He’d shielded his eyes from the sun and watched them approach. The ten men who climbed out of the dusty vehicles weren’t the kind he normally did business with. Most of them looked like ex-soldiers, or mercenaries. Nobody was smiling. Several of them were carrying stubby automatic weapons on slings over their shoulders. Claudel didn’t generally come into contact with guns in the course of his work, and he didn’t much like them. These had evil-looking, curved magazines, folding stocks, a brutal military appearance to them. They looked scuffed and worn with use, and he could only wonder how many people had been shot with them.

But it was too late to run now. He was committed-to what, he didn’t yet know.

Claudel had been shoved against his car and frisked for weapons and wires. ‘Watch the suit,’ he protested.

‘He’s clean,’ the tall bearded one had muttered. They released him and he dusted his clothes off indignantly. The men signalled across to one of the jeeps, and only then had Claudel noticed the eleventh man, the one who’d hung back, sitting smoking in the rear seat, quietly watching from a distance.

The man had stepped down from the vehicle and walked across the sand. His face was long and lean, the dark curls receding across his high forehead. He was wearing khaki trousers and a loose-fitting shirt that billowed in the warm breeze, the black rubber butt of a pistol protruding from a Cordura holster on his hip. He carried a slim briefcase in his left hand. He was slightly built, not tall, not physically striking or intimidating in any way. But he exuded an air of menace that seemed to come from somewhere behind those deep, dark eyes.

Claudel had looked into them and he couldn’t tell what the man was thinking. That scared him most of all. Something told him those eyes had seen things he couldn’t imagine. This was a man without any trace of kindness or humour or compassion. Even the rest of the group had almost visibly shrunk away from him as he moved past them.

The man had strode up to Claudel. Stood with his boots planted apart in the sand and gazed at him impassively. ‘My name is Kamal,’ he said. His voice was soft, almost gentle.

Claudel could sense the rest of the men watching him. The burly one with the baseball cap, the least mean-looking of the bunch, glanced nervously at Kamal. Another one, a ferret-like little guy with a shaven head and an ammunition belt wrapped around his torso, was fingering his gun.

Then Kamal had beckoned to Claudel and walked towards the shade of the rocks. The Frenchman had followed, feeling the sweat run down his temples, not just from the heat. His neck and shoulders ached with tension, expecting a bullet. He racked his brain as he walked. What had he done? Had he offended someone? Stepped on the wrong toes?

But then Kamal had done something unexpected. He sat down in a shady hollow in the rocks and motioned to Claudel to join him. ‘I know who you are, and what you do. You can help me.’

Claudel eased himself down on a rock. ‘I don’t know what you want,’ he replied hesitantly.

‘I want to show you something.’

Then Kamal had opened the case. Inside it was a large manila envelope. He handed it over. Claudel frowned at it, looked inside and saw that it contained a series of glossy colour prints.

Kamal was watching him expectantly. Claudel shot him a baffled look, then started leafing through the photos. They showed a stone slab, ancient and pitted, covered in sand-dusted hieroglyphs.

‘You can read them?’ Kamal asked quietly.

Claudel nodded distractedly. He was already deep into them. He could feel an icy tingle running down his neck, down his spine as his eye traced the lines of symbols, converting them into words. He suddenly broke away from them and looked up. ‘Where did you-’

‘Read,’ Kamal said, interrupting.

Claudel’s fear was gone now. He read on.

‘What does it say?’ Kamal asked.

Claudel studied the glyphs again for a moment, struggling to condense their meaning. ‘Amun is content,’ he read slowly out loud. ‘The Heretic of Amarna shall be denied, the treasures restored to their rightful place.’

Kamal smiled. ‘An educated man. I had to have it translated.’

But Claudel wasn’t listening. The icy tingle was intensifying into a mounting excitement that made him breathless.

The Heretic of Amarna shall be denied.

The Frenchman couldn’t hide the tremble that made the glossy photo in his hands flutter.

It couldn’t be. Amarna, the city in the sands. The heretic pharaoh. The ancient story of the three High Priests who’d defied him. Claudel knew what this was about. Treasure. Big time.

But it was just a legend. A myth. Dismissed by every Egyptology scholar in the world as fantasy and nonsense.

Could it be true after all? Surely not.

But what if it was?

He suddenly felt as giddy as a schoolboy. This could be it. This could be the big one. The thing he’d been waiting for. The biggest discovery of his career. Maybe the biggest haul in history. If even half the discredited legends were true, it would be like finding Tutankhamun’s tomb all over again. And then some.

He looked up, meeting Kamal’s eye. ‘It’s incredible.’

Kamal smiled in satisfaction. ‘That’s what the other guy said, too.’

Claudel frowned. ‘The other guy?’

‘You’re my second opinion. Don’t take it personally.’

Claudel was suddenly tense with fear. ‘Who else have you told about this?’

A curator at the Egyptian Museum,’ Kamal said. ‘We paid him a visit at his home last night.’

‘What?’ Claudel gaped in horror. ‘Who?’

‘Beng.’

‘You told Beng about this?’

‘Don’t worry. He won’t be telling anybody.’

‘Why not?’ Even as he said it, Claudel knew it was a stupid question.

‘Because I decided I didn’t like him,’ Kamal replied. His voice was casual, his posture was relaxed as he lounged easily on the rocks. But Claudel caught the look in his eye.

It unsettled him for only a moment. Nothing could tear his thoughts away from this.

Claudel read on, and his jaw dropped open.

‘What does it say?’ Kamal said.

‘Beng didn’t tell you?’

‘He did. But I like hearing it. And I need to know that you’re capable of helping me, before I decide to make you my offer.’

‘What offer?’

‘Just read it to me,’ Kamal said testily.

Claudel ran his shaking finger along the lines of symbols. This was a test, and he knew it. These guys were more than capable of leaving him out here if he didn’t satisfy. But at the same time that hardly seemed to matter to him. All that mattered was the image he was holding of the ancient hieroglyphs.

‘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.