The Heretic's Treasure (35 page)

Paxton’s deadline was never far from Ben’s mind, and he thought about it again now. He couldn’t afford the slightest delay. He shook his head. ‘I’m not sitting it out in Cairo for five days waiting to get rubber-stamped by some petty bureaucrat. And I won’t be going through any checkpoints.’

‘Hey, what happened to “we”?’ Kirby asked.

Ben turned to glare at him. ‘You’re not coming. I go it alone from here. You’ve done your bit.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Kirby said, outraged. ‘I have to go, too.’

‘Think about what you’re saying. You want to drive into hostile territory with me. A million acres of wilderness, armed border patrols chasing us, militant Bedouin groups everywhere, fresh from the Darfur conflict.’

Kirby swallowed. ‘Yes.’

‘Look at you. You couldn’t even climb out of a window. You almost died climbing a few stairs.’

‘What if you still need me? What if there are more things to decipher? How do you know this map isn’t just going to lead to another clue?’

‘He’s right,’ Claudel said. ‘You just don’t know what to expect.’

Ben sat in silence for a while, mulling it over. He sighed. ‘Then I don’t have much choice. We leave as soon as possible.’

‘What about me?’ Claudel asked.

‘What, you want to tag along as well?’

‘Certainly not,’ the Frenchman said. ‘I told you, all I want is out of this whole thing. I’ve had enough. But I don’t want to be here when Kamal gets back. You said you were going to take care of him.’

‘I will. But my business comes first. When it’s done, I’ll take care of yours. That was the deal.’

‘So what am I to do in the meantime?’ Claudel asked.

‘Have you got a friend in Cairo whose wife you
haven’t
slept with?’ Ben asked him. ‘That’s where I’d be heading, if I were you. That, or leave the country. Take a long vacation. Anywhere but here.’

Claudel thought about it. ‘Very well. I think it’s time I paid a visit to France. I have a sister in Lyon. I’ll leave early in the morning. You two are welcome to stay the night here.’

Ben shook his head. ‘No stopping. We still have time to catch the night train to Aswan, and from there we’ll drive south across the desert towards Abu Simbel and then the Sudanese border. Say a five-, six-hour drive if the roads are reasonable.’

‘More running around?’ Kirby moaned. ‘Why can’t we just fly to Abu Simbel in the morning? I’m knackered.’

Ben nudged the bulging holdall with his foot, and felt the weight of the weapons and ammunition inside. ‘Because I think there could be an issue with taking this stuff through customs, and I have a feeling it’s going to be needed.’

After the two Englishmen had left and he had watched the taillights of their car disappear down his driveway and into the night, Claudel poured himself a nice glass of champagne and leaned back on the chaise longue in his living room to listen to a Boccherini cello concerto and reflect on the sudden change in his fortunes.

It was almost one in the morning by the time he’d polished off the bottle, but he wasn’t remotely sleepy. He wondered whether the two had managed to catch the night train to Aswan. If it was on time, they’d get there by about nine the next morning.

He couldn’t believe the stroke of luck he’d had in meeting this Ben Hope, someone who wouldn’t be afraid of a man like Kamal. If things went according to plan, he’d soon be free again. He could have his life back. Maybe one day he’d even be able to forget that this nightmare had ever happened to him. And perhaps it was time to get out of the whole antiquities game. It had turned sour for him now.

He paced up and down, feeling the tingle of excitement growing inside him. Escape. It felt good. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.

Then why wait at all?

He dashed upstairs, and hummed an air from Boccherini to himself as he grabbed two Louis Vuitton suitcases, laid them open on the antique four-poster bed in his room and started throwing clothes into them. Twenty minutes later he burst out of the bedroom with a case in each hand and the house and Ferrari keys in his suit pocket. Trotted down the stairs with jittery haste, crossed the marbled hallway between the busts of Roman emperors and headed briskly for the front door.

He was two feet away, and about to put down one of the cases to reach for the doorknob, when he saw it turn.

His blood froze. He stood there, paralysed, still clutching the cases.

The door swung open.

‘Going somewhere?’ Kamal asked with a smile. He was leaning casually against one of the pillars in the doorway, arms folded nonchalantly, his smile almost pleasant. The van was parked in the moonlight outside the villa. Claudel could see two of Kamal’s men sitting in the front seat-Youssef and the one who never spoke, Emad.

Claudel struggled desperately to come up with a plausible excuse for the bags. ‘I…I was just t-taking some suits and things for dry cleaning,’ he stammered.

‘The midnight laundry?’

Claudel was silent.

Kamal’s smile never wavered. He pushed himself off the pillar, walked inside the house, clicked the door shut behind him. ‘That can wait, can’t it? Come and have a drink with me.’ He slapped Claudel jovially on the arm. ‘I have something to celebrate. I’ll tell you all about it.’

Claudel sighed heavily and tried not to show his absolute despair and panic as he set down the cases and followed Kamal across the hallway and through the tall double doors into the living room.

Kamal was grinning as he flipped on the lights and padded over the cashmere carpet to the drinks cabinet. ‘I see you’ve been having a private celebration of your own,’ he said, noticing the empty champagne bottle and the single glass that Claudel had left sitting on the table. ‘Wouldn’t it be amazing if it turned out we were both celebrating the same thing?’

Claudel laughed nervously. ‘I was just having a nightcap.’

Kamal threw open the drinks cabinet doors, grabbed two crystal brandy glasses, twisted the top off a crystal decanter, and poured out two enormous measures of vintage cognac. ‘Sit down, Pierre. Drink with me.’

Claudel reluctantly accepted the glass Kamal handed him, lowered himself stiffly into a chair and sipped nervously at the brandy. He felt acidity rising in his guts, and it wasn’t just because of mixing drinks. Suddenly the image of Aziz flashed up in his mind.

Aziz had died in this same chair. Just after Kamal had offered him a drink.

Claudel’s glass trembled a little in his hand.

Kamal was leaning back against the wall, watching him closely. ‘Why are you so nervous tonight, my friend?’

‘I’m not nervous,’ Claudel laughed shakily. ‘Why would I be?’

‘I thought perhaps you had something to tell me.’

Claudel swallowed. ‘Like what?’

‘Like you’d found some new lead,’ Kamal said. ‘You do still remember our project, don’t you, Pierre? Our business partnership? The thing we were looking for?’

‘I’m very confident we’ll find it soon.’

‘So am I,’ Kamal smiled.

‘That’s good,’ Claudel replied lamely. A trickle of sweat ran down his brow.

‘Don’t you want to know why I’m so confident?’

Claudel was silent.

‘You haven’t asked me what it is I’m celebrating.’

Claudel frowned. ‘What are you celebrating?’

Kamal grinned. He wagged his finger reproachfully. ‘Pierre, Pierre.’

Claudel’s blood was quickly turning to ice.

Kamal walked up to the mantelpiece, and rested an elbow on it as he took another sip from his drink. He set down the glass and ran his hand down the side of the large antique glass-domed clock that ticked quietly over the fireplace. ‘I’ve always admired this clock very much. What did you say it was?’

Claudel gulped. ‘It’s a rare chiming skeleton clock made in 1860 by James Condliff. Very valuable,’ he added, watching Kamal stroke it.

Kamal met Claudel’s eye. He gave another little smile. Then his face contorted into fury as he shoved the clock off the mantelpiece and it smashed into a thousand pieces against the fire surround.

Claudel jumped to his feet. He gaped in disbelief at the fragments that littered the floor. ‘Why did you do that?’ he roared, beside himself.

Then his heart stopped. Somewhere among the wreckage of the clock was something that shouldn’t have been there. Something that most certainly hadn’t been put there by the clockmaker in 1860.

Kamal stooped down casually and picked it up. He tossed it through the air, and Claudel caught it. He stared at the miniature surveillance device in his palm and his legs almost gave way under him.

‘There’s what I was celebrating,’ Kamal said. ‘I wanted to drink a toast to the fact that we all know where the treasure is now. You, me, and your new friends.’ He took a step forward. Glass crunched under his boot. ‘Do you remember the deal we made, you and I, that day in the desert when we first met? I told you I was a man of my word. That if you helped me, I would repay you. But that if you betrayed me, it wouldn’t work out so well for you. Do you remember?’

Claudel started backing away.

Kamal walked steadily towards him. ‘So imagine my surprise when, on my way home from my business meeting, I discover that you’ve been conspiring against me. You’ve been useless to me from the start, and now this. I think the time has come for me to decide what to do with you. What do you think?’

‘Listen, I can explain…’ Claudel stammered, raising his hands in supplication. ‘This Hope person came here with threats. I had no choice.’

‘I heard every word of your conversation,’ Kamal said. ‘Here, in the wine cellar, in your study, everywhere. There were a dozen mini-webcams on you the whole time. You think I’m a fucking idiot? You think I’ve come this far by trusting shit like you?’

Claudel was backing away more quickly now. He glanced over his shoulder at the hallway behind him. Maybe he could make a run for it. If he could make it to the garden he could scream for help, and perhaps someone would hear.

‘You’re going to die now, Pierre,’ Kamal said.

Claudel panicked and ran, his feet slithering on the marble hallway as he raced towards the front entrance. His hand closed on the heavy doorknob and he wrenched the door open.

Youssef and Emad were standing there in the moonlight, blocking the doorway. Youssef was holding a silenced pistol. Claudel let out a cry of fear, turned and dashed for the stairs.

Kamal bounded up the stairs after him. He lashed out a hand, caught Claudel by the collar and dragged him down to his knees. Claudel rolled on his back, struggling.

Kamal slapped him hard across the face, and again with the back of his hand. He kept slapping until his hand was red with blood.

‘Please,’ Claudel gurgled through burst lips. ‘Please.’

Kamal’s eyes were expressionless. He reached down to his belt and Claudel screamed as his hand came up clutching the double-edged combat knife.

During the next fifty-five seconds, Pierre Claudel’s worst nightmares were realised in a way that even he hadn’t been able to imagine. He died horribly, bloodily and in extreme terror.

Kamal stood up and wiped blood off his face with his sleeve. His eyes were bright with the triumph of the kill as he turned to Youssef in the hallway below.

‘Get everybody together. Get the vehicles and the weapons. We have a train to catch.’

The Cairo-Aswan night train

As the train rumbled through the darkness, carving its path between the Nile corridor and the desert, Ben sat pensively on the top bunk of the double sleeper compartment he was sharing with Kirby. He could hear the historian’s soft, rhythmic snores coming from the lower bunk, mingling with the steady clatter of wheels on tracks. He was still fully dressed and, even though his body was crying out for sleep, he just couldn’t turn off his restless mind.

It was less than an hour since the night express had departed from Cairo, but it felt like weeks. Time was dragging so slowly that it seemed to him almost as if it were being deliberately cruel. Seven days to complete his task, and the third day would soon be dawning. With nothing to do but sit and fret for the next few hours, the gnawing inactivity brought him face to face with his darkest thoughts and fears.

He reflected on the events of the last couple of days. He’d come a long way, but there was an even longer road ahead of him and no way of knowing what he was going to find at the end of it. Was he getting close now? The fact was, he just couldn’t say. That was the worst thought of all.

Suddenly galvanised into action, he clambered down the bunk’s ladder, grabbed his wallet and left the compartment. Out in the narrow, neon-lit corridor that ran along the right side of the sleeper car, he passed a uniformed guard and a guy in plain clothes who had the look of a policeman about him. Ben’s eye picked out the shape of the concealed pistol on his hip. There was probably a separate security car at the front of the train with three or four more plainclothes detectives posted to protect the tourist passengers from terrorist attacks.

A few yards further down the corridor, Ben’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he fished it out.

It was Paxton, and he got straight to the point. ‘Have you found it?’

‘I know where it is,’ Ben replied, keeping his voice low.

‘Well done. You’re making good progress. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

‘If it’s even there,’ Ben added. ‘If it really exists, and if it hasn’t been looted away to nothing by Sudanese militia or Bedouins, or anyone else who might have stumbled on it any time during the last thirty-odd centuries. You’re taking a big gamble on that.’

‘You’d better hope you find it,’ Paxton said. ‘You know what’ll happen if you come back empty-handed.’

‘What if I do find it? How the hell do you expect me to transport it all by myself? I wouldn’t get halfway back up the Nile.’

‘You let me worry about the logistics. Your job is to locate the treasure, make sure it’s safe and bring me proof and co-ordinates. I’ll take care of the rest.’

‘You don’t think a truck convoy full of gold is going to draw attention?’

Paxton chuckled. ‘I have ways of moving things around unnoticed, Benedict. It’s what I do. Leave that part to me.’