Rob looked up at the blue Urfan sky for inspiration. 'Because it was the site of the Fall? Maybe it symbolized even at that early stage the error of mankind. Falling into farming. The beginning of wage slavery. So they hid it out of shame or anger or resentment or…'
Christine made a rather unimpressed pout.
'OK.' Rob smiled. 'It's a crap theory. But why did they do it?'
A shrug. 'C'est un mystere.'
Another silence fell across their little table. A few yards away, through the rose bushes, little children were pointing excitedly at the fish in the pond. Rob looked at one girl: she was about eleven, with bright golden curls of hair. But her mother was shrouded in black veils and robes: a full chador. He felt a sadness: that soon this lovely girl would be concealed like her mother. Shrouded for ever in black.
And then a flash of real guilt crossed his mind. A flash of guilt about his daughter. On the one hand he was revelling in this mystery-and yet, inside, he still wanted to go home. He yearned to go home. To see Lizzie.
Christine was opening Breitner's notebook, and laying it on the table alongside her own notes. Shadows of sunlight, spangled by the teahouse lime trees, flickered across their little table. 'One final point. There is something I didn't tell you before. Remember the last line in his notebook?' She pointed to a line of handwriting, turning the notebook so that Rob could see.
It was the line about the skull. It said, Cayonu skulls, cf Orra Keller.
'I didn't mention it before because it was so confusing. It didn't seem relevant. But now…Well, take a look. I have an idea…'
He bent to read: but the line remained incomprehensible. 'But who is Orra Keller?'
'It's not a name!' said Christine. 'We just presumed it was a name because it's in capitals. But I think Franz was just mixing languages.'
'I still don't get it.'
'He's mixing English and German. And…'
Rob looked over Christine's shoulder suddenly. 'Jesus.'
Christine stiffened. 'What?'
'Don't look now. It's Officer Kiribali. He's seen us, and he's coming over.'
23
Kiribali appeared to be alone, though Rob could still see the parked police car, silent and waiting, at the edge of the Golbasi Gardens.
The Turkish detective was in another smart suit; this time of cream linen. He was wearing a very British tie, striped green and blue. As he crossed the little bridge and approached their table, his smile was wide and saurian. 'Good morning. My constables told me you were here.' He leaned and kissed Christine's hand, pulled up a chair. Then he turned to a hovering waiter and his demeanour changed: from obsequious to domineering. 'Lokoum!' The waiter winced, fearfully, and nodded. Kiribali smiled across the table. 'I have ordered some Turkish delight! You must try it here in Golbasi. The best in Sanliurfa. Real Turkish delight is quite something. You know of course the story of its invention?'
Rob said no. This seemed to please Kiribali: who sat forward, pressing his manicured hands flat on the tablecloth. 'The story is that an Ottoman sheikh was tired of his arguing wives. His harem was in disorder. So the sheikh asked the court confectioner to come up with a sweetmeat so pleasing it would silence the women.' Kiribali sat back as the waiter set a plate of the sugar-floured sweets on the table. 'It worked. The wives were placated by the Turkish delight and serenity returned to the harem. However the concubines became so fat on these calorific delights that the sheikh was rendered impotent in their company. So…the sheikh had the confectioner castrated.' Kiribali laughed loudly at his own story, picked up the plate and offered it to Christine.
Rob felt, not for the first time, a strange ambivalence about Kiribali. The policeman was charming, but there was a very menacing element to him, too. His shirt was just too clean; the tie just too British, the eloquence too studied, and deft. Yet he was obviously very clever. Rob wondered if Kiribali was close to any solution: to Breitner's murder.
The Turkish delight was delicious. Kiribali was regaling them again: 'You have read the Narnia books.'
Christine nodded; Kiribali continued:
'Surely the most famous literary reference to Turkish delight. When the Snow Queen offers the sweetmeats…'
'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?'
'Indeed!' Kiribali chortled, then sipped piously at his glass thimble of tea. 'I often wonder why the British are so adept at children's literature. It is a peculiar gift of the island race.'
'Compared to Americans you mean?'
'Compared to anyone, Mr Luttrell. Consider. The most famous stories for children. Lewis Carroll, Beatrix Potter, Roald Dahl. Tolkien. Even the vile Harry Potter. All British.'
A welcome breeze was stealing over the Golbasi rosebushes. Kiribali averred: 'I think it is because the British are not afraid to scare children. And children love to be scared. Some of the greatest children's stories are truly macabre, wouldn't you say? A psychotic hatmaker poisoned by mercury. A reclusive chocolatier who employs miniature negroes.'
Rob raised a hand. 'Officer Kiribali-'
'Yes?'
'Is there any particular reason you have come here to talk to us?'
The policeman wiped his feminine lips with a fresh corner of napkin. 'I want you to leave. Both of you. Now.'
Christine was defiant. 'Why?'
'For your own sake. Because you are getting into things you do not understand. This is…' Kiribali wafted a hand at the cliffs behind them, a gesture that took in the citadel, the two Corinthian columns at the top, the dark caves underneath. 'This is such an ancient place. There are too many secrets here. Dark anxieties, which you cannot comprehend. The more you are involved, the more dangerous it will be.'
Christine shook her head. 'I'm not going to be chased away.'
Kiribali scowled. 'You are very foolish people. You are used to…to Starbucks and…laptops and…sofabeds. To comfortable lives. This is the ancient east. It is beyond your comprehension.'
'But you said you may want to question us-'
'You are not suspects!' The detective was scowling. 'I have no need for you.'
Christine was unabashed. 'I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be ordered about. Not by you, not by anyone.'
Kiribali turned to Rob. 'Then I must appeal to masculine logic. We know how women are…'
Christine sat up. 'I want to know what's in the vault. The museum!'
This outburst silenced the Turkish detective. An unusual and confused expression came over his face. Then his frown darkened. He glanced around as if he was expecting a friend to join them. But the cafe terrace was empty. Just a couple of fat besuited men were left, smoking shishas in a shady corner. They stared languidly at Rob, and smiled.
Kiribali stood up. Abruptly. He took some Turkish lire from a handsome leather wallet, and set the cash very carefully on the tablecloth. 'I'll say this quite clearly, so you understand. You were spotted breaking into the site, at Gobekli Tepe. Last week.'
Apprehension shivered through Rob. If Kiribali knew this, then they were in trouble.
The Turk went on. 'I have friends in the Kurdish villages.'
Christine tried to explain. 'We were just looking for-'
'You were just looking for the Devil. A Jewess should know better.'
Kiribali said the word Jewess with such sibilance that Rob got the impression of a snake: hissing.
'My forbearance…is not infinite. If you do not leave Sanliurfa by tomorrow you will find yourself in a Turkish prison cell. There you may discover that some of my colleagues in the judicial process of the Ataturk Republic do not share my humanitarian attitude to your wellbeing.' He smiled at them in the most insincere way possible, and
