Rob’s heart cried out for his daughter.

48

On the drive back to Sanliurfa they talked about the document, the reference to the Book of Enoch. Rob shifted gears, vigorously, as Christine shouted her theories across the rattling car.

‘The Book of Enoch is a piece of…pseudoscripture.’

‘Which means?’

‘That means it’s not part of the official Bible but it is regarded by some ancient branches of Christianity, like the Ethiopic Church, as being truly sacred.’

‘OK…’

‘The Book of Enoch is about 2200 years old and was probably written by Israelis, though we are not entirely sure.’ She stared ahead at the unrolling desert. ‘It was found amongst those documents preserved in what we know as “The Dead Sea Scrolls”.

‘The Book of Enoch describes a time when five fallen angels-the Five Satans, or the Watchers-and their minions came amongst early men. These angels were supposedly close to God but they could not resist the beauty of women. The daughters of Eve. So the bad angels took these women, and in return promised the human males the secrets of writing and building, of artistry and carving. These…demons also taught the women to “kiss the phallus”.’

Rob gazed across the car and managed a smile. Christine smiled back. ‘That’s the exact phrase the Book of Enoch uses,’ Christine said, drinking some water from a bottle. ‘Yuk. This water’s warm.’

‘Go on,’ said Rob. ‘The Book of Enoch.’

‘OK. Well…this intermarrying between demons and men created a race of evil raging giants, the Nephilim, again according to the Book of Enoch.’

Rob stared at the twilit road ahead. He wanted to comprehend what she was saying. He really wanted to. He tried hard. He got her to repeat it…but then he gave up. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lizzie. He wondered if they should call Cloncurry. But he knew that was stupid; they had to surprise him. They had to announce suddenly that that they had unearthed the secret-if they ever unearthed it: that was the way their plan worked.

But he was tired, sunburnt and frightened, and still feeling that spookiness of the desert. He could sense the nearness of the stones of Gobekli. Still out there in the wilderness. He remembered that carving of the woman, staked and pinioned, ready to be raped by the wild boars with the penises. He thought about the babies, screaming in their ancient jars.

And then he thought of Lizzie again, and Cloncurry-and tried to shunt the thought from his mind.

The conclusion of the drive was silent. And anxious. The Kurds said a muttered goodbye and went off to eat and drink; Rob and Christine parked the cars, wearily, and sloped quietly into the Hotel Haran. Rob carried the Black Book close to his chest, the exhaustion rippling through his arms.

But they didn’t have time to relax. Rob was tired, but he was febrile with determination, and he wanted to talk through his notes. As soon as they reached their hotel room, before Christine had even showered, he quizzed her again.

‘One thing I don’t understand is the jars. The jars with the babies, in Gobekli.’

Christine looked at him. Her deep brown eyes were loving, but bloodshot with tiredness but Rob persisted.

‘You mean…the mere fact they were jars. That confuses you?’

‘Yes. I always thought the culture around Gobekli Tepe was…what was the word Breitner used…aceramic? Without pottery. But then, suddenly, someone came along and taught these guys how to make jars, long before any other culture in the region. Long before anywhere else on earth.’

‘Yes, it’s true…’ Christine paused. ‘Except one place…There was one place that had pottery before Gobekli.

‘Yeah?

‘Japan.’ Christine was frowning. ‘The Jomon of Japan.’

‘The what?’

‘A very early culture. Aboriginal Japanese. The Ainu, who still live in northernmost Japan, may be related…’ She stood and rubbed her aching back, then went to the minibar, took out a cold bottle of water and drank, thirstily. Lying back down on the bed, she explained, ‘The Jomon came literally from nowhere. They were maybe the first to cultivate rice. And then they started producing sophisticated pottery-cordware it is called.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Sixteen thousand years ago.’

‘Sixteen thousand years ago?’ Rob stared across the room. ‘That’s more than three thousand years before Gobekli.’

‘Yes. And some people think the Jomons of East Asia may have learned their techniques from an even earlier culture. Like the Kondons of the Amur. Maybe. The Amur is a river north of Mongolia, where there are arguably signs of pottery going back even further. It is most mysterious. They come and they go, these peculiarly advanced peoples of the north. They are basic hunter-gatherers, yet suddenly they make a wild and irrational technological leap.’

‘What do you mean? Irrational?’

‘This is not the most promising territory for early civilization. Siberia, inner Mongolia, the far north of Japan. These places are not the warm, sunny fertile crescent. These are the freezing and intractable lands of north Asia. The Amur basin is one of the coldest places on earth in the winter.’ She gazed at the bare hotel ceiling. ‘In fact I’ve sometimes wondered, could there have been one protoculture north of there? In Siberia? Now lost to us? Some culture that was influencing all these tribes? Because otherwise it is too bizarre…’

Rob shook his head. He had his notebook flat on his lap; pen poised. ‘But maybe they didn’t go, Christine. These cultures. Mmm? Maybe they didn’t disappear.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The skulls, they look Asiatic. Mongoloid. Maybe these eastern cultures didn’t vanish. They just moved…west. Could there be some link between these advanced Asiatic tribes and Gobekli?’

Christine nodded, and yawned. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Yes, I guess. Jesus, Rob, I’m tired.’

Rob mentally admonished himself. They hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours; they’d done as much as they could. He was pushing Christine too hard. He said sorry and came over, and lay down besides her on the bed.

‘Robbie, we will save her,’ said Christine. ‘I promise.’ She hugged him. ‘I promise.’

Rob shut his eyes. ‘Let’s sleep.’

The next morning Rob was woken by a dream of great violence. He dreamed for a few moments he was being hit, being pummelled by Cloncurry, but when he woke he realized it was drumming: real drumming. Men were walking down the dark streets of Sanliurfa, outside the hotel, banging big bass drums, rousing people for the pre-dawn meal. The traditional Ramadan ritual.

Rob sighed and tilted his wristwatch, which was lying on the bedside table. It was just 4 a.m. He stared at the ceiling and listened to the thumping and booming of the drums, while Christine snored gently next to him.

Two hours later Christine was nudging him awake in return. He stirred, feeling sluggish. He got up and showered in bracingly cold water.

Radevan and his friends were waiting outside. They helped stow the Black Book in the boot. Rob ate a hardboiled egg and some pitta bread in the car as they rattled across the desert to the Valley of the Slaughters. They didn’t have time to linger for breakfast at the hotel.

Rob watched the Kurds as they dug. It was as if they knew their job was nearly over, whatever happened: they were demob happy. This was the last day. Tomorrow morning the time was up. Whatever happened. Rob’s stomach twisted with the tension.

At eleven Rob climbed the hill next to the valley and gazed across the flat, silvery lakewater of the Great Anatolian Project. It was no longer in the distance but only about a mile away, and the water seemed to be accelerating, pouring over hills and filling the dales. The levee would defend them, but the encroaching flood was still a menacing sight. There was a small shepherd’s hut on top of the levee. Like a sentinel, protecting them from the waters.