The Heretic's Treasure (19 page)

‘That’s fine,’ Ben said. ‘But now we have a problem. I need to know what to do next. Whatever Morgan was into, I’m very concerned that these people might come after you. You’re the next of kin. They might think you know something. I fobbed them off with a lie, but it might not deter them for long.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that perhaps I need to stay here in Egypt a while longer. Find out who these people are and stop them before they do any more harm.’

Paxton was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t want that, Benedict. I asked you to do something for me, and you did it. You’ve done enough for me. I’ll be eternally grateful. As for these people, whoever they are, I think I can look after myself. I haven’t quite forgotten everything I learned in the army. Let them come. They’ll be surprised at the reception they’ll get.’

‘You don’t want this kind of trouble, Harry,’ Ben replied. ‘Believe me. It’s not worth it. Your fighting days are over. You’ve started a new life. Get on with it. Think of Zara, if nothing else. Remember, she’s vulnerable, if they link this to you.’

Paxton didn’t reply.

‘You’re on a yacht,’ Ben continued. ‘You can move from place to place untracked, and you can run your business from anywhere. So stick a pin in the atlas, find yourself a nice warm paradise somewhere and set sail. That’s my advice. I don’t think these guys have got a long reach, but play it safe.’

There was another long silence on the phone. Then Paxton said, ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe there’s some other way to honour Morgan’s memory. I could donate some money to a museum in his name. Set up a trust fund for young researchers.’

‘That sounds like a good idea, Harry. And there’s one more thing. If I’d known what I know now, I’d never have sent that file to you. I’d have wiped it. And I think that’s what you should do. Delete it from your computer, right now.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Paxton said.

‘And will you promise me you’ll relocate?’

‘As soon as it’s feasible. I promise. You’re right. I need to think of Zara.’ Paxton paused. ‘Will you be coming back to San Remo, to see us while we’re still here?’

Ben didn’t reply.

‘After what you’ve been through, I’d like you to be my guest here for a few days,’ Paxton said. ‘So would Zara. She seemed very much to enjoy your company. I sometimes think she’s a bit lonely,’ he added wistfully. ‘I’m always up to my eyes in business. She’d love to see you again.’

Ben squirmed.
Jesus.

‘Maybe some other time, Harry. If I’m not staying here, I’ve really got to be heading back home.’

‘I’m disappointed,’ Paxton said. ‘I would have liked to be able to thank you in person, show you how truly grateful I am. But I understand you have affairs of your own to attend to. I hope you’ll at least let me wire you the money you lost.’

‘Forget it, Harry. I don’t want it.’

‘You earned it.’

‘I didn’t do much,’ Ben said.

Paxton paused. ‘Keep in touch, won’t you?’

‘See you around, Harry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you.’

Ben ended the call. He sat still for a moment, deep in thought.

‘Right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Time to go home.’

Claudel was flicking through a book in his study when he heard the van skid up on the gravel outside. A few seconds later, Kamal came bursting into the villa. Rapid footsteps across the marble floor of the hall. The study door flew open. Kamal stormed into the room, clutching a laptop to his chest. He strode over to the desk and thumped it down, sending papers fluttering.

‘What’s that?’ Claudel asked nervously. He could almost feel the heat of the aggression that was pouring off the man.

Kamal’s eyes flashed with fury.
‘That
is your whole life, until you can figure out what’s inside.’

Claudel flipped the lid open and switched on the machine. As he sat poring over the screen, Kamal was pacing up and down, almost manic with rage. He tore a valuable second edition of Gibbons’
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
from a bookshelf and hurled it across the room. It smacked against the wall. The binding burst apart and it fluttered to the floor like a dead bird. ‘I’ll have that bastard’s head on a
plate
!’ he screamed.

‘What happened?’

‘Three of my men are dead, is what
happened
.’ Kamal roared the last word. He grabbed a delicate eighteenth-century upholstered chair, threw it down and stamped it into pieces. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ Pieces of wood spun across the study floor.

Claudel looked away. He knew better than to ask too many questions of Kamal when he was in this mood. He returned to the computer, and quickly found the Akhenaten file. His eyes brightened. Then he tried clicking into it.

‘This file is encrypted,’ he said, looking up.

‘I know that,’ Kamal raged. ‘You take me for a fucking idiot?’

Claudel looked back down at the screen and felt a trickle of sweat run down his neck. ‘I’m not a computer person,’ he protested weakly. ‘How am I supposed to crack an encrypted file?’

Kamal stormed over to him with his teeth bared in anger. ‘I don’t care how you do it. You figure this out. Understood?’

Claudel was already running through his options, thinking of all the people he knew who could help.
Hisham,
he thought. Hisham was good with computers.

But no sooner had the thought occurred to him, than his heart sank again. He couldn’t call Hisham. If he failed, Kamal would just shoot the guy, or worse. Anyone Claudel brought in on this situation was condemned to death. He thought of what had happened to Aziz. He thought about him all the time, couldn’t get the image out of his mind. He’d been having nightmares about it.

No. He was on his own.

He looked desperately up at Kamal. ‘The password could be anything.’

‘Then try everything,’ Kamal said. ‘Starting now.’

Normandy

It was a long journey home, and it was late when Ben finally arrived back at Le Val by taxi. The moon was full, bathing the cobbled yard in milky light. He paid the driver and stepped out, stretching his legs. Watched the car drive off into the darkness up the long, winding drive.

He looked around him. The homely smell of the wood-burning stove was drifting across from the farmhouse, and there was a light on behind the curtained kitchen window. Across the yard, the trainees’ accommodation block was dimly lit and he heard someone laugh in the distance.

He heard the sound of running paws, and a shaggy shape hurled itself out of the shadows to greet him.

Ben patted the dog affectionately as it jumped up to lick his face. ‘Hey, Storm. Good to see you too, boy.’ And he meant it. It was good to be home. He wearily climbed the three steps to the farmhouse door, turned the big brass handle and stepped into the hallway.

The place was warm and welcoming. Someone had a CD playing in the kitchen. Ben recognised the music. It was one of his own collection: Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. He walked down the flagstone passage and pushed open the oak door. All he could think about was a large glass of red wine, a chunk of local cheese and a hunk of bread.

Brooke was sitting alone at the kitchen table, reading a novel. In front of her was a steaming mug that smelled like cocoa. She looked up as Ben came in. Her hair was damp, as though she’d just got out of the shower, and she was wearing an emerald green bathrobe. It brought out the green of her eyes, something Ben had never noticed about her before.

She put down her novel, and smiled warmly. ‘You’re back.’

‘You’re still here,’ he said.

‘I told you I was going to hang around for a few days, remember?’ She peered at him and her smile faded. ‘Christ, Hope. You look like shit.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Honestly. Your eyes are like two burnt holes in a blanket.’

‘That makes me feel even better,’ he said, making a beeline for the wine rack.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing I really feel like talking about.’ He grabbed a bottle and the opener, and set about tearing away the foil to get at the cork.

Brooke stood up. She came over to him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll do that.’ She pointed at the huge cast-iron pot that was sitting on the range. ‘There’s still some of Marie-Claire’s cassoulet. To die for, I’m telling you. Blew my diet completely. You hungry?’

He slumped in a wooden chair. ‘Like I’ve never eaten in my life.’

Brooke pulled the cork out of the bottle, glugged wine into a large glass and set it down in front of him. He knocked it back, reached for the bottle and refilled it.

‘Bad day at the office, then,’ she said over her shoulder as she ladled a pile of the stew into a saucepan and started warming it over the gas flame.

He didn’t reply. Sat and drank as she served the food onto a plate and brought it over to him. There was concern showing in her eyes.

‘Thanks for this, Brooke,’ he said through a mouthful of the stew. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to be back.’

She sat down beside him at the table and rested her chin on her palm, watching him eat. ‘How come you don’t want to tell me what happened? What took you to Cairo?’

‘I was just helping a friend.’

‘This Paxton guy?’

He nodded.

‘But it’s over now?’

He nodded again.

Brooke snorted. ‘Well, whatever you were doing out there for him, I hope he appreciates it. You should see yourself.’

‘I just need a rest. I’ll be fine in the morning.’ His plate was empty and he drained the last of his glass of wine. ‘So what have you been up to?’ he asked her, abruptly changing the subject.

‘Relaxing, mostly. Waiting for you.’

‘I told you not to wait for me,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Jeff’s been teaching me to shoot. Says I’m good at it.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grunted, reaching for the bottle again.

‘You going to drink the whole thing?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Someone’s been calling for you,’ she said. ‘Phoned three times this evening. A woman.’ She paused, watching his reaction. ‘Someone called Zara. Sounded Australian.’

Ben’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. He set it down heavily on the table. ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

Brooke smiled, raising an eyebrow. ‘Someone you ran into on your travels?’

‘You might say that,’ he replied sullenly.

‘Seemed very anxious to talk to you,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m sure she’ll call again.’ She leaned forward on her elbows. ‘So what’s she like, Ben?’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t play games. You know who I mean. Zara.’

He stared at her. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Whoo. Testy. Must have hit a nerve there.’

‘Leave it alone, Brooke. I’m tired, OK?’

‘Is she pretty? Sounded pretty.’

He stood up, grabbed his glass and what was left of the bottle. ‘I’m going to bed.’ As an afterthought he grabbed another bottle from the rack and tucked it under his arm as he headed for the door. ‘See you in the morning,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be up late.’

‘What if she calls again?’

‘Tell her I’ve died or something,’ he said. Then he banged through the door and climbed the stairs.

He’d been right about the late morning. It was well after ten o’clock when he came plodding down the stairs holding three empties. The two wine bottles, and the whisky he’d washed them down with. His mouth felt thick with the aftertaste of stale booze, and his head was heavy.

It hadn’t been a good night. He’d thrashed about restlessly for a long time, trying to sleep. But it had been no use. He couldn’t stop his mind from whirring around and around in circles, working over all the things that had been happening. Eventually, he’d given up. Sat up on the rumpled sheets and put the light on and just sat drinking until well after five in the morning.

The faces of the three men he’d killed had haunted him long into the night. Even when he’d polished off the second bottle of wine and moved on to the whisky he kept in the wardrobe, he hadn’t been able to still his mind.

When he wasn’t thinking about the things he’d had to do in Cairo, he was thinking about Zara. He thought of the brief time they’d spent together. Seeing her in the little bookshop in San Remo. Running through the rain to shelter from the thunderstorm. The touch of her hand on his arm. Her firm body close to his. Her smile, her laugh, her tears.

Why was she calling him? He dreaded having to talk to her, if she called again. And he knew she was sure to. What if she wanted to meet him? He knew that just the sound of her voice might destroy his resolve-that he’d give in and agree to meet up with her somewhere. That just couldn’t happen.

Part of him was thankful that Harry had agreed to haul anchor and relocate the
Scimitar.
Zara would be far away, and in time his feelings would diminish. But it also meant he probably would never see her again, and right now he wasn’t sure he could handle that.

He was still feeling racked with the same uncertainty, and hating himself bitterly for his weakness, as he stepped out into the morning drizzle. He was heading across the yard to dump his empty bottles into the recycling bin when he heard Jeff Dekker’s voice call his name.

He turned. ‘Hi, Jeff.’ His voice came out as a croak.

Jeff trotted up to him. The trousers of his fatigues were spattered in mud up to the knee. ‘Glad to see you back. Are you taking the eleven o’clock pistol shooting group?’ He glanced at the empty bottles and looked more closely at Ben’s face. ‘Jesus, mate. You look like—’

‘Like shit. So everyone keeps telling me.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I just need to get my head together. I was thinking of going for a good long run.’

‘You look more like you need to rest.’

‘I’m sick of resting. Running will relax me. Listen, if anyone calls for me—’

‘Like Zara, for example?’ Jeff grinned.

‘Give me a break. Not you as well.’

‘She sounded hot. Anything you’d like to tell me, Ben?’

Ben sighed. ‘Yeah. Mind your own fucking business.’

‘She’s bound to call again,’ Jeff said. ‘You can’t put her off forever.’

‘I don’t want to talk to her. Tell her anything you like. I’ve gone off and joined the Trappist monks, OK?’