The Genesis Secret: (21 page)

As soon as Rob was shoved across the Turkish border at Habur he phoned Christine, then jumped in a taxi for the nearest city. Mardin. Seven arduous hours later he booked into a hotel room, phoned Christine again, phoned his daughter; then he fell asleep with the phone in his hand, he was so tired.

The next morning he sat down at his laptop and wrote-immediately, passionately, and in one session-his story.

Kidnapped by the Cults of Kurdistan.

He felt that writing the piece quickly and unthinkingly was the only way. There were so many disparate elements that, if he sat down and cogitated, if he tried to form a coherent narrative, there was a risk he would get lost in the many details and the endless byways. Also, the article might seem contrived if he toiled over it: the story was so bizarre it had to sound simple and heartfelt for it to work. Very immediate. Very honest. As if he was telling
someone a long and astonishing anecdote over a coffee. So Rob just banged it down in one go. Gobekli Tepe and the jars in the museum, the Yezidi and the Cult of Angels and the worship of Melek Taus. The ceremonies in Lalesh and the skull on the altar and the mystery of the Black Book. All of it, the whole story, spiced with violence and murder. And it now had a good ending: it concluded with him lying on his side, a hood over his head, in a filthy little room in the mountains of Kurdistan: thinking he was going to die.

The article took five hours to write. Five hours in which he barely looked up from his laptop, he was so focused. In the zone.

After six minutes of spellchecking, Rob copied the piece on to a data stick, walked out of the hotel and went straight to an internet café. Then he plugged in the data stick and emailed the piece to Steve, in London, who was impatiently awaiting his copy.

He sat nervously in the quiet internet café by the computer, hoping that Steve would phone back soon with his response. The hot Mardin sun was bright in the streets outside, but in here it was almost sepulchral. Only one other guy was in the internet café, drinking an obscure Turkish soda, playing some computer game. The boy had big fat headphones on. He was eviscerating an onscreen monster with a virtual AK47. The monster had purple claws and sad eyes. Its intestines spilled out, vivid and green.

Rob returned to his own screen. He checked the weather in Spain for no reason. He Googled his own name. He Googled Christine’s name. He discovered that she was the author of ’Neanderthal Cannibalism in Ice Age Euskera’ in a recent addition of
American Archaeology.
He also found a nice picture of her receiving an obscure award in Berlin.

Rob stared at the picture. He missed Christine. Not as much as he missed his daughter, but he missed her. The decorous conversation; her perfume; her graciousness. The way she smiled when they had sex, with her eyes shut, as if she was dreaming of something very sweet that had happened very long ago.

His mobile rang.

‘Robbie!’

‘Steve…’ His heart was thumping. He hated this bit. ‘Well?’

‘Well,’ said Steve. ‘I don’t know what to say…’

Rob’s spirits sagged. ‘You don’t like it?

Pause. ‘Nah, you arse. I fucking love it!’

Rob’s spirits rocketed.

Steve was laughing. ‘Jesus, Rob I only sent you to do a fucking history piece. Thought it might be nice for you. Bit of a break. But you witness a murder. You get assaulted by Satanists. You discover a Stone Age toddler in a pickle jar. You find some more devil-worshippers. You hear evil Kurdish death prayers. You…you…you…’ Steve was running out of breath. ‘Then you go to
Iraq and you meet some mystery bloke who takes you to a sacred capital where his people worship a fucking pigeon and you find them all bowing down to some alien skull at which point the Yezzers run in and try to stab you before telling you they are all directly descended from Adam and Eve.’

Rob was silent. Then he burst out laughing. His laughter was very loud-so loud that the monsterslaughtering kid on the computer across the room looked up and tapped his headphones to see if they were working properly. ‘So you think the story is OK? I’ve tried to be fair to the Yezidi…Maybe too fair, but I just-’

Steve interrupted:

‘It’s more than OK! I love it. And so does the boss. We’re gonna run it tomorrow in the centre, dps, and we’ll have a teaser on the front.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yup. Straight into print. We’ve got your pics too. You’re done a grand job.’

That’s great. That’s…’

‘Bloody great, yeah I know. Now when are you heading back?’

‘I’m not sure…I mean, I’m trying to get the first flight I can, but they’re booked solid. And I don’t fancy a twenty-hour bus ride to Ankara. Certainly I’ll be in London by the weekend.’

‘Good man. Come in to the office and I’ll buy you lunch. Might even go to a proper restaurant. With pizzas.’

Rob chuckled. He said his goodbyes to his boss. Then he paid the internet café owner and walked out into Mardin.

It was a nice city, Mardin. From what little Rob had seen of it, the city seemed poor but very historic and atmospheric. It was said to date from the Flood: it had Roman streets, and Byzantine remains, and Syriac goldsmiths. It had weird lanes that ran under the houses. But Rob didn’t care any more. He’d had enough historic and Oriental fantasies. He wanted to get home now: to cool, modern, rainy, beautiful, hi-tech European London. To hug his daughter and kiss Christine.

Standing by the doorway to a bakery, he called Christine. He’d already rung her twice today-but he just liked talking to her. She picked up at once. He told her the story had gone down well at the newspaper and she said that was great and told Rob she wanted him back in England. He said he would be there as soon as he possibly could, five days max. Then she told him she was still seeing a lot of his daughter, becoming firm friends. Indeed, Sally had asked Christine if she’d like to help out with Lizzie. Sally had a day-long law course to do in Cambridge so Christine had agreed to look after Rob’s daughter. They were going to spend the afternoon seeing De Savary, Christine’s old friend and lecturer; that is, if Rob didn’t mind. She wanted to talk to De Savary about the link with the murders in England, since he seemed to know so much of what the police were doing.
And Lizzie was keen to go see some cows and sheep.

The Frenchwoman told him she missed him, a lot, and Rob said he was longing to see her, and then they both rang off. He walked down the road back to his hotel, thinking of lunch. Ambling happily. But as soon as he put the phone back in his pocket a sharp and sudden realization brought him up short. De Savary. Cambridge. The murders.

There was still one half of the story entirely unsolved. The British half. The story hadn’t finished. It had just shifted.

From feeling happy and contented, Rob was now tensed and hungry again. Pumped for action. Ready for the next instalment. More than ready: he was worried that something might happen when he wasn’t around. He needed to fly back to England as fast as he could. Maybe he could get a new flight via Istanbul. Maybe he could hire a plane…

Rob felt the prickle of a new anxiety.

Forrester and Boijer were staring at the River Styx.

‘I remember this from school,’ said Boijer. ‘The River Styx is the river surrounding the underworld. We have to cross it, to get to the land of ghosts.’

Forrester peered into the dank and subterranean gloom. The River Styx was not very wide, but it was vigorous: it tumbled along its ancient channel, then turned a rocky corner and disappeared further into the caves and caverns. It was a suitable spot to forsake this earthly life. The only jarring note was the old packet of Kettle Chips on the opposite shore.

‘Course,’ the guide broke in, ‘the River Styx is just a name they gave it. Actually it’s an artificial river, constructed by the 2nd Baronet, Francis Dashwood, when they were converting the caves. Though there are lots of real rivers and aquifers in these chalk and flint cave systems. It’s an endless labyrinth.’

The guide, Kevin Bigglestone, smoothed back his floppy brown hair, and smiled at the policemen. ’Shall I show you the rest?

‘Lead on.’

Bigglestone began his guided tour of the Hellfire Caves, six miles from the Dashwood Estate at West Wycombe. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘here we are.’

He lifted his umbrella as if he was leading a tour group. Boijer sniggered; Forrester shot his junior a warning glance: they needed this guy. They needed the cooperation of everyone in West Wycombe, if their plan was to work.

‘So,’ said Bigglestone, his podgy face barely visible in the darkness of the caves. ‘What do we know of the eighteenth century Hellfire Club? Why did they meet here? In these cold and clammy caverns? During the sixteenth century various secret societies arose in Europe, such as the Rosicrucians. All of them were committed to freethinking, to occult lore, to investigating the mysteries of belief. By the eighteenth century élite members of these societies were seized by the idea that evidence could be found in the Holy Land, texts and materials which undermined the historical and theological basis of Christianity. Maybe of all the major creeds.’ The guide lifted his umbrella again. ‘Of course, it was wishful thinking, in an age of anti-clericalism and revolutionary secularism. But these legends and traditions were enough to tantalize some very
rich men…’ He walked to the bridge that crossed the Styx and turned. ‘Certain maverick members of the English aristocracy were particularly intrigued by these rumours. One of them, the 2nd Baron Le Despencer, Sir Francis Dashwood, actually travelled across Turkey in the eighteenth century in search of the truth. When he came back he was so inspired by what he found that he established first the Divan Club, and then the Hellfire Club. And one of the
raisons d’être
of the Hellfire Club was contempt and refutation of established faith.’

Forrester interrupted. ‘How do we know this?’

‘There are plentiful clues, in this area, that reveal Dashwood’s disdain for orthodox faith. For instance, he adopted the motto “
Fay ce que voudras
”, or “Do as you wish”. This was taken from Rabelais, a great satirist of the church. The motto was later co-opted by the diabolist Aleister Crowley in the twentieth century and is now commonly used by Satanists across the world. Dashwood had this motto inscribed over the archway at the entrance of Medmenham Abbey, a ruined abbey, near here, that he rented for parties.’

‘That’s right sir,’ said Boijer, looking at Forrester. ’I saw it. This morning.’

Bigglestone invited them to follow, still giving them his guided tour speech. ‘In 1752 Dashwood made another eastern journey, this time to Italy. The trip was made in secret: no one is sure where he went. One theory is that he went to Venice,
to buy books about magic. Other experts believe he may have visited Naples, to see the excavations of a Roman brothel.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Dashwood was a highly libidinous man, Detective Forrester! In the gardens at West Wycombe is a statue of Priapus, the Greek god who suffers a constant erection.’

Boijer laughed. ‘Gotta cut down on the Viagra.’

Bigglestone ignored the interruption. ‘Underneath the statue to Priapus Dashwood had his sculptor engrave
Peni Tento Non Penitenti.
That is to say: “A tense penis, not penitence”, confirming, you see, Detective Forrester, his outright rejection of Christianity. Of religious morality.’ They were walking quickly down the main cavern now. Bigglestone jabbed at the clammy air with his umbrella, as if he was fending off a footpad. ‘See here. According to Horace Walpole, these smaller caves were fitted with beds so the brothers could have their sport with young women. Sex parties were common in the caves in Dashwood’s time. As were drinking parties. We also hear rumours of devil-worship, group masturbation and so forth.’

They had emerged into a larger cave, this time carved into Gothic and religious shapes: a faintly mocking version of a church.

The guide pointed the umbrella high. ‘Right above us is the church of St Lawrence, built by the same Francis Dashwood. The church ceiling
is a precise facsimile of the ceiling in the ruined Temple of the Sun at Palmyra, in Syria. Francis Dashwood was not only influenced by the ancient mysteries but also by the ancient sun cults. But what did he really believe? A matter of dispute. Some assert that his political and spiritual vision can be summed up thusly: that Britain should be ruled by an élite; and that this noble élite should practice a pagan religion.’ He smiled. ‘And yet, allied to these views was a definite tendency to libertinism: drunken orgies, abusive blasphemy, and so forth. All of which begs the question. What was the true rationale for the Club?’

‘What do you think?’ Forrester asked.

‘You ask that question as if you expect a succinct answer! I’m afraid that’s impossible, Detective. All we know is that, in its heyday, the Hellfire Club numbered the most prominent figures of British society amongst its members. Indeed by 1762, the Friars of Medmenham, as they called themselves, dominated the highest circles of the British government, and thus the nascent British Empire.’ Bigglestone began the walk back through the higher caves to the car park; explaining as he went. ‘In 1762 the existence of the club was finally made public. It was revealed that the Prime Minister, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, plus various lords, nobles, and Cabinet ministers, were all members. This revelation meant that the Hellfire Club became a
byword for aristocratic wickedness and lubricious exclusivity.’ Bigglestone chuckled. ‘Following this scandal, many of the most famous members, like Walpole, Wilkes, Hogarth and Benjamin Franklin, decided to quit. The very last meeting of the club was convened in 1774.’

They were in the narrow rock corridor that led from the cave system to the entrance and the ticket office; the walls were close and dripping wet.

‘From this point the Hellfire caves entered centuries of neglect, but they remained a poignant and sometimes troubling memory. But they are unlikely to ever reveal their final secret-because the club members took pains to bury their mysteries with their own corpses. It is said that the last steward of the Order, Paul Whitehead, spent the three days before his death burning all relevant papers. So, what really went on inside the caves is a question whose answer may only be found…in the fires of hell!’

He stopped. Boijer was clapping politely. The guide did a little bow, then looked at his watch. ’Gosh, it’s nearly six. I have to go! I do hope tomorrow’s plan comes off, officers. The twelfth baronet is very keen to help the police catch those awful murderers.’

He hurried across the tarmac and disappeared down a hillside path. Boijer and Forrester walked slowly to their police car, parked in the shade of an oak tree.

As they walked, they went over their plan. Hugo De Savary had, by phone and email, convinced Forrester that the gang was bound to visit the Hellfire caves, because if the gang were looking for the Black Book, the treasure Whaley had brought back from the Holy Land-this was one place they just had to search: in the epicentre of the Hellfire Club phenomenon.

But when would the gang visit the caves? Forrester had worked out that they only hit a target when it was most likely to be deserted. Craven Street in the middle of a weekend night; Canford School one early morning at half term.

So the police had set a trap. Forrester had paid a visit to the present owner of West Wycombe Estate, the 12th Baronet Edward Francis Dashwood, direct descendant of the Hellfire lord, and had got permission to close the caves for one day. The unexpected closure would be spuriously publicized, as being ‘in celebration of the baronet’s wedding anniversary, and to give the loyal staff of West Wycombe a holiday’. Adverts to this effect had been put in all the local papers. The news had been posted on relevant websites. Scotland Yard had even persuaded the BBC to run a small TV item, focusing on the scandalous history of the site, but mentioning the temporary closure. Consequently, as far as the general public were concerned, the Hellfire caves were going to be completely empty. The trap had been baited.

Would the gang turn up? It was a long shot, Forrester knew, but this idea was all they had. Forrester felt a definite pessimism as Boijer raced their car along the country roads to their hotel.

The only other lead they had of any sort was a CCTV shot of Cloncurry from Canford School. The gang had disabled the rest of the school’s cameras by snipping the cables. But one camera had been overlooked, and it had yielded a blurry image of Cloncurry walking through the school. Cloncurry had stared chillingly at the camera as he walked past. As if he knew he was being filmed. And didn’t care.

Forrester had stared at the grainy image of Cloncurry for hours, trying to get inside the young man’s mind. It was difficult: this was a man who could flay a pinioned victim, alive. A man who could cheerily cut out a tongue, and bury a screaming face in soil. A man who could do anything.

He was strikingly handsome, with high cheekbones and almost oriental eyes. An angular and dashing profile. And somehow this made his intense wickedness all the more sinister.

Boijer was parking the car. They were staying at the High Wycombe Holiday Inn, just off the M40. It was a fitful night. Forrester had a tiny bit of spliff after dinner, but it didn’t help him sleep. He dreamed, sweatily, all night, of caves and naked women and lurid parties; he dreamed
of a small girl lost amongst the laughing adults, a small girl crying for her father, lost in the caves.

He woke up early, dry-mouthed. Leaning across the bed, he picked up the phone and called Boijer, stirring his junior from sleep. They drove straight to their Portakabin.

The little cabin was concealed around the hill at the far side of the main cave entrance. The cave system was empty. The ticket office was locked. The Dashwood Estate was largely deserted: all the staff had been asked to stay away.

Boijer and Forrester had three constables with them in the cabin. They took it in turns to look at the CCTV images. The day was hot: cloudless and perfect. As the hours dragged by, Forrester stared out of the little window and thought about the newspaper article he had read, a
Times
piece about the Yezidi and the Black Book. Some journalist in Turkey was, it seemed, onto another thread of the same bizarre story.

Forrester had read the article again last night, and then called De Savary to ask his opinion. De Savary had confirmed that he’d read the article and agreed that it was a peculiar and rather intriguing echo: and then he told Forrester there was a further link. The journalist’s French girlfriend, mentioned in the article, was actually an ex-student and a friend. And she was coming to visit him the following day.

DCI Forrester had asked De Savary to question
the girl. To find out what the possible connection was, between Turkey and England. Between there and here. Between the Yezidis’ sudden fear and Cloncurry’s sudden violence. De Savary had agreed to ask the questions. And, at that moment, Forester had felt a certain hope. Maybe they
could
crack this. But now, fifteen hours later, that optimism had gone again. Nothing was happening.

Forrester sighed. Boijer was telling a salacious story about a colleague in a swimming pool. Everyone chuckled. Someone handed out some more coffee. The day trudged by and the Portakabin grew stuffier. Where were these guys? What were they doing? Was Cloncurry just teasing them?

Dusk came, soft and balmy. A serene and tranquil May evening. But Forrester’s mood was bleak. He went for a walk. It was now 10 p.m. The gang wasn’t coming: it hadn’t worked. The detective scuffed along in the darkness, glaring at the moon. He kicked an old Appletise bottle with his shoe. He thought of his daughter.
App-ull. App-ull. Appull dadd-ee.
His heart filled with the mercury of grief. He fought back the sense of purposelessness: the sense of cold anger going nowhere; the bleakness of everything.

Maybe the old Sir Francis Dashwood was right. Where was God anyway? Why did He allow such terrible things? Why did He allow death? Why did He allow the death of children? Why did He allow
people like Cloncurry? There was no God. There was nothing. Just a small child lost in the caves, then silence.

‘Sir!’

It was Boijer, running out of the Portakabin followed by three armed constables.

‘Sir. Big Beamer, in the car park-right now!’

Forrester’s energy returned instantly. He chased after Boijer and the armed cops. They sprinted around the corner, towards the car park. Someone had switched the lights on: the anti-burglary lights they had installed on the fencing all around the car park. The entrance to the caves was flooded with dazzling light.

In the middle of the bare car park was a big, new, glossy black BMW. The windows of the car were tinted, but Forrester could see large figures inside.

The constables trained their rifles on the car. Forrester took the megaphone from Boijer, his amplified voice booming across the floodlit emptiness: ‘Stop. You are surrounded by armed police.’ He counted the dark shapes in the car. Five, or six?

The car remained motionless.

‘Get out of the car. Very slowly. Do it now.’

The car doors stayed shut.