The Bible Murder

By Gerhard Behrens

The Bible had made history, changed societies, created art and also caused murders—quite a lot of murders in fact. The latest one is the killing of Professor Karl Fehr of the University of London. He provided the long missing archaeological proof for a daring theory published by Professor Kamal Salibi, a real (not fictional) Lebanese historian [see his book ‘The Bible came from Arabia’, 1985). Based on thorough linguistic and geographical studies he, and later also Fehr, became convinced that all locations and events mentioned in the Old Testament are connected to Asir, a southern province of today‘s Saudi Arabia, and not to the region of Palestine/Israel!

Of course, hardly anyone is willing to see any truth in that theory. It is not conform with the age-old and commonly accepted interpretation of the Old Testament and is therefore shocking. No wonder that Salibi in his lifetime and now Fehr with his archaeological proof faced a whole phalanx of enemies, among them Fehr‘s murder.

Professor Rietberg, a Middle East historian and Fehr‘s colleague at the University of London, as the amateur detective with this talents already proven in other murder cases manages finally to solve this politically sensitive case as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728386713

Gerhard Behrens

Gerhard Behrens studied law at universities in Germany and Egypt. He has worked in academic institutions, in the Federal Government of Germany, in Deutsche Bank as their Middle East representative based in Cairo, on the board of trading and engineering companies as well as the Chairman of the German-Arab Chamber of Commerce in Cairo. After his retirement he is living in London with his wife Doris. As an accomplished Arabist he now uses his intimate knowledge of the Middle East by writing mystery novels with a Middle Eastern background. [Apart from the present book see his other novels ‘The Janissary File’ (2007), ‘The Toledo Fake’ (2012) and ‘Murder Egyptian Style’ (2018)]

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 Gerhard Behrens. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/28/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8672-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8671-3 (e)

Cover design by Nonno Leonidas

Cover image (ostracon) ©The Trustees of the British Museum

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

The Murder

London, UK

Before The Murder

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

London, UK

Abha, Saudi Arabia, a year earlier

London, UK

Abha, Saudi Arabia

London, UK

Abha, Saudi Arabia

London, UK

Berlin, Germany

London/UK

After The Murder

Abha, Saudi Arabia

London, UK

about Kamal S. Salibi, The Bible Came from Arabia, (London 1985):

Professor George Mendenhall, University of Michigan:

‘A quixotic absurdity that cannot be taken seriously’

Professor Volkmar Fritz, University of Mainz:

‘Perhaps we are laughing now and in twenty years we all make the pilgrimage to Asir’

I would like to extend my thanks to everyone who helped me by giving advice or correcting mistakes, foremost of all Rosalind Wade Haddon, whose assistance in polishing my English was invaluable. Of course, I am alone responsible for remaining mistakes, all of which I tried to eliminate in this 2nd edition.

Image%201_BW.jpg

THE MURDER

London, UK

A police car with flashing blue lights was parked on the northern side of Gordon Square in Bloomsbury near the entrance to a large building. The driver, a young policeman, sat in the car, waiting with a bored expression on his face for the return of his superiors, who had obviously something to investigate or someone to arrest in the building. The flashing blue lights had apparently no other function than to demonstrate that the police were around. For which purpose and where the officers were at the moment was not clear.

The people in the square―many of them students of UCL, the University College of London―looked curiously at the car, but soon lost interest and went on their way home, to their work or their studies. It was not the first time for the police to come to or near Gordon Square, but previously they had come in large numbers, when students demonstrated against higher fees, unfair dismissals, imperialists and capitalists. A single police car with flashing lights with only a bored looking driver inside was physically less menacing, of course, than a squad of burly policemen determined to pounce at any moment on the few left-wing activists trying to revive the good old times of the late 1960s. Yet it was an ominous sign that something was going on at UCL that was more important than a demonstration.

Someone, who was just walking nearby, showed more interest in the scene than anyone else. He even stopped, staring at the police car and the driver. He was an elderly white male―not anyone who would easily attract the attention of the police. He was dressed with casual and slightly out of date elegance, in designer jeans and an expensive looking chamois leather jacket. Somehow he stood out from the rather shabbily dressed crowd typical of London streets these days. Only his bearing did not match the image of a successful man-about-town that he obviously wanted to convey. He walked a bit too slowly, with a stooped gait that contrasted with his youthful dress. Also his thinning white hair blown out of shape by the constant London breeze showed more of his age than his smart dress tried to conceal. His prolonged stare at the driver while pausing in his walk did not correspond either to the manner of a gentleman, who is or at least pretends to be indifferent to his surroundings.

The driver of the police car, irritated by the stare of this strange customer, got out of his car with the determined expression of a policeman sniffing something suspicious. The elderly white male, noticing that he had attracted unwanted attention, affected the embarrassed smile of anyone caught staring inadvertently and continued his walk across the square without looking back. The policeman, not really eager to be unduly disturbed while waiting for his superiors, climbed back into the car, only following with suspicious eyes the elderly man, who now walked quickly out of sight.

Jürgen Rietberg, Professor emeritus at the School of Oriental and African Studies, SOAS in short, was embarrassed with himself. He had never mastered the art of controlling his reactions at all times. He blushed, when he was embarrassed, or―like now―stared at what he saw, when he was more interested than usual. Rietberg was a German professor in every respect―methodical, very learned and erudite, but not sophisticated in the social sense of the world or cool like the younger generation. He had every reason, however, to be more intrigued by the police car than everyone else on the square and so could be excused for his staring.

The walk across the square was part of his regular post-retirement promenades around his old haunts in Bloomsbury. He could have used a bike like some of his colleagues, but for that he would have had to adopt London cycling manners―racing at full speed trusting that cars, buses and pedestrians would get out of the way early enough to avoid a collision with a vehicle designed more for speeding than for braking. As he was accustomed to the more leisurely cycling habits on the continent, where bikes were a means of cheap transport and not Spitfires trying to win the war, he only walked, which provided him with the physical exercise he needed to compensate for his sedentary lifestyle. He was past the age of sixty-five now and looked very much his age as he had to realise when looking into a mirror. He was not overly concerned by his looks, although he tried to make little amendments by dressing more fashionably than before. His former wife had always insisted that he kept a more youthful appearance, but only after their divorce did he think it worthwhile to follow her advice.

He had taught Islamic history in the Near and Middle Eastern department. Even after leaving his position he had enough work to save him from post-retirement boredom. He sometimes even asserted defiantly that his workload had increased when he was asked if life as a pensioner was not frustrating. Some PhD-candidates still needed his supervision, and his research did not end at the age of 65. He was still invited to conferences and seminars, invitations that he accepted now more eagerly than before as a sign that he had not yet been forgotten by the academic establishment.

He once even appeared on a BBC4 programme when Islamic history was on their agenda. During his active life he always thought that public appearances in front of an only moderately educated public were below his standard, but retirement and the need for social contacts had changed that as well. Recently his public appearances had even increased. As every political crisis in the world fosters interests in the region and its people, so did the Middle East crisis with its never-ending troubles in Palestine, Iraq, Syria and elsewhere, at a time when terms like Salafists, Fatwas, Shia, Sunna and Alawis could be used in normal conversation without sounding over-pretentious. Everything Islamic had become fashionable as a subject for journalists, lawyers, diplomats, army officers, and the spying community, a fashion that created work for Middle East experts like Rietberg and many others pretending to know something about the Arabs.

40845.png

He could not get the mysterious police car out of his mind while walking away from the suspicious policeman. Apparently the police were investigating something in UCL’s Institute of Archaeology, where their car was parked. His friend Karl Fehr was a professor at that institute, and he was the reason why Rietberg was intrigued by the police car. He had not known Fehr very long, but his friend had something about him―something out of the ordinary―that could make him prominent as well as land him into trouble.

After his return to his small bachelor flat on Herbrand Street he tried to concentrate on his work, hacking away on his computer. But what was the matter with the police car on Gordon Square? Finally he gave in to satisfy his curiosity. He had to know what happened if only to be able to do his work, not distracted by the thought of police investigating or even arresting a fellow teacher.

He phoned Fehr’s office number. After a few rings a man replied.

It was not Fehr. A man with a blunt voice asked: ‘Who are you?’

Rietberg did not like the tone. ‘And who wants to know?’ he asked, ready to put the receiver down.

‘This is the police. Please give us your name and phone number―we might need to contact you.’

So it was serious indeed―more serious than he had expected. Because it was the police and because he had said ‘please’, Rietberg told him what he wanted to know. But when he asked what this was all about, the police officer simply closed the line.

He decided to try his luck by walking back to the UCL building, which he did after a couple of hours wait, when he could safely assume that the police had gone. He knew Fehr’s office quite well. He had often gone there to join his friend for a drive in Fehr’s Jaguar to his golf club in North London. Rietberg was not only wearing designer clothes now, but had also taken up golfing, prompted by Fehr’s enthusiasm for the game. It was part of his post-retirement efforts to change from a grey academic to a youthful senior citizen.

He entered the building and tried to take the lift to Fehr’s office. The woman sitting behind the entrance desk had never paid much attention to him before―his looks and his demeanour were enough to identify him as a bona fide visitor. This time she stopped him.

‘Who do you want to see?’

‘Professor Fehr; I am his colleague.’

The woman, who looked very nervous, told him bluntly:

‘No, Sir, I am not allowed to let you in. Professor Fehr’s office has been sealed by the police and he is not there anyway.’

‘What happened?’ he asked, fearing the worst now.

‘I cannot tell you more than that,’ said the receptionist. ‘Please go away now.’

40843.png

There was one person who would probably know more. Alistair Trevelyan―Sir Alistair in fact, after he had been knighted for reasons unknown to almost everyone else, except to himself and to his Tory friends. He was an old acquaintance from about forty years ago, when Rietberg was in Cairo researching archives, while Alistair represented the British Bank of Commerce in the Middle East. Alistair played golf―quite enthusiastically―, first in Cairo at the Pyramids Golf Club and now during his retirement as a member of Fehr’s club in North London that Rietberg had also joined recently in an effort to get some exercise and become part of non-academic society.

He phoned him, trusting that Alistair would be at home, just like most pensioners are supposed to be.

‘Have you had any news about Karl Fehr recently? I got some policeman answering his phone, when I tried to contact him. I am a bit worried, I must say.’

The news he got from Alistair was bad indeed: Fehr had been murdered!

Alistair knew for sure, because he had discovered the murder. He did not want to be more explicit on the phone, but told Rietberg to come to see him at home if he wanted to know what happened. It took the taxi about 45 minutes for the drive to Holland Park where the Trevelyans lived―45 minutes that seemed like an eternity for Rietberg who was burning with curiosity.

Both pensioners had their whiskies, which Alistair in true style served from a crystal decanter, not directly from a bottle as Rietberg used to do. It was not even teatime yet, but Alistair’s wife Dina was still at work and therefore not able to frown upon their whiskies, at a time when tea or coffee or nothing at all was more appropriate.

Alistair’s report sounded as if he had told his story often before. He had gone to Fehr’s flat in Chelsea to pick him up for a game of golf, got no answer after ringing the bell and then rang another bell. In spite of repeated warnings not to let in potential burglars a trustful neighbour opened the front door from his intercom and was already expecting his unknown visitor outside his flat. Alistair ignored him and continued to Fehr’s flat, where he knocked several times without getting an answer. The no more so trustful neighbour followed him to check what Alistair was up to. Both Alistair and the neighbour waited now for Fehr to respond.

After Alistair had tried in vain to reach Fehr on his mobile, he said to his neighbour: ‘I am afraid that something must have happened. Perhaps I should call the police.’

The neighbour, who by now had become clearly suspicious, objected: ‘Why? Do you always call the police when someone does not answer a ring? He might be away for some reason. Or do you know more than I do?’

‘No, but we had an appointment, and Mr Fehr has never missed our appointments before.’ He was annoyed to have to justify himself to a complete stranger.

The neighbour had a better idea. Someone from the owner’s management company could be reached 24/7 and come with a master key in case of emergency. They had to wait, while both were standing uneasily together, not knowing what to say. In the meantime Alistair tried to excuse himself, but the neighbour did not want to let him go.

‘This could finally interest the police as you were saying yourself, so you had better wait as well,’ he said to Alistair, who cursed Fehr, Fehr’s neighbour and himself.

The man with the master key, who arrived after an hour, hesitated before opening the door.

‘I am not allowed to enter anyone’s flat except in an emergency,’ he said. But because he knew Fehr’s neighbour personally and after Alistair made it sound like a true emergency, he finally agreed to open the door.

They found Fehr crouched in his armchair with the back of his skull nearly blown away by a bullet that must have been shot at close range. There was a lot of blood―on the armchair, on the floor and even splattered on the wall. Alistair had never seen so much blood. In the thrillers he sometimes watched on TV, someone shot used to have a more or less neat hole on his forehead or on the chest without all that unpleasantness like blood pools or skulls reduced to half. And then there was the stench, the pervasive stench of blood and the beginning decay of the body. He nearly threw up, but finally managed to keep his composure.

In spite of all signs of brutality there were no traces of a fight in the flat. Two full glasses were on the table, a whisky tumbler and a water glass filled with juice. Even for a non-trained observer it appeared that Fehr had invited his murderer for a drink, before the killer stood up again, went in front of Fehr and shot him point-blank. It was not clear from Fehr’s position in the armchair if he had first to listen to his death sentence and the reasons for it or if it had been a merciful killing―sudden and unexpected with no time for the victim to realise what would happen to him.

‘It appears to have been a gangland-style execution with nothing disturbed in the flat,’ said Alistair, who was still shaken by his experience.

The police came soon after. Much to Alistair’s surprise, instead of thanking him they submitted him to intense questioning in the hope of finding an easy prey.

Alistair had somehow been the innocent victim of a campaign the press―foremost among them the London Evening Standard―waged against ‘Red’ Ken Livingston, the then Mayor of London, who was in ultimate charge of the Metropolitan Police. Newspapers were in the habit of describing London as a crime capital due to what they lambasted as Livingston’s inefficient rule. The police desperately needed a quick success and Alistair came in handy. They did not formally arrest or even handcuff him, but left no doubt that they hoped to add him forthwith as a convicted murderer to their statistics of solved crimes. As Alistair with his unshakeable Tory convictions was among Livingston’s critics, Rietberg could not feel very sorry for his predicament. He mumbled a few words of insincere sympathy, however.

‘They immediately tried to pin the murder on me. My effort to contact Fehr was too ostentatious to be taken at face value and could just have been a trick to avoid suspicion. Having phoned Fehr three days before for an appointment, as I told them, did not explain why I had not checked again that day, which would have been normal in their opinion. A dead Fehr could not have confirmed that appointment, of course. Why then did I show up at all? To demonstrate that I wanted to meet Fehr, only to hide the fact that as a murderer I knew quite well that he was dead?―Having neither an apparent motive nor a gun did not exonerate me either,’ he complained. ‘My motives were unknown yet and I could have thrown my gun away. So they kept me the better part of the day repeating the same idiotic questions.’

Rietberg found it quite remarkable that the law-and-order man Alistair was outraged by having that very law applied to him.

‘One question concerned something painted on the main door of the building: two identical white squares. The police seemed to give those graffiti some importance, although I don’t know why. According to Fehr’s neighbour they had been there for a few days only. That meant they were made approximately at the time of the murder, which as far as I understood during my grilling must have happened three days or so before. I had not even noticed them, which they did not believe either. I could have made them myself for reasons they would soon find out, just as I could have killed Fehr – imagine!’

‘Could these squares have been Hebrew letters, representing a mem?’

‘Well, I read French and Arabic, but no Hebrew. But yes―it could have been Hebrew by the looks of it. Strange that you ask that question. Do you know more about that?’

If his French was as bad as his Arabic, Rietberg thought, then Alistair knew only English.

‘No―just an idea,’ he answered.

Alistair sensed that Rietberg did not tell him everything.

‘They had to let me off the hook finally, of course,’ he continued after a moment, looking suspiciously at Rietberg. ‘They had no proof that I visited Fehr at the time of the murder. It must have taken them a long time to check the omnipresent CCTV for someone looking like me, in vain of course. They even asked the neighbour if he had seen me at other times, which he had not. At least he told the truth, although he clearly wanted me to look suspect in the eye of the police, probably only because I ignored him after he let me in.’

Rietberg thought it over for a while. To question a knighted member of society and a staunch supporter of conservative virtues as a murder suspect would have surprised him before. Yet recently quite a few pillars of society had to face the law, so Alistair’s case was not that odd after all.

‘But to check you out must have taken some time. So when did all this happen?’

‘Two or three days ago,’ said Alistair, ‘and―believe me―I could barely concentrate on anything else in the meantime.’

‘I wonder why it took them so long to contact the University. I only saw a police car in front of his institute just now.’

Alistair laughed. ‘You will never imagine who the police have been investigating first. Members of our honourable golf club, can you believe it?’

Alistair himself was responsible for this. During his grilling he was asked if he knew of any enemies Fehr might have had.

Alistair had mentioned an acrimonious debate between club members after a tournament that Fehr had won. The runner-up, an old widower, who practically lived on the golf course and who knew the golfing bible of The Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews by heart, had accused Fehr of cheating by touching the ball with his club during a practice swing without recording a penalty that would have cost him his victory. A special committee had been assigned to decide upon the final outcome of that tournament. As a result some members had stopped talking to Fehr to whom it was even suggested that he resign and move his membership elsewhere.

‘There was even a prize for the winner―a stay at a holiday resort in the Seychelles, sponsored by the owner of a tourist company, one of our members. It’s a five star hotel that made winning or cheating even more important.’

He grinned.

‘I had competed myself, but my bad form that day fortunately saved me from being a serious rival to anyone and from any further suspicion.―There could have been another motive. Karl liked to brag about his amorous adventures, even with ladies married to other golf members. Some of the members with attractive wives, who might have fallen for Fehr’s mysterious Swiss charms, could have resented his ways.’

‘That explains why the police never contacted me. I am not part of the golf club establishment, nor do I have a wife anymore,’ Rietberg remarked drily.

‘Some are even angry with me, after they heard that it was I who informed the police about that fight among our members,’ continued Alistair, ignoring Rietberg’s remark. ‘During the past few days the police have tried desperately to find some lead to the murder in our club. To win or lose a golf tournament may sound trivial to most people, but not so to golfers. Certainly less trivial than being cuckolded.’

He laughed. After a moment he added: ‘At least not to those who have a chance of winning.’

A subtle hint that Rietberg should not be too concerned about the outcome of golf tournaments. Unkind, but not unexpected from a bloody snob like Alistair.

‘Well―I cannot imagine that Fehr could have persuaded Dina with his charms like you did,’ Rietberg replied with a smile, not as a testimony to Alistair’s charms nor to the virtue of Alistair’s attractive wife, with whom Rietberg had been hopelessly infatuated for many years, but as a revenge―albeit a subtle one―for Alistair’s doubts in his golfing skills.

Alistair did not like it. There was a moment before he replied.

‘Of course not,’ he replied curtly. No more the reply from a bloody snob, but from a straight husband. ‘By the way, you can also expect a visit from the police at some time. I never mentioned your name, but other members, who know about your regular games with Fehr, will certainly have told them about your relationship.’

Rietberg had nothing to fear from the police, but he was happy at his success to have disconcerted this pompous banker. His relations with Alistair had been strained from the first time he met Dina in Cairo and continued to be so after the three of them met again in London. As long-time acquaintances with a shared expatriate past in Egypt they socialised quite often, more so after Rietberg had recently become a member of Fehr’s and Alistair’s golf club. There had been times, when Rietberg and Alistair had even formed a sort of camaraderie while they cooperated to find the riddle of another mysterious murder case that was connected to the London art market. Yet a woman desired by two men, one of them happily married to her and the other forever frustrated, is a serious obstacle to a lasting friendship, even after youthful desire has cooled off. Resentment and jealousy never do.

Rietberg digested Alistair’s information about Fehr without further comment. He was shocked by the news, although after that scene on Gordon Square he already thought the worst. In fact, he had his own ideas about who might have been the murderer―definitely not a golf club member. It was more than a suspicion even. He knew some with serious motives to kill Fehr, more serious than the rage