The Heretic's Treasure (33 page)

‘Sounds as if you know this Sheridan pretty well,’ Ben said. ‘I think you should pick up the phone right now and get us all invited over to the Embassy party.’

Claudel shook his head ruefully. ‘I didn’t say I knew him well. I knew his wife very well. A little too well, perhaps. That’s why I could never go there to introduce you to Sheridan. He was the one who caught us. You might say I’m
persona non grata
in that household.’

‘I don’t care,’ Ben said. ‘I’m going to that party.’

‘How?’ Kirby asked, looking perturbed. ‘Surely not even you would just walk into an Embassy party as an uninvited stranger and demand to inspect a priceless throne.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ Ben said. ‘I’m going to walk right in the front door. But I won’t be asking anyone’s permission for anything.’

‘You’re crazy,’ Kirby said. ‘Raving. Delusional. How the hell do you think you can get in there? There’ll be massive security all over the place.’

‘That’s the whole idea.’ Ben turned to Claudel. ‘Can you provide me with a plan of the building?’

‘I know exactly where you need to go,’ Claudel replied. ‘I’ve sneaked up the backstairs to visit Eloise Sheridan often enough to know my way around the place.’

‘Excellent. Now, here’s what we’re going to do. Kirby, you stay here with Claudel. I have a couple of things to take care of.’

‘Things?’ asked Kirby, cocking an eyebrow.

‘Things you don’t need to know about. But first, I want to visit the wine cellar.’

Claudel looked mystified. ‘Why? You want some wine?’

‘You have very good wine, Pierre,’ Ben said. ‘But I’m more interested in PP-01.’

Garden City, Cairo

That evening

At one time in Cairo’s not-so-distant past, the quiet, leafy district just south of the city centre had been the urban playground of the Egyptian social aristocracy; now it was the high-security home of the British and US Embassies, the American University and several luxury hotels. It was just after seven-thirty when Ben and Kirby walked out of the lobby of the Nile Hilton, both wearing black tuxedos. Ben’s was an expensive item on loan from Claudel’s own wardrobe, and it fitted perfectly. Kirby’s had been a last-minute rental.

‘I feel awkward in this thing,’ he complained as they walked down the tree-lined street. ‘My body’s the wrong shape, or something. Do I look OK?’

‘You look like a dosser who just broke into an Armani boutique. But don’t worry about it. Nobody’s going to care.’

‘That’s just great.’

A Rolls-Royce purred by, perhaps delivering guests to the Embassy party, quickly followed by a Bentley

‘Capitalist bastards,’ Kirby muttered.

‘Coming from a Laird’s son hunting for a billion-dollar treasure.’

Kirby ignored that. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. The tux isn’t all that’s making me uncomfortable. This party thing is a really, really bad idea. You still haven’t told me how the hell you plan to get us in there.’

Ben didn’t reply. They were drawing closer to the US Embassy building. Floodlit against the darkening sky, it was a fine, imposing post-colonial mansion standing on the corner of two adjoining streets, surrounded by tall iron gates and overlooked by a mass of surveillance cameras. Palm trees threw long shadows in its elegant gardens, and the Stars and Stripes waved gently in the evening breeze.

Outside the grand entrance, US Marines stood to attention with rifles. At the front of the gated grounds, guests in evening wear were stepping out of their cars and limousines and showing their invitations to armed security personnel.

Ben and Kirby were just a few yards from the gates.

‘Keep it natural,’ Ben said. ‘Calm down.’

‘No way they’re going to let us in,’ Kirby mumbled. ‘Not a chance in a million.’

Ben glanced up the street that flanked the side of the Embassy grounds. It was empty apart from a white Peugeot parked in the shade of a tree. A two-man security team were standing next to the car, looking through the windows, letting their sniffer dog wander around it to hunt out any suspicious scents.

‘See how tight security is?’ Kirby asked irritably as they joined the throng of people at the gates. A laughing woman in a low-cut evening dress brushed by him, and he followed her with his gaze.

Ben didn’t reply. He watched as the dog returned to its handler and the security team gave up on the Peugeot and moved away. They started walking back towards the corner, into the glow of the floodlights. Ten yards, fifteen, twenty.

He took out his phone.

‘Who are you calling?’ Kirby asked. ‘Why can’t you talk to me? You know, I’m getting pretty tired of the whole Mr Mysterious routine.’

Ben scrolled down to a preset entry in the phone’s address book and hit the speed dial.

A sequence of rapid beeps as the phone automatically dialled the number in its memory.

Then a deafening explosion from the perimeter of the Embassy grounds.

There was half a second’s stunned silence as people recoiled and whipped around in horror at the blast, and then the screaming and panic and mayhem took over completely. The crowd broke into turmoil as security guards ran everywhere, yelling into radios, tearing out their guns as alarms shrilled. Smoke was pouring out of the white Peugeot and drifting up over the street. Almost instantly, a flood of US Marines poured out of the Embassy building, rifles poised.
This is not a drill,
their faces said.

Ben and Kirby were in a sea of chaos as the security staff fought to control the panicking crowd. Kirby’s eyes were huge. ‘What the hell was that?’ he yelled.

‘We’re under attack,’ Ben yelled back as a security guard shoved past with a squawking radio. Sirens were already wailing in the distance, and Marines were dousing the Peugeot with fire extinguishers. Ben grabbed Kirby’s sleeve and led him quickly through the mayhem. ‘Follow me and stay close,’ he said in his ear. Kirby looked blank for a second, then understanding dawned. ‘Oh, Christ. It was you.’

Ben dragged him through the gate. The security personnel and soldiers were all too preoccupied to notice them slip into the grounds, trot across the shadowy lawn to the building and sneak into a side entrance. They found themselves in a back kitchen. The place was empty. Alarms were still screaming all through the building. Ben could hear voices and running footsteps moving in all directions. He guessed that the Ambassador and his wife were already being whisked across town in a high-speed limo convoy, under heavy guard.

‘Mind telling me what just happened?’ Kirby rasped.

‘Not much,’ Ben said. ‘Just over an ounce of PP-01. That’s what the Serbs call C-4 plastic explosive. Enough to make a bit of a bang, not enough to do any serious damage.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Not really. Think of it as doing them a favour. It’ll shake them up a bit, keep the
CIA
busy for a few weeks. Their security’s not as tight as they think it is.’

‘There was a sniffer dog. How did you do it?’

‘Sniffer dogs can’t smell through a sack of spices. Now let’s get moving. Try not to get under my feet, OK?’

They made their way through the Embassy, following Claudel’s layout plan and the directions to get to the Ambassador’s private residence within the huge building. Nobody noticed them move quickly and quietly through the red-carpeted hallways and corridors full of gilt-framed paintings until they reached the backstairs Claudel had described. The scream of the alarms grew a little fainter as they climbed to the third floor. Kirby was red-faced, badly out of breath and gripping the banister rail as they reached the top landing. ‘I’m going to have a heart attack.’

‘Fourth door on the right,’ Ben said. ‘This way.’

There was no longer any point worrying about setting off alarms. When Ben found the door Claudel had told them about, he took a step back and lashed out his foot. The door ripped open, crashing off the wall inside. Ragged splinters hung from the shattered frame. Ben walked quickly into the room, dragging Kirby behind him. He flipped on the lights and took in the scene.

‘Look at this place,’ Kirby gasped, forgetting all about his heart attack.

The room was large and magnificent, the walls lined with crimson velvet. The light from the crystal chandeliers shone down on Ambassador Sam Sheridan’s priceless collection of ancient Egyptian artefacts. Statues from five thousand years of history lined the walls. Glass-fronted display cabinets were filled with vases and pottery, alabaster jars and sculptures, scarab amulets, old papyri, fragments of tapestry. On a large marble pedestal sat a block of stone with painted reliefs showing images of Egyptian nobles.

‘People shouldn’t be allowed to have this stuff,’ Kirby muttered under his breath. ‘It belongs in a museum. There should be a law.’

But Ben wasn’t listening. He moved through the room, interested in only one thing. He quickly saw that Sheridan’s collection comprised about a dozen different chairs of various size and design. ‘Kirby, come and help me.’ He pointed at a large seat woven from rushes. It looked remarkably like modern bamboo furniture, staggeringly well preserved. ‘Would this be it?’

‘That’s not it,’ Kirby said. ‘We’re looking for something much grander.’

‘What about that one?’

‘That’s more like it.’

Half hidden behind a tall painted urn was a sturdy-looking, imposing chair made of wood and leather. The stunningly modern frame was square in design, with criss-crossed struts in the lower section and a high back. The seat was a thick pad of decorated hide that hung between two parallel spars. The throne’s condition was incredible, the woodwork gleaming and smooth, as though the finest craftsmen in the world had built it just yesterday.

Kirby fell on his knees in front of the artefact, eagerly inspecting the intricate carvings and painted symbols that covered it. ‘This is it,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Look-the seal of Wenkaura. This was definitely his seat.’

‘Can you see anything?’

‘Give me a chance,’ Kirby snapped. ‘I need to examine it.’

‘We don’t have all night.’ Ben was very conscious of the alarms still ringing through the building below them. It wouldn’t be long before the security teams swept through the whole Embassy and locked down every room.

‘I don’t see anything,’ Kirby said.

Ben grabbed the throne impatiently and started dragging it into the middle of the room. It was solid and heavy. ‘Let me have a look at it.’

‘Careful. That’s three and a half thousand years old.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s been a while since I smashed any museum exhibits.’ Ben crouched down and inspected it from every angle, running his fingers over every surface and join. The leather seat was incredibly well preserved, only slightly hardened and cracked with age around the edges. In the middle it was still supple and pliable. He touched and pressed every square inch. Crouched back away from the throne and studied the designs on it thoughtfully.

‘I don’t see anything,’ Kirby said again. ‘Maybe it’s the wrong chair.’

The alarms stopped abruptly, plunging the building into sudden silence. That meant the situation downstairs was under control. Ben’s ear tuned in sharply. Voices in the distance, maybe two floors below, maybe one. A door slammed. A radio crackled. It wouldn’t be long now. His heart beat a little faster.

‘These designs painted on the leather,’ he said. ‘What do you make of them?’

‘It’s all Atenist symbolism,’ Kirby replied in a flustered voice, pointing out the stylised images of Akhenaten’s sacred sun disc.

Ben nodded. ‘So what does that tell us?’

‘It tells us that the original artwork has been removed or painted over.’

‘So if Wenkaura had planned for the artwork on the throne to convey a message of some kind, you’re saying it’s been obliterated?’

Kirby sighed. ‘Looks that way. Obviously the throne went the same way as so many other religious artefacts of the period. It’s been hijacked by the sun-worshippers.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the door. ‘We’d better get out of here. It’s all been for nothing.’

Ben didn’t reply for a moment. He just sat there crouched in front of the throne, gazing at it thoughtfully.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Kirby said. ‘Let’s go. We’re going to get arrested. What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking about winners and losers. About the spoils of war. The nature of revolutions.’

Kirby stared at him. ‘Say what?’

‘If the design was hijacked as you say, then why didn’t they paint out the seal of Wenkaura on the back panel? Why leave the insignia of a traitor on display for posterity?’

Kirby swallowed, thinking fast, eyes bulging.

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Ben said. ‘They just wouldn’t have done that. Think about it. You’re a historian. When the Moors took Jerusalem from the Christians, did they leave a single cross standing? No, they hacked them all down and replaced them with their own crescent moon. And vice versa, when the crusaders came back to reclaim the city. That’s how it works. It’s the nature of war. The old order swept away by the new. Winner takes all. No compromises. What would be the point?’

The voices down below were getting a little closer.

‘And Wenkaura would never have made such a compromise either,’ Ben went on. ‘He was as much at war with the new order as they were with the old religion he represented. It would be a sacrilege to him to have his seal on this piece of Atenist propaganda. It would be like finding Winston Churchill’s signature on a swastika banner.’

Kirby frowned. ‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying there’s only one possible explanation for why we’re seeing Wenkaura’s seal on what looks for all the world like a trophy captured by the enemy. It’s because these symbols weren’t put there by the enemy. They were put there by Wenkaura himself Ben patted the leather seat. ‘He fooled them. He had his own throne recovered with Atenist symbols, to protect it from being destroyed by the Pharaoh’s agents. And there’s only one reason he would do that. To preserve whatever it is he left inside. It’s a trick. Another clue in itself, telling us that there’s something hidden here waiting to be revealed.’