‘That sounds like a good idea, Harry. And there’s one more thing. If I’d known what I know now, I’d never have sent that file to you. I’d have wiped it. And I think that’s what you should do. Delete it from your computer, right now.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Paxton said.

‘And will you promise me you’ll relocate?’

‘As soon as it’s feasible. I promise. You’re right. I need to think of Zara.’ Paxton paused. ‘Will you be coming back to San Remo, to see us while we’re still here?’

Ben didn’t reply.

‘After what you’ve been through, I’d like you to be my guest here for a few days,’ Paxton said. ‘So would Zara. She seemed very much to enjoy your company. I sometimes think she’s a bit lonely,’ he added wistfully. ‘I’m always up to my eyes in business. She’d love to see you again.’

Ben squirmed. Jesus.

‘Maybe some other time, Harry. If I’m not staying here, I’ve really got to be heading back home.’

‘I’m disappointed,’ Paxton said. ‘I would have liked to be able to thank you in person, show you how truly grateful I am. But I understand you have affairs of your own to attend to. I hope you’ll at least let me wire you the money you lost.’

‘Forget it, Harry. I don’t want it.’

‘You earned it.’

‘I didn’t do much,’ Ben said.

Paxton paused. ‘Keep in touch, won’t you?’

‘See you around, Harry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you.’

Ben ended the call. He sat still for a moment, deep in thought.

‘Right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Time to go home.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

Claudel was flicking through a book in his study when he heard the van skid up on the gravel outside. A few seconds later, Kamal came bursting into the villa. Rapid footsteps across the marble floor of the hall. The study door flew open. Kamal stormed into the room, clutching a laptop to his chest. He strode over to the desk and thumped it down, sending papers fluttering.

‘What’s that?’ Claudel asked nervously. He could almost feel the heat of the aggression that was pouring off the man.

Kamal’s eyes flashed with fury. ‘That is your whole life, until you can figure out what’s inside.’

Claudel flipped the lid open and switched on the machine. As he sat poring over the screen, Kamal was pacing up and down, almost manic with rage. He tore a valuable second edition of Gibbons’ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire from a bookshelf and hurled it across the room. It smacked against the wall. The binding burst apart and it fluttered to the floor like a dead bird. ‘I’ll have that bastard’s head on a plate!’ he screamed.

‘What happened?’

‘Three of my men are dead, is what happened.’ Kamal roared the last word. He grabbed a delicate eighteenth-century upholstered chair, threw it down and stamped it into pieces. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ Pieces of wood spun across the study floor.

Claudel looked away. He knew better than to ask too many questions of Kamal when he was in this mood. He returned to the computer, and quickly found the Akhenaten file. His eyes brightened. Then he tried clicking into it.

‘This file is encrypted,’ he said, looking up.

‘I know that,’ Kamal raged. ‘You take me for a fucking idiot?’

Claudel looked back down at the screen and felt a trickle of sweat run down his neck. ‘I’m not a computer person,’ he protested weakly. ‘How am I supposed to crack an encrypted file?’

Kamal stormed over to him with his teeth bared in anger. ‘I don’t care how you do it. You figure this out. Understood?’

Claudel was already running through his options, thinking of all the people he knew who could help. Hisham, he thought. Hisham was good with computers.

But no sooner had the thought occurred to him, than his heart sank again. He couldn’t call Hisham. If he failed, Kamal would just shoot the guy, or worse. Anyone Claudel brought in on this situation was condemned to death. He thought of what had happened to Aziz. He thought about him all the time, couldn’t get the image out of his mind. He’d been having nightmares about it.

No. He was on his own.

He looked desperately up at Kamal. ‘The password could be anything.’

‘Then try everything,’ Kamal said. ‘Starting now.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Normandy

It was a long journey home, and it was late when Ben finally arrived back at Le Val by taxi. The moon was full, bathing the cobbled yard in milky light. He paid the driver and stepped out, stretching his legs. Watched the car drive off into the darkness up the long, winding drive.

He looked around him. The homely smell of the wood-burning stove was drifting across from the farmhouse, and there was a light on behind the curtained kitchen window. Across the yard, the trainees’ accommodation block was dimly lit and he heard someone laugh in the distance.

He heard the sound of running paws, and a shaggy shape hurled itself out of the shadows to greet him.

Ben patted the dog affectionately as it jumped up to lick his face. ‘Hey, Storm. Good to see you too, boy.’ And he meant it. It was good to be home. He wearily climbed the three steps to the farmhouse door, turned the big brass handle and stepped into the hallway.

The place was warm and welcoming. Someone had a CD playing in the kitchen. Ben recognised the music. It was one of his own collection: Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. He walked down the flagstone passage and pushed open the oak door. All he could think about was a large glass of red wine, a chunk of local cheese and a hunk of bread.

Brooke was sitting alone at the kitchen table, reading a novel. In front of her was a steaming mug that smelled like cocoa. She looked up as Ben came in. Her hair was damp, as though she’d just got out of the shower, and she was wearing an emerald green bathrobe. It brought out the green of her eyes, something Ben had never noticed about her before.

She put down her novel, and smiled warmly. ‘You’re back.’

‘You’re still here,’ he said.

‘I told you I was going to hang around for a few days, remember?’ She peered at him and her smile faded. ‘Christ, Hope. You look like shit.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Honestly. Your eyes are like two burnt holes in a blanket.’

‘That makes me feel even better,’ he said, making a beeline for the wine rack.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing I really feel like talking about.’ He grabbed a bottle and the opener, and set about tearing away the foil to get at the cork.

Brooke stood up. She came over to him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll do that.’ She pointed at the huge cast-iron pot that was sitting on the range. ‘There’s still some of Marie-Claire’s cassoulet. To die for, I’m telling you. Blew my diet completely. You hungry?’

He slumped in a wooden chair. ‘Like I’ve never eaten in my life.’

Brooke pulled the cork out of the bottle, glugged wine into a large glass and set it down in front of him. He knocked it back, reached for the bottle and refilled it.

‘Bad day at the office, then,’ she said over her shoulder as she ladled a pile of the stew into a saucepan and started warming it over the gas flame.

He didn’t reply. Sat and drank as she served the food onto a plate and brought it over to him. There was concern showing in her eyes.

‘Thanks for this, Brooke,’ he said through a mouthful of the stew. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to be back.’

She sat down beside him at the table and rested her chin on her palm, watching him eat. ‘How come you don’t want to tell me what happened? What took you to Cairo?’

‘I was just helping a friend.’

‘This Paxton guy?’

He nodded.

‘But it’s over now?’

He nodded again.

Brooke snorted. ‘Well, whatever you were doing out there for him, I hope he appreciates it. You should see yourself.’