slums that remained. And now it was just a big car park.
He made a decision. If he couldn’t see Lizzie he could at least earn some money, to keep her fed and secure. So he decided to go straight back to his little flat in Jaffa and do some research. Find some more angles on that Lebanese story. Or trace those Hamas kids that hid out in that church.
Ideas fizzed in Rob’s head as he headed to the curve of the beach, and the ancient harbourfront houses beyond: the port of old Jaffa.
His mobile rang. Rob checked the screen hopefully. It was a British number, but it wasn’t Sally, or Lizzie, or his friends.
It was his editor, in London.
Rob felt the surge of adrenalin. This was it! This was the moment in his job he most loved: the unexpected call from his editor. Go to Baghdad, Go to Cairo, Go to Gaza, Go Risk Your Life. Rob adored this moment. The never knowing where he was going to be. The frightening sense of improvised theatre: as if he existed on live TV. No wonder he couldn’t pin down a relationship. He clicked the phone.
‘Robbie!’
‘Steve?’
‘Wotcher.’
The ultra-Cockney accent of his editor fazed Rob for a second, as it always did. He still had enough of the middle-American in him to presume that editors at The Times always spoke in pukka Oxford English. But his foreign editor spoke like a Tilbury docker-and swore even more. Sometimes Rob wondered if Steve put it on a bit-the Cockney accent-to mark himself out from his plummier Oxbridge peers. Everyone in journalism was so competitive.
‘Robbie, mate. Whatya doing right now?’
‘Standing on a beach, talking to you.’
‘Fuck. Wish I had your job.’
‘You did. But you got promoted.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Steve laughed. ‘Anyway what I mean is, what you doing next? We got you on assignment?’
‘Nope.’
‘That’s right, that’s right. You’re recovering from that fucking…bomb shit.’
‘I’m OK now.’
Steve whistled. ‘That was messy. Baghdad.’
Rob didn’t want to think about the bombing. ’So…Steve…where…’
‘Kurdistan.’
‘What? Wow!’
He immediately felt excited, and a little scared. Iraqi Kurdistan. Mosul! He’d never been there and it was surely chock-full of stories. Iraqi Kurdistan!
But then Steve broke in: ‘Cool your jets…’
Rob felt his excitement ebb. There was something in Steve’s voice. This wasn’t a war story. ‘Steve?’
‘Rob, mate. What do you know about archaeology?’
Rob looked out to sea. A paraglider was soaring over the waves. ‘Archaeology? Nothing. Why?’
‘Yep. Pretty interesting. These German archaeologists have…’
‘Cave paintings? Old bones? Shit.’ Rob felt a piercing disappointment:
Steve chuckled. ‘Now now. C’mon.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t always do Gaza. And I don’t want you anywhere dangerous. Not at the mo.’ He sounded solicitous, almost brotherly. Most unexpected. ‘You’re one of my best reporters. And that was a nasty spill in Baghdad. You’ve had enough bad shit, for a while. Don’t ya think?’
Rob waited. He knew Steve hadn’t finished. Sure enough, Steve explained: ‘So I’m asking you, ever so politely, to go and look at this fucking dig in Turkey. If that’s OK with you.’
Rob detected the sarcasm: it wasn’t hard. He laughed. ‘OK, Steve. You’re the boss! I’ll go and look at some stones. When do you need me to go?’
‘Tomorra. I’ll email the brief.’
Tomorrow? Not a lot of time. Rob started thinking about planes and packing. ‘I’m on the case, Steve. Thanks.’
The editor paused, then came back on the line: ‘But, Rob…’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious about this assignment. These aren’t just…boring old stones.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s been in the news here already. You must have missed it.’
‘I don’t read the archaeological press.’
‘I do. It’s highly fashionable.’
‘So?’
The sea air was warm. Steve went on: ‘What I mean is. This place in Turkey. What these Germans found…’
Rob waited for Steve to elaborate.
A long pause. Then at last his editor said, ‘Well…it’s not just bones and shit, Robbie. It’s something really quite weird.’
3
On the plane to Istanbul Rob sipped at his watery gin and tonic in a little see-through plastic cup with a tiny swizzle stick. He read the print-out of Steve’s email, and some other stuff he had found on the Net about the Turkish dig.
The site being unearthed was called Gobekli Tepe. For an hour Rob thought this was pronounced Teep, but then he saw a phonetic spelling on one his printouts: Tepe was pronounced Tepp-ay. Gobekli…Tepp-ay. Rob said it himself-‘Gob-eckly Tepp-ay’ and then munched a mini pretzel.
He read on.
The site was apparently just one of a number of very old settlements presently being unearthed in Kurdish Turkey. Nevali Cori, Cayonu, Karahan Tepe. Some of them