The Istanbul Puzzle by Laurence O’Bryan Page A

wrapped in what looked like tortilla bread.
    When the monk returned he walked straight up to me and said, ‘Come with me.’
    Peter made as if to block me. ‘We’re coming too,’ he said.
    The monk looked at each of us in turn, as if working out what would happen if we all followed him.
    ‘Don’t worry, I’m staying out here,’ said Mark. ‘You enjoy yourselves.’ He grinned at me, as if he knew where we were going.
    ‘You’re lucky,’ said the monk, as we walked past a grove of gnarled pine trees that grew near the cliff.
    I could smell their sap.
    ‘Why’s that?’ I said.
    ‘Many have dreamt of coming to this place, only to die without their dream being fulfilled.’
    Up ahead, the cliff of streaked limestone loomed. The rocky path we were on led straight towards it. The cliff shone with reflected sunlight, hurting my eyes.
    ‘Those who are impure of heart fear this place,’ said the monk loudly, as he walked ahead. ‘Some who come turn back here.’
    I shielded my eyes. There was something unsettling about the place all right. I could imagine people turning back.
    That was when I saw it. The arched, unembellished entrance to a cave, about eight foot high and the same wide, like a burrow for some monstrous bird. The monk was walking straight towards it. We followed.
    Inside was a cave with a blackened roof, a flat dirt hearth at one side near the entrance, thin bones in crevices near it and a tunnel at the back. It looked as if shepherds had been using the place for a long time. There was a bad smell, as if something rotten had soaked into the packed earth floor. We headed for the tunnel. It was high enough to walk upright in.
    Its walls were lit every hundred feet by electric lights on thin steel tripods. They beamed a sickly low-watt glow onto the streaked walls around us. It became cooler with each step we took. The walls were smooth as if they’d been gouged clean. As we went on the tunnel sloped gently upwards.
    We were walking into the heart of the mountain. The tunnel was definitely not a recent construction. I could feel the weight of rock above us, and a sense of awe came over me, as I thought about how old the tunnel might be.
    After walking for about five minutes the tunnel opened into a large cave, the likes of which I had never seen before. Its walls were a shiny blue-grey stone, carved here and there with huge winged creatures like something you’d see in a museum.
    The roof was a dome shape with its centre high above. It was totally black. The cave walls curved inwards about three hundred feet away on either side. In the centre of the cave there was a collection of modern aluminium and black equipment laid out on the almost smooth stone floor. The place had a hostile air to it. Beside the equipment stood a gaunt old man in a dark brown monk’s habit. He was looking at us.
    I walked towards him, leading the group. Our institute’s work in Hagia Sophia had to be of interest to him. He shook my hand, pointed at the wall above where we had just entered, as if eager to show the place off.
    ‘See that,’ he said, his finger shaking. ‘That is the goddess Ishtar, the cruel destroyer. She was an Assyrian deity. Her temples were adorned with the skins of her enemies and pyramids of skulls. They called her the goddess of love. Imagine!’ He made a loud dismissive noise.
    ‘Who built this place?’ I asked, looking around.
    ‘It was carved by water, young man, by nature. After that, who knows.’ He sniffed. That was when I realised there was a smell in the cave. It wasn’t strong, but now that I was in the centre I was more aware of it. It reminded me of the smell inside a freezer when something’s gone bad.
    ‘I’ve never heard of this place,’ I said. Peter and Isabel were standing beside us. They each shook hands with Father Gregory. He gave them a sickly smile, then drew his hand away fast as if distracted. He directed us to an old, but richly-patterned red carpet that had been