeh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Place of Greeting. On Mount Meshet. South of the valley. Pilgrims at festivals fire rifles when they come to stone. This is when they see Lalish first time. They kiss special stone on the path.’

  Ashe climbed a hillock and the fabulous valley of Lalish opened out before him. Two miles of winding paths, woodland, olive groves, vines, and the most extraordinary collection of buildings he had ever seen in his life. To the south, Mount Meshet rose like a host at a festive table.

  ‘Our songs teach us this holy valley of Lalish came down from heaven. It is called the Site of Truth,’ said Jolo. ‘Tomorrow is Wednesday, our holy day, so the pilgrims make special fires tonight.’

  The valley looked magical, aglow with little fires. Jolo pointed out the shrine they were headed for and explained that, like all Sheykhs, Sheykh Adi was a historical figure who trod a spiritual path, and was understood by the Yezidis as a kind of angel – a reflection of the divine. Before Ashe could ask him to elaborate, Jolo was eagerly pointing out the shrines of Sheykh Obekr, Sheykh Hesen, Pîr Êsîbiya, Sheykh Babik, Sheykh Tokel, Pîr Jerwan, Sheykh Sheref el-Dîn, and Sultan Êzîd, each one lit by hundreds of tiny flames burning gently in bowls of olive oil set in the stonework. Ashe was enchanted. It was as though the valley was filled with falling snowflakes, ignited from within, flickering peacefully down.

  The air was sweet and pure; Lalish was clean.

  As the men walked down into the valley, Ashe’s attention was caught by three conical spires resembling upturned ice-cream cones, topped by golden globes.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ah! Those are the qubbe, the spires, of the mazar of Sheykh Shems, Tobbiash.’

  ‘That’s where you said I could speak to the English saint.’

  ‘Yes. Wait! I go see if you allow in. Not much time before we must be at big ceremony at Sheykh Adi, Tobbiash.’

  Jolo walked quickly on ahead, leaving Ashe and Richmond to make their way down towards the Shrine of Sheykh Adi.

  ‘Know anything about this Sheykh Adi, Simon?’

  ‘You’ll have to look this up – not that there’s much in English. As far as I know, he was a… What’s that word in Islam? Oh, you know, whirling dervishes – the mystical thing.’

  ‘Sufis.’

  ‘Right. Adi was a Sufi. He came here in the 1200s. From the Bekaa Valley in Syria.’

  ‘No border in those days, Simon.’

  ‘What is a Sufi, Toby?’

  ‘Comes from the Arabic word for wool. They wore white woollen robes – like Jiddan. Simple life, given to ecstatic communion with the spirit of God. The Sufis follow what they call a “path”, a spiritual path, sometimes named after the teacher of that path. Adi started a path. People are still following it. Sufism has been called the gnosis of Islam.’

  ‘Ger-nosis?’

  ‘Yeah, well, the “g” is usually silent – like the “k” in knowledge. It means knowledge, actually.’

  ‘Mystic knowledge.’

  ‘The knowledge of how to extricate oneself from this world.’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘The knowledge of how to extricate oneself from this world: in Gnostic thinking, the one who is truly alive is the one who has died to the world.’

  ‘You could argue that suicide bombing is a kind of perversion of that idea.’

  ‘It’s certainly a perversion.’

  Simon laughed. ‘You should be in the propaganda unit.’

  ‘What’s that sound?’

  Ashe and Richmond listened hard. They heard water rushing beneath their feet. Beneath the path were tunnels that fed streams through the valley. The waters were collected in cisterns. They were used for baptising children, and for the initiation of pirs or holy men into the mysteries of the tradition.

  Soon their feet were echoing on great, smooth flagstones that paved a large square. The walls were made of huge stones – older than the crusades, Ashe surmised.

  Jolo came running into the forecourt. ‘You are blessed, Tobbiash. Tonight, the guardian of Sheykh Shems Sanctuary is here. Remember we speak of Hamo Shero?’

  ‘Chief of the Mountain?’

  ‘The grandson of Hamo Shero is here. He is Khidr, son of Khudêda, son of Hamo Shero. He is representative of the Mir in Sinjar.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘The Mir. Prince of the Yezidi people. Tehsin Beg. Major Richmond, he explain.’

  ‘The man Jolo is talking about is Sheykh el-Wezîr, the Mir’s deputy in the Sinjar. Fine man.’

  ‘Tobbiash, Khidr say you come to him at Sheykh Shems after the ceremony at Sanctuary of Sheykh Adi – and you speak to English saint in circle. I have arranged this for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Gulé and Kochek say you are in need of God.’

  ‘Who isn’t, Jolo?’

  ‘You need faith.’

  Within the precincts of Lalish, the offer seemed perfectly natural.

  ‘Who are th
ose women?’

  ‘Fiqreyyat.’

  Ashe studied the aged women in all-white, toga-like woollen garments, with great turbans wrapped around their hair and under their chins.

  ‘Nuns?’

  ‘They serve at the sanctuary. Pure women. They spend their lives at Lalish.’

  Ashe’s eyes moved from the fiqreyyat to a striking image by the entrance to the Sanctuary of Sheykh Adi. A huge, coal-black serpent, tall as a man, slithered upwards in stone relief.

  ‘Our serpent at Lalish! Every day, serpent is made black again. Dye is from zirgûz trees – and ash from fires of Lalish.’

  There were other carvings by the door. Ashe stared at the combs and the images of the sun. The hexagrams – interlaced triangles – were like stars of David or seals of Solomon, he thought. There were also birds, a hatchet, what looked like shepherds’ crooks, six-petalled flowers in circles, and the sun, moon and stars in circles.

  Jolo shook his head. ‘Many more carvings long ago. Before your year of 1892.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Turks burn Lalish. They kill many Yezidis. Many in prison. They steal our holy things. Yezidis always attacked by neighbours. Muslims had no mercy. We are not in their Book. When Turkish army want to be paid, government send them here to steal what they want. Now Sunnis murder us.’

  Richmond interjected. ‘We’re doing our best, Jolo.’

  ‘Yes. Our best.’

  A group of men stepped lithely through the sanctuary entrance, looking like Arab sheykhs in the familiar headdress and long, woollen surcoats. Each carried something in a brown, cotton bag.

  ‘Qewwals!’ cried Jolo. ‘You see? Daff and shebab!’

  ‘Is this courtyard part of the sanctuary, Jolo?’

  ‘Sometimes this is called sûq me’rifetê – the Market of Mystical Knowledge.’

  Startled by the name, Ashe mumbled to himself. ‘Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy.’

  ‘What you say, Tobbiash?’

  ‘A poem by William Blake – an English Kochek.’

  ‘Is very good. But here also are shops by the walls at festivals where you can buy olive oil and sweets for children. And this market is not in desert – but in Paradise!’