‘Sudan is extremely difficult,’ Claudel warned. ‘The country is a military regime, and the soldiers who patrol the border in heavily armed jeeps will tend to shoot first and ask questions later. Not to mention the risk from rebel groups running riot across northern Sudan. Westerners are major targets for robbery and kidnap. Even crossing the border legally can be a nightmare. Security’s tight. You could take the train to Aswan and from there a twenty-four-hour ferry across Lake Nasser to Wadi Halfa. But the border is seething with police and you’d need to procure all the necessary papers to get in. As well as mandatory yellow fever, typhoid and cholera inoculations.’

Paxton’s deadline was never far from Ben’s mind, and he thought about it again now. He couldn’t afford the slightest delay. He shook his head. ‘I’m not sitting it out in Cairo for five days waiting to get rubber-stamped by some petty bureaucrat. And I won’t be going through any checkpoints.’

‘Hey, what happened to “we”?’ Kirby asked.

Ben turned to glare at him. ‘You’re not coming. I go it alone from here. You’ve done your bit.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Kirby said, outraged. ‘I have to go, too.’

‘Think about what you’re saying. You want to drive into hostile territory with me. A million acres of wilderness, armed border patrols chasing us, militant Bedouin groups everywhere, fresh from the Darfur conflict.’

Kirby swallowed. ‘Yes.’

‘Look at you. You couldn’t even climb out of a window. You almost died climbing a few stairs.’

‘What if you still need me? What if there are more things to decipher? How do you know this map isn’t just going to lead to another clue?’

‘He’s right,’ Claudel said. ‘You just don’t know what to expect.’

Ben sat in silence for a while, mulling it over. He sighed. ‘Then I don’t have much choice. We leave as soon as possible.’

‘What about me?’ Claudel asked.

‘What, you want to tag along as well?’

‘Certainly not,’ the Frenchman said. ‘I told you, all I want is out of this whole thing. I’ve had enough. But I don’t want to be here when Kamal gets back. You said you were going to take care of him.’

‘I will. But my business comes first. When it’s done, I’ll take care of yours. That was the deal.’

‘So what am I to do in the meantime?’ Claudel asked.

‘Have you got a friend in Cairo whose wife you haven’t slept with?’ Ben asked him. ‘That’s where I’d be heading, if I were you. That, or leave the country. Take a long vacation. Anywhere but here.’

Claudel thought about it. ‘Very well. I think it’s time I paid a visit to France. I have a sister in Lyon. I’ll leave early in the morning. You two are welcome to stay the night here.’

Ben shook his head. ‘No stopping. We still have time to catch the night train to Aswan, and from there we’ll drive south across the desert towards Abu Simbel and then the Sudanese border. Say a five-, six-hour drive if the roads are reasonable.’

‘More running around?’ Kirby moaned. ‘Why can’t we just fly to Abu Simbel in the morning? I’m knackered.’

Ben nudged the bulging holdall with his foot, and felt the weight of the weapons and ammunition inside. ‘Because I think there could be an issue with taking this stuff through customs, and I have a feeling it’s going to be needed.’

Chapter Forty-Eight

After the two Englishmen had left and he had watched the taillights of their car disappear down his driveway and into the night, Claudel poured himself a nice glass of champagne and leaned back on the chaise longue in his living room to listen to a Boccherini cello concerto and reflect on the sudden change in his fortunes.

It was almost one in the morning by the time he’d polished off the bottle, but he wasn’t remotely sleepy. He wondered whether the two had managed to catch the night train to Aswan. If it was on time, they’d get there by about nine the next morning.

He couldn’t believe the stroke of luck he’d had in meeting this Ben Hope, someone who wouldn’t be afraid of a man like Kamal. If things went according to plan, he’d soon be free again. He could have his life back. Maybe one day he’d even be able to forget that this nightmare had ever happened to him. And perhaps it was time to get out of the whole antiquities game. It had turned sour for him now.

He paced up and down, feeling the tingle of excitement growing inside him. Escape. It felt good. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.

Then why wait at all?

He dashed upstairs, and hummed an air from Boccherini to himself as he grabbed two Louis Vuitton suitcases, laid them open on the antique four-poster bed in his room and started throwing clothes into them. Twenty minutes later he burst out of the bedroom with a case in each hand and the house and Ferrari keys in his suit pocket. Trotted down the stairs with jittery haste, crossed the marbled hallway between the busts of Roman emperors and headed briskly for the front door.

He was two feet away, and about to put down one of the cases to reach for the doorknob, when he saw it turn.

His blood froze. He stood there, paralysed, still clutching the cases.

The door swung open.

‘Going somewhere?’ Kamal asked with a smile. He was leaning casually against one of the pillars in the doorway, arms folded nonchalantly, his smile almost pleasant. The van was parked in the moonlight outside the villa. Claudel could see two of Kamal’s men sitting in the front seat-Youssef and the one who never spoke, Emad.

Claudel struggled desperately to come up with a plausible excuse for the bags. ‘I…I was just t-taking some suits and things for dry cleaning,’ he stammered.

‘The midnight laundry?’

Claudel was silent.

Kamal’s smile never wavered. He pushed himself off the pillar, walked inside the house, clicked the door shut behind him. ‘That can wait, can’t it? Come and have a drink with me.’ He slapped Claudel jovially on the arm. ‘I have something to celebrate. I’ll tell you all about it.’

Claudel sighed heavily and tried not to show his absolute despair and panic as he set down the cases and followed Kamal across the hallway and through the tall double doors into the living room.

Kamal was grinning as he flipped on the lights and padded over the cashmere carpet to the drinks cabinet. ‘I see you’ve been having a private celebration of your own,’ he said, noticing the empty champagne bottle and the single glass that Claudel had left sitting on the table. ‘Wouldn’t it be amazing if it turned out we were both celebrating the same thing?’

Claudel laughed nervously. ‘I was just having a nightcap.’

Kamal threw open the drinks cabinet doors, grabbed two crystal brandy glasses, twisted the top off a crystal decanter, and poured out two enormous measures of vintage cognac. ‘Sit down, Pierre. Drink with me.’

Claudel reluctantly accepted the glass Kamal handed him, lowered himself stiffly into a chair and sipped nervously at the brandy. He felt acidity rising in his guts, and it wasn’t just because of mixing drinks. Suddenly the image of Aziz flashed up in his mind.

Aziz had died in this same chair. Just after Kamal had offered him a drink.

Claudel’s glass trembled a little in his hand.

Kamal was leaning back against the wall, watching him closely. ‘Why are you so nervous tonight, my friend?’

‘I’m not nervous,’ Claudel laughed shakily. ‘Why would I be?’

‘I thought perhaps you had something to tell me.’

Claudel swallowed. ‘Like what?’

‘Like you’d found some new lead,’ Kamal said. ‘You do still remember our project, don’t you, Pierre? Our business partnership? The thing we were looking for?’

‘I’m very confident we’ll find it soon.’

‘So am I,’ Kamal smiled.

‘That’s good,’ Claudel replied lamely. A trickle of sweat ran down his brow.