The Heretic's Treasure (30 page)

‘Zara—’ Ben started.

But Paxton had snatched the phone back from her. ‘Happy now, Benedict? You have your proof of life. Get on with the job. You have six days left.’

‘Hold on, Harry. Don’t hang up. There’s something more I want from you.’

*  *  *

At 9.28 a.m., Ben and Kirby were waiting at a prearranged spot on Sharia Talaat Harb, central Cairo’s main street, a hubbub of roaring traffic and bustling crowds, cafés and shops. Ben was leaning against a signpost, smoking his last cigarette and watching the street as he waited for Paxton’s contact to come and pick them up.

Kirby coughed and made a big show of wafting the smoke away. ‘Do you have to do that?’

‘Worried about passive smoking?’

‘Of course I am,’ Kirby said. ‘Everyone should be.’

‘Then you’d better get off this street, and out of Cairo. Just standing on this spot, the air pollution is equivalent to smoking thirty cigarettes a day. So I don’t think my extra little contribution is going to accelerate your demise much, Kirby.’

‘And I don’t like this situation,’ Kirby muttered. ‘Who are these people, anyway? Where are they going to take us? I thought Harry Paxton was your enemy.’

‘If you’re having second thoughts about being involved, now’s the time to tell me,’ Ben said. ‘You can still back out. Head back to the airport and go home to Drummond Manor.’

‘You know I can’t go back.’

‘Then sit it out in a nice hotel somewhere, out of harm’s way and out of mine.’

‘Don’t you worry about me,’ Kirby said. ‘I’ll be OK.’

‘Good. Because you said I wasn’t even going to know you were there. And I do. It’s annoying.’

Kirby shut up, and Ben went on smoking and watching the street.

A moment later, at exactly half past nine as arranged, a big
SUV
darted out of the traffic flow and pulled up alongside the kerb. Its bodywork glistened black, and the windows were tinted opaque. The rear door opened, and Ben saw three men inside, two black-haired, olive-skinned Egyptians and a white-haired Westerner sitting behind them. Nobody was smiling.

‘Get in,’ said the Westerner. His accent sounded German.

The
SUV
had three rows of seats. Ben and Kirby climbed inside and sat at the back. The German slammed the door shut and the vehicle took off and slipped back into the fast-moving traffic. He turned and handed Ben and Kirby each a black hood. ‘Put these on.’

Kirby looked in horror. ‘What the fuck? I’m not wearing this. It’s what they put on people about to be executed.’

‘Put it on,’ Ben said quietly. ‘And shut up. Or I’ll execute you myself.’

The drive seemed to last a long time, and nobody spoke. Blind behind the hood, Ben tried for a while to keep track of the twists and turns, but after a few minutes he’d lost his bearings and had no idea where they were being taken. He rested back against the seat, feeling tension emanating from Kirby next to him. Then the car swerved right, bumped up a short ramp and rolled to a halt. He heard voices from outside. They echoed, as though the car had driven into a large empty space. There was the noisy clatter of a steel security shutter being pulled down. The doors of the
SUV
clunked open, and someone ripped off their cloth hoods.

Ben blinked and looked around him.

‘Get out,’ the German guy said, and Ben and Kirby stepped down from the vehicle, closely watched by their escorts.

They were inside an enormous empty building. The walls were bare block, and the floor concrete. Overhead were thick riveted steel girders and neon striplights suspended from chains. At the far end of the building were racks of empty industrial shelving.

He and Kirby were surrounded by a group of men, the three from the car ride plus another three. Two of them were cradling compact submachine pistols-not just for show, but in a way that showed they thought they might need them. Clearly, Paxton had given his associates an idea of who they were dealing with.

Five yards to Ben’s right was a long industrial steel workbench. It was covered with firearms of all shapes and sizes. Scores of them.

Kirby glanced nervously at the men, then his gaze rested on the arsenal of weaponry. ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he whispered furiously.

Ben silenced him with a look, and walked over to the bench. The men stepped aside to let him pass, and the German smiled coldly and gestured as if to show off his wares.

Paxton’s associates were only small fry in the great scheme of the illegal arms trade, but the display was impressive. There was everything from small handguns to submachine guns to full-size assault weapons to
RPG
launchers. Everything was new, oiled and shiny under the lights. On the far side of the bench, a row of crates were filled with ammunition of various types. The last in the row was stacked with 40mm grenades. On the concrete floor, a large canvas holdall was unzipped and waiting.

‘You like what you see?’ the German said.

Ben didn’t reply. Conscious of the men’s eyes on him, he ran his hand along a cluster of military handguns and picked up an Israeli-made Jericho. 15-round magazine, 9mm calibre. Simple, rugged and practical. He nodded to the men and the gun was placed in the open holdall.

But Ben knew he was going to need more than a pistol this time. His brush with Kamal had already shown him the kind of people competing to find the treasure. He walked slowly along the length of the bench, assessing each weapon in turn. He needed firepower, but he couldn’t walk about Cairo with a full-size military rifle.

Then he saw exactly what he wanted, and picked it up.

‘The FN F2000 assault rifle,’ the German said. ‘Good weapon. 5.56
NATO
, high-capacity magazine. Ultra-compact bullpup design, inbuilt scope and on-board fire control system computer with laser rangefinder. Underbarrel 40mm grenade launcher.’

‘I don’t need a guided tour,’ Ben said, and the German shut up. Ben turned the short, stubby weapon over in his hands. It was a wild, space-age design, plasticky, brutal and ugly. But it was perfect for what he needed. He nodded. One of the Egyptians took it from him and placed it in the holdall with the pistol.

‘OK, that’ll do. Can we go now?’ Kirby said.

‘Not yet,’ Ben answered. He picked up a small, snubby .38-calibre revolver from the end of the table and handed it to Kirby. ‘This is called a Ladysmith. It’s yours.’

‘I don’t want a gun,’ Kirby said, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘You’re getting one. We’re partners, remember. And with that, you won’t blow your own foot off or put a bullet in me. Even a child could work it.’

Some of the arms dealers were sniggering quietly. Ben snatched the little pistol back out of Kirby’s hands, tossed it to the guy with the holdall and it was added to the collection.

‘Fifty rounds for each pistol,’ Ben said to the German. ‘Two hundred for the rifle. And ten of the 40mm grenades.’

‘You are expecting a small war, it seems?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Will there be anything else?’ the German asked mock-politely

‘That should do it,’ Ben said. ‘You know who to send the bill to. Our friend the colonel.’

Five minutes later, Ben and Kirby were hooded and riding back towards the city in the
SUV
with the holdall between them on the seat. The drive back didn’t seem to take as long, and then their hoods were removed again and they were dropped at the pickup point on Sharia Talaat Harb. The men didn’t even glance at them as they got out. The car took off and disappeared into the traffic.

‘Well, thank you for that experience,’ Kirby muttered. ‘It was perfectly charming. Hoods over our heads. Men with guns. And now we’re going around Cairo with a veritable arsenal. Is all this really necessary?’

Ben hefted the heavy holdall over his shoulder and started heading towards the car. ‘Welcome to my world,’ he muttered, to nobody in particular.

By midday they were blasting back out of the city, heading south down the west bank of the Nile. The Shogun was fast and powerful, and Ben nailed it for seventeen kilometres through the lush but narrow green belt that edged the great river and had sustained Egypt for thousands of years. Then, with Kirby navigating, he swung right, and, a little way further on, the tarmac ended abruptly at the edge of the desert. They rolled across the sand for a few hundred yards, and the ancient ruins came into view.

‘This is it,’ Kirby said. ‘The pyramid complex and mortuary temple of Sahure, and where we find our second clue.’

Dust rose and drifted around the Shogun as they stepped down from the air-conditioned atmosphere of the car and into the vicious midday sun. Ben shielded his eyes from the white glare of the sand and surveyed the landscape around him.

The place was a field of rubble. The four clustered pyramids looked more like towering slag-heaps than the geometric perfection of those at Giza. It was hard to imagine that at one time, thousands of years ago, this must have been a magnificent and proud temple. Now it was nothing more than a sad, lonely ruin. Beyond it, heading west, there was nothing but arid wilderness all the way to Libya, then Algeria and the Western Sahara.

‘No tourists, do you notice?’ Kirby said. ‘This place isn’t popular with them. They’re all too busy off gawking at the Sphinx. Which means we’re free to poke around undisturbed for as long as we need to.’

‘What are we looking for?’ Ben asked.

‘Fortune and glory,’ Kirby answered. ‘Your fortune, my glory.’

Ben opened up the back of the Shogun, unzipped the holdall and took out the Jericho and a box of 9mm rounds. He quickly loaded, cocked and locked it and slipped it into his jeans.

‘Can’t you keep that thing in the bag?’ Kirby asked. ‘It’s making me nervous.’

‘Lead the way,’ Ben said.

They walked among the rubble. With their backs to the greenery of the Nile banks, and apart from the intense blue sky and the burning sun above them, it could almost have been a lunar landscape. Rocks and stones lay scattered for hundreds of yards all around them. Here and there, a solitary pillar stood forlornly, covered in heavily eroded carvings.

Kirby pointed at the pyramids. ‘Each one houses a different tomb. That one is the pyramid of Nyuserre. That one was for Neferirkare, who died while it was still being built. And that one is Neferefre’s. But the one we’re interested in is that one there. The northernmost of the four and the first to be built on this site, housing the tomb of Sahure-“He who is close to Re”. That, I’m pretty sure, is where we’re going to find what we’re looking for today.’

Ben followed as Kirby led the way through the sea of sand and rubble towards the pyramid of Sahure. They passed through a ruined causeway and between a pair of desolate-looking stone columns that looked as if they had once formed part of some grand arch. The original layout of the buildings was barely discernible amid the wreckage.

The pyramid loomed up overhead as they approached. Up close, the stonework looked dangerously loose, as if it could just dissolve in a giant landslide that would bury them in thousands of tons of rock. Kirby trudged in the deep sand around the edge, looking thoughtful.

‘There would have been a whole complex of rooms and chambers here,’ he said, motioning with his hand. ‘This area would have been a huge courtyard, decorated with reliefs showing scenes of Sahure hunting and fishing. And over here would have been a chapel.’ He bent down and picked up a fragment of rock. ‘Limestone. Probably from the ceiling.’ He stepped a few yards to his left, gazing around his feet at smashed red granite floor stones. ‘And that would have been an Offering Hall.’ He pointed.

Ben followed the line of his finger, but all he saw was empty space.

‘Over there would have been a huge false doorway,’ Kirby went on unabated. ‘Through which the ancient Egyptians believed the spirit of the dead king would come to eat the meals left for him. Everything would have been lined with gold. All stolen by looters a long, long time ago.’

Ben could feel every second ticking by. ‘But there’s nothing here,’ he said impatiently. ‘It looks like a bomb hit it. It looks like Kuwait City after Saddam Hussein.’

Kirby didn’t seem to hear. He was deep in thought, gazing around him. ‘It has to be here,’ he muttered. ‘If Morgan found it, it has to be here.’ He stopped and put a finger to his mouth. ‘Maybe we need to go inside the pyramid. Sahure’s is the only one it’s still possible to enter.’

Ben followed at a distance as Kirby scooted along the pyramid wall and came to the crumbled entrance. The historian started down the steps, dropped to his knees and began scrambling in through the narrow space.

‘Watch out for snakes,’ Ben said.

‘Give me a break,’ Kirby snapped back.

‘Scorpions too.’

‘Don’t be such a Cassandra.’

‘Cassandra happened to be right about the Trojan horse.’

‘Yeah, well, I happen to know there are no snakes here.’

Ben shrugged and said no more. Kirby wriggled away out of sight into the passage. Ben settled on a boulder and lit a cigarette. He filled his lungs with the smoke, let it trickle out of his lips and watched it tail away on the air.

Twenty minutes later, he heard wheezing and gasping as the historian re-emerged, his face red and shiny, his clothes covered in dust and his hair full of cobwebs. Kirby stood up stiffly and leaned against the side of the pyramid, recovering his breath.

‘Well?’ Ben said.

‘Zilch. There’s nothing in there.’

Ben turned away and scanned the desolate landscape. His guts were churning. Somewhere out there, Zara was being held hostage. This couldn’t go on. The days were going to tick by until the sands had run out of the hour-glass. And the rest was unimaginable.

He turned and walked away.

‘Where are you going?’ Kirby called after him.

‘This isn’t leading us anywhere,’ Ben replied. ‘I’m going back to the car.’

Kirby followed him along the causeway, protesting. ‘You can’t just walk away. It’s here. I know it’s here. Morgan found something and, if he could find it, I’m going to find it too.’

They’d reached the two pillars at the end of the causeway when Ben turned back to face him. ‘You don’t even know what you’re looking for. Maybe Morgan
thought
he found something. How do you know he even did?’