Indeed I like to think she's in tiptop condition! We're giving her lots of fruit. So she thrives. Of course I'm not sure quite how long we can maintain the status quo, but that's up to you.'
'You've…' Rob said. 'You've…' He tried again. It was no good; he didn't know what to say. In despair he turned and looked at Dooley, but as he did, he realized something. He did have something to say. He had one card in his hand and now he had to play it. He stared directly at the screen. 'OK, Cloncurry, this is the deal. If you give me Lizzie. I can get you the Book. I can do that.'
Jamie Cloncurry winced. It was the first flash of insecurity, however subtle, that Rob had ever seen on his face. It gave him hope.
'Of course,' said Cloncurry. 'Of course you can.' The smile was sarcastic; unconvinced. 'I suppose you got it in Lalesh?'
'No.'
'So where did you get it? What the fuck are you on about, Luttrell?'
'Ireland. It's here in Ireland. The Yezidi told me where. They told me in Lalesh, where to find it.'
It was a blatant gamble-and yet it seemed to work. There was a hint of worry and doubt on Cloncurry's face, worry disguised by a sneer. 'Right. But of course you can't tell me where it is. Even though I might slice off your daughter's nose with a cigar cutter.'
'It doesn't matter where it is. But I'll bring it here. In a day or two. Then you can have your Book and you can give me back my daughter.' He gazed into Cloncurry's eyes. 'Whether you shoot your way out after that, I don't care.'
'No. Nor do I.' Cloncurry laughed. 'Nor do I, Robbee. I just want the Book.'
The two men stared at each other. Rob felt a surge of curiosity, the old journalistic intrigue. 'But why? Why are you so obsessed by it? Why all of…this?'
Cloncurry looked off-camera, as if thinking. His green eyes flashed as he glanced back. 'I may as well tell you a little, I suppose. What do you journalists call it? A teaser?'
Rob sensed the policemen moving on his left: something was happening. Was this the signal? Were the police moving in? Was his daughter's fate going to be decided right now?
Forrester made a hand gesture: keep him talking.
But it was Cloncurry who kept talking. 'Three hundred years ago, Rob, Jerusalem Whaley came back from the Holy Land with a cache of materials brought back from the Yezidi. He should have been a happy man. Because he had found precisely what the Hellfire Club had been looking for, what Francis Dashwood had sought all those years. He had found the final proof that all the religions, all the faiths, the Koran and the Talmud and the Bible, all that rancid, imaginary piffle, all of it was bullshit. Religion is just the stale reek of urine from the orphanage of the human soul. For an atheist, for a priesthater like my forefather, that final proof was the Holy Grail. The big one. El Gordo. The lottery win. God isn't just dead, the fucker never lived.' Cloncurry smiled. 'And yet, Rob, what Whaley found went further than that. What he found was so mortifying it actually broke his heart. What's the saying? Be careful what you wish for. Isn't that how it goes?'
'So what was it? What did he find?'
'Ah.' Cloncurry chuckled. 'Wouldn't you like to know, Robbie, my little tabloid hack? But I'm not going to tell you. If you really know where the Book is you can have a read yourself. Except if you tell anyone I shall slice up your daughter with a set of steak-knives from eBay. All I can say for now is that Thomas Buck Whaley concealed the Book. And he told a few of his friends what was in it. And that in certain circumstances the Book must be destroyed.'
'Why didn't he destroy it himself?'
'Who knows? The Black Book is such an extraordinary…treasure trove. Such a terrifying revelation, Rob, maybe he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He must have had some pride in its discovery. He had found what the great Dashwood didn't. Him. Humble Tom Whaley from the boondocks of colonial Ireland had outdone the British Chancellor. He must have been proud, despite himself. So instead of destroying it, he hid it. Where exactly has been forgotten over time. Hence our heroic search for my brave ancestor's discovery. But here's the clever bit, Rob. Are you listening?'
The police were definitely doing something. Rob could see armed men walking out of the tent. He heard whispered commands. There was a sense of action: the videoscreens were flickering with movement. At the same time the gang seemed to be erecting something in the garden. It was a big wooden stake. Like something you'd use for an impaling.
Rob knew he had to keep Cloncurry talking; stay calm and keep the killer talking. 'Go on. Go on, I'm listening.'
'Whaley said that if ever a temple was dug up in Turkey-'
'Gobekli Tepe?!'
'Clever boy. Gobekli Tepe. Whaley told his confidants precisely what the Yezidi had told him: that if ever Gobekli Tepe was dug up then the Black Book must be destroyed.'
'Why?'
'That's the damn point, you halfwit. Because the Book is, in the right hands, seen the right way, combined with evidence from Gobekli, something that would overturn the world, Rob: it would change everything. It would demean and degrade society. Not just religions. The whole structure of our lives, the way the world exists, would be endangered if the truth was revealed.' Cloncurry was leaning very close to the webcam. His face filled the entire screen. 'That is the rich, rich irony here, Rob. All along I've just been trying to protect you from yourself, you jerks, protect all of humanity. That is the job of the Cloncurrys. To protect you all. To find the Book if necessary, and destroy it. To save you all! You know, we are practically saints. I am expecting an e-vite from the Pope any day now.' The snakelike smile had returned.
Rob glanced up at the screens behind the laptop. He could see movement. One of the cameras showed three figures, obviously armed, crawling towards the cottage garden: it had to be the police. Going in. As he tried to concentrate on the dialogue with Cloncurry he realized that Cloncurry was probably trying to do exactly the same in reverse: to distract Rob and the police.
But Dooley and his men had seen the wooden stake: they knew this was the moment. Rob stared at the profile of his daughter. Tied to her chair, visible over Cloncurry's shoulder. With a physical effort, Rob got hold of his emotions. 'So why all the violence? Why all the killing? If you just wanted the Yezidi Book, why all the sacrifices?
The face on the laptop scowled. 'Because I am a Cloncurry. We descend from the Whaleys. They descend from Oliver Cromwell. Capisce? Notice the theme of burning people there? Burning people in churches? With a nice big audience? Cromwell was heard to laugh when he killed people in battle.'
'So?'
'So just blame my fucking haplotype. Ask my double helix. Take a look at Dysbindin gene sequence DTNBP- 1.'
Rob tried not to think of his daughter: impaled. 'So, you're saying you inherited this trait?'
Cloncurry applauded, sarcastically. 'Brilliant, Holmes. Yes. Quite clearly I am a psychopath. How much proof do you want? Stay tuned to this channel and you might see me eat your daughter's brain. With some oven chips. That proof enough?'
Rob swallowed his anger. He just had to keep Cloncurry here, and keep Lizzie in view, via the webcam. And that meant listening to the madman, ranting. He nodded.
'Of course I have the fucking genes for violence, Rob. And funnily enough I have the genes for very high intelligence, too. You know what my IQ is? 147. Yes, 147. That makes me a genius, even by the standards of geniuses. The average IQ of a Nobel Prize winner is 145. I'm smart, Rob. Very smart. I'm probably too smart for you to realize how smart I am. That's the problem with very high intelligence. For me, relating to ordinary folk is like trying to have a serious chat with a mollusc.'
'Yet we caught you.'
'Oh, well done. You and your piffling post-grad IQ of, what, 125? 130? Jesus Christ. I am a Cloncurry. I carry the noble genes of the Cromwells and the Whaleys. Unfortunately for you and your daughter I also carry their propensity for flamboyant violence. Which we are about to see. Nonetheless-'
Cloncurry turned to his left. Rob looked up and checked the video monitors. The police were moving in: at last the guns had opened up. The shots and the echoes resounded along the valley.
