The Heretic's Treasure (31 page)

Kirby leaned against one of the pillars, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘Christ, it’s hot out here.’

‘Don’t move,’ Ben said.

Kirby looked up sharply. ‘What?’

‘Don’t move a muscle.’

‘Is this some kind of soldier-boy joke?’ Kirby demanded, turning red.

Coiling around the base of one of the pillars, camouflaged against the sand as it slithered towards Kirby’s foot, was a large snake. Ben instantly knew what it was. The eyes in the broad, triangular head were black and beady. Above each eye was a horn. Horned viper. One of the deadliest snakes in Africa. Its six-foot length wound slowly around the base of the column. The black forked tongue flickered in and out. It glided over Kirby’s foot.

Kirby felt the sensation, looked down and saw it. His eyes opened wide in horror, and his face turned from red to deathly white.

‘Stay put,’ Ben said quietly. ‘It’ll pass. It’ll only attack if you provoke it.’

But Kirby was already stamping and dancing around in panic. The snake reared up aggressively. Rasped its coils with the threatening
ffffffff sound
that said it was about to attack. The triangular head drew back and the long fangs folded out as it prepared to lunge at Kirby’s leg.

The strike never happened. Ben drew the Jericho from behind his hip and fired, all in one fluid movement. The snake’s head exploded and its body flopped in the sand. Kirby was yelling and screaming as the gunshot echoed across the ruins.

‘No snakes around here,’ Ben said. ‘Isn’t that what you told me, Kirby?’ He felt bad about having killed the creature. He stepped over to the limp body and bent down to pick it up and fling it away.

That was when he noticed that his bullet had chipped a piece out of the stone column behind Kirby, and removed some of the carved markings on it. Ben sighed. A few history books were out of date now.

He stood up, holding the dead snake in his hands.

Then he stopped. Let the snake drop, and crouched back down in the warm sand next to the pillar.

‘My heart, my heart. Jesus.’ Then Kirby looked down at Ben. ‘What are you doing now?’

Ben didn’t reply. He ran his fingers over the weathered stone, down from the bullet-chip to the strange carving he’d noticed near the column’s base. It was a little distinct from the other markings on the column, and seemed to be done in a different style.

There was no doubt about it. ‘I think you need to look at this, Kirby.’

‘What?’

‘Look.’ Ben pointed at the markings on the stone.

‘I see,’ Kirby said, puzzled. ‘But that’s—’

‘Not those, this one. The one lower down, away from the rest.’

Kirby stared.

‘It’s the seal you showed me,’ Ben said. ‘The temple, with the palm trees and the crowned bird.’

Kirby dropped to his knees next to him. ‘Shit, yes, I see it.’ He carefully brushed sand out of the markings with his finger. Studied them for a few seconds, and turned excitedly to Ben. The snake was forgotten now. ‘You’re right. It’s the seal of Wenkaura. He was here. This is what Morgan must have found.’

‘What’s that marking underneath the seal?’ Ben asked.

Kirby moved closer. ‘It’s pretty worn with age. Looks like a hieroglyph, though.’ He flattened his portly shape out on the sand to inspect it, tracing his finger along the symbols. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s the glyph for a chair, or a seat.’ He looked up. ‘But what does it mean?’

‘You tell me. You’re the expert, apparently.’

‘There has to be more,’ Kirby said. ‘We should scour the whole place.’

‘I thought you’d already done that,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time here.’

‘But—’

‘Move it, expert. You can figure it out.’

They climbed back in the Shogun. The seat was burning hot against Ben’s back as he fired up the engine and spun the wheels in the sand, bumping away from the pyramid site. They hit the road, windows open, cool air blasting in, and soon the Shogun was speeding northwards between green fields.

‘It’s a metaphor,’ Kirby said.

‘A metaphor.’

‘Got to be. Wenkaura is trying to communicate an idea through that symbol. Something that’s going to lead us to a specific place. Chair. Seat.’ He frowned, pressing his fingers to his temples. ‘Got it. It’s a symbol of authority. Position. You know, like our use of the expression “country seat”. Obvious, really.’

‘You’re just grasping at straws, Kirby,’ Ben said as he overtook a slow-moving truck and gunned the big car up the road.

‘You have any better ideas?’

‘Not yet. But you’re not doing so great yourself. You’re talking bullshit. And I don’t think the ancient Egyptians went in for metaphors.’

‘No, listen,’ Kirby insisted. ‘It makes complete sense. We know that Wenkaura, like all High Priests, was a man of very high position and privilege until Akhenaten started demolishing the religious order. He had an estate near Thebes, which is now the city of Luxor. Maybe that’s what Morgan had sussed out. Perhaps he was heading for Luxor.’

‘So what do you propose we do, professor?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that,’ Kirby said testily. ‘I think we need to go to check out Wenkaura’s estate, or what’s left of it. Maybe we’ll find something.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know until we get there, do I?’ Kirby snapped.

Ben was clutching the wheel so tightly that he felt he could almost rip it off the steering column. ‘Seat,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Chair.’ He thought about it.

And stamped hard on the brake. The Shogun pitched on its suspension and Kirby flopped forwards against his safety belt. The car ground to a halt in the middle of the dusty, empty road.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’ Kirby yelled.

‘It’s not land or estate,’ Ben said. ‘It’s not a place. It’s not a metaphor.’

‘What?’

‘You’re making this more complicated than it is. The answer is simple.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘A seat. An actual seat. As in a chair. As in a throne.’

Kirby stared for a moment, and burst out laughing. ‘A throne? You mean the king’s throne? You think Wenkaura left a clue on the throne of Akhenaten-his enemy, the heretic? Why would he do such a thing? It would be insane.’

‘His own, you idiot. He was a High Priest. He was an important guy, and all through history it’s been traditional that important guys have big chairs to sit in. Plus he would have had all the time in the world to have whatever inscriptions he wanted engraved on it. We need to look for the throne that sat in the temple where Wenkaura presided.’

Kirby scratched his chin and thought about it. ‘Shit, you know what? You might even be right.’

‘I might.’

‘So where to now?’

‘Somewhere they have a lot of old chairs,’ Ben said.

The Egyptian Museum, central Cairo

2.45 p.m.

A short throw from the east bank of the Nile, right in the heart of the city, the grand museum housed Egypt’s largest single collection of priceless artefacts. The sun was beating down on the lawns and palm trees and clipped hedges of Tahrir Square as Ben and Kirby approached the building’s neo-classical façade and walked up the steps to the tall entrance. It was cool and quiet inside, with the hushed solemnity of a cathedral.

Their footsteps echoed as they walked across the atrium. Giant statues towered up to the high ceiling. All around them were stunning displays of Egypt’s ancient heritage.

‘I haven’t been here for years,’ Kirby whispered, gazing in awe around him. ‘You forget just how mind-blowing it is.’

Under different circumstances, Ben might have agreed with him. But time was pressing. Leaving the historian to wander around, he walked up to the main desk. The attendant sitting behind it was a somber-looking man in his late forties, balding and gaunt. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked softly in English as Ben approached.

‘I hope so,’ Ben said. ‘I’m interested in ancient ceremonial chairs, thrones, things like that. Do you have a special exhibit for those?’

The desk attendant pursed his lips, considering the odd request. ‘We house over one hundred and twenty thousand artefacts in the museum, including many thrones and ceremonial chairs. The Tutankhamun exhibit fills the upper floor, east and north wings. His throne is there. You may be interested to view it.’

‘Thanks, but I’m not interested in Tutankhamun. I’m interested in a High Priest from a few years before that, called Wenkaura.’

The man thought for a moment. ‘We have a chair and other furniture belonging to Queen Hetepheres.’

‘I’m not interested in her either.’

‘Then I’m afraid I can’t be of much assistance,’ the man replied, a little hotly. ‘The item you wish to view must be elsewhere.’

Wonderful,
Ben thought as he walked away from the desk. He could see Kirby at the far end of the room, hopping excitedly from display to display. He wanted to wring his neck.

He wandered around the lower floor of the museum, deep in thought, hardly noticing the archaeological treasures that he passed by. Where to now? It seemed like a complete dead end. They had a clue, but no way to follow it up.

At the back of the room, Ben suddenly stopped dead and realised that he’d wandered into the Amarna exhibit, the home of the relics dating from the brief, troubled reign of Akhenaten and the city in the sands that his successors had tried so hard to erase forever.

He’d found himself standing face to face with the heretic himself.

The stone bust seemed to gaze right back at him with slanted eyes, and he was struck by the strangeness of its features. The long, drooping face and grotesquely elongated cranium were eerily peculiar, almost disturbingly alien in appearance. He remembered what Kirby had said about the king having been regarded as odd, perhaps misshapen. So little was known about the man himself. Who had he really been, this heretical pharaoh who’d inspired so much hate and fear, to the point that his own people would have tried to write him out of the history books?

Ben was too absorbed by the strange relic to notice someone else walking up behind him. He sensed the presence and turned to see another museum attendant, a younger man with a friendly smile.

‘Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with my colleague a minute ago. I might be able to help you.’

‘I hope so,’ Ben said. ‘I was looking for the throne of the High Priest Wenkaura, from the time of Akhenaten.’

‘And I’m afraid that particular piece doesn’t belong to the museum’s collection,’ the attendant said. ‘My colleague was right about that. But there are many private antiquities collections across Egypt, as well as Europe, the
USA
and elsewhere. One of them may very well have what you’re looking for.’

‘Is there a directory anywhere of these collectors, and maybe a list of the items they have?’

‘I’d have to check that for you with the curator,’ the attendant said. ‘He’s very busy, and it might take some time. But there’s a way you could save a lot of trouble. I know a man who could have this kind of information. Frankly, what he doesn’t know about the antiquities world isn’t worth knowing. He might well know where your throne is.’

A ray of hope. Ben felt his pulse pick up a step. ‘What’s his name?’

‘His name is Pierre Claudel,’ the attendant said.

‘Where can I find him? I’m extremely keen to speak to him.’

The attendant smiled. ‘Step this way. I have the number in my office.’

Claudel was alone at the villa, sitting slumped at his desk with a long, strong drink and dwelling endlessly on morbid thoughts, when the phone rang at his elbow. He turned slowly and watched as the vibrations of the silent ringer propelled it towards the edge of the desk.

For a long moment, he resisted picking it up. Why not just let it creep to the edge of the polished wood, drop off and smash itself on the floor? It would only be Kamal. He was the only person who called any more. Claudel could barely remember the days when he’d been running a thriving business and his phone had never stopped. For that matter, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a shit about blue skies and sunshine, or beautiful art and music, or beautiful women. When had he last woken up in the morning and not wanted to crawl deep under the covers and never come out again? Chronic fear was like a chilling, suffocating fog that had settled over his whole life.

But then Claudel remembered that the caller couldn’t be Kamal. He’d said he was going to be away on business for a few days and wouldn’t be in touch. Something to do with those plans he kept alluding to. That was a subject Claudel didn’t want to dwell on, not for a moment. He wanted to blot it all from his mind forever-though how could he, when all he could think about was that, any day now, Kamal was going to take him out to the desert, put a bullet in his head and leave him for the vultures? He mused for a moment: would Kamal give him a quick death? Was being left out to rot in the desert a better end than a long, drawn-out suicide by booze and antidepressants?

The phone kept ringing insistently. Claudel felt a surge of curiosity that was just strong enough to overcome his despondency and reach out for the phone. He snatched it up and muttered a desultory ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Pierre Claudel?’ said the voice on the line.

Claudel didn’t recognise it. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Speaking. Who is this?’

‘You don’t know me. My name’s Ben Hope. Are you free to talk for a minute?’

Claudel jolted into life at the sound of the name. Ben Hope-of all the people who could have popped up. The man Kamal had encountered, and been raging about ever since. The mysterious foreigner who seemed to know an awful lot about Morgan Paxton’s project.

Claudel’s head was suddenly spinning with possibilities. He covered his surprise well, and summoned up all the polite charm he had left in him. ‘Certainly. How may I help you, Mr Hope?’

‘I’m a writer carrying out research for a book,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve been told you’re the best person to approach regarding a query about Egyptian antiquities.’

For the first time in days, Claudel managed a smile as he listened to the lies. Why was this person interested in the throne of some obscure High Priest? His mind raced to connect the dots.