about? The chanting?’ Rob knew he was being fierce, but he was feeling tired, irritable and a touch hungover. ‘Christine. Tell me. You looked like…like you’d seen the Assyrian wind demon.’
It was meant as a joke, to lighten the mood. It didn’t work. Christine frowned. ‘Pulsa Dinura’.
‘What?’
‘That’s what the men were chanting. A prayer.’
‘Pulsa…di…’
‘Nura. Lashes of fire. Aramaic.’
Rob was impressed, again. ‘How do you know?’
‘I speak a little Aramaic.’
They were down on the level of the fishponds. The old mosque was shadowy and unlit. No couples walked the paths. Rob and Christine turned left, heading for his hotel, and her flat just beyond.
‘So they were singing an Aramaic hymn, that’s nice. Busking!’
‘It’s not a hymn. And they weren’t fucking busking.’
Her sudden vehemence surprised him.
‘Sorry Christine…’
‘Pulsa Dinura is an ancient curse. A hex of the desert. Of the Mesopotamian wastes. It’s in some versions of the Talmud, the Jewish holy book, written at the time of the Babylonian Captivity. When the Jews were imprisoned in Iraq. Rob, it’s very evil and it’s very old. ’
‘OK…’ He didn’t know how to react. They were nearing his hotel. ‘And what does it do? Pulsa di Nura.’
‘It’s meant to summon the angel of destruction. The whips of flame. They must have been aiming it at Franz. Otherwise why do it under his windows?’
Rob felt the irritation again. ‘So they’re hexing him. So what? Fair enough. Probably he’s not paying them enough shekels. Who cares-it’s just bloody mumbo jumbo! Right?’ Then he remembered the cross around Christine’s neck. Was he somehow insulting her? How religious was she? How superstitious? Rob was firmly atheist. He found religious belief and superstitious irrationality hard to accept and sometimes deeply annoying; yet he loved the Middle East, birthplace of all those irrational faiths and desert creeds. And he rather liked the passions and debates stirred by these faiths. A strange paradox.
Christine was silent. Rob tried again: ‘What does it matter?’
She turned to face him. ‘It matters a lot to some people. In Israel for instance.’
‘Go on.’
‘Pulsa Dinura has been used a few times in recent years, by Jews.’
‘Right…’
‘Some ultra orthodox rabbis, for instance. They summoned the angel of death against Yitzhak Rabin, the Israeli leader, in October 1995.’ She paused. Rob was working out the significance of the date. Christine got there before him: ‘And Rabin was assassinated within the month.’
‘K. An interesting coincidence.’
‘Some more rabbis used Pulsa Dinura against Ariel Sharon, the next prime minister, in 2005. A few months later he fell into a coma, after a brain haemorrhage.’
‘Sharon was 77. And he was fat.’
She looked directly into Rob’s eyes. ‘Sure. It’s just…coincidence.’
‘Yep. It is.’
They were at the lobby of his hotel. They were nearly arguing. Rob regretted this. He liked Christine. A lot. He didn’t want to offend her. He offered-keenly-to walk the further half a kilometre with her to her apartment block, but she-gently-declined. They looked at each other. Then they hugged briefly. Before she left she said, ‘As you say Robert, it’s just coincidence. But the Kurds believe it works. Lots of people in the Middle East think Pulsa Dinura works. It is infamous. Check it on Google. So if they are using it…what that means is that some people really want Franz Breitner dead. ’
With that she turned and walked away.
Rob watched her for a few minutes. Her disappearing figure. Then he shivered again. The night was getting colder as the wind blew in off the desert.
10
DCI Forrester sat back on the sofa. He was in a cosy sitting room just off Muswell Hill, in suburban north London. He was seeing his therapist.
It was kind of clichéd, he supposed. The policeman with the neuroses, the fucked-up cop. But he
It was meant as a joke, to lighten the mood. It didn’t work. Christine frowned. ‘Pulsa Dinura’.
‘What?’
‘That’s what the men were chanting. A prayer.’
‘Pulsa…di…’
‘Nura. Lashes of fire. Aramaic.’
Rob was impressed, again. ‘How do you know?’
‘I speak a little Aramaic.’
They were down on the level of the fishponds. The old mosque was shadowy and unlit. No couples walked the paths. Rob and Christine turned left, heading for his hotel, and her flat just beyond.
‘So they were singing an Aramaic hymn, that’s nice. Busking!’
‘It’s not a hymn. And they weren’t fucking busking.’
Her sudden vehemence surprised him.
‘Sorry Christine…’
‘Pulsa Dinura is an ancient curse. A hex of the desert. Of the Mesopotamian wastes. It’s in some versions of the Talmud, the Jewish holy book, written at the time of the Babylonian Captivity. When the Jews were imprisoned in Iraq. Rob, it’s very evil and it’s very old. ’
‘OK…’ He didn’t know how to react. They were nearing his hotel. ‘And what does it do? Pulsa di Nura.’
‘It’s meant to summon the angel of destruction. The whips of flame. They must have been aiming it at Franz. Otherwise why do it under his windows?’
Rob felt the irritation again. ‘So they’re hexing him. So what? Fair enough. Probably he’s not paying them enough shekels. Who cares-it’s just bloody mumbo jumbo! Right?’ Then he remembered the cross around Christine’s neck. Was he somehow insulting her? How religious was she? How superstitious? Rob was firmly atheist. He found religious belief and superstitious irrationality hard to accept and sometimes deeply annoying; yet he loved the Middle East, birthplace of all those irrational faiths and desert creeds. And he rather liked the passions and debates stirred by these faiths. A strange paradox.
Christine was silent. Rob tried again: ‘What does it matter?’
She turned to face him. ‘It matters a lot to some people. In Israel for instance.’
‘Go on.’
‘Pulsa Dinura has been used a few times in recent years, by Jews.’
‘Right…’
‘Some ultra orthodox rabbis, for instance. They summoned the angel of death against Yitzhak Rabin, the Israeli leader, in October 1995.’ She paused. Rob was working out the significance of the date. Christine got there before him: ‘And Rabin was assassinated within the month.’
‘K. An interesting coincidence.’
‘Some more rabbis used Pulsa Dinura against Ariel Sharon, the next prime minister, in 2005. A few months later he fell into a coma, after a brain haemorrhage.’
‘Sharon was 77. And he was fat.’
She looked directly into Rob’s eyes. ‘Sure. It’s just…coincidence.’
‘Yep. It is.’
They were at the lobby of his hotel. They were nearly arguing. Rob regretted this. He liked Christine. A lot. He didn’t want to offend her. He offered-keenly-to walk the further half a kilometre with her to her apartment block, but she-gently-declined. They looked at each other. Then they hugged briefly. Before she left she said, ‘As you say Robert, it’s just coincidence. But the Kurds believe it works. Lots of people in the Middle East think Pulsa Dinura works. It is infamous. Check it on Google. So if they are using it…what that means is that some people really want Franz Breitner dead. ’
With that she turned and walked away.
Rob watched her for a few minutes. Her disappearing figure. Then he shivered again. The night was getting colder as the wind blew in off the desert.
10
DCI Forrester sat back on the sofa. He was in a cosy sitting room just off Muswell Hill, in suburban north London. He was seeing his therapist.
It was kind of clichéd, he supposed. The policeman with the neuroses, the fucked-up cop. But he
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