The Genesis Secret: by Tom Knox

behalf. Christine, however, seemed unfazed. ‘The Bible says Job was born here, as well as Abraham’.
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Urfa.’ Christine pointed to the steep hill, beyond the fishponds and gardens, on top of which stood a crumbling castle-where a huge Turkish flaghung flaccid in the windless warmth, between two Corinthian columns. ‘Some scholars think this is Ur, the original city in the Book of Genesis. The Akkadians, the Sumerians, the Hittites, they all lived here. The oldest city in the world.’
    ‘I thought that was Jericho?’
    ‘Pah!’ Christine chortled. ‘Jericho! A mere stripling. This place is much older. In the old town behind the bazaar there are people who still live in caves cut into the rock.’ Christine glanced back at the fishponds. The shrouded women were feeding bread to the shoals of excited carp. ‘The carp are black because they are meant to be ashes of Abraham. They say if you see a white fish in the pond you will go to heaven!’
    ‘That’s fantastic! Can we go and eat now?’
    Christine laughed, again. Rob liked her good-natured laugh. In fact, he liked Christine a lot: her academic enthusiasm, her cleverness, her good humour. He felt an unexpected urge to share his inmost thoughts with her; show her a picture of little Lizzie. He suppressed the inclination.
    The Frenchwoman was gesturing, enthusiastically.
    ‘Breitner’s house is just past the bazaar up this hill. We can take a look at the bazaar if you like: it’s got an authentic caravanserai, sixteenth century, built by the Abbasids with some older elements and…’ She glanced at him, then chuckled. ‘Or we could go straight there and get a beer?’
    The walk was short but steep, behind the back of the souk. Men ferrying silver trays of tea and olives came the other way, and all of them stared at Christine. An orange-coloured sofa sat inexplicably across the opposite pavement. The smell of hot unleavened bread filled the narrow alleys. In the middle of it all was a very old, very beautiful house, with balconies and Mediterranean shutters.
    ‘Breitner’s place. You’ll like his wife.’
    Christine was right. Rob did like Franz’s wife, Derya: she was a vivacious, secular, smart, thirty-something woman from Istanbul, with no headscarf or veil, and excellent English. When she wasn’t teasing Franz about his bald head or his obsession with ‘menhirs’ she served Rob and Christine, and the other archaeologists who had all gathered for the supper party. And the food was good: a splendid buffet of cold lamb sausages, rice in vine leaves, exquisite walnut pastries, thick gooey chunks of baklava and greeny-pink arcs of the freshest water melon. Even better, just as Christine has promised, there was plenty of icy cold Turkish beer-and some decent red wine from Cappadocia. Within a couple of hours Rob was feeling very relaxed, convivial and happy, content to listen to the archaeologists argue about Gobekli.
    For his benefit, Rob guessed, they conducted the argument mainly in English, though three of the four men were German, and the other was Russian. And Christine kind-of French.
    As he nibbled his third slice of baklava, chasing it with his Efes beer, Rob tried to follow the debate. One of the archaeologists, Hans, was questioning Franz about the lack of skeletal remains. ‘If it’s a funerary complex then where are the bones?’
    Franz smiled. ‘We will find them! I told you.’
    ‘But you said that last season.’
    ‘And the season before,’ said a second man, standing nearby with a plate of green olives and white sheep’s cheese.
    ‘I know.’ Franz shrugged, happily. ‘I know!’
    The director of the dig was sitting on the biggest leather chair in his sitting room. Behind him, the antique windows were open to the Sanliurfa streets. Rob could hear the evening town life beyond. A man was shouting at his kids in the house across the way. A television blared in the café down the road: probably showing Turkish football,