Tom Knox: The Genesis Secret

So far, forty-three stones had been unearthed. They were arranged in circles from five to ten metres across. Around the circles were benches of rock, smallish niches, and walls of mud brick.

Rob considered what he'd learned. All this was reasonably interesting. But it was the age of the site that had really got people truly excited. Gobekli Tepe was staggeringly ancient. According to Breitner, the complex was at least ten thousand, maybe eleven thousand years old. That was to say around 8000–9000 BC.

Eleven thousand years old? It sounded incredibly ancient. But was it? Rob went back to his history book to compare this age with other places. Stonehenge was built around 2000BC. The Sphinx maybe 3000 BC. Prior to the discovery and dating of Gobekli Tepe, the 'most ancient' megalithic complex had been located in Malta-and that was dated around 3500 BC.

Gobekli Tepe was, therefore, five thousand years older than any comparable structure. Rob was headed to one of the oldest human constructions ever built. Maybe the oldest.

He felt his Story Antennae twitching. World's Oldest Building Found in Turkey? Hmmm. Maybe not front page, but quite possibly third page. A nice big splash. Moreover, despite these reports in the paper, it seemed as if no western journalist had actually made it out to Gobekli. All the articles in western media were second-or third-hand, via Turkish news agencies. Rob would be the first man on the ground.

At last his journey was over. The plane banked and dived and trundled to a halt in Sanliurfa airport. It was a dark clear night. So clear that through the windows of the plane the night actually looked cool. But when the door opened and the plane ladder descended Rob felt a blast of oppressively hot air. As if someone had just opened an enormous oven. This was a hot place. Very hot. They were on the edge of the great Syrian Desert, after all.

The airport was tiny. Rob liked tiny airports. They always had an idiosyncrasy lacking in huge, impersonal modern airports. And Sanliurfa airport was especially idiosyncratic. The bags were brought by hand to the Arrivals Lounge by a fat man with a beard and a stained vest, and Passport Control consisted of one guy half-asleep at a rickety desk.

In the airport car park a warm dusty breeze was knocking the fronds of some straggly palm trees. Several cab drivers eyed him from the taxi rank. Rob looked and chose. 'Sanliurfa,' he said to one of the younger guys.

The stubble-jawed man smiled. His denim shirt was torn, but clean. He seemed friendly. Friendlier than the other taxi guys, who were yawning and spitting. Even better, this young guy seemed to speak English. After a quick chat about the fee and the whereabouts of Rob's hotel, the driver took Rob's bags and slung them manfully in the car boot, then climbed in the front and nodded and said, 'Urfa! Not Sanliurfa. Urfa!'

Rob sat back in the taxi seat. He was very tired now. It had been a long, long journey from Tel Aviv. Tomorrow he would go and see this weird dig. But now he had to sleep. Yet the taxi driver was keen to keep him talking.

'You want beer? I know good place.'

Rob groaned, inwardly. Flat dark fields were racing past. 'No thanks.'

'Woman? I know good woman!'

'Er, no, Not really.'

'Carpet. You want carpet. I have brother…?'

Rob sighed, and looked at the rear-view mirror. Then he saw the taxi driver staring back at him. The man was smiling. He was joking.

'Very funny.'

The taxi driver laughed. 'Fucking carpets!' Then, without taking his eye off the road, he turned and offered a hand. Rob shook it.

'My name Radevan,' the driver said. 'You?'

'Robert. Rob Luttrell.'

'Hello, Mr Robert Luttrell.'

Rob laughed and said hello. They were on the outskirts of town now. Lamplights and tyre shops lined the empty, litter-strewn street. A Conoco gas station sign glowed red through the sultry gloom. Concrete blocks of flats rose up on both sides. There was a sense of heat everywhere. Yet Rob could see women behind windows in distant kitchens: still in headscarves.

'You need driver? You here business?' asked Radevan.

Rob thought about this. Why not? The man was friendly, he had a sense of humour. 'Sure. I need a driver, and an interpreter. For tomorrow? Maybe more.'

Radevan happily banged the steering wheel with his palm, while he torched a cigarette with the other hand. Neither hand was actually on the steering wheel. Rob thought they were going to careen off the road into a small neon-lit mosque, but then Radevan cuffed the wheel and they were back on track. Between puffs on his pungent cigarette the driver chatted. 'I can help you. I good translator. Speak Kurdish English Turkish Japanese, German.'

'You speak German?'

'Nein.'

Rob laughed again. He was warming to Radevan big-time, not least because he had sped ten miles in ten minutes without crashing, and they were already in the middle of town. There were shuttered kebab stalls and late-night baklava shops everywhere. A man in a suit and a man in an Arabic cloak. Two kids sped past on mopeds. Some young women in jeans with brightly coloured headscarves were giggling at a joke. Traffic honked around a junction. Rob's hotel was right in the centre of town.

Radevan was looking at Rob in the mirror. 'Mr Rob, you Englishman?'

'Kinda…' Rob said. He didn't want to get into a long debate about his precise parentage; not now. He was too tired. 'Sort of.'

Radevan grinned. 'I like Englishman!' He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together as if asking for money. 'They are rich. Englishman very rich!'

Rob shrugged. 'Well…some of them.'

Radevan insisted, 'Dollars and euros! Dollars and pounds!' Another grin.' OK, I take you tomorrow. Where you go?'

'Gobekli Tepe. You know it?'

Silence. Rob tried again. 'Gobekli Tepe?'

Radevan said nothing, and pulled the car up short. 'Your hotel,' the driver said, bluntly. His smile had suddenly gone.

'Er…you meet me tomorrow?' said Rob, lapsing into pidgin English. 'Radevan?'

Radevan nodded. He helped Rob carry his bags to the hotel steps, and then the driver turned back to the taxi. 'You say…you say you want Gobekli Tepe?'

'Yes.'

Radevan frowned. 'Gobekli Tepe bad place. Mr Rob.'

Rob stood at the door to his hotel, feeling as if he was in a film adaptation of Bram Stoker's Dracula. 'Hey. It's just a dig, Radevan. Can you take me or not?'

Radevan spat on the road. Then he climbed into his taxi and leaned out of the window. 'Nine o'clock tomorrow.'

The cab disappeared with a lusty wheel-spin into the fusty hubbub of the Sanliurfa streets. Next morning after a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, sheep's milk cheese and three dates, Rob got in the cab. They headed out of town. As they went, Rob asked Radevan why he had such an attitude towards Gobekli.

At first the driver was grumpy. He shrugged and muttered. But as the roads got emptier and the wide irrigated fields took over he opened up like the landscape. 'It is not good.'

'Tell me.'

'Gobekli Tepe could be rich. Could make Kurdish people rich.'

'But?'

Radevan puffed angrily on his third cigarette. 'Look at this place, this people?'

Rob glanced out of the window. They were heading past a little village of mud houses and open drains, grimy kids playing amongst the litter. The kids waved at the car. Beyond the village was a cotton field where women in lavender-coloured headscarves were bending to the crop in the dust and the dirt, and the searing heat. He looked back at his driver.

Radevan tutted loudly. 'Kurdish people poor. Me, I taxi driver. But I speak languages! Yet I taxi driver.'

Rob nodded. He knew about Kurdish unhappiness. The campaign for separation.

'Turkish government, they keep us poor…'

'OK, sure,' said Rob. 'But I don't understand what this has to do with Gobekli Tepe?'