‘Hold on, Harry. Don’t hang up. There’s something more I want from you.’

At 9.28 a.m., Ben and Kirby were waiting at a prearranged spot on Sharia Talaat Harb, central Cairo’s main street, a hubbub of roaring traffic and bustling crowds, cafés and shops. Ben was leaning against a signpost, smoking his last cigarette and watching the street as he waited for Paxton’s contact to come and pick them up.

Kirby coughed and made a big show of wafting the smoke away. ‘Do you have to do that?’

‘Worried about passive smoking?’

‘Of course I am,’ Kirby said. ‘Everyone should be.’

‘Then you’d better get off this street, and out of Cairo. Just standing on this spot, the air pollution is equivalent to smoking thirty cigarettes a day. So I don’t think my extra little contribution is going to accelerate your demise much, Kirby.’

‘And I don’t like this situation,’ Kirby muttered. ‘Who are these people, anyway? Where are they going to take us? I thought Harry Paxton was your enemy.’

‘If you’re having second thoughts about being involved, now’s the time to tell me,’ Ben said. ‘You can still back out. Head back to the airport and go home to Drummond Manor.’

‘You know I can’t go back.’

‘Then sit it out in a nice hotel somewhere, out of harm’s way and out of mine.’

‘Don’t you worry about me,’ Kirby said. ‘I’ll be OK.’

‘Good. Because you said I wasn’t even going to know you were there. And I do. It’s annoying.’

Kirby shut up, and Ben went on smoking and watching the street.

A moment later, at exactly half past nine as arranged, a big SUV darted out of the traffic flow and pulled up alongside the kerb. Its bodywork glistened black, and the windows were tinted opaque. The rear door opened, and Ben saw three men inside, two black-haired, olive-skinned Egyptians and a white-haired Westerner sitting behind them. Nobody was smiling.

‘Get in,’ said the Westerner. His accent sounded German.

The SUV had three rows of seats. Ben and Kirby climbed inside and sat at the back. The German slammed the door shut and the vehicle took off and slipped back into the fast-moving traffic. He turned and handed Ben and Kirby each a black hood. ‘Put these on.’

Kirby looked in horror. ‘What the fuck? I’m not wearing this. It’s what they put on people about to be executed.’

‘Put it on,’ Ben said quietly. ‘And shut up. Or I’ll execute you myself.’

The drive seemed to last a long time, and nobody spoke. Blind behind the hood, Ben tried for a while to keep track of the twists and turns, but after a few minutes he’d lost his bearings and had no idea where they were being taken. He rested back against the seat, feeling tension emanating from Kirby next to him. Then the car swerved right, bumped up a short ramp and rolled to a halt. He heard voices from outside. They echoed, as though the car had driven into a large empty space. There was the noisy clatter of a steel security shutter being pulled down. The doors of the SUV clunked open, and someone ripped off their cloth hoods.

Ben blinked and looked around him.

‘Get out,’ the German guy said, and Ben and Kirby stepped down from the vehicle, closely watched by their escorts.

They were inside an enormous empty building. The walls were bare block, and the floor concrete. Overhead were thick riveted steel girders and neon striplights suspended from chains. At the far end of the building were racks of empty industrial shelving.

He and Kirby were surrounded by a group of men, the three from the car ride plus another three. Two of them were cradling compact submachine pistols-not just for show, but in a way that showed they thought they might need them. Clearly, Paxton had given his associates an idea of who they were dealing with.

Five yards to Ben’s right was a long industrial steel workbench. It was covered with firearms of all shapes and sizes. Scores of them.

Kirby glanced nervously at the men, then his gaze rested on the arsenal of weaponry. ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he whispered furiously.

Ben silenced him with a look, and walked over to the bench. The men stepped aside to let him pass, and the German smiled coldly and gestured as if to show off his wares.

Paxton’s associates were only small fry in the great scheme of the illegal arms trade, but the display was impressive. There was everything from small handguns to submachine guns to full-size assault weapons to RPG launchers. Everything was new, oiled and shiny under the lights. On the far side of the bench, a row of crates were filled with ammunition of various types. The last in the row was stacked with 40mm grenades. On the concrete floor, a large canvas holdall was unzipped and waiting.

‘You like what you see?’ the German said.

Ben didn’t reply. Conscious of the men’s eyes on him, he ran his hand along a cluster of military handguns and picked up an Israeli-made Jericho. 15-round magazine, 9mm calibre. Simple, rugged and practical. He nodded to the men and the gun was placed in the open holdall.

But Ben knew he was going to need more than a pistol this time. His brush with Kamal had already shown him the kind of people competing to find the treasure. He walked slowly along the length of the bench, assessing each weapon in turn. He needed firepower, but he couldn’t walk about Cairo with a full-size military rifle.

Then he saw exactly what he wanted, and picked it up.

‘The FN F2000 assault rifle,’ the German said. ‘Good weapon. 5.56 NATO, high-capacity magazine. Ultra-compact bullpup design, inbuilt scope and on-board fire control system computer with laser rangefinder. Underbarrel 40mm grenade launcher.’

‘I don’t need a guided tour,’ Ben said, and the German shut up. Ben turned the short, stubby weapon over in his hands. It was a wild, space-age design, plasticky, brutal and ugly. But it was perfect for what he needed. He nodded. One of the Egyptians took it from him and placed it in the holdall with the pistol.

‘OK, that’ll do. Can we go now?’ Kirby said.

‘Not yet,’ Ben answered. He picked up a small, snubby.38-calibre revolver from the end of the table and handed it to Kirby. ‘This is called a Ladysmith. It’s yours.’

‘I don’t want a gun,’ Kirby said, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘You’re getting one. We’re partners, remember. And with that, you won’t blow your own foot off or put a bullet in me. Even a child could work it.’

Some of the arms dealers were sniggering quietly. Ben snatched the little pistol back out of Kirby’s hands, tossed it to the guy with the holdall and it was added to the collection.

‘Fifty rounds for each pistol,’ Ben said to the German. ‘Two hundred for the rifle. And ten of the 40mm grenades.’

‘You are expecting a small war, it seems?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Will there be anything else?’ the German asked mock-politely

‘That should do it,’ Ben said. ‘You know who to send the bill to. Our friend the colonel.’

Five minutes later, Ben and Kirby were hooded and riding back towards the city in the SUV with the holdall between them on the seat. The drive back didn’t seem to take as long, and then their hoods were removed again and they were dropped at the pickup point on Sharia Talaat Harb. The men didn’t even glance at them as they got out. The car took off and disappeared into the traffic.

‘Well, thank you for that experience,’ Kirby muttered. ‘It was perfectly charming. Hoods over our heads. Men with guns. And now we’re going around Cairo with a veritable arsenal. Is all this really necessary?’

Ben hefted the heavy holdall over his shoulder and started heading towards the car. ‘Welcome to my world,’ he muttered, to nobody in particular.