Rob forced the image of his daughter from his mind. The leather gags…’Actually, no, I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about.’
‘OK, Rob, I’m sorry. I’ll get right to the point. On his first expedition Layard went to Lalesh. My guess is that when he was there he was told by the Yezidi about the Black Book, how it had been taken from them by an Englishman, Jerusalem Whaley Layard was the first Brit the Yezidi had met, probably the first westerner-since Whaley’s visit-so it makes perfect sense. They must have told him they wanted the Book returned.’
‘Mmmmaybe…’
‘So, Layard then goes to Constantinople and tells the ambassador, Canning, about his findings. We certainly know they met. And we also know Sir Stratford Canning was Anglo-Irish, of the Protestant ascendancy.’
Rob dimly discerned, at last, where this might be going. ‘Canning was Irish?’
‘Yes! The Anglo-Irish aristocracy. A tiny coterie. People like Whaley and Lord Saint Leger. The Hellfires. They are all related.’
‘Well yes, that’s curious. I s’pose. But how does it all fit in?’
‘Around the same time, rumours were flying around Ireland, about a certain Edward Hincks.’
‘Sorry? Right over my head.’
‘Hincks was an obscure Irish parson from Cork. Who single-handedly managed to decipher cuneiform! All this is true, Rob. Google it. This is one of the great mysteries of Assyriology. The whole of educated Europe was trying to decipher cuneiform, then this rural Irish vicar beats them to it.’ Isobel was rushing her words in her enthusiasm. ’So let’s put two and two together. How did Hincks suddenly decipher cuneiform? He was an obscure Protestant cleric from the middle of nowhere. The bogs of Eire.’
‘You think he found the Book?’
‘I think Hincks found the Black Book. The book was almost certainly written in cuneiform-so Hincks must have somehow found it, in Ireland, and translated it, and deciphered cuneiform, and realized he’d found the Whaley treasure. The famous text of the Yezidi, once owned by the Hellfires. Maybe he tried to keep it secret-only a few Protestant Irish toffs would have known what Hincks had found, people already aware of the Whaley story, and the Irish Hellfires, in the first place.’
‘You mean Irish aristos. People like…Canning?
Isobel almost yelped. ‘That’s it, Rob. Sir Stratford Canning was hugely important in Anglo-Irish circles. Like many of his type he was no doubt ashamed of the Hellfire past. So when he heard that Whaley’s book had been found Canning had the perfect idea to solve all their problems. They wanted rid of the Book. And he knew that Layard needed the Book to give to the Yezidi. And Hincks had just found the Book.’
‘So the Black Book was sent back to Constantinople…’
‘And then finally it was returned to the Yezidi…via Austen Layard!’
The phone went silent. Rob pondered the concept. He tried not to think about his daughter. ‘Well. It’s a theory…’
‘It’s more than a theory, Rob. Listen to this!’ Rob could hear the pages of a book being flipped. ’Here. Listen. Here’s the actual account of Layard’s second visit to the Yezidi. “When it was rumoured among the Yezidi that Layard was back in Constantinople, it was decided to send four Yezidi priests and a chief”-and they went all the way to Constantinople.’
‘So-’
‘There’s more. After some “secret negotiations” with Layard and Canning in the Ottoman capital, Layard and the Yezidi then headed east into Kurdistan, back to the lands of the Yezidi.’ Isobel drew breath, then quoted directly: ‘“The journey from Lake Van to Mosul became a triumphal procession…Warm feelings of gratitude poured over Layard. It was to him the Yezidi had turned and he had proven worthy of their confidence.” After that the group made their way through the Yezidi villages, to Urfa, accompanied by “hundreds of singing and shouting people”.’
Rob could sense Isobel’s excitement, but he couldn’t share it. Staring glumly at the cloudy London sky he said, ‘OK. I get it. You could be right. The Black Book is therefore in Kurdistan. Somewhere. Not Britain, not Ireland. It was returned by Layard after all. The gang are wrong. Sure.’
‘Of course, darling,’ Isobel said. ‘But it’s not just in Kurdistan, it’s in Urfa. You see? The book says Urfa. Lalesh is of course the sacred capital of the Yezidi. But the ancient administrative capital, the political capital, is Urfa. The Book is in Sanliurfa! Hidden away somewhere. So Layard took it there, to the Yezidi. And in return the Yezidi told him where to find the great antiquities, the obelisk of Nineveh, and so on. And Canning and Layard got the fame they wanted. It all fits!’
Rob’s mouth was dry. He felt a surge of sarcastic despair. ‘OK. That’s great, Izzy. It’s possible. But how the hell do we get hold of it? How? The Yezidi just tried to kill us. Sanliurfa is a place where we are not wanted. You suggest we just march back in and demand they hand over their sacred text? Anything else we should do while we’re at it? Walk across Lake Van perhaps?’
‘I’m not talking about you,’ Isobel sighed, firmly. ’I mean me. This gives me a chance! I have friends in Urfa. And if I can get to the Black Book first-even just borrow it for a few hours, just make a copy-then we have something on Cloncurry. We can exchange our knowledge for Lizzie and Christine. And I really do know Yezidi people. I believe I can find it. Find the Book.’
‘Isobel-’
‘You can’t dissuade me! I’m going to Sanliurfa, Rob. I’m going to find the Book for you. Christine is my friend. And your daughter feels like my daughter. I want to help. I can do it. Trust me.’
‘But, Isobel, it’s dangerous. It’s a wild theory. And the Yezidi I met certainly thought the Book was still in Britain. What’s that about? And then there’s Kiribali-’
The older woman chuckled. ‘Kiribali doesn’t know me. And anyway I’m sixty-eight. If I get beheaded by some psychotic Nestorians so be it, I won’t have to worry about a new prescription for my spectacles. But I think I’ll be all right, Rob. I already have an idea where the Book might be. And I’m flying to Urfa tonight.’
Rob demurred. The hope Isobel offered was faint, very faint, yet it also appealed to him-perhaps because he had no other real hopes. And he also knew Isobel was risking her life, whatever the outcome. ‘Thank you, Isobel. Thank you. Whatever happens. Thank you for this.’
‘De nada. We’re going to save those girls, Rob. I will see you soon. All three of you!’
Rob sat back and rubbed his eyes. Then he went out for the afternoon, and drank alone in a pub. Then he came back, for a few minutes, and couldn’t bear the silence so he returned to the streets and carried on drinking. He went from pub to pub, drinking slowly and alone, staring at his mobile every five minutes. He did the same the next day. And the next. Sally rang five times. His friends from The Times rang. Steve rang. Sally rang. The police didn’t ring.
And through it all Isobel called, almost every other hour, giving him her progress in Urfa. She said she felt she was ‘close to the truth, close to the Book’. She said some of the Yezidi denied they had the Book, yet some thought she was right, that the Book had been returned, but they didn’t know where it was kept. ‘I’m close, Rob,’ she said. ’I’m very close.’
Rob could hear the sound of the muezzin in the background of this last call, behind Isobel’s earnestly encouraging voice. It was a strangely horrible feeling, hearing the hubbub of Sanliurfa. If he’d never gone there in the first place none of this would have happened. He never wanted to think about Kurdistan ever again.
For two more days Rob did nothing but agonize. Isobel stopped calling. Steve stopped calling so much. The silence was unendurable. He tried to drink tea and he tried to reassure Sally and he went to the supermarket to buy some vodka; then he got back home and went straight to his laptop, yet again. He was doing it by rote, now: expecting nothing.