by Olly Jarvis
Harris held up her arms. ‘The reach of his network keeps surprising us.’
A swathe of noisy European teenagers wearing matching tracksuits and holding tennis rackets distracted them for a moment.
Ella waited for further explanation but all she got from Harris was an apologetic, ‘Good luck,’ before the agent and her companion left them standing in the hall.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
As soon as they stepped outside, the heat engulfed them. Ella took off her top layer, wishing Harris was still with them.
From nowhere, groups of men in leather sandals descended on them offering taxis. ‘Come, come,’ one man with a beer belly and moustache kept saying.
Another man butted in. ‘Yes, yes, taxi, please, yes, come, where you go?’ They decided to follow him and dropped the luggage into an open boot.
‘Not this taxi,’ shouted some men in sunglasses and short sleeved shirts. ‘Over here.’
They ignored the requests and piled into the cab.
A van pulled into the drop off bay at speed. A load of young, Middle Eastern looking young men and women jumped out of the back, two at a time, then spread out.
‘Kline’s people?’ said Broady, flicking his head towards them.
A young Arabic man got into the driver’s seat of the cab. ‘Where you go?’ he said into the rear-view mirror.
‘Esenler Otogari,’ said Jay, in a bad Turkish accent.
‘Eh?’ the man replied.
They could see a few more people jump out of the van and march towards the taxi rank.
‘Bus station,’ said Jay with more urgency. ‘Esenler Otogari.’
‘Otogar!’ the driver repeated, then laughed. He pulled out of the rank just as the searchers reached the line of parked taxis and bent down to peer inside.
‘Looks like we got them on our tail already,’ said Broady.
‘Yeah,’ Ella replied willing the traffic would move a little faster. The constant beeping of horns made it hard to think.
The taxi honked its way across Istanbul to the main bus station, where they forced their way through the crowds to what looked like a ticket office. The place was so rammed people were sitting on the floor, eating food off newspapers laid out neatly on the ground.
After some miming by Jay, they managed to get four return tickets to Cizre on a bus leaving in twenty minutes. They went in search of their coach amongst the hundreds that were parked up.
‘This is it,’ said Jay. ‘Cizre?’ he asked the driver, dressed in a clean white shirt through the open door.
He nodded. They climbed on and up the steps. Their seats were in front of each other, two and two.
‘They’ve got sockets,’ said Jay.
‘Yeah, not the dust cart I was expecting,’ said Broady.
‘Might as well get comfortable,’ said Ella. ‘If it’s a twenty-three-hour drive.’
Jay plugged in his laptop and hacked into the hotspot of an unsuspecting passenger’s iPhone.
Ella leaned forward so that she could speak to Jay between the seats. ‘It would be nice if we had somewhere to go other than just “Cizre”.’
‘I know, I know, Jay replied going back online, scrolling and searching everything on Noah and his Ark. ‘There’s loads,’ he said to Lizzie, after clicking on a few links and speed-reading. ‘Competing theories on places all over the Middle East.’
‘But why Cizre?’ she asked, looking at the screen.
The coach stopped and started, making its way down through the traffic towards the crossing. Skirting the coast, they could see the sun’s rays sparkling on the Sea of Marmaris off to their right. The water was an inviting, deep blue. Serenaded by car horns, the coach made its way onto the long bridge over the Phosphorous towards the Asian side.
‘Chan said Matthew was basing it on the ancient Islamic and old Hebrew texts which say Mount Judi was the landing site. The Turks call it Chudi Dagi.’ He clicked on an article. ‘But there are even arguments about which peak is Chudi Dagi.’
‘So, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack?’ said Lizzie.
Broady and Ella leaned forward to listen to the discussion. Their heads touched momentarily as they looked between the seats at the screen.
‘We can rule out Mount Ararat though,’ said Jay, as he read on. ‘It’s volcanic, the mountain is too new.’
‘Some people seem to go for this place,’ he said pointing to an image. ‘It’s called the Durunipar Site, about fifteen miles south of Ararat.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Ella looking at the image.
A curious rock formation resembling the broken base of a huge ship protruded from the mountain top.
‘It’s weird, isn’t it,’ Jay observed. ‘That’s why some people say this is the place but I’ve just read a geological report that says it’s just rocks, there are post volcanic formations like this one all over the mountain ranges.’ He scrolled down. ‘An American called Ron Wyatt found it in the sixties. Reckoned it was the place. Found what he called drogue stones nearby. Massive rocks with holes in. Said they were for attaching rope to give the ark ballast or even moor the thing.’
Ella scoffed. ‘Guesswork.’
‘Yeah,’ Jay agreed. ‘People said he was wrong.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Lots of wood found on different mountains over the years but none of the carbon-dating goes further than about six thousand years.’
‘Oh, great,’ said Lizzie.
‘So, Cizre sounds like as good a base as any,’ said Broady. ‘Matthew believed he was in the right ballpark – that’s good enough for me.’
‘Me too,’ Jay replied. ‘Most people say Mount Judi is a peak near Cizre, today people call it Qardu.’
‘Hand me that laptop,’ said Ella. ‘I need to read everything.’
After hours of researching online, Ella spent the rest of the journey drifting in and out of sleep, worrying about everything. When her thoughts moved away from the inquiry, she found herself getting lost in the past, reconstructing her marriage. Why hadn’t she seen the signs? Despite the revelation about Tom, she felt curiously liberated, somehow the guilt was lessened. She wondered whether to tell Lizzie, if she had a right to know? Whatever she decided, it could wait. She glanced over at Broady who was fast asleep. She took out her make up bag and applied some foundation then giggled at the irony. She put on some lipstick. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d given a shit about how she looked.
‘Guys,’ said Jay gravely. ‘I think I’ve got something.’
‘Go on,’ said Ella while the others began to stir.
‘A twenty-five-year-old English man called Peter Walker was taken to the morgue in Cizre.’
‘Dead, I assume?’ Ella asked.
‘Yeah but there’s a bloke with exactly the same details at De Jure and he’s alive. His bank account is active, buying shopping and stuff in Cambridge.’
‘Could be a coincidence,’ said Ella. ‘What was the cause of death?’
Jay turned his body so he could see through the gap in the seats. ‘Brain tumour.’
Ella shut her eyes and grimaced.
Lizzie’s face screwed up. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Walker was in debt,’ explained Jay, running a finger down a bank statement. ‘Out of nowhere he paid in five grand when Matthew disappeared.’
‘Matthew must’ve bought his passport off him,’ said Broady, sitting up. ‘That’s how he got out the country.’
‘Chan was right,’ said Ella. ‘Matthew’s dead.’ The sadness in her voice triggered a silence; Ella wondered if anyone else would ever mourn his passing. ‘How did he get to the morgue?’ she asked.
‘It’s in Turkish,’ Jay replied, tapping the words into google translate. ‘Someone called Azade Kamandi.’
‘Kurdish,’ said Broady. ‘Surprised there are any left.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jay. ‘They’ve been coming back since the violence ended.’
‘That’s the thing,�
� said Broady. ‘People haven’t been visiting Cizre for a long time.’ Ella waited for him to expand. ‘The war in Syria which was just over the border, and the fighting in Cizre itself between the Kurdish P.K.K. and the Turkish Government. The whole area was a war zone for a long time.’
Jay read off the screen. ‘Yeah, it’s only settled down in the last couple of years.’
‘Is there an address for this man?’ Ella asked.
Jay used the computer to translate the rest of the entry. ‘Yes! Looks like it’s in the Old Town. Some sort of pension.’
‘Good work, Jay,’ said Broady. ‘We got ourselves a plan.’
Chapter Eighty
Cizre was a town in transition. Smart new office blocks next to piles of rubble left by the bombings that had plagued the ancient border town in recent years.
Grateful for fresh air after the long journey they walked across Cizre using the hand-drawn map Jay had copied from google maps. The sun was setting behind the buildings providing some protection from the heat. The smell of grilled meat made their stomachs growl.
As they walked, Ella was aware of men sitting outside in rundown cafes, smoking shisha pipes, stopping what they were doing to watch the strangers.
They found the pension half-way up a steep, cobbled alley with water trickling down a central gutter. The source was a young woman in a dust-weathered skirt and red flip-flops. She was tipping a plastic bowl full of washing. She stopped and stared at them, hypnotised for a moment, then hurried inside.
The exterior of the hostel had the feel of a low-grade option, even for budget travellers. A Turkish word in peeling black paint had been written over the old wooden door.
Broady knocked then turned to the others. ‘Let’s take this slowly, we don’t want to scare the guy.’
Ella agreed.
The door opened. A small boy stood holding it semi-open. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. His trousers were baggy, a variation on a salwar kameez. His traditional top was a dirty cream. His dark eyes viewed Broady with suspicion.
‘You have rooms?’ Broady asked touching his own chest and then waving towards the others. ‘For tourists?’
‘Tourist?’ said the boy, as if cottoning on to a familiar word.
‘Yeah, tourists,’ Broady repeated, this time with a smile.
The boy closed the door leaving them in the alley to ponder their next move.
A few moments later the door opened again. This time a man stood in the boy’s place. He said something in Turkish?
Broady tilted his head apologetically and held out his open palms.
The boy appeared from behind the man that had to be his father, judging by the piercing eyes they shared. ‘He say we only have one room.’ Watching Broady’s face, the boy added, ‘Four can sleep.’
‘Thank you,’ Broady replied.
They followed the pair into the dingy dwelling with damp rendered walls revealing patches of exposed brick. The man pushed open a makeshift, plywood door and stood at the entrance waiting for the visitors to accept the arrangement.
The room contained a single bed with a thin mattress and a small table with no chair under a window without glass, just an old wooden shutter.
‘This will do just fine,’ said Broady, signalling his appreciation with a smile.
The boy squeezed between the two men struggling under the weight of a pile of blankets, which he placed lovingly on the bed.
‘Thank you,’ said Lizzie with her sweetest smile. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Olan.’ He blushed then ran out, only to return a couple of minutes later dragging another wafer-thin mattress.
Jay helped him arrange it against the opposite wall.
‘We need to ask them about Matthew before tonight,’ he said to Broady, who looked shattered from the journey. ‘Time’s running out.’
‘Don’t want to spook them,’ Ella replied, arranging one of the blankets. ‘Give it a few minutes then find out what we can and get going.’
The walls were covered in graffiti, all indecipherable. Marks left by travelling Turks.
Ella noticed a couple of brown cockroaches race across the floor.
There was a tap on the open door. Olan beckoned them. ‘Come, come…’
They followed him down a dingy passage and out into a beautiful, tiny courtyard with fig trees growing between the paving. A table had been laid with four chairs, a gaslight in the centre providing the illumination. A woman in Kurdish dress, covered apart from her face, come out carrying two plates, each with a long, grilled kebab and a perfect half ball of rice. The man came out after her with the other two plates and set them down, bending in a gesture of humility.
Mouths watering at the sight of their first hot meal in days, they attacked the food.
Olan put a heap of flat breads in the centre of the table and remained next to his dad, who said something in Turkish. ‘My father, he ask why you come here?’
Broady hesitated. ‘The guidebook said this is the place to come.’
Olan translated. The man spoke again.
‘Not in book. This place for worker, no for tourist.’
Ella stopped eating and eyeballed the man. ‘Azade kamandi?’
Olan immediately looked at his father, who suddenly looked afraid: ‘Yes.’
There was no point lying. ‘Our friend came here.’
More translation. ‘Friend?’
‘Peter Walker?’
Olan’s head dropped. ‘Dead,’ he said quietly.
‘I know,’ Ella replied softly.
The father gave him some kind of order, as a result of which the boy ran out of the courtyard.
The woman came out with four glasses of black tea on a wooden tray. She set them carefully on the table.
Olan came back with a knapsack over his shoulder. He put it down at Ella’s feet.
Ella glanced at the others, wide-eyed. Could it be Matthew’s? She bent down and opened the zip, then respectfully went through the contents. Just clothes, and a wallet in a side pocket containing Turkish Lira.
The man blurted something to his son, sounding sharper than before.
Olan began to cry, then whispered, ‘I take one hundred Lira.’
Lizzie reached out and took his hand. ‘That’s OK,’ she said with a sympathetic smile.
‘Did he have a phone or computer?’ asked Jay.
Olan shook his head again and pointed to the rucksack.
‘Just this?’ Jay clarified.
He dipped his head.
‘Do you know why he was here?’ Ella asked Olan in her softest voice.
More discussion between father and son. ‘Like all foreigner – Noah.’ Olan became more animated. ‘He go mountain every day.’ He pointed up towards the stars.
Ella glanced at Broady. ‘Did he find what he was looking for?’
Olan gave a shake of the head. ‘He sick. Want leave but no strong.’
Ella had to fight every instinct to turn it into a breakneck cross-examination. ‘Did he say where he was going?’
Olan tilted his head, as if trying to recall. ‘Urfa. He say go Urfa.’
‘Go Urfa?’ Ella repeated loudly, her voice failing to hide the importance of his reply.
Olan nodded then reached out for his father’s hand, seemingly unsettled by Ella’s strong reaction.
Lizzie took over, asking softly. ‘What’s Urfa?’
Azade smiled at the word. ‘Sanliurfa.’ He said something to his son who repeated in English, ‘Ancient city. It mean: glorious Urfa.’
‘How far?’ asked Broady.
Olan spoke to his father again in Turkish. ‘Three, four hundred kilometre.’ He struggled with the next word. ‘W – West.’
‘He’d been looking in the wrong place,’ exclaimed Ella. ‘Everyone has.’
Jay was already getting up. ‘We need a taxi, Azade.’
‘Too far for taxi,’ said Olan, translating for his father. ‘You wait, my cousin have car.’ He gave the boy an ord
er who ran out.
‘Let’s grab our stuff,’ said Broady, getting up. The sudden exertion caused another twinge. He touched his waist.
‘You OK?’ said Ella.
‘I’m good,’ he replied, giving her a quick, tense smile.
They went back into their room and Ella stuffed Matthew’s meagre possessions into her bag.
Broady reached into his kit for his pills. He popped one out of the blister pack, then, about to swallow, stopped. He analysed it on his palm. ‘What the hell?’
Jay and Lizzie crowded in.
He spilt the capsule. ‘It’s a god damn tracker.’
‘What?’ said Ella.
‘Stone, the Embassy guy.’ Broady’s face turned paler. ‘He’s been keeping tabs on us.’ He dropped it on the floor and lifted his foot to stamp.
‘Stop!’ shouted Jay. He looked at Aazde, then at the boy. ‘They’ll come here.’
Broady lowered his foot to the side.
Jay picked up the device and handed it to Broady. ‘Let’s not make this the last place it transmits.’
Broady stared at Jay, gratitude etched onto his face. ‘Don’t know what I was thinking.’
Within minutes there was the sound of a car horn outside in the alley.
Ella peaked around the shutter and saw Azade’s son getting out of the passenger seat of an old Škoda.
Azade stood in the doorway. ‘Come, come’ he said ushering them towards the hallway.
Ella met Olan coming back inside and gave him a goodbye hug.
Olan turned red.
She pushed Matthew’s wallet with the Lira into his little chest.
He instinctively took a step back.
‘Please,’ she said forcing it on him. ‘He’d want you to have it.’
He looked up at his father who gave a solemn nod.
Olan’s mouth hesitated, then the corners turned upwards.
‘And besides,’ said Ella. ‘You never know, you might’ve just helped to change the course of history.’
His cherubic face conveyed no understanding of the observation.
A young man in his twenties was standing outside the front door, one hand planted proudly on the bonnet as if posing for a photograph. ‘Hey guys, I’m Badil, my friends call me Bad because I’m a real bad-ass.’ He started laughing but no one joined in.
