The road towards the valley from Meshet was packed. Battered old cars from the days before the first Gulf War, held together with string and hope, jostled for every available place. There was no way the pinkie could get through.
Jolo’s men had brought horses. Even so, the hundreds of men, women and children from the Sheikhan, from the Jebel Sinjar, ancient Nineveh, Mosul, and even Syria, made it impossible to get any speed up.
Everywhere Ashe looked he could see qewwals with daff and shebab, playing and singing as the pilgrims hogged the narrow paths towards the Shrine of Sheykh Shems.
Ashe was repeatedly jostled by late-comers carrying the striped tents they would erect at the traditional ojakhs, the campsites where the clans spent their week at the holy valley, cooking, playing and sleeping.
To Ashe’s astonishment, Jolo’s men had already rooted out five terrorists attempting to conceal AK-47s in tents. They’d been dragged outside Lalish, given a beating and tied up, pending interrogation. The method of capture had been simple. Gathering round a group, Jolo’s men would suddenly request the people to crouch, in Kurmanji. Arabic speakers would immediately stand out, literally, from the crowds. Given the conditions, the irregulars’ efficient operation was little short of miraculous. But then, miracles had always happened at Lalish, and none but Ashe was surprised.
Miracle or not, that still left one agent – and one determined agent of Ansar al-Sunna would be more than enough to wreck the entire community forever.
Jolo told Ashe to dismount and remove his boots and socks. They must all walk barefoot in the valley, security or no security.
Down the valley, the call had gone out that the ceremonies culminating in the bull sacrifice were to begin soon. Jolo, Ashe and over a dozen of Jolo’s irregulars ran up the stone paths, dodging dozens of startled pilgrims. From among the trees, young men in Western gear and girls in lace and gold and silver brocade pointed at them, wondering what was going on. One word in the wrong ear, and there would be massive panic, a stampede, and death.
Finally, they arrived at the courtyard outside the sanctuary. The place had been thoroughly searched. Jolo bowed to the prince. There was a tap on Ashe’s shoulder.
‘Laila!’
She kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Oh, Tobbi! What you and Major Richmond have made possible! Look!’ Laila pointed to the Baba Sheykh, who was sitting beneath a wooden gazebo in a corner of the courtyard, deliberating with visiting Yezidi headmen. ‘My brother is overjoyed. He is so sorry. He wants to speak to you.’
‘Please, Laila! Not now! Please, leave the area!’
‘No one leaves now, Tobbi. We have our guards.’
A group of men dressed in baggy trousers and white shirts appeared with sticks, striking people lightly in a well-understood gesture to clear the square before the arrival of the guns.
Ashe strained to see. He looked over to Jolo; Jolo shrugged his shoulders.
There came the echo of fast-moving feet on stone. The crowds began to quieten. Some twenty-five Yezidi men in cream-coloured surcoats over black sweaters and trousers ran into the courtyard and lined the sides, raising their AK-47s above their blue-chequered turbans and into the air. Jolo ran over to Ashe. The crowd gasped.
‘Any time now, guns fire to signal beginning.’
‘That must be the time. That’s why they chose this day. Everyone’s in one place.’
Jolo pulled Ashe into a crouching position. ‘Look at the people’s feet! Follow me!’
Ashe followed Jolo, who pushed through the crowd with his unwelcome M16. Foot after foot. It was maddening. ‘What am I looking for, Jolo?’
‘Anyone who is not naked foot.’
They approached the sanctuary guesthouse. Ashe saw pools of goats’ blood, glistening. This was where the goats gathered to be slaughtered and then fed to the guests.
‘Look! Look!’
‘Where?’
‘Look there! A man with a goat! His feet.’
Ashe saw a pair of feet in thick woollen socks.