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.
Chapter Fifteen
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?’