He’d found himself standing face to face with the heretic himself.

The stone bust seemed to gaze right back at him with slanted eyes, and he was struck by the strangeness of its features. The long, drooping face and grotesquely elongated cranium were eerily peculiar, almost disturbingly alien in appearance. He remembered what Kirby had said about the king having been regarded as odd, perhaps misshapen. So little was known about the man himself. Who had he really been, this heretical pharaoh who’d inspired so much hate and fear, to the point that his own people would have tried to write him out of the history books?

Ben was too absorbed by the strange relic to notice someone else walking up behind him. He sensed the presence and turned to see another museum attendant, a younger man with a friendly smile.

‘Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with my colleague a minute ago. I might be able to help you.’

‘I hope so,’ Ben said. ‘I was looking for the throne of the High Priest Wenkaura, from the time of Akhenaten.’

‘And I’m afraid that particular piece doesn’t belong to the museum’s collection,’ the attendant said. ‘My colleague was right about that. But there are many private antiquities collections across Egypt, as well as Europe, the USA and elsewhere. One of them may very well have what you’re looking for.’

‘Is there a directory anywhere of these collectors, and maybe a list of the items they have?’

‘I’d have to check that for you with the curator,’ the attendant said. ‘He’s very busy, and it might take some time. But there’s a way you could save a lot of trouble. I know a man who could have this kind of information. Frankly, what he doesn’t know about the antiquities world isn’t worth knowing. He might well know where your throne is.’

A ray of hope. Ben felt his pulse pick up a step. ‘What’s his name?’

‘His name is Pierre Claudel,’ the attendant said.

‘Where can I find him? I’m extremely keen to speak to him.’

The attendant smiled. ‘Step this way. I have the number in my office.’

Claudel was alone at the villa, sitting slumped at his desk with a long, strong drink and dwelling endlessly on morbid thoughts, when the phone rang at his elbow. He turned slowly and watched as the vibrations of the silent ringer propelled it towards the edge of the desk.

For a long moment, he resisted picking it up. Why not just let it creep to the edge of the polished wood, drop off and smash itself on the floor? It would only be Kamal. He was the only person who called any more. Claudel could barely remember the days when he’d been running a thriving business and his phone had never stopped. For that matter, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a shit about blue skies and sunshine, or beautiful art and music, or beautiful women. When had he last woken up in the morning and not wanted to crawl deep under the covers and never come out again? Chronic fear was like a chilling, suffocating fog that had settled over his whole life.

But then Claudel remembered that the caller couldn’t be Kamal. He’d said he was going to be away on business for a few days and wouldn’t be in touch. Something to do with those plans he kept alluding to. That was a subject Claudel didn’t want to dwell on, not for a moment. He wanted to blot it all from his mind forever-though how could he, when all he could think about was that, any day now, Kamal was going to take him out to the desert, put a bullet in his head and leave him for the vultures? He mused for a moment: would Kamal give him a quick death? Was being left out to rot in the desert a better end than a long, drawn-out suicide by booze and antidepressants?

The phone kept ringing insistently. Claudel felt a surge of curiosity that was just strong enough to overcome his despondency and reach out for the phone. He snatched it up and muttered a desultory ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Pierre Claudel?’ said the voice on the line.

Claudel didn’t recognise it. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Speaking. Who is this?’

‘You don’t know me. My name’s Ben Hope. Are you free to talk for a minute?’

Claudel jolted into life at the sound of the name. Ben Hope-of all the people who could have popped up. The man Kamal had encountered, and been raging about ever since. The mysterious foreigner who seemed to know an awful lot about Morgan Paxton’s project.

Claudel’s head was suddenly spinning with possibilities. He covered his surprise well, and summoned up all the polite charm he had left in him. ‘Certainly. How may I help you, Mr Hope?’

‘I’m a writer carrying out research for a book,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve been told you’re the best person to approach regarding a query about Egyptian antiquities.’

For the first time in days, Claudel managed a smile as he listened to the lies. Why was this person interested in the throne of some obscure High Priest? His mind raced to connect the dots.

‘Why, I would be delighted to help you. You must come over to my home to talk it over and see if I can be of any assistance. Yes, I’m free now. Let me give you the directions.’

The Shogun’s fat tyres rasped on the gravel as Ben pulled up outside the grand villa. ‘This place is incredible,’ Kirby muttered as he scanned the classical façade of the house, the gardens, the ornamental fountain that tinkled and burbled in the courtyard, and the sleek red Ferrari gleaming in the hot sun. He turned to Ben. ‘Who did you say this guy was?’

‘I don’t really know. An antiquities expert. Maybe a dealer.’

The front door of the villa opened, and a tall, elegant man in beige chinos and a dark blue silk shirt ambled easily down the steps to greet them. He smiled and extended his hand as Ben stepped out of the car. ‘Mr Hope? Pierre Claudel. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

They shook hands. ‘This is my research assistant, Lawrence Kirby,’ Ben said.

‘That’s, uh, Dr Lawrence Kirby,’ Kirby shot sideways.

Genial and suave, the Frenchman led them inside to a plush reception room and offered drinks. Ben felt restless and jumpy as he sat back with a glass of excellent white wine and tried to look as though his interest in Egyptian antiquities was purely intellectual. Kirby was admiring the décor, open-mouthed.

‘So, Mr Hope, tell me more about this book you’re writing,’ Claudel said with a smile.

Ben kept his composure as he rattled off what he hoped was a convincing stream of lies about his reasons for wanting to locate the throne of Wenkaura. ‘It seems to be an area of that period’s history that’s little touched upon,’ he finished. Inwardly, he was wincing at his performance. To him it reeked strongly of bullshit.

But Claudel seemed quite convinced. He topped up their glasses with more chilled wine, nodded thoughtfully, agreed unreservedly, and for a few minutes they chatted about the desirability among collectors of relics from the Akhenaten era.

‘I don’t want to take up too much of your time,’ Ben said, fighting to keep the tension out of his voice. ‘Would you happen to have any idea of where the Wenkaura throne could be?’

Claudel seemed about to reply, but then glanced at Ben’s empty glass and tutted. ‘I seem to have run out of wine to offer you. Let me fetch some more from the cellar.’

‘Please,’ Ben said, biting his tongue. ‘There’s no need.’

‘Really,’ Claudel replied warmly. ‘I insist. Excuse me for just one moment.’

When Claudel had left the room, Kirby leaned towards Ben and whispered, ‘Seems like a decent bloke.’

Ben didn’t reply.

A second later, Claudel reappeared in the doorway. He was holding something in his right hand, but it wasn’t a bottle of wine. It was an AKS automatic weapon.