‘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?’
‘That would be fantastic.’
‘Single malt?’
‘Even better.’
He watched as she disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, she came back with a tray bearing a mug filled with ice, two chunky glass tumblers and a bottle of mineral water alongside a tall bottle of Scotch. She set the glasses on the desk and unscrewed the bottle of Glenlivet, pouring out two serious inches of Scotch. The dark, tigery liquor glittered in the light from the sidelamp.
‘Ice?’
‘Water.’
‘Commes les Brittaniques.’
She splashed some water out of the plastic bottle, handed Rob the glass and sat down beside him. The glass was cold in Rob’s grasp, as if it had been kept in the fridge. He could still hear the voices outside. They had been arguing for an hour. What about? He sighed and pressed the cold glass to his forehead, rolling it from side to side.
‘You are tired?’
‘Yeah. Aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘So. Do you want to sleep here? The sofa is very nice.’
Rob thought about this: about the moustached men outside. About the dark loitering figure in the doorway. He suddenly felt a very strong urge not to be alone, and he really didn’t want to walk the half a mile to his hotel. ‘Yeah, if it’s OK.’
‘Of course it is.’ She quickly swallowed the rest of her scotch, then went about the flat, finding him a duvet and some pillows.
Rob was so tired he fell asleep the moment Christine turned off the lamp. And as soon as he slept, he dreamed. He dreamed of numbers, he dreamed of Breitner and a dog. A black dog streaking along a path and a hot sun. A dog. A face.
A dog.
And then his dreams were interrupted by a bang. He was woken by a very loud bang.
He jumped up from the sofa. It was light. How long had he been asleep? What was that noise? Groggily, he checked his watch. It was nine in the morning. The flat itself was quiet. But that repeated banging, what was it?
He rushed to the window.
18
Rob leaned out of the apartment. The city was thrumming. Bread-sellers were parading the busy streets, carrying on their head big trays of rolls and sweet pastries, and pretzels with sesame. Mopeds rode the pavements, avoiding dark-skinned schoolgirls with satchels.
Rob heard the bang again. He scanned the scene. A man was cutting baklava with a pizzaslicer in a shop across the way. And once more: Bang!
Then Rob saw a motorbike: an old, black, oily British Triumph. Backfiring. The owner was off the bike, and was now angrily hitting the machine with his left shoe. Rob was about to duck back inside when he saw something else.
The police. There were three policemen climbing out of two cars along the street. Two of them were in sweat-stained uniforms, the third in a dapper blue suit and a pale pink tie. The policemen walked to the front door of Christine’s block, sixty feet below and paused. Then they pressed a button.
The bell in Christine’s flat buzzed, very loudly.
Christine was already out of her bedroom, fully dressed.
‘Christine the police are-’
‘I know, I know!’ she said. ‘Good morning Robert!’ Her face looked strained, but not frightened. She went to the intercom and buzzed the door open.
Rob pulled on his boots. Seconds later the police were in the flat-in the sitting room-and in Christine’s face.
The dapperly-suited man was courteous, wellspoken, faintly sinister and barely thirty years old. He gazed curiously at Rob. ‘You must be?’
‘Rob Luttrell.’
‘The British journalist?’
‘Well, American, but I live in London…’
‘Perfect. This is most convenient.’ The officer smiled as if he had been given an unexpectedly large cheque. ‘We are here to interview Miss Meyer about the terrible murder of her friend, Franz Breitner. But we would also like to talk with you, similarly. Perhaps afterwards?’