Because they had ignored the building and instead had gone straight for the last possible authentic remnant of Whaley's Folly. The earth on which it was built.
Forrester had one more question. 'OK, Mr Harnaby, where would the soil have come from?'
'No one is entirely sure. However,' the journalist took off his spectacles to rub some rain from the lenses. 'However…I did once have a theory-that it came from Montpelier House.'
'Which is?'
Harnaby blinked. 'The headquarters of the Irish Hellfire Club.'
17
Rob and Christine retreated to her neighbourhood. They parked, with a jolt, at the corner of her street. As he climbed down from the Land Rover, Rob looked left and right. At the end of Christine's street was a mosque, its minarets were slender and lofty, bathed in lurid green floodlighting. Two moustached men in suits were arguing in the shadows down the way, right next to a big black BMW. The men briefly looked at Rob and Christine, then went back to their angry exchange.
Christine led Rob into a dusty hallway of a modern block. The lift was busy, or out of order, so they took three flights of stairs. The apartment was large, airy and bright-and almost devoid of furniture. Neat piles of books were simply stacked on the polished wooden floor, or shelved in their hundreds along one wall. A big steel desk and a leather sofa were set to one side of the living room. A wickerwork chair was in the opposite corner.
'I don't like clutter', she said. 'A house is a machine for living in.'
'Le Corbusier.'
She smiled and nodded. Rob smiled too. He liked the flat. It was very…Christine. Simple, intellectual, elegant. He checked out a picture on the wall: it was a large and eerie photograph of a very strange tower. A tower of orange gold bricks surrounded by desultory ruins, with vast tracts of desert beyond.
The two of them sat side-by-side on the leather sofa and Christine got out the book again. As she leafed once more through Breitner's scrawled pages, Rob had to ask, 'So. Einkorn wheat?'
But Christine wasn't listening; she was holding the book very close to her face, 'This map?' she said to herself. 'These numbers…and these here…The woman Orra Keller…Maybe…'
Rob waited for his reply. There was no reply. He felt a breeze in the room: the windows were open to the street outside. Rob could hear voices-out there. He went to the window and stared down.
The moustached men were still hanging around, but now they were standing right beneath Christine's block of flats. Another man in a dark puffy anorak was lurking in the doorway of the shop opposite: a big Honda motorbike showroom. The two moustached men looked up as Rob leaned out of the window. They stared at him wordlessly. Just looking up at him. The anoraked man was also looking up. Three men were staring at Rob. How menacing was this? Then Rob decided he was being paranoid. The whole of Sanliurfa could not be following them; these men were just…just men. It was just coincidence. He pulled the window to, and looked around the room.
Maybe one of the many books on the shelves could help. He thumbed his way past a few titles. The Syrian Epipaleolithic…Modern Electron Microanalysis…Pre-Columbian Anthropophagy… Not exactly bestsellers. He saw a more general book. Encyclopaedia of Archaeology. Slipping it down from the shelf, he flicked straight to the index and found it right away. Einkorn wheat, page 97.
With Sanliurfa's night breezes filling the room, and Christine silently perusing the notebook, Rob scanned and digested the information.
Einkorn wheat, it turned out, was a kind of wild grass. According to the book it grew naturally in south-east Anatolia. He looked at a small map on the facing page of the encyclopaedia which showed that Einkorn was local to the area around Sanliurfa. In fact, it seemed to grow in very few other regions. Rob read on.
Einkorn was apparently a grass of the lower mountains and the foothills. It was crucial to the first agriculture, the move from hunter gathering to farming. Along with Emmer wheat it was probably 'the first ever life form domesticated by man'. And that first domestication had occurred in and around south-east Anatolia. Around Sanliurfa.
The page he was reading linked him to another article: on the origins of agriculture. Judging by the Einkorn, this subject was important to the whole Gobekli mystery-so Rob turned to this article, too. He speed-read the pages. Pigs and chickens. Dogs and cattle. Emmer and einkorn. But then the final paragraphs caught his eye.
'The great mystery of early agriculture is the Why, not the How. There is ample proof that the transition to early agriculture meant great hardship for the first farmers, certainly when compared to the relatively free and generous lifestyle of a hunter-gatherer. Skeletal remains show that these primal farmers were subject to more diseases than their hunting forebears, and had shorter and harder lives. Domesticated animals in the early stage of farming have, likewise, scrawnier physiques than their wild ancestors…'
Rob thought about the little stalk of wheat, then read on. 'Contemporary anthropologists further attest that hunter-gatherers lead a relatively leisured existence, toiling no more than two or three hours a day. Yet farmers need to work most of the hours of daylight, especially in spring and summer. Much of primitive farming is backbreaking and monotonous.' The article concluded: 'Such is the striking shift in conditions that some thinkers have seen a certain tragic decline in the onset of agriculture, from the Edenic freedom of the hunter, to the daily labour of the farmer. Such speculations are clearly beyond the remit of science, and this article, nonetheless…'
Rob shut the book. He could hear the breeze in the curtains. The cool, slightly mournful desert wind was really picking up now. Rob slotted the book back on the shelf, and momentarily closed his eyes. He was tired again. He wanted to go to sleep, lulled by this lovely wind. Its soft and gentle reproach.
'Robert!' Christine was scanning the last page of the notebook minutely.
'What?'
'These numbers. You are a journalist. You know a story. What do you think?'
Rob sat down beside Christine and looked at the last pages of the book. Again there was the 'map'. One waggly line which became four lines, which looked maybe like rivers. The bobbly lines seemed to be mountains. Or sea. Probably mountains. And then there was a crude symbol of a tree-indicating a forest perhaps? Besides, that was some kind of animal. A horse or a pig. Breitner was definitely no Rembrandt. Rob leaned closer. The numbers were bizarre. On one page was a simple list of digits. But many of these same numbers were repeated on the page with the map. Above the map was a compass sign with the number 28 by the arrow for east. Then 211, next to one of the waggly lines. Twenty-nine was written by the tree symbol. And there were more: 61, 62-and some much higher numbers: 1011, 1132. And then that last line about Orra Keller. There were no more numbers after that. No more of anything. The notebook ended poignantly-halfway down a page.
What did it mean? Rob started adding the numbers together. Then he stopped doing that because it seemed pointless. Maybe they were connected to the dig-maybe the numbers were a code for finds, and these marks showed places where the finds has been unearthed? Rob had already speculated that the map was a map of Gobekli. It was the obvious solution. But it didn't seem to fit. There was only one river near Gobekli-the Euphrates, and that was a good thirty miles off. The map moreover had no symbol for Gobekli itself-nothing indicating the megaliths.
Rob realized he had been in a reverie for several minutes. Christine was looking at him.
'Are you OK?'
He smiled. 'I'm intrigued. It's intriguing.'
'Isn't it? Like a puzzle.'
'I was wondering if the numbers mean finds? Things you have discovered in Gobekli? I remember seeing numbers written on some of those little bags you have…where you put arrowheads and stuff?'
'No. It's a nice idea, but no. The finds are numbered when they go to the vaults, in the museum. They have letters joined with numbers.'
Rob felt he had left her down. 'Ah well. Just a theory.'
'Theories are good. Even if they are wrong.'
Rob yawned again. He had done enough for one day. 'Do you have anything to drink?'
The simple question had a bracing effect on the Frenchwoman. 'My God.' She stood up. 'I am so sorry. I am not being very hospitable. Do you want a whisky?'
