3 Great Thrillers
Page 42
‘What were you shouting down the hill, Toby?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just good luck.’
‘What a charming young man the doctor is! I’m sure you could learn something from him.’
‘Listen to that, Karla! Listen! In the valley. The daff and shebab.’
‘The what?’
‘Tambour and flute. The qewwals are singing again. And they’re lighting the shrines. See, the feqirs use olive oil from the mountains. They slap the oil on the sides of walls. Quite magical.’
Karla and Ashe sat down on the ground, Ashe’s arm round Karla’s shoulders.
‘It’s perfect. Even overcast as it is.’
‘That’s how I like it, Karla. Far away from the world and enclosed like a jewel, lit only by its inner fires.’
‘Still a romantic, aren’t you? Even after all you’ve seen.’
He was quiet for a moment. ‘I wonder what Melissa would think of all this.’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’
Ashe gave Karla a hug, then got up and headed down into the flame-kissed valley. Karla shook her head in mock disgust, got up and patted her damp bottom, wondering if among the trees and the echoing music she might find herself a sheykh of her own.
114
‘Come now, Tobbi. Come before the older guardians arrive. They will not permit outsiders to enter the sacred place.’
Princess Laila led Ashe to the left of the Shrine of Sheykh Hesen. He remembered his last visit: how he had stared at the little door, knowing he should go through it; knowing his life would be different if he did. He remembered how Major Richmond had urged him to leave well alone, not to offend his hosts.
Destiny. This was a special door. And now it was being opened to him. A few steps led down to a small cave, lit by tiny olive-oil flames. Laila and Ashe crouched down, easing their way through a narrow tunnel.
They emerged into a spacious cave.
From the northern, natural wall of the sanctuary, water gushed forth from the rock. This was the Zemzem, the sacred brook of Lalish, another miracle of the Sufi saint, Sheykh Adi. He had tapped the stone with a stick – like Moses in the wilderness. Except this was no wilderness; this was a place of miracles.
Laila, eager, wide-eyed, turned to Ashe. ‘You can wash your hands in the stream and your sins will be forgiven.’
‘Let’s do it together.’
In the waters, each washed the other’s hands. Their fingers found each other’s fingers and they held hands and beheld each other’s faces.
‘Yezidis cannot marry outside of their people, can they, Laila?’
‘Marriages are made in heaven, Tobbi.’ She gripped his hand tightly. ‘And is not Lalish heaven on earth?’
The waters splashed down onto the rock and, after a few metres, disappeared once more under the sanctuary walls, emerging on the other side in a narrow gunnel leading to the guesthouse. A group of Rozeh’s young friends laughed and gossiped as they washed their pans and dishes in the sacred spring water.
Guests were gathering outside the Sanctuary Guesthouse. Ashe and Laila made their way over to Sinàn, waiting apprehensively for Rozeh to emerge from her seven days of silent seclusion.
‘Ah, Toby! There is something I wanted to tell you this morning, but I could not bring myself to say it.’
Sinàn took Ashe’s arm and walked him over to the pergola in the corner of the courtyard where the Baba Sheykh had last conversed with his people.
‘I realised what you meant, when you said you wished you had been born a Yezidi. You meant that you wanted to be able to marry my sister.’
Ashe wished neither to give offence nor to reveal his feelings.
‘Don’t be ashamed, Toby Ashe. But it is the law. And we have special laws telling us whom we can marry. Have you not wondered how I, of the Chol royal family, can marry Rozeh, the daughter of a man and woman who ran a shop in Mosul?’
‘The thought had occurred to me.’
‘Then I tell you a secret that only you and my closest family know. Guard it forever with your life. It means you are the friend of the Yezidis, and the Yezidis are your friend. Do you want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Baba Sheykh told me many things on our travels. Many wonderful stories. Some happy. Some sad. He told me how he lost a son – his only son – in the war with Iran. I could never tell him that this was the work of al-Qasr. It would have destroyed Baba Sheykh completely. But he told me that when he knew his son was gone, he hardly knew himself. In the strange times that enveloped him, he had a little adventure. A romance with a lady. A lady from his clan. And she had a little girl. And the girl was given—’
‘To the childless couple in Mosul!’
‘This is my Rozeh, of the Fekhr el-Dîn branch of the Shemsani sheykhs!’
‘The line goes on!’
‘Let us hope so.’
Sinàn looked to the stairs in the corner of the guesthouse hall. ‘Now she comes!’
Rozeh appeared, radiant and shy, from the shadows. Laila walked forwards out of the sanctuary with a large bowl of porridge made from seven types of grain. The princess led the procession down through the valley, accompanied by music, singing and dancing. The procession passed by the shrine of Sheykh Shems and continued up onto the slopes of Mount Meshet.
They arrived by the banks of the stream where the Baba Sheykh had hurled himself to his immortality. The banks were strewn with flowers. The bride and groom plunged their hands into the great bowl carried by Laila, throwing seven handfuls of the porridge into the waiting stream.
Sinàn and Rozeh then jumped over the stream, and everyone cheered. The bowl was handed over to the bride, who shared the contents with her friends while tambour, flute and song graced the mountainside.
Ashe heard a whisper in his ear: the deep voice of Laila, the Magdalene of his life who opened once more the jar of his heart.
‘They say the stream flows under all of the Middle East, even unto Mecca. It is always there—’
‘Even though men don’t see it.’
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A familiar figure stood on the other side of the well-wishing stream. A bony, gnarled, barefoot stick: Ranald Crayke was waiting.
‘Will you cross the stream with me, Laila?’
‘This one you must do alone.’
Ashe leapt over the stream and grabbed Crayke’s sinewy arm.
‘Fancy a walk, Ashe?’
Ashe nodded.
‘Sorry I missed the dancing.’
‘There’s plenty to come, sir.’
‘Indeed.’
The men made their way back into the valley.
‘This has been quite an operation, Ashe. I have watched you grow with pride.’
‘Thank you, sir. I only wish I could have brought things to a prettier conclusion.’
‘Goodness me, no! You have served well.’
‘Still something that puzzles me, sir.’
‘Proceed.’
‘The Tower bombing. Who did it?’
‘I am here to enlighten, dear boy. Thanks to your memory returning of that fateful day, we were able to follow up your “green prophet” story.’
‘And?’
‘Prepare for a surprise, Ashe.’
‘I’m prepared.’
‘All done by an Englishman.’
Ashe’s brain froze, then melted. ‘The green prophet—’
‘Operates more prosaically under the name Colin Firman. Currently under psychiatric custody. Turns out Firman had been living rough in Broxbourne Woods for months. Ex-SAS. Had a grudge against the brigadier.’
‘Some grudge!’
‘His story will interest you. An explosives expert, Firman was badly wounded when undercover in Iraq before the first Gulf War. They have a code about getting bodies back wherever possible, but Firman’s comrades never came to help him. What Firman didn’t know was that his comrades were dead, their bodies disposed of… so he thought he had been abandoned. As if this wasn’t bad enough
, Firman was captured and subjected to medical experiments by—’
‘Al-Qasr?’
‘Right. Firman escaped during the 1992 bombing raid that destroyed the Baba Sheykh’s son’s remains. Found his way back to Britain and had himself committed into a psychiatric hospital, suffering from partial amnesia and severe psychological disorders. Poor chap’s brain had been tampered with. Anyhow, he claimed to have developed spiritual powers of prophecy, listening to God and so on. Says he had this message from a higher power that the Tower of Babel was being rebuilt.
‘After years of treatment, it finally looked as though Firman was responding positively to new medication. Coming out into what has been euphemistically called “care in the community”, Firman found a home of sorts in Broxbourne Woods. One day he saw the Tower at Admiral Whitmore’s house, and got strange ideas. What clinched the matter for him was seeing the brigadier and other senior military and naval figures there. The Tower became in his mind an affront to God, and Firman became the angel of vengeance.’
‘And Reynolds?’
‘The admiral’s butler – something of a lost soul himself – befriended Firman. Reynolds let Firman into the Tower to share food and drink, domestic supplies, and reminisce about service life. All against the rules, of course. After Firman’s bomb went off, Reynolds immediately connected the explosion to Firman, whom he was fascinated by. Seems they’d discussed explosives and suchlike. Firman had asked him if he’d ever felt like blowing up his superior officers. Reynolds blamed himself for what happened and went to ground in Scotland. Forensics found his fingerprints on the sheets of paper used so threateningly by Firman. Once Special Branch tracked him down, Reynolds led us to Firman’s woodland burrow: a remarkable underground complex.’
‘A reflection of himself perhaps.’
‘Quite.’
Ashe sighed. ‘So the archdeacon was really another of al-Qasr’s victims.’
‘Indirectly, yes. Makes you think, doesn’t it, Ashe?’
Ashe tried to see the funny side. ‘Must have been something about the Tower that attracted Oddballs…’
‘That’s the ticket, Ashe! Cheer up! If you’re sad, it’s because you hoped for too much too soon. Forgive me for saying so, but I’d say you’re still labouring under the impression that our work is about finding the truth.’
‘That’s one of the attractions, sir.’
‘Wrong, Ashe. The greater part of our work is deception.’
‘Deception? That’s one word for it.’
‘Listen, then forget. For quite a while there have been high-level attempts in Europe to counter those elements in the Turkish military that oppose entry into the EU and, where possible, to encourage progressive movements in Turkey. The Koglu and Aslan types are only two extreme aspects of resistance to progress.’
‘Progress? Those men loved their country!’
‘They loved an idea of it. And not a very nice idea when you get to know about it.’
‘And what business is that of ours?’
‘Ours is not to reason why, Ashe. Fortunately, we have the willing help of courageous people like Yildiz and Yazar, who also, if I may say so, love their country.’
‘Yildiz and Yazar – working for you?’
Crayke smiled. ‘Not exactly working for us, no. Common interests. In their hearts they work for Turkey’s future, and their own. They got wind of curious goings-on concerning Colonel Aslan. They knew about his skills and the reputation he’d earned from his career with special forces in the eastern provinces. Aslan, in turn, being nothing less than brilliant, began to look into Yildiz and Yazar, suspecting they knew something about his activities on the Turkey–Iraq border. To Aslan, they were a threat, and as far as he was concerned, that made them a threat to Turkey.
‘You, dear Ashe, served Aslan’s purpose well. He manipulated the intelligence, and got you to pursue the two men through Iraq. This gave Aslan additional clout with the MIT, Turkey’s National Intelligence Organisation, though Aslan’s colleagues in Turkish security needed little encouragement to see Yildiz and Yazar as threatening to Turkey.
‘Had Zappa located Yildiz and Yazar when you were first in Iraq, he was under instructions to protect them from MIT harassment.’
‘So I was never going to be allowed to meet them?’
‘Of course not. Aslan could have got hold of them through you. Unfortunately, MIT got closer to Yildiz and Yazar than you did. As MIT closed in, Zappa helped Yildiz and Yazar flee to Germany. And MIT in Iraq vented their frustration on poor Vincent Zappa, as you may recall. At this point, you’d used up most of your usefulness to Aslan, but not to me. Aslan eventually tracked Yildiz and Yazar back from Germany to Istanbul, where he had them arrested and interrogated. Now, thanks in part to your activities, they have been released, and in some respects we’re back where we started.’
Ashe sat down outside the Sanctuary Guesthouse and stared at the ancient, human-sized relief of the black serpent that guarded the sanctuary door. Crayke observed Ashe’s fascination. ‘Beautiful isn’t it?’
‘Looks pretty damn black to me. In fact, everything does.’
‘Unenlightened, Ashe! Until you see that black serpent as a radiant angel, you’ve seen nothing.’
‘Then I’ve seen nothing.’
‘Wrong again. Yours is the darkness before the dawn.’
‘Is it always as black as this?’
‘Look, Ashe, there are jobs we’d rather not do. Be in no doubt that your friend Aslan was a better man than those who gave me – and you – your orders.’
Ashe smiled. ‘Yes… Aslan.’ He gathered up some dirt from the courtyard stones, spat on it, and rolled it in his hands. ‘It’s a pity, really’ – he flicked the unholy berat into the courtyard air –‘that he’s an Oddball.’
Crayke caught the ball of dirt and crumbled it between his fingers. ‘Takes one to know one. Ready?’
Ashe nodded, pulled himself together, and left the Market of Mystical Knowledge for a more common market, and home.
Select Bibliography
Drower, E. S., Peacock Angel, Being some Account of Votaries of a Secret Cult and their Sanctuaries (John Murray, London, 1941)
Guest, John S., The Yezidis – A Study in Survival (Routledge & Kegan Paul, London, 1987)
Joseph, Isya, Devil Worship: The Sacred Books and Traditions of the Yezidis (Kessinger Reprints, 2005; originally published 1919)
Kreyenbroek, Philip G., Yezidism – Its Background, Observances and Textual Tradition, Texts and Studies in Religion, Vol. 62 (The Edwin Mellen Press, Lewiston, Queenston, Lampeter, 1995)
Robinson, James M. (ed.), The Nag Hammadi Library (E. J. Brill, Leiden, 1984)
Spät, Eszter, The Yezidis (Saqi Books, London, 2005)
Author’s Note
The Babylon Gene is a work of fiction based on real events and situations of recent history. While interpretations of those events and situations are entirely the author’s, the historical, scientific and theological background to the story has been thoroughly researched.
The Yezidis are a real people, the inheritors of an ancient spiritual and historical tradition. All of the Yezidi characters in the novel are fictional. The characters’ involvement in military and intelligence operations is likewise fictional. A select bibliography is included at the end of the novel.
Acknowledgements
I should like to thank the following for their authoritative assistance in researching the background to this novel: Simon Carpenter, Adrian Cassar, Tuvia Fogel and Flavio Barbiero.
Anthony Cheetham, Laura Palmer, Lucy Ridout and Tom Webber provided greatly appreciated, expert publishing and editorial commitment. My heartfelt thanks to all of you at Head of Zeus.
Details of the mythical Hemlock Club derive from The Scrutinies of Simon Iff by Aleister Crowley (Teitan Press), edited by Martin P. Starr.
I am grateful to Patricia Churton, Michael Embleton, Philip Wilkinson, and to my agent, Fiona Spencer Thomas, for checking the manus
cript.
About this book
THE BABYLON GENE
A SECRET WRITTEN IN THE BLOOD AT THE DAWN OF HISTORY…
When a Masonic lodge in Istanbul is destroyed in a blast, maverick British agent Toby Ashe is pitched into a race against the CIA to solve an intelligence puzzle encompassing genetic research, the origins of Freemasonry, a covert SAS mission and the strange disappearance of the leader of an ancient Kurdish tribe.
What if the superpowers of the twenty-first century aren’t fighting over resources, regime change or religion? What if the world’s governments are seeking something far more dangerous? A centuries-old weapon of terrifying power…
About the Author
Alex Churton is a writer and composer. He was the founder editor of Freemasonry Today, and is an acknowledged expert on Western Esotericism. He is the author of ten non-fiction titles on subjects such as alchemy, the Rosicrucians and Judas. This is his first novel.
About Head of Zeus
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Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10