The Genesis Secret: (33 page)

He ungagged her immediately. She cried out
Daddy daddy daddy
and then she said
Christine!
and Rob turned, ashamed. He’d quite forgotten Christine in his urge to save Lizzie; but Christine was saving herself, and a moment later Rob reached down to the waters to grab her hand and help her out of the surging water. He hauled her up onto the dust, and she lay there, panting.

Then Rob heard a noise. Turning, he saw
Cloncurry dragging himself along in the dust, creaking and slow, his half-severed arm hanging at his side, the wound in his thigh gaping wide and raw. As he crawled, he left a trail of blood behind him. He was heading straight for the water.

He was going to make the last sacrifice: suicide. Jamie Cloncurry was going to drown himself. Rob watched, transfixed and appalled. Cloncurry was at the water’s edge now. With a grunt of great pain he hauled himself the final yard, and then he flopped down into the scummy cold waves with a great splash. For a moment his head bobbed amongst the grinning skulls, and his bright eyes stared straight at Rob.

And then he sank beneath the waves. Gently spiralling down, to join the bones of his ancestors.

Christine sat upright, shaking her phone, making sure it was still working. At last, miraculously, she got a signal and rang Sally and began telling her the good news. Rob listened, half-dazed, halfhappy, half-dreaming. He found himself scanning the horizon and did not know why. Then, a minute later, he realized
why
he was scanning the horizon.

There were police cars speeding across the dust, negotiating their way between the fingers of floodwater. A few moments later the hilltop was alive with policemen and officers and soldiers-and there was Kiribali. In his dustless suit, wearing a
wide bright smile. He was snapping orders into his radio, and pointing directions to his men.

Rob sat on the sand and hugged his daughter close.

Two hours later they drove slowly back to Sanliurfa. Rob and Christine and Lizzie were wrapped in blankets in the back of the biggest police car, one of a long convoy of police vehicles.

Evening was falling. Rob’s clothes were drying in the desert warmth, the fine mellow breeze whistling through the car windows. The last rays of sun were streaks of crimson against the purple and black of the darkening west.

Kiribali was in the passenger seat in the front of the car; he turned and looked at Rob, and at Christine, and then he smiled at Lizzie. He said to Rob, ‘Cloncurry was of course paying the Kurds all along. Paying more than us, paying more than you. We had known something was up for a while. The Breitner murder, for instance. The Yezidi didn’t mean to kill him, just frighten him. But he
was
killed. Why? Someone had persuaded the men at the dig to…go that extra mile. Your friend
Cloncurry.
’

‘OK. And then…?’

Kiribali sighed, and flicked some dust from his shoulder. ‘I have to confess, we didn’t know anything for a time. We were perplexed and confounded. But then I got a call, very recently, from your excellent policemen at Scotland Yard. But we were still in the pickle, Robert. Because we didn’t know where
you
were.’ Kiribali smiled. ‘And then Mumtaz! The little one, he came to me. He told us everything, just in time. It is always so good to have…
contacts.
’

Rob looked at Kiribali, barely registering what he was saying. Then he looked down at his hands. They were still slightly rusty with dried blood: Cloncurry’s blood. But Rob didn’t care, he didn’t give a damn: he had saved his daughter’s life! That was all that mattered. Rob’s thoughts were a jangle of anxiety and relief and a weird bruising joy.

They drove on, quietly. And then Kiribali spoke again. ‘You do know I am going to take the parchment, with the map, don’t you? And the skull. I shall take that too. The whole Black Book.’

‘Where are you going to put them?’

‘With all the other evidence.’

‘You mean the museum vaults.’

‘Of course. And we have changed the keycode!’

A large police van overtook them, its brake lights ruby in the dusk.

‘Please understand,’ said Kiribali. ‘You are safe. That is good. We shall hold the Kurds for a while,
then let them go. Radevan and his foolish friends.’ He smiled urbanely. ‘I shall let them go because I have to keep the peace here. Between the Turks and the Kurds. But everything else will be locked away, forever.’

The car drove on. The warm evening air was delicious as it breezed through the windows: sweet and soft. Rob inhaled and exhaled; he stroked his daughter’s hair. She was half asleep now. And then Rob noticed that they were passing the Gobekli turn off. It was just visible in the rising moonlight.

Rob hesitated. Then he asked Kiribali if they could go and look at Gobekli Tepe,
one last time.

Kiribali asked the driver to stop the car, and he gazed across at Rob and Christine and Lizzie. The two girls were asleep: the policeman’s smile was indulgent. He nodded, and radioed the other vehicles-informing them that they would all meet later, in Urfa. Then the driver turned the car and drove off-road.

It was the same familiar route. Over the shallow hills, past the Kurdish villages with their open sewers and straying goats and minarets floodlit a lurid green. A dog yapped, and chased the car. It chased them for a half a mile, then ran off into the gloom.

They drove further into the darkness. Then they crested the rise and were on the low hill, overlooking the temple. Rob got out of the police car,
leaving Lizzie with her head laid in Christine’s lap; both of them asleep.

Kiribali got out too. Together, the two men strolled the rolling path that led to the temple.

‘So,’ said Kiribali. ‘Tell me.’

‘Tell you
what?

‘What you were doing in the valley? The Valley of Killing?’

Rob thought for a moment, and then he explained, tentatively. He gave a brief outline of the Genesis Secret, the most cursory sketch. But it was enough to intrigue: in the moonlight Rob could see Kiribali’s eyes widening.

The detective smiled. ‘And you believe you understood? That you really worked it all
out?
’

‘Maybe…But we don’t have any photos. It was all lost in the flood. No one would believe us. So it doesn’t matter.’

Kiribali sighed, rather cheerfully. They had reached the top of the little hill, by the single mulberry tree. The megaliths were visible, casting a shadow by moonshine. Kiribali slapped Rob on the back. ‘My writer friend. It matters to
me.
You know I love English literature. Tell me what you think…Tell me the
Genesis Secret!
’

Rob demurred; Kiribali insisted.

Rob sat down on a rocky bench. He took out his notebook and strained to read his notes in the moonlight. Then he closed the book, and stared across the undulating plains. Kiribali sat beside him, and listened to Rob’s account.

‘The Biblical accounts of the Fallen Angels, the passages in the Book of Enoch, the secret imparted in Genesis 6: I believe these are a folk memory of interbreeding between hominid species, the first men…’

‘I see.’ Kiribali smiled.

‘And this, I believe, is how the folk memory arose. Sometime around 10,000
BC
a species of man migrated from the north to Kurdish Turkey. These invading hominids were physically large. They may ultimately have evolved from Gigantopethicus, the largest hominid ever known. Certainly, judging by cultural influences nearby, these larger hominids came from central east Asia.’

Kiribali nodded. Rob went on, ‘Whatever their origin, let’s call these invading hominids the Northern men. Compared to
Homo sapiens,
the Northern men were more advanced, and certainly more aggressive. They had mastered pottery, and building, carving and sculpting, maybe even writing; whereas
Homo sapiens
were still living in caves.’

The detective remained silent, thinking. Rob elaborated. ‘Why were the Northern men smarter and more ruthless? The solution is in their origin: they came from the north. Scientists have long speculated that fiercer climates produce a sharper, more strategic intelligence. In an Ice Age you need to plan ahead, merely to survive. You also need to compete more brutally for what resources there are. By contrast, warmer and kinder climates maybe produce
a higher social intelligence, and more friendly co-operation…

‘But the Northmen had a problem; hence their migration. We can speculate that they were dying out, like the Neanderthals before them. It seems, indeed, that the Northmen suffered a genetic flaw which predisposed them to intense and evil violence. Perhaps the harshness of their environment instilled in them a fear, of a vengeful God. A deity who hungered for blood, for the propitiation of
human sacrifice.

‘Whatever the reason: the Northern men were killing themselves, sacrificing their own kind. A dying civilization, like the Aztecs. In desperation they sought a kinder locale and climate: the Edenic climate of the fertile crescent. They migrated south and west. Once there they began to breed with the humbler peoples of the Kurdish plains; and as they intermingled with the hunter-gatherers, the humble cavemen, they taught them the arts of building, carving, religion, society: hence the startling advance in culture represented by Gobekli Tepe. In fact, I suspect Gobekli was a temple built by the supermen to inspire awe in the huntergatherers.’

A goat bleated, somewhere in the gloom.

‘For a while, Gobekli Tepe must have seemed to the little hunter-gatherers like paradise. A Garden of Eden, a place where the gods walked amongst men. But things began to change. Food resources may have run low. As a result the
Northern giants put the little hunters to work: to reap the wild grasses of the Kurdish plain, to toil as farmers. The mysterious move to agriculture had begun. The Neolithic revolution. And we humans were the helots. The slaves. The toilers in the field.’

‘You mean
this
was the Fall of Man,’ Kiribali said. ‘The expulsion from Eden?’

‘Perhaps. To deepen the mystery, we also have strange hints of changes in sexual behaviour around this time. Maybe the Northern men liked to rape the small cavewomen, rape them with pigs like the statue in your museum, maybe they taught the women to “kiss the phallus” as the Book of Enoch has it. The women certainly became aware of their sexuality-like Eve, found naked in Eden-as they copulated with the newcomers. And as the two hominids interbred, the unhappy genes of violence and sacrifice were passed on, albeit in a diluted form. The genes were inherited by the children born of these unions.’

A lorry hooted in the far distance as it took the main road south to Damascus.

‘So yes, it was the Fall of Man. The community of Gobekli and the surrounding plains was now thoroughly brutalized, traumatized and hypersexualized. This was no Eden any more. Moreover, the farming itself was coarsening the landscape. Making life harder. And the reaction of the Northern men to these ominous signs?
It was to take up the old traits again: they began to sacrifice, to appease the cruel gods of nature, or the demons in their minds. And they needed to appease these gods with human blood.
To fill jars with living babies.
‘ Rob glanced at the empty deserts to the east.

Kiribali leaned forward. ‘And then?’

‘Now we reach recorded history. Around 8000BC the suffering, sacrifice and violence must have become too much. The local huntergatherers turned on the Northern invaders. They fought back. There was a huge battle. In desperation, the ordinary cavemen slaughtered the last of the invading Northmen, whom they greatly outnumbered. And then they buried all those bodies in a valley, close to the graves of the sacrificed children. Creating one great death-pit-not far from here, from Gobekli. The Valley of Killing.’

‘And then they buried the temple!’

Rob nodded. ‘And then Gobekli Tepe was interred, laboriously, to hide the shame of this cross-breeding, and to entomb the evil seed. The hunter-gatherers deliberately buried the great temple to eradicate the memory: the memory of the horrors, of the Fall from Eden, of their encounter with evil.

‘But the burial didn’t work. It was too late. The violent and sacrificial genes of the Northern men had entered the DNA of
Homo sapiens.
The Gobekli gene was now part of the human inheritance. And
it was spreading. Using the Bible and other sources we can actually trace the gene, trace the exiles from Gobekli wandering south, to Sumer, Canaan and Israel; because as they went they spread the genes of sacrifice and violence. Hence the early evidence for sacrifice in these lands. The lands of Canaan, Israel and Sumer.’

‘The lands of Abraham,’ said Kiribali.

‘Yes. The prophet Abraham, born near Sanliurfa, must have been partly descended from the Gobekli Northmen: he was intelligent, a leader, charismatic. And he was also obsessed with sacrifice. In the Bible he was prepared to slay his own son, in obedience to some wrathful god. Abraham was also, of course, the founder of the three great religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. The Abrahamic faiths. And Abraham founded these faiths on the folk memory he shared with those around him.

‘All these great monotheistic religions spring from the trauma of what happened at Gobekli Tepe. All religions are based on a fear of great angels and a wrathful god: a subconscious and mass recollection of what happened in the Kurdish desert: when powerful and violent beings came amongst us. Significantly, all these religions are still based on the principal of human sacrifice: in Judaism there is the mock fleshly sacrifice of circumcision, in Islam we have the sacrifice of jihad—’

‘Or maybe the butchered captives of al-Qaeda?’

‘Maybe. And in Christianity we have the repetitive sacrifice of Christ, the firstborn of God, forever dying on the cross. So all these religions are a stress syndrome, a kind of nightmare, in which we constantly relive the trauma of the northern incursions, the time when we humans were cast out of Eden, and forced to give up our life of leisure. Forced to farm. Forced to kiss the phallus. Forced to kill our own children to please the wrathful gods.’

‘But, Robert…How do the
Yezidi
fit in?’

‘They are vitally important. Because there are only two sources of knowledge as to what really happened at Gobekli. The first are the Kurdish cultists, the Yarsens, Alevis
and the Yezidi.
These tribes like to believe they are directly descended from the purebred Gobekli cavemen. They are the Sons of the Jar. The sons of Adam. The rest of humanity, they say, comes from Eve, from the second jar of quarterbreeds and halfbreeds: the jar full of scorpions and snakes.’

‘I see…’

‘These cultists share many myths about the Garden of Eden. But even to the cultists, what happened at Gobekli is just a vague, frightening memory, of some sneering, birdlike angels that demanded worship. But the hazy folk-memory is potent. This is why the Yezidi, in particular, don’t outmarry. They have a mythic fear that they might taint their own bloodline with the traits of the violence and sacrifice they see in wider humanity.
In the rest of us. The peoples who carry the Gobekli gene.’

Kiribali was silent, taking this in.

Rob continued. ‘The cursed Yezidi also bear a terrible burden. A mortification. They may claim to be pure, but deep down they sense the truth: that some of their forefathers interbred with the evil Northmen, allowing the Northmen to spread the Gobekli gene, and so the ills of the world are essentially their fault. Hence their inhibition, their secrecy, the Yezidis’ peculiar sense of shame. Hence also the fact they have not spread far from the temple whence they come. They need to protect it. They still fear that if the truth is ever properly uncovered, and their deeds revealed to the world, they will be exterminated by the rest of humanity, in anger. Their forefathers failed to protect humanity from the Northmen. Their women lay with the Northern demons. Like the horizontal collaborators of occupied France.’

‘And this,’ Kiribali said, ‘would explain their god. The peacock angel.’