Tom Knox - The Genesis Secret

Rob finished his beer and motioned to the bar owner for two more. Another huge silver lorry thundered down the Damascus road. The sky over Sanliurfa was a dirty orange-black.

'And what about the grass?'

Christine nodded. 'Yes, that is weird. Why keep that?'

'Do you think he was frightened? Is that why the notes are so…messed up?

'It is possible. Remember the Pulsa Dinura?'

Rob shuddered. 'Hard to forget. Do you think he knew about that?'

Christine picked an insect off the top of her beer. Then she looked hard at Rob. 'I think he knew. He must have heard the chanters outside the window. And he was an expert on Mesopotamian religions. The demons and the curses. It was one of his specialities.'

'So he was aware he was in danger?'

'Probably. Which might account for the chaotic state of his notes. Sheer fear. But still…' She held the book flat in her hands, as if assessing its weight. 'A lifetime's work…

Rob could sense her sadness.

Christine dropped the book again. 'This place is horrible. I don't care if they do serve beer. Can we go?'

'Gladly.'

Dropping some coins in a saucer, they made for the Land Rover and barrelled off down the road. After a while Christine said, 'I don't believe it was just fear, it doesn't add up.' She swivelled the wheel so they could overtake a cyclist, an old man in an Arabic cloak. Sitting in front of the bicycling man, athwart the crossbar, was a small dark boy. The boy waved at the Land Rover, grinning at the white western woman.

Rob noticed that Christine was taking side streets. Not an obvious route back to the centre of town.

At last she said, 'Franz was diligent and thorough. I don't think a curse would have sent him over the edge. Nothing would have unsettled him like that.'

'So what was it?' Rob asked.

They were in a newer part of town now. Almost European looking. Nice clean apartment blocks. Women were walking the evening streets, not all of them in headscarves. Rob saw a brightly lit supermarket advertising cheese in German as well as Turkish. Next door was an internet cafe full of shining screens with dark heads silhouetted against them.

'I think he must have had some theory. He used to get excited by theories.'

'I saw.'

Christine smiled, staring ahead. 'I think he had some theory, about Gobekli. That's what the notes say to me.'

'A theory to do with what?'

'Perhaps he had worked out why Gobekli was buried. That is, after all, the big mystery. If he felt he was onto a solution that would get him pretty agitated.'

Rob wasn't satisfied by this. 'But why didn't he just write it down, or tell anyone?'

The car had stopped. Christine pulled the key from the ignition. 'Good point,' she said, looking at Rob. 'A very good point. Let's go and find out. Come on.'

'Where?'

'There's a friend here. Might be able to help.'

They were parked in front of a new apartment complex with a huge crimson poster advertising Turku Cola on the wall. Christine ran up the steps and pressed a numbered button. They waited, and then they were buzzed in. The lift took them to the tenth floor. They ascended in silence.

A door was already half-open across the landing. Rob followed Christine. He peered into the apartment-then jumped: just inside the door was Ivan the paleobotanist, from the party. Just lurking there.

Ivan nodded politely but his expression was notably unfriendly. Almost suspicious. He showed them into the main room of his flat. It was austere, just a lot of books and some pictures. On a desk a smart laptop computer was showing a screensaver of the Gobekli megaliths. There was one beautiful small stone object on the mantelpiece which looked like one of the Mesopotamian wind demons. Rob found himself wondering if Ivan had stolen it.

They sat down. Wordless. Ivan offered no tea or water but just sat down opposite them, looked hard at Christine and said, 'Yes?'

She took out the notebook and laid it on the table. Ivan stared at it. He glanced up at Christine. His young Slavic face was a picture of blankness. Like someone suppressing emotion. Or someone used to suppressing emotion.

Then Christine reached in her pocket and took out the grass stalk and laid it very gently on top of the book. All the time Rob watched Ivan's face. He had no idea what was going on here, but he felt that Ivan's reaction was crucial. Ivan flinched very slightly when he saw the stalk of grass. Rob couldn't stand the silence any longer. 'Guys? Please? What is it? What's going on?

Christine glanced at him as if to say be patient. But Rob didn't feel like being patient. He wanted to know what was going on. Why had they driven here, late at night? To sit in silence and stare at some piece of grass?

'Einkorn,' said Ivan.

Christine smiled. 'It is, isn't it? Einkorn wheat. Yes.'

Ivan shook his head. 'You needed me to tell you this, Christine?'

'Well…I wasn't sure. You're the expert.'

'So now you are sure. And I am very tired.'

Christine picked up the grass. 'Thank you, Ivan.'

'It is nothing.' He was already standing. 'Goodbye.'

They were escorted briskly to the door. At the threshold Ivan glanced left and right along the landing as if he was expecting to see someone he didn't want to see. Then he slammed the door shut.

'Well that was friendly,' said Rob.

'But we got what we came for.'

They buzzed the lift and descended. All the mystery was irritating Rob. 'OK,' he said as they breathed the warm, dieselly air of the street. 'Come on, Christine. Einkorn wheat. What the hell?'

Without turning to face him she said, 'It is the oldest form of wheat in the world. The original wheat, the first ever cereal if you like.'

'And?'

'It only grows around here. And it was crucial to the switch to agriculture. When man started farming.'

'And?'

Christine turned. Her brown eyes were shining. 'Franz thought it was a clue. I'm sure he thought it was a clue. In which case I think it's a clue.'

'A clue to what?'

'It might tell us why they buried the temple.'

'But how can a piece of grass do that?'

'Later. Come on. Let's go. You saw the way Ivan was watching at the door. Come on. Now.'

'You think we're being…followed?'

'Not followed exactly. Maybe watched. I don't know. Maybe it's paranoia.'

Rob remembered Franz, skewered on the pole. He jumped into the car.

Forrester woke in an almost feverish sweat. He blinked at the dingy curtains of his Douglas hotel room. For a moment the nightmare lingered: giving a palpable yet absurd savour of evil to the hotel fixtures: the wardrobe door had swung half-open, showing the blackness within; the television lurked, squat and ugly, in the corner.

What had he dreamed? He rubbed the sleep from his face and remembered: he'd dreamed the usual, of course. A small body. A bridge. Then the bump-bump-bump of cars, driving over a 'tyre'.

Bump bump bump.

Bump bump bump.

He got up, walked to the window and drew the curtains. To his surprise it was light: very light. The sky was white and blank and the streets were busy; he was going to be late for the press conference. He made it just in time. The sizeable hall was already bustling. The local police had commandeered the biggest room in St Anne's Fort. A handful of local journalists had been joined by a dozen national hacks. Two news crews with digicams, big headphones and long grey microphones were loitering at the back. Forrester saw a familiar head of blonde hair: it was the London correspondent for CNN. He'd seen her at several media briefings before.

CNN? Someone had obviously tipped off the London media about the macabre nature of the murder. From the back of the hall, he surveyed the room. Three policemen were sitting at the front; Deputy Chief Hayden was in the middle, flanked by a couple of younger guys. A big blue screen above them said Isle of Man Constabulary.