‘You must understand why this is.’ Karwan leaned forward with an earnest expression on his face. ‘For many thousands of years, mister, we have been killed and attacked for what we believe. What people say we believe. The Muslims kill us, the Hindus, the Tartars. Everyone says we worship Shaitan, the devil. They kill us and drive us away. Even Saddam killed us, even our fellow Kurds they kill us, Sunni and Shiite, they all kill us. Everyone.’

‘But that’s why I want to write my article. Tell the real story. What the Yezidi really believe.’

Karwan frowned, as if he was deciding something. He was silent for more than a minute. And then he said, ‘Yes, OK. This is how I see it. You Americans, the great eagle, you helped the Kurds, and you have protected the Yezidi people. I see American soldiers, they are good. They really try to help us. So…now I will help you. Because you are American.’

‘You will?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes and I will help you because I studied one year in America at Texas University. This is why my English is not so bad. Americans they were good to me.’

‘You were at UT?’

‘Yes, you know? The cowhorns. In Austen.’

‘Great music in Austen.’

‘Yes. A nice place. Except,’ Karwan nibbled an olive, ‘except women in Texas have the most enormous asses. This is problem for me.’

Rob laughed. ‘What did you study, at UT?’

‘Religious anthropology. So, you understand, I can tell you everything you need to know. And then you can go away and tell everyone we are not…Satanists. Shall we start?’

Rob reached for his notebook; he ordered two more beers. And for an hour he plied Karwan with questions. Most of the information he already knew, from Isobel, and from his own research. The origins of Yezidism and the Cult of Angels. Rob was slightly disappointed. But then Karwan said something which made him sit up, very straight.

‘The tale of the Yezidis’ origin comes from the Black Book. Of course the Black Book has gone now but the story is handed on. It tells us we have a distinct…bloodline, it shows how we are different from all other races.’

‘How?’

‘Maybe it is best expressed in a myth, in Yezidi myth. In one of our creation legends there were seventy-two Adams, each Adam more perfect than the one before. Then the seventy-second Adam married Eve. And Adam and Eve deposited their seed in two jars.’

Rob interrupted, his pen poised over his notebook. ’Two jars?’

Karwan nodded. ‘These jars were sealed for nine months. When the jars were opened, the jar containing Eve’s seed was full of insects and terrible things, snakes and scorpions. But when Adam’s jar was opened, they found a lovely boy child.’ Karwan smiled. ‘The boy was called Shahid ibn Jayar-“the Son of the Jar”. And this name is also used for the Yezidi. You see: we are the Sons of the Jar. These children of Adam became the ancestors of the Yezidis. Adam is our grandfather. Whereas all other nations are descended through Eve.’

Rob finished scribbling his notes. A white UN Chevrolet was trundling across the junction opposite the café.

Karwan said, quite abruptly, ‘OK. That is that! Now I must go. But, mister, the Yezidi at the centre, they also tell me you want to go to Lalesh, as well? Yes?’

‘Yes. I do! But everyone says it’s dangerous. They just won’t take me. Can it possibly be arranged?’

Karwan curved a smile. He was nibbling discreetly on another olive; he cupped his hand, and deposited the olive stone on the edge of the ashtray. ‘I can take you there. We are having a festival. It is not so dangerous.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. Five a.m. I will meet you here. And then I will bring you back. And then you can go and write about us, in that famous newspaper The Times, in England.’

‘That’s great. That’s fantastic-shukran!’

‘Good.’ The young man leaned and shook Rob’s hand. ‘Tomorrow we meet. Five a.m. So we must sleep now. Goodbye.’ And with that he stood up and disappeared along the sultry road.

Rob guzzled the last of his beer. He was happy. He was almost very happy. He was going to get the story. The first man to visit the sacred capital of the Yezidi! Our man with the Cultists of Iraq. He almost ran back to the hotel. Then he phoned Christine and excitedly told her the news; her voice sounded worried and pleased at the same time. Rob lay back on the bed with a smile, as they talked: he was going home soon, and he would see his daughter, and his girlfriend-with the job safely done.

The next morning Rob found Karwan waiting, as promised, by the café tables. Parked by the shuttered café was an old Ford pickup truck: loaded with flat bread, and fruit in plastic sacks.

‘Fruit for the festival,’ said Karwan. ‘Come. Is not very much room.’

There were three of them squeezed in the cabin of the truck. Karwan, Rob, and a whiskery old guy. The driver was Karwan’s uncle, it seemed. Rob shook hands with Karwan’s uncle, and Karwan said, ‘He has only crashed three times this year. So we should be OK.’

The truck rattled out of Dahuk up into the mountains. It was a long and spine-jarring journey, but Rob didn’t care. He was surely close to his story.

The road led up into pine forests and oak woods. As they ascended, the grey morning air began to clear. The sun was coming up bright and warm. Then the road dipped into a vivid green valley. Poor but pretty stone houses stood over rushing streams. Dirty children with dazzling smiles rushed down to the truck and waved. Rob waved back and thought about his daughter.

The road went on, and on. It snaked around a great mountain. Karwan told Rob the mountain was one of the Seven Pillars of Satan. Rob nodded. The road negotiated rushing rivers, on rickety wooden bridges. And then at last they stopped.

Karwan nudged him. ‘Lalesh!

He’d made it. The first thing he saw was a strange conical building, its roof oddly fluted. There were more of these conical buildings, placed around a central square. This central plaza of Lalesh was alive with people: parading and chanting and singing. Old men were walking in single file, playing long wooden flutes. Rob got out of the truck, along with Karwan, and watched.

A black-cloaked figure emerged from a grimy building. He walked over to an array of stone pots from which small fires were billowing. More men, in white robes, processed behind.

‘These are the sacred fires,’ said Karwan, gesturing at the yellow flames dancing in the stone pots. ‘The men must circle the sacred fires seven times.’

Now the crowd pressed forward, calling out a name. ‘Melek Taus, Melek Taus!’

Karwan nodded. ‘They are praising the peacock angel, of course.’

The ceremony continued. It was picturesque, and strange, and oddly touching. Rob watched the bystanders and the onlookers: after the initial flurry of ceremonial, many ordinary Yezidi had moved on to nearby patches of grass and the hillsides overlooking the conical towers of Lalesh: they were laying out picnics of tomatoes, cheese, flatbread and plums. The sun was high in the sky. It was a warm mountain day.

‘Every Yezidi,’ Karwan told Rob, ‘must, at some point in life, come here to Lalesh. To make a pilgrimage to the tomb of Sheikh Mussafir. He established the ceremonies of the Yezidis.’

Rob edged closer to peer through the dingy doorway of a temple. Inside it was dark: but Rob could just discern pilgrims wrapping coloured cloths around wooden pillars. Others were laying bread on low shelves. On one wall Rob saw writing that was distinctly cuneiform: it had to be cuneiform: the very oldest, most primitive alphabet in the world. Dating back to Sumerian times.

Cuneiform! As he ducked out of the temple again, Rob felt a thrill of privilege just to be here. It was a miraculous survival: the city, the faith, the people, the liturgy and ritual. And it was an admirable survival, too. The whole atmosphere of Lalesh, the festival, was lyrical, poetic, and preciously pastoral. The only menacing aspects were the lurid and sneering images of Melek Taus, the ubiquitous devil-god, who was pictured on walls and doors, even on posters. Yet the people themselves seemed friendly, happy to be out in the sun, happy to be practising their peculiar religion.