3 Great Thrillers

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

  The sheykhs, in the absence of their leader, were particularly concerned. Rather than have one of them deputise for the absent Baba – which might give rise to speculation that the Baba had been replaced high-handedly by a rival – it had been decided to dispatch Sinàn, a much respected close friend of the Baba Sheykh.

  As a doctor, he could provide immediate and much-appreciated assistance. And, as extra compensation for the absence of the Baba Sheykh himself, it had been agreed that the Sheikhani senjaq would be ‘walked’ through each ‘village’ of Shariya – a special privilege, much envied by surrounding Yezidi communities.

  The story put out was that the Baba Sheykh had remained behind to offer special spiritual service to the absent Yezidi brethren who were undergoing difficulties in Germany. The Baba Sheykh’s presence in that country could be confirmed, at least for the time being, by relatives of German-based Yezidis still living in Kurdistan.

  This was the reason Sinàn had driven fifty kilometres northwest from his much-neglected apartment in Mosul to this dry and dusty satellite of the big, bustling city of Dohuk. There were added responsibilities, and these too made Sinàn nervous.

  It was the custom for the Baba Sheykh, while staying in the houses of the village hosts, to try to solve disputes and feuds. Since 2002 there had been a particularly painful feud going on which had already claimed several lives and threatened more. Lacking the spiritual authority of the Baba Sheykh, with his conduit to the will of Tawusi Melek and the judgement of the ancestors, Sinàn was thrown back on variations of the ‘you must look at the bigger picture’ argument. This authoritative strategy was artfully combined with moral injunctions carried, it was believed, from the mouth of the absent religious leader.

  The previous night, Sinàn had told visitors to Massoud’s house that just as they were now watching the bigger world, through their antennae and prized satellite dishes, the bigger world would be watching them also. They had entered a new era, an era that demanded exemplary behaviour. The reputation of the Yezidis was at stake. They were a special people, called to a higher destiny. The spiritual integrity of all Yezidis would suffer from the follies of the few.

  Sinàn was not at all sure that his words – coming from one in a smart Western suit with a silvery silk tie – carried much weight with people who were suffering great anxieties and hardship, as well as the peculiar pressure that comes with great hope. If only he knew what had happened to the Baba Sheykh.

  Amid the chatter of the excited women, Sinàn could hear the gathering beat of the massive tambours held by the qewwals. Then the flutes began their transcendent melismas. The qewwals began to sing. Sinàn raised the standard aloft. As he emerged through the front door into the dusty street, the qewwals began singing ‘The Morning Prayer’:

  Amen, amen,

  The blessing of the faith.

  God is the best of Creators.

  Through the miraculous power of Shem el-Din,

  Fekhr el-Din, Sejadin,

  Nasir el-Din and Babadin,

  Sheykh Shems is the strength of the faith,

  Sultan Sheykh Adi is the crown, from first to last.

  Truth, Praise be to God. Oh Lord of the Worlds,

  Give good things, avert evil.

  We long for a moment of the Presence.

  Light comes from the light of dawn,

  Praise to you, my Creator.

  The Angel is facing us.

  From house to house,

  Sheykh Shems is the lord of lustre…

  Past the cream-coloured houses, the procession continued. Ahead of Sinàn marched a flautist dressed in a long black embroidered waistcoat and baggy black trousers. Children gathered, running cheerfully alongside the growing procession. White-bearded old men joined in too, wearing Arab-style red-chequered headdresses bound with black rope. Fathers in white linen robes had wrapped checked turbans about their skull caps; some sported pointed black beards. A few visitors from the Jebel Sinjar still wore the long black ringlets of days long gone, framing their handsome faces. Old men with huge moustaches – a sign of religious devotion – waved on the procession with their walking sticks. Teenage girls in Western-style blouses and sandy-coloured cotton trousers cheered along the senjaq’s ‘walk’ as Sinjari matriarchs in massive white headdresses bound at the chin by great swathes of cotton clapped their hands and trilled along with the pulsing prayer.

  On every side and surface of the uniform concrete houses the flash of the morning light added to the colour.

  Sinàn began to relax; things seemed to be going well. He joined in with the prayer he had heard so many times in this life.

  From pillar to pillar,

  Sheykh Shems is the lord of mystical knowledge, of the pillars of the faith,

  And of discernment.

  From eye to mouth,

  The baptism of Sheykh Shems falls on one,

  The Great Ones are busy; they do not allow you to sleep.

  From head to feet,

  Oh Sheykh Shems, you designed us and set us on our paths…

  88

  The procession turned a corner into an identical street and there in its sun-drenched centre, shimmering gloriously, stood Sinàn’s only sister: the Morning Star – Laila. The princess was accompanied by a group of smiling, bearded sheykhs, impossible to miss in their distinctive turbans that looked like miniature white millstones. Red sashes hung diagonally, right to left, across their chests and they wore white woollen capes that reached down to their knees.

  Laila’s heart leapt as she saw the princely figure of her brother approaching. Sinàn wanted to thrust the senjaq into someone else’s hands and run to embrace his sister, but he could not. He had to go on to the next village host.

  Laila stepped aside as the sheykhs joined the procession one by one. As Sinàn passed Laila, his eye was caught by a girl standing in her shadow. After the last sheykh had joined the procession’s serpentine path, Laila grabbed the girl’s hand and led her to the back.

  The festivities continued throughout the day and into the evening. The new host slaughtered a goat to feed the many men and women from his village who came to converse with the unexpected guest and to kiss the base of the Peacock Angel. They all left money, as was customary, for the Baba Sheykh, and for the absent Mir.

  Late in the evening, when the men of the village had left the host’s rug-filled living room, the princess entered and introduced Rozeh to her brother.

  ‘My Sister of the Hereafter. She wants to be a doctor.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Will it happen?’

  ‘She’s the niece of the Kochek of Bashiqa.’

  This was considered a sufficient answer to the question. He looked at her intently; the girl covered her face with her long black hair and blushed. ‘Please don’t be shy. I’m so sorry to hear what happened to your mother and father. Another tragedy.’

  ‘Did you know them, Sinàn?’

  ‘The Baba Sheykh told me about them. We had so much time to talk. We discussed many things. Important things. Little things. They were good people. True Yezidis. Faithful to the tradition. I do not think Baba knows yet what evil befell them on that day. He will be very sorry.’

  He looked again into Rozeh’s wide, moist eyes. ‘Please don’t cry. You want to be a doctor, don’t you? You will see many terrible things. Many terrible things. Things you would never believe. You will hear the cries of the lost and the cries of those who fear losing. You will look into the eyes of death and find life. You will look into lively eyes and see things, things you wish you’d never seen. You cannot cry every day, or you will see nothing.’

  ‘I want to serve the people, like you have done, sir.’

  ‘Very well, young lady. I’ll see what can be done.’

  Rozeh smiled. ‘I thank you, sir. May I go now?’

  ‘Of course, Rozeh! You run along and enjoy yourself.’ Laila patted her spiritual sister on the back. ‘Yes, it is time to go and gossip with your new friends in Shariya.’r />
  ‘Have you got the tape, Highness?’

  Laila looked into her handbag and brought out the cassette of Madonna’s Ray of Light album she had bought in Cairo.

  ‘Do you like her, Sinàn?’

  ‘I’ve only just met her.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about her.’

  ‘The Baba Sheykh knew her parents well. He spoke of her. Not very much. I knew she wanted to study medicine. Her family had very high hopes.’

  Mamo, the host, brought coffee to his guests in tall glass goblets.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Highness?’

  ‘May my sister and I be left alone for a while, Mamo?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mamo, a serious-looking man of about thirty with a short wispy moustache, tightened the thick cotton sash around his robed waist, backed away to the door of his house, then slipped into the darkness. The day had been long, and had cost him much – even more than his satellite dish. Now he might have to sell it. But to have given shelter to the senjaq! This was ample recompense.

  ‘I thought I might never see you again, Sinàn.’

  ‘I don’t understand how you found me here so quickly. I’ve only been in Kurdistan a few days. Toby Ashe told me he thought you were in Cairo.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘I cannot say, Laila. It was very strange in Germany. He has a good mind. I think I like him. He knows a lot about us. Perhaps he has saved my life. But it is all so complicated. There are Americans involved and strange things happened in Istanbul. But, yes, I think somehow Toby Ashe may have saved my life.’

  ‘We owe him much.’

  ‘The Baba…?’

  ‘I’m sure he will help find him. He found you.’

  ‘But I’m lost, Laila. I’m being asked questions all the time. What can I say?’

  Laila put her arm round her brother. ‘You’re tired.’

  ‘I’ve been tired for a long, long time. And I failed. I was supposed to protect the Baba Sheykh. With my life. My hands. And I allowed myself to be tricked.’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it, Sinàn! This will get us nowhere. Here, drink this!’

  ‘Forgive me!’

  ‘Nonsense. I thank you. We all thank you.’

  Sinàn shook his head and looked around the simple house. ‘It’s another world here. They will not understand. The Autumn Festival’s coming – the Great Assembly at Lalish! What can we say? Only a few weeks. And no Baba Sheykh! We have never held the Assembly without the Baba Sheykh! It is unheard of! People will think the world is falling apart! Everyone knows he would never stay in Germany while the lights of Lalish are lit for the Assembly!’

  ‘Don’t worry! What were we singing this morning? Amen, amen, The blessing of the faith. The angel wills it; good will prevail for our people. This is a test! Every generation is tested somehow. I tell you, brother, I believe in this Tobbi Ashe.’

  ‘Ridiculous woman! He is not one of us.’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘But nothing.’

  ‘Whatever you think of him, you must speak to him. He says he must speak to you.’

  ‘Why didn’t he ask me his questions in Hamburg?’

  ‘He says you were whisked away by the American—’

  ‘The amiable Mr Beck!’

  ‘And before Tobbi knew it, you’d been flown back here in a US plane.’

  ‘And interrogated for days.’

  ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘No, but I would have preferred to be somewhere else.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘That it was not me they should be interrogating, but another.’

  89

  Did Ashe believe in coincidences? Coincidences happened, but had no essential meaning. If you could see the meaning, then it would no longer be a coincidence. Why was he back in Iraq? Coincidence? Of course not.

  Major Richmond turned to Ashe. ‘You’ve been quiet for the last two hours. Silent. We’ve enough graves in Iraq, right now. This road’s pretty boring, y’know.’

  Ashe looked about him. The route north from Baghdad through the Sunni heartlands and on to the Kurdish Autonomous Region looked the same as it had on his last visit, but the whole thing felt entirely different. It was as though he had been dreaming on his last visit. Was he a different man?

  ‘You’re losing your romanticism, Ashe. Happens to all of us.’

  ‘Temporary, I’m sure, Simon. Just a bit more focused, I think. Keen to get to the point. I’ve just been philosophising. To be honest, you don’t seem the same either.’

  ‘Tired, Toby. Just fucking tired. It’s been getting worse while you’ve been away. Remember we were trying to plug holes in the western border with Syria? It’s like an open wound now. Not enough men really.’

  ‘Morale, OK?’

  ‘Pretty good, Toby. Good things have been happening. But it’s the carnage. I don’t think we expected this kind of civilian death toll. The retribution killings. The strength of the opposition. The bloodlust. Continual murders. It’s unnatural. It’s like a plague’s hit the land. Don’t get me wrong. We’ll win out here. There are elections coming up in the new year. That’s our focus. As long as you’ve got focus, the random events have meaning. When you’ve got meaning, you’ve got purpose.’

  ‘Funny you should say that, Simon. I was thinking the very same thing.’

  Richmond smiled, his taut features softening for a few seconds. He did look that bit thinner, that bit more worn, that bit older. His steely nerve seemed a little frayed.

  The Mercedes sped north at 70 to 80 mph. Having passed through the Kurdish checkpoints with little difficulty, Ashe noticed that Richmond reduced his speed. Iraqi Kurdistan had a far better security record than further south. There were even tentative plans to get Kurds to come back to their homeland from Europe. The Kurdish Democratic Party was setting up a website. That sounded hopeful. All the same, Ashe instinctively felt for the loaded SIG pistol beneath his bulletproof vest.

  As they headed north, past the spreading city of Mosul, Ashe’s heart warmed.

  He looked east, to the Sheikhan, home of the Yezidis.

  At the busy T-junction fifty kilometres north of Mosul, Ashe studied the new Kurdish sign: ‘Duhok, 10 km’. He was due to meet Sinàn at a new bar in the centre of the flourishing city. Time was running out.

  ‘I’ll pick you up in five hours, so you’d better get a move on. I’ve an arrangement to meet an old friend of ours at Shariya, not far from here.’

  ‘Old friend?’

  ‘Jolo Kheyri.’

  ‘Give him my warmest regards.’

  ‘And er… I believe a certain Princess Laila will be there. Now isn’t that a coincidence?’

  ‘No, Simon. That is fate.’

  90

  The name was clever. ‘Welcome to The Future’, ‘We have seen The Future – and we love it’ read the advertisements, in Kurmanji and in English. Against all the odds, there was a hopeful spirit in the air.

  The moment Ashe sat down at the bar, Sinàn appeared, looking worried. He ordered two Carlsbergs and suggested they move to a table at the rear next to the kitchen door and the lavatories. ‘It’s cooler.’

  ‘You mean safer.’

  ‘Nobody comes here until late, I think, Mr Ashe.’

  ‘Please call me Toby.’

  ‘If it pleases you. My sister is already on familiar terms with you, I believe.’

  A pretty waitress in a light silk scarf, jeans and white sweatshirt brought the drinks to their table. Sinàn smiled at her. It was clear she didn’t recognise him from Adam. They were all Kurds now and the status, or lack of it, of the Yezidi royal family had little meaning in Kurdish politics. Ashe couldn’t quite stop himself from seeing this handsome scion of the Chol family as something of a spiritual exile in the fast-reshaping Kurdistan.

  ‘My sister wants me to trust you, Toby. I don’t know why I should. But I trust her.’

  Ashe noticed the pain
in Sinàn’s face. ‘Whatever you tell me, Sinàn, has one objective: to recover a certain person from the hands of a very wicked man. What do you know about the man who has taken that certain person from us?’

  ‘I don’t know much. There were men I met in Turkey. Guinea pigs from Saddam’s laboratories. They saw the wickedness. It’s hard to believe. I remember hearing about that bright young man at Baghdad University when I studied medicine. Many admired him. They were admiring a monster, but they did not know it. An enemy of God and our people.’

  Ashe signalled to Sinàn to lower the volume of the conversation. Sinàn got up, went to the bar, and whispered something to the girl. She nodded and turned to the CD player below a shelf of glasses. The latest Coldplay anthem was soon pounding through the room. To Ashe’s ears, this future sounded like the past.

  Sinàn resumed his seat. ‘I asked for British music. She seemed pleased to provide it.’

  ‘It’s OK. Your visit to Istanbul, Sinàn. What was that all about?’

  Sinàn laughed at the thought. ‘Istanbul!’ For a moment, the melancholy in his face vanished. ‘Before all this business started, you’d be surprised how lively the Baba Sheykh was. Always bubbling with ideas. A very special mind, Mr Ashe. But like so many men with a well-defined social role, he could not always show it. I’ve known him since I was a boy. Even then he told me his ideas. He could be very funny. Always saw things from a higher perspective, like he was on a mountain. I think if the Yezidi people were better known, he could have been a world figure. Like the Pope maybe. But more surprising. His spirit was very free. But always, always his feet are on the ground. I miss him so much.’

  ‘But why go to Istanbul?’

  ‘He had an idea. Subtle. Maybe too subtle! Show the world the terrible plight of my people. But he would not beg. He did not want to say, “Look, we can’t help ourselves. We need the UN or something.” We can help ourselves, but we need some help too. What God has sent us, we accept. We must use our brains. We must be clever. If we have a problem, maybe it is sent by God to test us. This is the sort of thing the Baba Sheykh would say to us. So the question was, how to show the truth to the world without it being just another cry from an oppressed people with a begging bowl. He believed the strong attract the strong.’