The Heretic's Treasure (12 page)

‘It talks of…untold riches,’ he had said falteringly. ‘Gold and other treasures, more than men can imagine. And a cache a hundred times greater. No, wait. I’m getting it wrong.’ He bit his lip, staring hard at the photo in his hand. A
thousand
times greater.’ He looked up, baffled, his excitement growing even more. ‘A thousand times greater than what?’

‘Than the one we already found,’ Kamal said simply. He gestured to the others. ‘Fekri, Naguib. Bring it here.’

Two of the men had trotted over to Kamal’s jeep and lifted something from the passenger seat. The object was three-foot long, wrapped in sacking cloth. The men didn’t look weak, but the strain was showing on their faces by the time they’d heaved it across the sand to the rocks. Their rifles clattered against their backs as they struggled with the heavy weight. Kamal motioned again and they laid the object end-up on the ground. Stood back, breathing hard, wiping their sweaty hands on their trousers.

Claudel had stared at the thing.
What the hell…

‘Uncover it,’ Kamal had commanded.

The Frenchman had reached out tentatively, grasped the edge of the sackcloth and tugged. It fell away.

The sun glinted on the object. Claudel almost felt bathed in golden light. He gasped, blinked, rubbed his eyes, gasped again. It wasn’t true.

But it was. He was looking at a glittering statue of the cat goddess, Bastet. A surreal sight out here in this wilderness of sand and rock. He reached out a trembling hand. It wasn’t gilt. It was solid gold. Maybe a thousand pounds in weight. He caressed it in awe. The single biggest piece of gold he’d ever been this close to. And if he was right about what it was, nobody had laid eyes on it for more than three thousand years.

Claudel’s famous composure had slipped completely at that moment. He’d crawled around the statue on his hands and knees. He didn’t care any more that he was ruining his suit. As he moved around the incredible object, running his fingers feverishly over the cool, smooth, bright gold, Kamal had told him where he’d found it. He told him about the old Bedouin fort far away, lost in the oceans of sand. About the dry well. The buried stone chamber that the well diggers had narrowly missed. The way he’d exposed part of it when he’d shot the man trapped at the bottom of the shaft. He related it calmly, matter-of-factly, as though it was nothing. As though it had been his destiny to find it.

Kamal motioned at the shining statue. ‘And this is just a token I brought to show you. There was enough to fill a small truck. We’re rich.’

Claudel wiped sweat out of his eyes.
And the hieroglyphs spoke of a cache a thousand times bigger?

Kamal pointed at the Frenchman. ‘Now
you’re
going to help me become much richer.’

Claudel gave a bitter laugh. ‘And then what? I end up like Beng?’

‘Only if you disappoint me,’ Kamal said. ‘Or if you try to cross me or deceive me in any way whatsoever. I’m not unreasonable.’

Claudel had glanced over his shoulder at the men standing nearby. His eye lingered on the guns. ‘I’m sure,’ he had muttered.

‘And I’m not interested in cultural treasures,’ Kamal went on. ‘I just want the money. I have my own plans.’ He leaned forward on his rock, fixing Claudel’s eyes with his. There was something mesmerising about his gaze. ‘So here’s my offer,’ he continued. ‘From now on, you work for me. I need a fence. You’ll use your contacts to dispose of the items we found, and you’ll arrange for the funds to be placed in a Swiss bank account. You’ll have all the details.’ He had paused, watching Claudel with a fierce intensity. ‘And then we’re going to find the rest of this treasure. You and I, partners.’

Claudel had just gawked back at him.

‘It’s your decision,’ Kamal had said. ‘Either we have a deal, or you die here today. Nothing personal. It’s just business, you understand.’

In the background, one of the men had racked the cocking bolt on his weapon. The zinging metallic sound had sliced through the stillness and made Claudel shudder.

‘Oh, I think we have a deal,’ he’d said.

Now, seven months later, Pierre Claudel still couldn’t forget that day in the desert. And he never would.

Cairo

Al Qâhirah.
The name meant ‘The Conqueror’ in Arabic. Fourteen hours after takeoff from the south of France, the 747 made its descent out of the blazing, red-gold sunset.

Peering out of the windows across the aisle, all Ben could see on one side was the endless expanse of desert. On the other, the city looked like a gigantic oasis in the sands. A seething megapolis of eighteen million people, the largest city in Africa and the Middle East. The Nile wound through its heart, sparkling under the setting sun, its waters flanked by the vast urban sprawl that had grown up on its banks for thousands of years. High-rise blocks, domes and minarets stood silhouetted against the dramatic reds and golds of the sky. More than any other North African capital, it was a city of contrasts. The ancient and the modern. Extremes of wealth and poverty. A melting-pot of beauty and culture, filth and pollution.

It had been a few years since Ben’s last visit here, when he’d been searching for a missing girl. That had been a tough assignment, but he’d made a few contacts. One in particular might be useful to him this time around. That could wait, though. He knew where he had to go first. He reached into his pocket for the address Harry Paxton had given him.

Dusk had fallen by the time he cleared the airport. The city was coming to life as the temperature cooled and night fell over the skyline. Ben’s taxi sped down a multi-lane highway that snaked through the urban sprawl, past giant billboards in Arabic and English and the lights that shimmered on the dark waters of the Nile. The taxi cut across town, skirted the fashionable and wealthy areas and then headed into districts that were rundown and neglected. The driver pulled up in a narrow street. Ben paid him, thanked him in Arabic and got out.

A wind was gusting in from the Sahara, bringing squalls of sandy dust that drifted across the pavements. Ben walked to the apartment building that had been Morgan’s last place of residence and gazed up at the plain concrete façade. It was about as remote from the luxury of the
Scimitar
as you could get. The thump of hard rock and a blaring TV drifted down from open windows, blending together into a discordant mess of sound.

He tried to imagine Paxton’s son in this place. It was going as native as a man like him would dare. Slumming it, as far as a sheltered middle-class guy on a cushy university salary could slum it. Checking into a hotel would have been too much of a tourist thing to do. This must have been Morgan’s idea of being adventurous. Maybe he’d entertained some schoolboy explorer fantasy, some romantic notion of what it meant to be coming to Africa in search of…what, exactly? Ancient secrets? Academic fame and glory?

And out in these streets, with his gold Rolex and dapper little blazer, the hapless Morgan Paxton would have stood out like a beacon for every opportunist crook for miles around. The complete opposite of his father, a man who could speak a dozen languages and blend in just about anywhere in the world.

Ben stepped inside and walked to the foot of a curving staircase. Graffiti on the wall had been thinly painted over, as though someone was making a halfhearted effort to maintain the place. He climbed the staircase to a landing. There were four doors off it, scratched and worn. One of them opened. An angry-looking young guy came out and walked past him and headed down the stairs, followed by a teenage girl who looked like she’d been crying.

Happy place,
Ben thought. He checked the numbers on the doors and walked up another floor. The heavy bass of music throbbed through the walls. A baby was howling somewhere, mixed with the sound of a woman screaming, a door slamming, something breaking. He paused, listening. It sounded like a couple having a violent row. The music thumped on. It was a noisy place. The kind of place you could get stabbed to death in your own room and nobody would hear. Or care.

He climbed another flight. Checked the numbers on the doors again. This was it.

The door to what had been Morgan’s apartment was ajar. He pushed it open quietly and walked in. Whatever police investigation there had been, it was done with now. Although shabby, the room was clean and tidy and looked all ready to move into.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a voice in English.

Ben turned. A burly guy was coming out of the kitchenette. He was heavily bearded, and the dark eyes were locked aggressively on Ben. He wore a vest with a suit jacket over the top of it. In one chubby hand was a metal toolbox with a hammer and a wrench sticking out of it. He might have been a caretaker, but a small-time landlord spotting a Westerner in his place would be more likely to start talking English in the hope of making a quick sale.

‘Flat looks empty,’ Ben said. ‘Anyone staying here?’

‘It’s available.’

Ben pointed at the toolbox. ‘Problem with the plumbing?’

‘No problem. You need a place?’

‘Maybe.’ Ben walked around the room, glancing around him here and there. Through a doorway he could see the small, simple bedroom. The single bed was stripped to the mattress. A neat pile of white cotton sheets lay folded on a chair. A plain chest of drawers with a cheap lamp. Above the bed was a framed print of the Sphinx, to satisfy any tourists who might want to slum it the way Morgan did. The bedroom looked exactly like the photo in the police report-except for the sprawled corpse on the bed, the blood spattered up the wall and the slick of it across the floor.

Now, two months later, nobody would ever have guessed the place was fresh from being the scene of a brutal murder.

‘You got satellite TV and Internet,’ the landlord said. ‘It’s a good deal.’

Ben nodded. ‘Friend of mine stayed here. Know who I’m talking about?’

The big guy made a dismissive gesture. ‘Am I supposed to remember all the people that live here?’

‘What about the ones that die here? You remember them?’

The guy’s face crunched into a scowl. ‘Who
are
you?’

‘Nobody,’ Ben said. ‘Just someone who doesn’t like the idea that an innocent man got knifed right here in this building. Your building. I wouldn’t like to think that someone talked to someone about the soft Westerner with the gold Rolex. Easy money, if you know where to find it.’

The man’s face was reddening under the thick beard. ‘I don’t like these questions. You want the place or not?’

‘Just thoughts, that’s all.’ Ben reached for his wallet. Shelled out some of the banknotes Paxton had given him. He didn’t bother counting. ‘Is that enough for a week’s rent?’ he asked. He could see from the landlord’s eyes that it was more than enough.

The landlord reached out for the money. Ben pulled it back out of reach. ‘You live on the premises?’ he asked.

The man smiled, less guarded now. The cash had broken the ice. It had that effect on people. He jerked his head upwards. ‘Top floor.’

‘You found the body?’

The man nodded again. ‘The door was open. I could see the blood on the wall.’

‘Did you ever see my friend with anyone? Did he have visitors?’

‘Not that I know of. I never saw anything. But I mind my own business.’

It might be true, or it might not. Time would tell. ‘I’ll take the place,’ Ben said. He handed the guy the money.

When he was alone, he opened all the windows to let some air in. Traffic rumbled past in the street below. He took the slim folder out of his bag. He’d studied the coroner’s and police reports on the plane, and he pored over them again for a few minutes now. The police reports were signed by the officer in charge, whose name was Ramoud. It was just as Paxton had said. The investigation had been pretty cursory.

Ben put the reports aside and looked at the photos again. They weren’t pleasant viewing. It must have been terribly hard for Paxton to see the mutilation done to his son’s body. The pathologist’s assessment was that the murder weapon had been some kind of heavy blade, a machete or similar.

Ben chucked the photos down and looked at his watch. Time was passing and he didn’t want to hang around in Cairo any longer than he had to. He replaced the papers in the folder and slipped it into his bag. Slung the bag over his shoulder. Locked the door behind him and headed back down the stairs into the night air.

He knew exactly where he was going from here.

He hailed a battered Mercedes cab and the driver took him east of the river, to where the streets became narrow lanes and crowded tenements jostled for space among the hundreds of ancient mosques. Ben had the taxi driver pull up and wait for him near the slum settlement of Manshiyat Naser, the place known as Garbage City. He got out and walked through the long shadows of the cramped alleys.

He heard the plod of hooves on tarmac as a donkey cart passed under a faint streetlight. The cart was being driven by a young boy. It was stacked ten feet high with the stinking rubbish that was brought into this part of the city for the locals to sift through for anything they could recycle or sell. A whole industry built on the things people threw away. That was this boy’s future, Ben thought.

The boy’s eyes met his for a fleeting moment, and the cart passed on into the darkness.

Three minutes later Ben was walking in a familiar doorway. The place was worse than Morgan’s apartment building, a lot worse. It hadn’t changed much since he was last here. And he was pretty sure his contact wouldn’t have changed much, either.

Abdou was a guy you went to if you needed something. All kinds of things-as long as they were shady enough. Ben knew a little about his business. He was an entrepreneur with all nine fingers stuck in a lot of dirty little pies across the Cairo underworld. The tenth finger had been the one he’d stuck into the wrong person’s affairs. That someone had snipped it off a long time ago with a pair of bolt croppers-a gentle reminder of his station. Ever since then, Abdou had shied away from dealing in the hotter stuff-the dope, girls and guns-but he still knew all the angles and a lot of people who didn’t always want to be known.