Kiribali frowned. ‘And this significance was?’
‘Jerusalem Whaley had, therefore, learned the truth about the descent of Man, and the genesis of religion. He had proved that religion was a charade, a folk memory, a relived nightmare. But he had also discovered something else: that an evil trait has infiltrated itself into the human bloodline, and that this trait gifts its carriers with great talent, intelligence and charisma. It makes them leaders. Yet leaders tend to sadism and cruelty because of this same gene cluster. Jerusalem Whaley only had to look at his own bloodline for proof, especially his brutal father, descended in turn from Oliver Cromwell. In other words, Whaley had discovered an appalling fact: that the fate of man is to be led by the cruel, because sadism and cruelty are linked to the genes that make men intelligent and charismatic leaders. The genes of the Northmen.’
Kiribali went to speak; but Rob stalled him with a gesture; he had nearly finished. ‘Shattered by this revelation, Jerusalem Whaley hid the evidence: the skull and the map; the Black Book that Christine and I found in Ireland. And then he retired to the Isle of Man, broken and frightened. He was convinced that the world could not bear the truth-not just that all the Abrahamic religions were based on a falsity, an amalgam of remembered terrors and sacrificial urges-but that all political systems, aristocratic, feudal, oligarchic or even democratic, are bound to produce leaders predisposed to violence. Men who like to kill and to sacrifice. Men who will send thousands over a trench. Men who will fly a plane into a tower of innocents. Men who will clusterbomb a helpless desert village.’
Kiribali regarded him, grimly.
‘And so the Hellfires disbanded, and the matter was suppressed. But one family preserved the terrible truth discovered by Jerusalem Whaley.’
‘The Cloncurrys.’
‘Exactly. The descendants of Jerusalem and Burnchapel Whaley. Rich, privileged and blood-thirsty, the Cloncurrys carried the Gobekli gene. They also passed down the knowledge once given to them by Tom Whaley. This knowledge was the deepest family secret, never to be revealed. If the knowledge was ever broadcast, elites across the world would be overthrown, and Islam and Judaism and Christianity likewise destroyed. It would be apocalyptic. The end of everything. The Cloncurrys’ job, as they saw it, was therefore to ensure that this hideous truth remained suppressed.’
‘And then poor Breitner came along.’
‘Quite. After centuries of silence, the Cloncurrys learned that Gobekli was finally being dug up, by Franz Breitner. This was ominous. If the skull and the map were also found, and someone placed the pieces together, the truth would come out. The youngest scion of the family, Jamie Cloncurry, therefore recruited some rich kids, his acolytes, into a cultic gang with just this aim. To find and destroy the Black Book.
‘But Jamie Cloncurry suffered another dynastic curse: he carried an intense version of the Gobekli gene cluster. Handsome and charismatic, a gifted leader, he was also psychotic. He believed it was his right to kill at will. Whenever he was thwarted in his quest for the skull and the map, the Gobekli gene revealed itself.’
There was a long, long silence.
At last Kiribali stood up. He shot the cuffs of his shirt, and adjusted his tie. ‘Very good. I do so like stories.’ He gazed directly at Rob. ‘The best bits of the Bible and the Koran-those are the best stories. Don’t you think? I have always believed that.’
Rob smiled.
Kiribali walked a few yards towards the megaliths, the polished toecaps of his shoes gleaming in the moonlight. He looked back. ‘There is an interesting coda, Robert…to all of this.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes…’ The detective’s voice was sibilant in the quietness. ‘I was talking to Detective Forrester.’
‘The DCI.’
‘Correct. And he told me something curious, about you and Cloncurry. You see, I rather pressed him for information.’ The detective shrugged, in an unembarrassed way. ‘You know how I am. And after some interrogation, Forrester admitted to me what he had found, in his research. On the internet.’
Rob gazed at Kiribali.
‘Robert Luttrell. It’s a fairly unusual name. Distinct. Is that not right?’
‘It’s Scotch-Irish, I think.’
‘That’s right. In fact,’ said Kiribali, ‘it is also found around Dublin. And it’s that branch that mostly emigrated to America, to Utah. Where you come from.’ Kiribali straightened his jacket. ‘This is, therefore, the intriguing coda: it seems almost certain you are descended from them: from the Dublin Luttrells. And they were also members of the Hellfire Club. Your ancestors were related to the Cloncurrys.’
There was a significant pause. Then Rob said, ’I knew that already.’
‘You did?’
‘Yep.’ Rob confessed. ‘At least I guessed. And Cloncurry knew it too. That’s why he kept hinting about family ties.’
‘But that means you possibly carry the Gobekli gene? You do know that?’
‘Of course,’ Rob said. ‘Although it is a gene cluster, even if I carry it at all. I am my mother’s son as well as my father’s.’
Kiribali nodded, keenly. ‘Yes. Yes, yes. A man’s mother is very important!’
‘And even if I do carry some of those traits, it doesn’t mean I am bound to my destiny. I would have to be in a certain situation, my environment would also play a part. The interaction is very complex.’ He paused. ‘I probably won’t go into politics…’
The detective laughed. Rob added, ‘So I think I’ll be OK. As long as no one gives me any missiles.’
Kiribali snapped his heels together, as if obeying an invisible commandant’s orders. Then he turned and took his mobile phone from his jacket and walked back to the car, perhaps sensing that Rob wanted to be alone.
Rob stood and brushed the dust from his jeans, then strode down the familiar gravel path into the heart of the temple.
When he reached the floor of the excavations, he gazed about him, remembering the laughter he had experienced here at Gobekli, joking with the archaeologists. He had first met Christine here, too: the woman he now loved. But this was also where Breitner had died: and this was where the sacrificial terrors had begun. Ten thousand years ago.
The moon was rising, white and aloof. And there were the stones. Silent and imperious in the night. Rob walked between the megaliths. He leaned and touched the carvings: gently, almost warily, lost in a kind of awe, a reluctant but distinct respect. For these great and ancient stones, for this mysterious temple in Eden.
51
Rob and Christine wanted a small and simple wedding: on that they were agreed. The only question was where to have it. But when Christine heard that she had inherited Isobel’s house in the Princes Islands, the dilemma was solved. ‘And it’s a way of honouring her memory: she’d approve, I know it.’
Isobel’s beautiful garden was the obvious place. So they co-opted a beardy and bibulous Greek Orthodox priest, and hired some singers who were happy to be paid in beer, and even found a trio of very excellent bouzouki players. Close family and best friends were invited. Steve came over from London, with a smattering of Rob’s colleagues; Sally brought a big present; Rob’s mother was smiling and proud in her finest hat. And Kiribali attended in an extremely white suit.