an old Yezidi priest. The Yezidi have a caste of priests, singing priests who hand down the oral tradition of the Yezidi. Because there isn't much of a literary tradition.'
'And he met with one of these priests, in Jerusalem? Who gave him something?'
'Presumably. We can't be sure because Whaley's memoirs are irritatingly vague. But some scholars think it might be the Black Book of the Yezidi. The sacred book of the Angelicans.'
'They have a Bible?'
'Not any more. But their oral traditions say there was, once, a great body of sacred and mystical writing that embodied Yezidi myths and beliefs. Contemporary legends also say that the only copy was taken by an Englishman hundreds of years ago. Might some exiled priest have given the Black Book to Whaley? For safe keeping? The Yezidi have always felt embattled. They might have wanted to preserve their most precious object somewhere safe. Like faraway England. Buck Whaley certainly brought something remarkable with him on his return from the Levant. Moreover, this item, whatever it was, eventually left him a broken man.'
'OK. So where is it now? The Black Book? If that's what it is?'
'Disappeared. Possibly destroyed. Possibly hidden.'
Rob's thoughts started to race. He looked into the older woman's serene grey eyes. Then he said: 'How can we find out what the gang are really looking for? How can we investigate this link to the Yezidi?'
'Lalesh,' said Isobel. 'That's the only place you could get real answers. The sacred capital of the Yezidi. Lalesh.'
Rob felt a shiver of disquiet. He knew he had to go to this place, Lalesh: to get answers, to finish the story. Steve was pressuring him to do the second and concluding article, and to write it properly Rob needed to tie up the straying ends: to find out about this 'Black Book'.
But Rob also knew where Lalesh was. He'd heard of it before, from other journalists. It had featured in the news, in recent years, more than once. For all the wrong reasons.
'I know Lalesh, he said. 'That's in Kurdistan isn't it? South of the border?'
Isobel nodded gravely.
'Yes. It's in Iraq.'
31
That evening Rob told Christine that he had to go to Lalesh, and explained to her why.
She looked at him without saying anything. He told her, again, that Lalesh was the obvious place to finish the story. The answers to most of their puzzles lay with the Yezidi. The sacred capital was the only place he could find truly learned Yezidi. Scholars who could unwrap the enigma. And obviously it made sense for Rob to go alone. He knew Iraq. He knew the risks. He had contacts in that country. His paper would cover his enormous insurance bill, but they wouldn't pay for Christine. So he had to go to Lalesh-and he had to go alone.
Christine seemed to accede and accept. And then she turned and walked, wordless, into the garden.
Rob hesitated. Should he join her? Leave her alone?
His reverie of indecision was broken by Isobel, humming a song as she walked through the kitchen. The older woman glanced at Rob, and then at the silhouetted figure, sitting in the garden.
'You told her?'
'She seemed OK about it, but then…'
Isobel sighed. 'She was like this at Cambridge. When she's upset, she doesn't chuck things at walls, just bottles it up.'
Rob was torn. He hated to upset Christine, but the journey was a necessity: he was a foreign correspondent. He couldn't pick or choose where his stories led him.
'You know, I'm slightly surprised,' Isobel said.
'By what?
'That she fell for you anyway. She doesn't normally go for men like you. With cheekbones and blue eyes. Dashing adventurers. It's usually older men. You do know she lost her dad when she was young, don't you? She's like any girl with that in her background. Always been attracted to the missing father figure. Advisors. Tutors.' Isobel looked Rob in the eye. 'Protectors.'
Across the waters came the hooting of a ferry. Rob listened to the echo rebounding. Then he stepped through the kitchen doorway, into the garden.
Christine was alone on the garden seat, staring through the moonlit pines. Without turning, she said, 'Isobel is very lucky. This house is so beautiful.'
He sat down beside her and took her hand. The moonlight made her fingers seem very pale. 'Christine, I need a favour.'
She turned to look at him.
He explained. 'While I am in Lalesh…' He paused. 'Lizzie. Watch over her a little. Can you?'
Christine's face was shadowed. A passing cloud had obscured the moon. 'But I don't understand. Lizzie's with her mother.'
Rob sighed. 'Sally works very hard at her job. Her studies. She's got legal exams. I just want someone I really trust to…keep another eye on her. You'll be staying with your sister, right? In Camden?'
Christine nodded.
'So that's barely three miles from Sally's house. Knowing you were there, or just nearby, would make it a lot easier for me. Then maybe you could email me. Or call. I'll ring Sally to make sure she knows who you are. She might even welcome the help. Maybe…'
The pine trees murmured; Christine nodded. 'I'll go and see her. OK. And I'll email you, every day…while you are in Iraq.'
When Christine said the word 'Iraq' Rob felt a shudder of fear. This was the real reason he wanted Christine to see and know his daughter: because he was worried for himself. Would he come back from this? Would he return and be a proper father? The Baghdad suicide bomber plagued his memories. He'd been lucky that time; maybe he wouldn't be so lucky again. And if he didn't come back-well then he wanted his daughter to meet and to know the woman he'd loved.
Iraq. Rob shuddered again. The word seemed to sum up all the danger he was about to face. The cities of death. The place of beheadings. The province of chanting men, and ancient stones, and terrible discoveries. And suicide bombers in bright red lipstick.
Christine squeezed his hand. The next morning Rob got up without waking Christine. He left a note on the bedside table. Then he dressed, said goodbye to Andrea, hugged Isobel, stroked the cat, and took the sun-slanted path to the pier.
Twenty-four hours later, after one ferry ride, one cab ride, two plane trips and a gruelling service-taxi ride from Mardin airport, he arrived at the noisy tumult of the Iraqi-Turkey frontier post at Habur. It was a smoggy chaos of parked trucks and army tanks and impatient businessmen and bewildered pedestrians carrying shopping bags.
It took him five sweaty hours to cross the border. He was questioned for two of those hours by Turkish troops. Who was he? Why did he want to go to Iraq? Did he have links with the Kurdish rebels? Was he going to interview the PKK? Was he just stupid? A daredevil tourist? But they couldn't stop him for ever. He had the visa, the documents, the fax from his editor-and at last he made it through. A barrier went up and he stepped over the invisible line. The first thing he noticed was a striking red and green flag with a sunburst symbol, fluttering above: the flag of free Kurdistan. The flag was banned in Iran, and you could actually go to prison for flying it in Turkey. But here, in the autonomous province of Kurdish Iraq, it was fluttering proudly and freely, flying stark against the burning blue sky.
Rob gazed south. A man with no teeth was staring at him from a wooden bench. A dog was urinating on an old tyre. The road ahead slid through the yellow and sunburnt hills, snaking towards the Mesopotamian plains. Shouldering his bag, Rob walked over to a dinged and rusty blue taxi.
The unshaven driver looked up at him with a wall eye. The only available transport was a oneeyed cabdriver. Rob felt like laughing. Instead he leaned towards the driver's window and said, 'Salaam aleikum. I want to go to
