Mosaic Deceptions

Chapter 4

Chapter 4Cranborne, DorsetA week passed before I saw Leah again.

It was close to seven in the evening when she called in

on her way to Salisbury, with a Chinese take-away. Afterwards, when we were

drinking coffee, I retrieved the rest of Julian’s letters and my

translations. For the next half an hour, Leah sat in silence, slowly reading

through them.

“This is remarkable, Matt. This prophet, Bal’Ashtu,

is clearly at odds with Sharia law and strongly upholds the rights of the

individual. It’s powerful stuff. If what Reverend Makepeace’s

correspondent writes is true and our prophet is gaining followers, the

result could be significant.”

“Those were my thoughts… If they allow him to

continue.”

“What I find intriguing is if Bal’Ashtu is preaching

for modernisation and calling for a greater regard for women in a Muslim

state, why haven’t officials taken action?”

“From what I gather, his preaching has been confined

to Kurdistan where there’s an eclectic mix of faiths. But I don’t think

it will be long before he’s either forcefully discouraged, or locked up

somewhere.”

Leah picked out several of the letters with their

translations clipped to the pages and studied the author’s signature.

“This person, Sumir Ibn Rashid… I wonder who he

is?”

“My guess is that he’s either a Jewish or Christian

Kurd. Someone who’s taking a major risk every time he sends Julian a

letter. What about the comment: ‘If Bal’Ashtu gets wider recognition,

perhaps it will affect Salahaddin.’ So maybe the writer comes from the

town of Tekrit, renamed Salahaddin. Or he could be on the faculty at Irbil

University. It’s much more likely to be someone mature, who’s had a

long-lasting association with Julian,” I ventured.

Leah studied the letters.

“I tell you what caught my eye: the hint that the

prophet apparently has the power to perform miracles. Now that would be

impressive…”

“I’m taking that with a pinch of salt. These things

have a habit of growing out of all proportion,” I declared.

She smiled.

“What?”

“Ever the sceptic.”

“I wonder how I’d contact this Sumir Ibn Rashid, get

him to keep a watching brief on Bal’Ashtu?”

“You’d have to meet him. There’s no way you could

write to him.”

“Mmm, you’re right… I’d have to go to

Kurdistan.” I smiled at her, amused by the idea. Julian could well be

chuckling to himself.

“How would you do that?”

“Sorry?”

“Travel to Kurdistan?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m sure there are

all sorts of restrictions. Why?”

Leah looked down at the letters in her hand. “You’ve

read these a number of times. Didn’t you notice they often mention a tall,

elderly man, a German, being the prophet’s constant companion?”

I looked at her quizzically. “What’s so strange

about that?”

She waved them in front of her. “Each time the writer

comments on two facts. Bal’Ashtu’s companion is tall and he is

elderly.”

“There must be any number of Europeans living in

Kurdistan – even in the present situation. Surely, you don’t think…

?”

“Why not? He’s an old man by now and people were

always commenting on his height.”

“This man is German, not English, Leah.”

“I was born in Switzerland. All my family come from

Linden, in the German-speaking canton of Bern. So you see…” She stood

up. “It could well be my father.”

“Well, it sounds rather tenuous…” I remarked.

“I know but my father disappeared into northern Iraq

when he was forty-eight, which now makes him seventy-five years old –

elderly. He could never take the sun, always stayed in the shade – which

would readily identify him as a white European. When he was a missionary in

Iran, his nickname was ‘high as a palm tree’. He’s almost two metres

tall.”

“You’re not thinking of going?”

“It may be a wild goose chase, but I have to find

out.”

“Do you realise just how dangerous it could be? There

are still people killing each other out there.”

She rose to her feet. “Not in Kurdistan… at least

not so many.”

“Leah, the whole country is still in chaos. You

can’t go out there just on a whim.”

Her face flushed. “This is not debatable. I’m

going… and that’s final!”

I gave her a hesitant smile.

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, I think I am.”

*

Obtaining a visa was easier than expected. In less than

an hour we possessed the all-important slips of paper that would allow us

into Kurdistan. Our initial approach to the Iraqi Consulate in London had

met with evasion and delay – which did not suit Leah, so she found another

route.

I was still coming to terms with the speed of it all.

But the more I thought about this prophet called Bal’Ashtu, the more I

wanted to discover his motivation and what he hoped to achieve. Had he

considered the consequences of his teachings? Perhaps now I would have the

chance to find out.

Leah had researched the ways to travel to Kurdistan and

found there was a regular weekly flight from Frankfurt where we could apply

for visas. However, the majority of travellers tended to be business people.

Undeterred, she’d also discovered that the Kurdish authorities were much

concerned about the preservation of their wildlife; and, in particular,

committed to maintaining bird populations and their habitat. She suggested

that we pose as bird-watching enthusiasts, and consequently, our visas were

swiftly dealt with in Frankfurt, giving us time to spare before catching the

Kurdistan Airlines’ flight to Irbil.

It was an overnight flight and soon after we’d eaten,

Leah tilted back her seat and fell asleep beside me. I glanced across to

take a closer look at my companion. Her long legs were a disadvantage when

travelling by plane and she’d half-turned towards me to ease the

discomfort. The dimmed light of the cabin highlighted her fair hair which

framed an attractive, oval-shaped face. She really was quite beautiful.

Before she could catch me gazing at her, I took out one of the books we’d

acquired on ornithology and started to learn about the birds of Iraq.

On arrival at Irbil Airport the next morning, we

immediately faced searching questions from a Kurdish Immigration official.

The uniformed officer scanned our travel documents. He looked long and hard

at us when examining our passport photos and assiduously checked our

visas.

“What brings you to Kurdistan, Doctor Clements? It

says your occupation is an archaeologist, is that the reason? Do you want to

study our past?”

“No, we’re keen birdwatchers. Here for the

birds.”

“I see.” Silence… Then: “Where are you going to

study our birds?”

Leah answered him. “We’re going to make our way up

to Ser Amadiya. But first we are going to Shaqlawa and the Bekhal Falls.

There have been sightings of the Siberian Thrush in the area.”

“I’m told the Kurdish Wheatear is a frequent visitor

to the Falls. I particularly enjoy the brightly-coloured fantails they

exhibit in flight,” he remarked.

I smiled. “Are you confusing it with the red-tailed

Wheatear?”

He returned my smile. “Perhaps I am, Doctor

Clements… Perhaps I am.”

In the taxi to the Irbil International Hotel, Leah

whispered, “That was close.”

“I think we should actually go to the Falls… Take

some photos to add a little colour to our story. Then we should try to find

this Sumir Ibn Rashid,” I responded. Leah nodded in agreement.

The hotel organised a Toyota four-by-four from a local

car dealer, and the following morning we drove from Irbil heading north-east

towards Shaqlawa.

The Falls were impressive, and just a little

intimidating. Especially when we lunched in a precariously-balanced

restaurant in the middle of all that gushing water. It was like eating out

in a warm shower. We came across several other birdwatchers who had actually

seen the Siberian Thrush, although we had little success. Not that we tried

too hard. By the early evening we were back in our hotel.

The next day I took a taxi to the university, alone. If

Sumir Ibn Rashid were on the faculty, he might find it disconcerting to be

confronted by two western strangers.

At reception, when I asked for Ibn Rashid, the

receptionist smiled and in English asked which one I wished to see. When I

mentioned his forename, she clicked the keyboard and stared at the computer

terminal.

“I’m afraid I cannot see his name on the

list.”

A dead end. But then she added, “He is not in today.

I’ll check with his department; perhaps he will be here tomorrow.”

She confirmed he would be. Declaring I would call the

next day, I left the building with raised hopes.

The following morning when I presented myself at the

reception, the same young woman immediately picked up the phone and, in

Arabic, called the Department for Kurdish Studies and enquired after

Professor ibn Rashid. She looked up and asked.

“Sir, can you tell me your name please?”

“Yes… Doctor Matthew Clements, from Bristol

University in England.”

After relaying my name, she informed me Professor ibn

Rashid would come personally to escort me to the building housing the

College of Arts.

I was deep in thought, impressed with myself that I had

found Julian’s contact so quickly, when I heard reference to myself, ‘a

person from a university in England’, mentioned by the receptionist to

someone on the phone. I strained to hear more but at that moment a small,

round figure bustled through the door, and enquired:

“Doctor Clements?”

I stood up and towered over the diminutive academic. He

had thinning, well-oiled hair combed flat to the scalp and was immaculately

turned out in a cream linen suit. I put out my hand and it was grasped in a

soft, childlike grip.

“I am Sumir Ibn Rashid. You wish to speak with

me?”

“Very pleased to meet you, Professor ibn

Rashid.”

“You have the advantage over me. How is it you know my

name?”

“I’m a friend of Julian Makepeace. Could we speak

privately?”

He looked at me nervously. “Perhaps we should go to my

office.”

Nothing was said during the walk towards an austere

two-storey building across a formally-laid-out square. When we were seated

in small, plain office, Ibn Rashid gave a brief nod, then enquired:

“So, how can I be of assistance, Doctor

Clements?”

“I’m afraid I have to tell you… Julian Makepeace

is dead.”

There was a sudden intake of breath; the little man

stared at me. He was silent for a moment. Finally, he said. “Forgive me…

a dear, dear friend. How did he die?”

“The coroner’s verdict was suicide but I’m not

convinced. There were too many anomalies. I think his room was searched and

that he may have been murdered to suppress what he knew.”

“Searched for what?” his voice wavered.

I leaned forward in my chair.

“The cache of letters you sent to him,

professor.”

“Did they find them?”

I shook my head. “No… they were well hidden. It was

only the merest chance that we came across them.”

“May Allah be merciful! But you said ‘we’. Is

there someone else who knows of the letters and their content?”

“My friend, Miss Linden, is with me. She found the

letters among Julian Makepeace’s books.” I thought it best not to

mention the real reason for Leah being in Kurdistan.

*

At the hotel, I recounted the details of the meeting to

Leah and told her of the professor’s advice for locating the prophet.

“He suggested we drive to the town of Dohuk, the

prophet’s base, and attempt to pick up his trail there. In the meantime,

he’ll also try to find out where the prophet is currently and let us know.

I’ve given him my mobile number.”

“How far away is Dohuk?”

“About a 170 kilometres… Not far. The roads are

quite good apparently, so it shouldn’t take more than two to three

hours.”

Just to be on the safe side, I phoned and made

reservations for two rooms at the Saido – which I was assured was the best

hotel in the region. After lunch, we set out in the direction of Mosul. On

the outskirts of the city, I picked up the road to Dohuk. Although there

were few signs of armed activity, every kilometre or so, we saw military

outposts dotted along the roadside. They were unmanned, but their regularity

was distinctly menacing.

We didn’t speak about it. Leah was busy reading the

travel guide.

“So far so good,” I commented, when a little after

four o’clock we came upon a large sign proclaiming our arrival in ‘Dohuk

– The City of Dreams’.