If he hadn’t been so damn scared all the time, he might have chuckled at the irony that one of the city’s most exclusive gated communities, designed to keep undesirable elements away from the homes of the rich, had become Kamal’s luxury refuge. It was a perfect hideout for him-the guards at the gate were used to seeing Claudel’s van come and go. As long as the drivers showed their private pass, vehicles were just waved through without a second glance, without any clue that heavily armed men were riding in the back.

It had quickly descended into a nightmare. Claudel couldn’t go anywhere in his own home without some hostile-looking hard guy eyeballing him. Couldn’t bring anyone back to the house. No women. He was like a prisoner. He stopped going to parties. Friends were calling him to ask if he was ill, and he’d been fobbing them off with all kinds of lame excuses. He’d started drinking more, too, to calm the palpitations he’d started getting. One day he’d gone down to his wine cellar to fetch a bottle for himself, and he’d found a stack of weapons and ammunition down there. He’d nearly had a heart attack. But he could say nothing.

Then suddenly, eight weeks ago, after five months of anxious torment, the phone had rung. Claudel picked up. It was Aziz, one of the contacts he’d called in months before. They’d worked together on a few jobs in the past. When he wasn’t stealing antiquities, Aziz freelanced as a tourist guide. As far as anyone in the business could be trusted, Claudel was reasonably sure of him.

‘That thing you told me about. You still interested? I might have information.’

Claudel gripped the phone tightly. ‘I’m definitely still interested.’

At that moment, Kamal appeared in the doorway. He watched and listened, head cocked curiously to one side. His eyes narrowed.

Aziz chuckled on the line. ‘Let’s talk about my cut first. Pierre Claudel doesn’t get this jumpy if there isn’t a pile of money involved.’

Claudel darted an impatient glance at Kamal. ‘Five per cent of whatever I get. The usual.’

‘Fuck you. Make it ten per cent and I’ll tell you what I just heard.’

Claudel gritted his teeth. ‘Six.’

‘Eight.’

Claudel sighed. ‘OK. Eight.’

Aziz sounded satisfied. ‘I imagine you don’t want to discuss this on the phone. Meet me at Café Riche. I think you’ll find it worthwhile.’

‘Café Riche,’ Claudel repeated. ‘Give me half an hour or so.’

Kamal wagged his finger. ‘Tell him to come here.’

Claudel covered the receiver with his hand. ‘I don’t bring business associates up to the house. That’s a rule.’

‘I just broke it,’ Kamal said, raising a warning eyebrow.

Claudel paused, sighed, spoke back into the phone. ‘I can’t make that appointment, Aziz. Come up to the house. You know where it is. Yes, as soon as you can.’

Once the call was over, Claudel and Kamal waited. Paced, checked their watches, paced some more. Nothing was said, tension building like static between them. After an anxious half-hour, Claudel heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and saw Aziz’s car pulling up outside.

Aziz walked into the villa and glanced around him. ‘Nice place,’ he started saying.

But he hadn’t gone three steps inside the marble-floored hallway before Kamal’s men hauled him through to the living room, dumped the panicking man in a chair and surrounded him.

‘You had something to say,’ Kamal told him.

Claudel pushed past, trying hard to hide his fury ‘Let me talk to him.’ He leaned down and looked earnestly at Aziz. ‘I can’t explain, my friend. But it’s very important that you tell me what you know.’

Aziz glanced up at the circle of hostile faces and started babbling nervously, spilling out his story. Four days ago, he’d been hired as a guide by an Englishman who’d introduced himself as Dr Morgan Paxton. The guy had wanted Aziz to drive him out to the pyramid cluster at Abusir, seventeen kilometres south of Cairo.

The tomb complex of Sahure, Claudel thought. The second ruler of Egypt’s Fifth Dynasty of kings, buried a thousand years before Akhenaten’s reign. ‘What for?’ he asked. ‘What did this Paxton want there?’

‘I don’t know,’ Aziz replied. ‘He didn’t say.’

‘Tell me about this Englishman,’ Kamal cut in.

Aziz glanced from one man to the other and babbled on, talking so fast he kept tripping over himself. ‘An academic. Nerdy Sandals and socks and a little blazer. Not the most streetwise kind of guy-didn’t have the sense to cover up his Rolex. When we got there, he wanted to go off on his own. I told him there were snakes. He said he didn’t care about the snakes, and that I was to wait for him in the car. He seemed really cagey about letting me go with him, like he wanted to keep it to himself. But there was no way I was going to sit cooking in the car. So I got out and sat in the shade and waited for him. If the crazy foreign bastard wanted to get himself lost or bitten, that was his problem.’

Claudel was painfully aware of the mounting impatience on Kamal’s face. ‘Just tell us what happened, Aziz.’

‘I waited about an hour. Then I saw him walking back. No, not walking, running. He was covered in dust and cobwebs, all out of breath, red in the face, excited as hell. Like a kid. He was punching the air with his fist. I thought he’d gone crazy. He kept muttering to himself.’

‘Muttering what?’

‘I don’t remember the exact words. But as soon as he said it, I remembered your call that time. That’s why I phoned you.’

‘What did he say?’ Claudel asked feverishly.

‘It was something about Amun being happy. And something about the heretic.’

Claudel felt the blood rush to his face. ‘Amun is content; the Heretic of Amarna shall be denied?’

‘That’s it. That’s what he said.’

Claudel tried to think. What was the connection? ‘Did he say anything more?’

‘No.’

‘You’re absolutely sure about that? It’s important.’

‘I told you, he didn’t say anything. He was just cackling and laughing to himself, like a nut. Then he had me drive him back into Cairo, as fast as I could. He started getting nervous, looking at his watch. Told me to head for the Egyptian Museum, but we missed it by five minutes. He looked pretty pissed off, but he didn’t say why or what he was looking for there.’

And then?’

And then he had me drop him off at his apartment building. Said he’d call me if he needed me again. That’s it.’

‘But he hasn’t called?’

‘No.’

‘But you know where he’s staying?’

Aziz blurted out the address.

Kamal stood over the frightened guide with his arms folded and a cold look in his eye. There was silence in the room.

Claudel’s mind was racing. It was either a disaster, or it was a break. It was clear that this Paxton person knew something. He was an academic. Maybe a history or archaeology scholar of some kind. What had he stumbled on? How much did he know? Who else had he told? The thought made Claudel break out in a cold sweat.

‘I want to talk to this Paxton,’ Kamal said, breaking the silence. He motioned to his men. ‘Emad, Farid, Mostafa, go and fetch him. Bring him here.’

This isn’t your fucking house, Claudel wanted to scream as the three men obeyed instantly and left the room. But he was too afraid to say a word.

Kamal turned back to Aziz. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Aziz glanced nervously at Claudel.

Kamal smiled. ‘Come on. A little glass of something.’ He moved to the drinks cabinet, opened the doors and scooped up one of Claudel’s fine cut-crystal wine glasses.

It had all happened before Claudel could react.

Kamal’s eyes flashed at Tarek, the leathery one, and the burly Youssef, who were standing behind Aziz’s chair. They gripped the man’s shoulders, pinning him down in it. Aziz opened his mouth wide in protest, and Kamal stepped quickly up to him and rammed the glass into it.

Aziz tried to scream. Kamal slowly pushed with his palm against the base of the glass until the guide’s cheeks were bulging and his eyes were darting crazily from side to side in his panic. He struggled and flailed against the hands holding him down.