3 Great Thrillers

by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric

  ‘I don’t refer to religious beliefs, General, or political beliefs. These are acquired as people grow up.’

  ‘What beliefs?’

  ‘I mean the most basic beliefs we are born with. Instincts. Things so deep that we take them for granted. Beliefs without which no nation or people could ever be shaped.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Are you a patriot, General?’

  ‘I am ready to fight and die for my country.’

  ‘I believe you. Patriotism – or nationalism – is not only the last refuge of the scoundrel, as English scoundrels are always saying. It is also the first refuge of the threatened nation. And the nation is based not only on beliefs, but facts. The fact of reproduction. Commonality. The fact of things shared.’

  Ashe spoke up. ‘You mean race, Professor. Just say so.’

  ‘Race, family, culture – deep and vital assumptions about the future. How could a dictator rule a nation where there was no nation?’

  ‘But there have always been nations, tribes…’

  ‘Not necessarily, General. Our mythology preserves knowledge that once it was different.’

  ‘Mythology!’

  ‘Yes. First there was the myth of ancient Troy. Then Schliemann discovered it – and he discovered it with science! Look at the myth of the Tower of Babel! In that myth, division into races is seen as a punishment, a punishment sent by a jealous God for man’s relying on his own knowledge and building to the skies. But, today, the sky is not the limit. Now we see division into races as genetic mutation, occurring over many thousands of years. Primordial genetic mutation has resulted in the principal races and sub-races of the world. Was this a tragedy? Or an opportunity?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I doubt if I care, Professor. What have you discovered?’

  ‘I have discovered a lost truth, General. As a result of the ancient practice of endogamy—’

  ‘En… what?’

  ‘Marriage confined strictly to a family or clan, General.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel. Go on, Professor.’

  ‘Thanks to endogamy practised over millennia, I have discovered a genome template that takes us beyond Babel into a totally new era. My scientific manipulation of this genetic material unleashes extraordinary power. I present to you a retroviral weapon to change humanity, permanently!’

  Al-Qasr’s speech held nothing new for Ashe. His attention wandered, not out of frustration, but because something was shifting his awareness away from the depressing scenario conjured up by al-Qasr’s apocalyptic, visionary science. As though pulled up magnetically into Ashe’s consciousness, an image was struggling to surface. It was there; then it was gone. Then it was there! The image was clear: the weird man, the camouflaged figure who’d stopped him on the road to ODDBALLS that terrible morning, nearly nine months before. The charcoal-written sheet thrust at him by the green prophet… What had it said? The Tower of Babel is being rebuilt and must be destroyed.

  Was there to be a catastrophic new division of the human race?

  ‘And so, General, we come to the weapon. Imagine, General, imagine all of you, if your son and his wife are expecting a child, and when it is born, it looks nothing like its parents, or brothers, sisters or cousins. Imagine if the child is simply of another race. Mutated beyond any control of the parents.’

  Koglu looked nonplussed.

  ‘A few crazy idealists might think “How nice!” But think again. Imagine if, after the retrovirus takes hold, with every replacement of fresh cells in the individual, personal characteristics begin to change. Not only in the child, but in the parent as well. Think about it! Depending on how the weapon is targeted, the Arab gives birth to the Jew, the Jew to the Arab, the Chinese to the Japanese, the Japanese to the Korean, the Indian to the African. And even these isolated race-types will change beyond recognition – different mentalities, unfamiliar identities. And so on, and on, and on. And on. In less than a generation, there will be no nation to govern. No commonality to appeal to. Brother would not recognise sister. Children would feel divorced from parents, teachers, each other. There will be nothing left to defend! No idea of home!

  ‘The nation that succumbed to this weapon, General, would be cast into the most profound and permanent identity crisis conceivable. After a short period, the long-term effects would become entirely unpredictable. More than this, I can target this weapon to affect one family, any family I choose, or one individual, at any time.

  ‘No group of people who knew that something like this existed would ever allow their rulers to risk exposure to its cataclysmic psychological power. And remember, General, this weapon causes no obvious death or destruction. You could even say it is harmless. Indeed, physically speaking, it is the world’s first completely harmless weapon. But when its potential is fully grasped, is this not the most devastating weapon against human culture imaginable, a hair’s breadth short of annihilation of a species? A weapon of destruction of the masses! Think about it!’

  Ashe got up. ‘I have thought about it. And what we have here is something incredible, marvellous. Almost beyond imagining.’

  Beck was incredulous. ‘The destruction of human culture – marvellous?’

  Ashe sensed something strange happening outside of the compound. He walked towards the window, took a closer look into the distance. He turned to al-Qasr. ‘Tell us, Professor, what distinguishes the genetic material on which the weapon is based?’

  ‘Technical secrets must be reserved. I can only say that the distinction lies in the pre-mutational character of the material.’

  ‘We get that already. Give an example.’ Ashe was sure there was movement at the compound perimeter.

  Al-Qasr thought for a second. ‘Pineal gland function…’

  ‘Do you refer to the production of dimethyltryptamine?’

  ‘What?’

  Ashe turned to Koglu. ‘DMT for short, General. It’s like the brain’s own spirit-and-vision drug, produced, according to recent research, in the pineal gland. That’s the tiny gland between the brain’s hemispheres. DMT affects perception experience. Isolated, it can induce “spiritual experiences”, infinity beyond reason… maybe even… God.’

  Koglu banged the desk. ‘What’s he on about, al-Qasr?’

  ‘Genetic mutations found in the rest of our species are absent from the test material.’

  ‘What is this “test material”?’

  Ashe answered. ‘The professor extracted DNA from a specific line of Yezidis.’

  ‘Kurds? Damn Kurds! This is insane! Genius belongs to the Turks! Atatürk was surely right about this!’

  ‘Well, General. You can believe you are a superior race, but the genes hold the truth.’

  ‘Truth, Dr Ashe? Truth! This is all theory!’

  Al-Qasr shook his head, wriggling under his burden of sealing tape. ‘No, General. Not theory. My weapon is fact!’

  ‘How can this be fact?’

  ‘Because our inherited genetic mutations have reduced the pineal gland’s capacity to produce the type, quality and quantity of DMT you find as a potential in my ancient genetic profile.’

  ‘So the Yezidis are freaks. So what?’

  ‘General Koglu, you are an ignorant man!’

  Koglu gave Ashe a murderous stare. Beck and Fless backed Ashe up. ‘He’s right! Why don’t you listen?’

  Ashe addressed al-Qasr. ‘Don’t you see, Professor, if you would only cease thinking in terms of weapons, what you have here is a discovery that could positively transform the whole human race.’

  ‘Don’t you mean human races, Dr Ashe?’

  ‘That’s the point, General. How can I put this? What if al-Qasr’s discoveries give us the opportunity to undo the Babel story – the division of the races and loss of spiritual vision? Rather than threatening the end of one nation, could we not envision a return to humankind as one supremely gifted race?’

  ‘I had no idea British intelligence had become a recruitment ground for New Age fant
asists!’

  Aslan laughed out loud. ‘General Koglu! You surprise me! I thought you had a commercial brain. Can you not see the potential – for Turkey?’

  ‘I gotta say, General…’

  ‘Yes, Mr Beck?’

  ‘Well, from what I’m hearing here, I reckon the world’s just about ready for some kind of evolutionary leap. I’d be dishonest if I… well… I guess we’d all like to buy into this thing.’

  Koglu rubbed his chin. ‘I’m not stupid, Colonel Aslan. I can see that if Mr Beck is interested, there will be more in line behind him. Do I take it now that you wish to be a benefactor, rather than a traitor, to your country?’

  ‘I have never been a traitor, General. Turkey is my religion! And I want our nation to enjoy all aspects of this discovery. The weapons potential will free Turkey politically. The innovative science and technology – this we can sell. Tell that to your friends in Ankara!’

  ‘Have I misjudged you, Colonel?’

  Fless broke the silence. ‘And just who’s going to be the new Atatürk, General? You? Or the colonel?’

  Koglu became agitated. ‘Colonel, it is clear we have the makings of a deal. But what are we to do with our… foreign visitors?’

  Koglu stared at the three defenceless agents.

  Al-Qasr spoke up. ‘Kill them. And get me out of this! And call your guard off. He gives me the creeps.’

  Through the window, silhouetted against the setting sun, Aslan observed a personnel carrier approaching. It skidded into the forecourt. Thinking it one of his own, Koglu drew his pistol and aimed it at Fless, Ashe and Beck.

  Ashe spoke up. ‘Aslan’s men have come for you, General. Look!’

  Koglu looked out of the window, sniffed, then turned abruptly, pointing his gun at Aslan.

  112

  Two stun grenades shattered the mess window. Struck in the head, the force blew al-Qasr and his chair into the wall. Massive flashes blinded everyone save Aslan. As Koglu lurched, disoriented, from side to side, gripping his ears in pain, Aslan, who had bided his time, pushed the desk sharply into Koglu’s legs. The general fell moaning to the ground. Seizing the general’s gun, Aslan put it to Koglu’s mouth, and fired.

  Outside, the general’s special forces let rip on Aslan’s relief force. Amid desperate shouting, a shower of mortar shells scoured the darkening skies, then scorched the horizon. The barrack house exploded, shooting blast debris in all directions.

  Al-Qasr, blinded, wriggled on the floor. With blood pouring out of his head and over his burning eyes, his bound legs kicked the guard. Coming to his senses, the guard panicked. Seeing al-Qasr screaming at him, he flicked the Uzi’s safety-catch and squeezed the trigger. Two bursts of live rounds rent through al-Qasr’s writhing body. As the blasted corpse vibrated and rippled against the wall, the guard turned on Aslan. Aslan stepped back, tripping on Koglu’s body as the guard let rip.

  Gambolling out of a line of fire that sent splinters and sparks shooting across the mess, Aslan lost grip on the pistol. Seizing the moment, Ashe leapt forwards, straining for the gun. As the guard tried to refocus, Ashe fired. The guard reeled backwards as the demented Uzi punctured the tattered ceiling with aimless rounds.

  Beneath a storm-shower of plaster, al-Qasr came to, desperate to prop his crumbling body against the wall, but his time, and his life, had run out. With blood flooding from his face, al-Qasr slumped, rigid, to the floor.

  Aslan leapt onto the dazed guard, grabbed the Uzi and struck the guard hard in the neck, knocking him out cold. Reaching for a spare magazine from the guard’s blood-soaked belt, he reloaded. He stared at Ashe. What did that stare mean? Ashe’s capacity to react stuck like a heavy boot in a dune. Fearing he was next, Ashe tried to raise his gun at the colonel. Aslan smiled. ‘Don’t bother, Tobbi. Save yourself. Under this carpet is a trapdoor. Meant for me. It leads to the hillside. God be with you!’

  Though Aslan had suspected Koglu was intent on humiliating him, and had made precise preparations, he hadn’t reckoned on al-Qasr’s death. Standing tall in the scattered chaos, Aslan gazed for one last moment at what was left of Sami al-Qasr: ‘Goodbye, Sami!’ Then he turned quickly to Beck and Fless, gesturing with the gun. ‘Follow him!’ Aslan saluted Ashe, smashed the rest of the glass with the Uzi’s butt, and, gun blazing, launched himself into the crossfire outside. Smoke soon enveloped him.

  The battle stormed on until both sides realised there was no one giving orders. By then, the facility was engulfed in flames. Every scrap of authentic DNA material from the Baba Sheykh went up in the conflagration that lit the skies until dawn. Aslan’s body was presumed destroyed in the furnace that overwhelmed the laboratory.

  In the morning, it was reported in the press that resistance in Fallujah was stiffening, but futile. Ashe’s experience did not find a place in the annals of history, for are we not told that it is the winners who write history? And in this case, the question remained – and would always remain – who had won and who had lost?

  113

  Lalish in late November has something of a child’s Advent feel about it: an air of expectation and immanent holiness. All of the buildings are spotless. The paths are spotless. The stones are like leaves of vellum. The shrines are clean, and Lalish, the Yezidis’ reflection of heaven, is pure and peaceful.

  Accompanied by Karla Lindars, Ashe arrived in Lalish early. They were to witness the final ceremonies of Rozeh and Sinàn’s week-long wedding. Here at last was an opportunity for Ashe to show his secretary why he was so entranced by the place and the people to whom it was sacred. For Karla, it was a chance to take a fresh look at the man she admired and who never failed to irritate her slightly. It was also an opportunity to acquire a new, oriental wardrobe. Karla looked dazzling in her drifting turquoise and sky-blue abbaya. Ashe was only concerned that with her golden-blond hair, let down for the occasion, she might appear to upstage the princess.

  Princess Laila had been attending to Rozeh. Rozeh’s wedding rituals had begun at her new home in Bashiqa over a week before Ashe’s arrival. There, following a hot bath, Rozeh’s friends had adorned her hands with henna. Having donned a red veil, Rozeh had then fastened a belt about her virgin waist with a special, large buckle, brought to her by Princess Laila, her Sister of the Hereafter. Rozeh had then been set on a horse that carried her from Bashiqa to Lalish, to the groom’s temporary apartment above the Sanctuary Guesthouse. The apartment had been lent for the occasion by Sinàn’s relative, the Mir – or Prince – of the Yezidis who was away on urgent business in Germany. Himself pondering whether or not to leave the country, Sinàn had not yet found the right place to set up a household.

  Rozeh had arrived on horseback at Lalish’s Sanctuary Guesthouse carrying some berat: earth from a holy shrine, rolled with the spittle of the Sheykh of the Adani clan into a ball. The Adani Sheykh, who presided over the nuptial agreement, had given her this prized token in exchange for gifts to himself and Rozeh’s Pir, or spiritual guide. Having helped Rozeh dismount, Laila had handed Rozeh a jar of sweetmeats, a role normally reserved for the bride’s future mother-in-law. Alas, Sinàn’s mother had not lived to see the happy day. Rozeh had then smashed the sweetmeats against the threshold of her ‘new home’. As Rozeh had entered the house, a sheep was slaughtered. Rozeh had then been led into the aromatic bridal chamber, veiled by an Adani Sheykh and by her Pir.

  Later that night, Sinàn had been brought to the bridal chamber by his Brother of the Hereafter. The ‘Brother’ and two friends had guarded the door while the marriage was consummated. Afterwards, the friends had been invited in to share some food. Following the consummation, Rozeh had begun a seven-day period of silent seclusion in the bridal chamber.

  Throughout the week that followed, Lalish had joyed in sporadic dancing, as relatives and friends toasted the couple and invited the blessings of God and His Angels upon them. Now on this, the seventh day of the seclusion, the bride would leave the room for a final, simple ceremony. To this ceremony, the English visitors had b
een invited.

  Ashe joined Sinàn for a short walk among the mulberry bushes and oak trees on the slopes of Mount Erefat above the Sanctuary of Sheykh Adi.

  ‘You look splendid, Sinàn.’

  ‘Traditional clothes. I borrowed the silk jacket and trousers from the Mir. The jewellery comes from… many years ago. Strange how things turn out, Dr Ashe.’

  ‘Destiny, Sinàn, that’s all. Kismet.’

  ‘I was thinking… Had Laila succeeded in getting Rozeh on to your plane at Mosul all those months ago, my bride and I would never have met.’

  ‘Rozeh wanted to be a doctor. It was important to her.’

  ‘I will help.’

  ‘Don’t you want your wife at home, like those who wore your clothes before you?’

  ‘What Rozeh believes is right, is right for me. I want to thank you again for honouring your word and bringing the Baba Sheykh back to us.’

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’

  ‘No! What happened was the unbreakable will of the sheykh. It is a sin against God to stop the true will of another.

  ‘Also, you should know, the sheykh was very ill. Baba was dying, even when we were in Germany. His heart. He gave too much of it to his people. Tell me, Toby Ashe, will you see his speech is published?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘You are a friend of the Yezidi people.’ Sinàn bowed to Ashe.

  ‘A great honour, Sinàn.’

  Ashe gazed down to the conical qubbe that dominated the roof of the sanctuary below them. ‘I only wish I’d been born a Yezidi.’

  Sinàn laughed. ‘Forgive me, but that is very foolish! I must go now and prepare myself. And, look, here is your beautiful secretary lady! And, Dr Ashe, remember – you are not married!’

  Sinàn made his way back down the slopes, pausing to bow before Karla on his way down. Ashe called after him. ‘No, Sinàn, but she is!’