Kamal let go of the glass, leaving the stem and base sticking out of Aziz’s gaping mouth. He moved his hands either side of the man’s face. Balled them into fists. Then crunched them against Aziz’s cheeks.

Claudel heard the sickening crack of the glass breaking inside Aziz’s mouth. Kamal’s eyes were wide and bright. He pinched Aziz’s nose with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Used the heel of his right hand against his chin. Aziz was trying to spit, but all he could do was swallow. His screams were stifled against Kamal’s hand. Blood welled out of his mouth, gushing down his throat and chest.

Then Kamal let him go. Aziz writhed screaming out of the chair and collapsed to the floor. A blood-choked gurgle came from his lacerated lips.

Kamal hadn’t stopped smiling the whole time. He watched for a few more seconds, then took the pistol from behind the hip of his jeans. Worked the slide, pointed it down at Aziz’s head.

Aziz stared up. The bottom half of his face was slick with blood. His mouth was contorted. His eyes were pleading, full of terror. Then a hole appeared between them and he slumped to the floor with the back of his skull punched out.

Claudel stood numb with horror, deafened by the gunshot. He gaped down at the bloody corpse, and the stain that was seeping through the cashmere carpet. ‘What did you just do?’

‘He knew too much,’ Kamal said. ‘Get rid of him. Now we’ll soon see what this Paxton knows.’

But an hour later, there had been more bad news. By the time Kamal’s three men had got to the apartment building, police were all over it and there was a bloody corpse on a stretcher being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Dr Morgan Paxton’s corpse.

Someone had got to him first. But who?

The news had said it was a robbery gone off the rails, but Claudel didn’t trust it. He spent six straight hours on the phone, trying to find out more about the Paxton murder. Nobody seemed to know anything, not even his cop contact. Sergeant Hussein of the Cairo Municipal Police had proved a useful, if expensive, ally in the past when Claudel needed information, or for the cops to look the other way. But Hussein had nothing for him this time.

The Frenchman sank deeper into despair. What if the killer had taken information from Paxton? What if someone else beat them to the treasure?

His life would be over. Ended. The way Kamal kept glaring at him, he was scared that that time would come even sooner.

All that had been two months ago. Since then, Claudel had been like a zombie. Time seemed to have stopped. He couldn’t drag himself away from the news, convinced every time he turned on the TV that he’d be greeted with an announcement of a major archaeological discovery out in the desert. He’d driven out to the Abusir pyramids, south of Cairo on the edge of the great sands, desperately searching for whatever it was that this Paxton might have found there. The place was a broken-down wasteland of scattered rocks and dust. He’d spent hours there, wandering among the ruins, digging aimlessly in the sand. To no avail. He just didn’t know what he was looking for.

Back at the villa, Kamal came and went, sometimes staying a couple of days at a time, sometimes disappearing for a week. Claudel did his best to avoid him, and didn’t even want to think about what he might be up to during his absences. Each time he saw the van pull in through the gates he had the same chilling fear that today was the day Kamal would finally give up on him and put a bullet in his head. Claudel felt more and more as if he was living on borrowed time. It was like waiting for death.

He stood there on the balcony, his mind returning to the present as he watched the lazy red disc of the sun slowly begin its climb in the eastern sky. He sighed.

His phone rang on his bedside table. He wandered over to it, picked it up wearily and stabbed the reply button. Who could be calling him at this time of the morning?

It was the cop, Hussein.

‘You know what time it is?’ Claudel said irritably.

‘This can’t wait. I thought you’d want to know.’

Claudel tutted. ‘What?’

‘You know you asked me about the Paxton business?’

A faint glow of hope crept into Claudel’s burnt-out brain. ‘Yes?’ he replied cautiously. He listened as Hussein talked, and his eyes began to widen.

‘A citizen’s arrest, you say?’

‘Brought in trussed up like a couple of chickens,’ Hussein said. ‘And the way things are looking, they’re dead certs for the Paxton killing. They confessed inside of ten minutes. Probably swing for it. But here’s the strange bit. While we were locking them up, one of them was raving about the guy who brought them in. This crazy foreigner who’d stormed into their place, interrogated them about Paxton, beaten the crap out of them and stolen all their stuff.’

‘Who the hell is he?’

‘Somebody professional,’ Hussein said. ‘By all accounts, he mowed them down like grass.’

Suddenly there was blood flowing in Claudel’s veins again. ‘You have a name for this guy?’

‘I can do better than that,’ Hussein said. ‘A police car just took him back to his apartment. Not five minutes ago. He’s staying at the same place Paxton did.’

Chapter Twenty

Ben was drifting in and out of a doze as the unmarked car drove him back. It pulled up outside the grim apartment building. He thanked the driver for the lift, got out and watched the police car’s taillights disappear down the street. It would soon be dawn. He wearily climbed the stairs, let himself into the rented flat, switched on the lights and flopped in an armchair.

He felt suddenly deflated, melancholy. Morgan’s killers had been taken care of, but what good was it going to do anyone? The whole thing had been depressing and ugly, and now he was glad it was over. All he wanted to do was go home.

His eyes were heavy. Sleep beckoned, but he didn’t want to use the bed. Kept imagining Morgan’s body sprawled over it. But there was a sofa in the living room that seemed comfortable enough. He’d slept in a lot of worse places in his time.

He turned off the main lights and put on a small corner lamp that flooded the room with a soft glow and almost made it seem cosy. He settled down on the sofa, letting his muscles relax and exhaustion take over.

But it was no use. He knew he couldn’t sleep until he’d taken a look at the computer. Jumping up, he grabbed his bag and carried it back to the sofa. Sitting on the edge, he pulled out the laptop. It was still rolled up inside the striped blazer.

As he unwrapped it, a small scrap of paper fell out of the blazer’s breast pocket and spiralled down onto the carpet. He laid the computer down next to him on the sofa and bent to pick up the paper. Unfolding it, he saw it was a receipt stub from a Cairo grocery store, showing the purchase of some tinned food and a bottle of beer. Across the pale columns of figures, someone had scribbled a phone number in biro.

Ben read the number three times before his tired eyes registered that it was a UK landline number. The area code was 01334. It wasn’t one he knew. Then there was the main number, and below that was what looked like a three-digit extension number, maybe for an office-345.

It might be important, or it might not. Ben folded the receipt and replaced it in the blazer pocket, making a mental note to tell Harry about it when he saw him. He bundled the blazer back in his bag, slipped the gold Rolex off his wrist and dropped it inside as well. He laid the bag on the floor, settled back on the sofa with cushions propped behind his head and the slim computer resting on his stomach. He flipped open the lid and pressed the power button. Waited as it loaded itself up.

Morgan’s screensaver was a shot of some archaeological dig in the sands. Ben clicked on the ‘My Documents’ icon and a list flashed up. It was a short one. He scrolled down, looking for anything promising. Then he came to it.