Chapter Thirty-Nine

The road twisted downwards until they came to a coastal village. A cobbled street led to a harbour where small fishing vessels drifted and bumped on the tide, flanked on three sides by an ancient stone dock and a rocky beach. Lobster creels and salt-crusted nets lay piled on the pier, and in the falling dusk the lights from the huddled cottages on the sea front threw a golden, shimmering glow out across the water.

Ben parked the car and he and Kirby walked down a cobbled slope to a long, low pub with a weathered sign that said ‘The Whey Pat’. Inside, the décor looked as though it hadn’t been touched in centuries. A pitted old bar, some spartan benches and a couple of bare tables. No paper napkins or place mats on the tables, no chalkboard menus on the wall, just a well-used dartboard for the men who came in here to drink and nothing else. Ben wouldn’t have been surprised to see sawdust on the floor.

There were a few locals at the bar. The hum of conversation paused a beat as Ben and Kirby walked in, and one or two stares landed on Kirby before people looked away and the chatter picked up again.

‘Seems you’re popular round here,’ Ben said as he guided Kirby towards the empty far end of the pub. They grabbed a table near the fire, where a couple of logs were crackling and spitting. Ben went over to the bar and ordered two double Scotches. He didn’t know if Kirby drank whisky normally, and he didn’t care. If the guy wanted a drink, he was going to get him one that would loosen him up as fast as possible. There wasn’t much time to mess about, and beer was just too slow. He took a fistful of change from his pocket and fed it into the CD jukebox in the corner, selecting a bunch of noisy rock tracks that would allow them to talk without being overheard.

Back at the table, he slid Kirby’s glass over to him. He took out his Zippo and his last few Gauloises, and lit one up.

‘You can’t do that in here,’ Kirby said. ‘It’s illegal.’

Ben glanced up towards the bar. It wasn’t the kind of establishment where anyone seemed to give a damn, and he didn’t care if they did. ‘So is murder,’ he said. ‘And you’ve got two dead bodies at your place. Now drink that and start talking. The Akhenaten Project. Facts, figures, details, the works. Now.’

Kirby peered down at the glass, looked as if he were about to complain, then thought better of it. He picked it up, closed his eyes and knocked it back like medicine. When he put his glass down, his face had lost some of its pallor. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

‘Backstory first,’ he said. ‘You need it, to understand the rest.’

‘OK, but keep it short.’

‘Akhenaten was a pharaoh,’ Kirby said. ‘He reigned during the Eighteenth Dynasty, 1353 to 1336 BC. His real name was-’

‘Amenhotep IV,’ Ben cut in.

Kirby stared, arching an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t take you for an Egyptologist.’

‘I’m not. Theology at Oxford, years ago. But I still remember a few things.’

‘You said you were a soldier.’

‘I was. But we’re not here to discuss the story of my life.’

‘Army Theology. Kind of a culture clash, wouldn’t you say?’

Ben just stared at him.

Kirby shrugged. ‘OK. Whatever. Where was I?’

‘Akhenaten.’

‘Right. So maybe you know that Akhenaten was a little unusual. In fact, he was totally unique in the whole history of ancient Egypt.’

‘I know that he was the first king of Egypt to worship a single god.’

Kirby nodded. The whisky seemed to be relaxing him. ‘Aten. Otherwise known as the sun god, symbolised by the sun disc that Akhenaten instituted as a national icon. That was the guy’s whole crusade, to wipe out the old polytheistic religion, do away with all the traditional gods that Egyptians had venerated for thousands of years, and introduce this radical new thing that he called Atenism. It’s the first time in recorded history that anyone tried to implement a monotheistic state religion. To some historians he’s the precursor to Jesus Christ, to others he’s just a radical crackpot.’ Kirby finished his drink, gazed a little wistfully at the empty glass. ‘Can I get another drink?’

‘In a minute.’ Ben slid his own glass under the historian’s nose. ‘Have this in the meantime.’

‘Thanks. I need it.’

‘Let’s cut to the chase. I know about Atenism. And I know that Akhenaten was called a heretic for his religious reforms. But what’s this got to do with Morgan Paxton? I’m not seeing the connection here.’

Kirby picked up Ben’s glass. ‘Let me go on. You wanted to hear this, didn’t you? All the background stuff’s really important. Otherwise you won’t-’

‘OK, go on then,’ Ben snapped.

‘This pharaoh was only a young man when he took over from his father Amenhotep III,’ Kirby went on. ‘But he’d always been a little weird. Even physically weird, misshapen. All kinds of peculiarities about him. And soon after he took power, he started implementing this incredible, unthinkable plan. In the fifth year of his reign he adopted the name Akhenaten, which means “glorious spirit of the Aten”. That was the first sign of trouble. The crunch came when, in his ninth year, he basically abolished all of the old gods. We’re talking about a gigantic revolution, a total reorganisation of the whole foundation of the society. Figures like Anubis, the jackal-headed god. Osiris, ruler of the Underworld. Amun, big cheese of the whole lot. Akhenaten just swiped them away.’ Kirby gestured with his arm. ‘Just like that. All the people were left with was this very exclusive compulsory state religion, Atenism. Meanwhile, Akhenaten and his royal retinue abandoned the state capital of Thebes and went off to found a new city called Akhetaten, meaning “horizon of the Aten,” better known as Amarna.’ Kirby had finished Ben’s glass. He looked at him expectantly.

‘Same again?’ Ben asked, pointing at the empty glasses.

‘Why the hell not?’ Kirby replied.

Ben got up, strode over to the bar and came back with two more doubles. He slammed them down on the table. ‘Right. Keep talking.’

Kirby drank, seemed to lose his thread for a second, then continued. ‘OK, this is coming up to the important bit. While this crazy pharaoh is living it up in his own private paradise, worshipping his god like some new-age California hippie, the whole country’s going to the dogs. He basically didn’t give a toss what happened to the economy, to state security, or to the people. It all started crumbling away to shit. He was bringing Egypt to its knees.’ He paused for another long sip. His cheeks were rosy now, and his eyes were brightening steadily. ‘So, as you can imagine, a lot of people were terribly unhappy with Akhenaten. The temples played a very important role in the economic and social life of the community, and he’d destroyed all that. Meanwhile, the level of state censorship was pretty much on a par with the Nazi book-burning frenzy in pre-war Germany. Akhenaten ordered the destruction of vast hoards of treasures that had been created in veneration of the old gods. Everything from the biggest statue to the smallest amulet-if it depicted the old polytheistic order in any way, he wanted it suppressed. The gold was to be melted down and turned into Aten idols. The temples were all closed up. A whole profession of craftsmen, masons, sculptors, scribes, were suddenly forbidden from carrying out the trade they’d been practising all their lives. And the high priests were basically redundant. In short, just about everyone was seriously upset with this crazy pharaoh they regarded as a troublemaker. Worse than that. A heretic.’

Kirby paused. And now we come to the legend. The old, old myth of the heretic’s treasure, which tells that someone may or may not have managed to rescue a gigantic quantity of precious religious artefacts from destruction by Akhenaten’s agents.’