The Heretics Treasure

Chapter Eighteen

Three minutes later, the two junkies were lying bound and gagged on the rug. Just two parcels waiting to be delivered, as Ben made his preparations. He carefully wrapped Morgan Paxton’s striped cotton blazer around the laptop for protection, and slipped it into his bag. Then he fetched a rag from the kitchen, sat on the stool at the glass-topped table and stripped down Abdou’s CZ75 into its component parts. He used the rag to wipe everything down and reassembled the pistol, careful not to leave any prints.

The two prisoners craned their necks to eye him nervously as he worked. He ignored them. When the gun was back together he stood up and walked over to the older one. Holding the weapon butt-first with the rag, he grabbed the junkie’s right hand and smeared his prints all over the frame, slide and trigger guard. He walked back into the kitchen and stuffed the gun into the hole under the floor along with the rest of the evidence.

Locking the door behind him, he left the flat and made his way silently down the stairs to ground level. The taxi was still there, dusty under the faint streetlights. The driver was lounging smoking in his seat, clearly enjoying what was turning out to be a lucrative and easy job for him. Ben smiled. The guy was about to get a shock.

He climbed the stairs back to the junkies’ flat, unlocked the door and went inside. Nothing had changed. The two strained to peer up at him as he walked up to them. Their eyes were bulging, faces red, veins standing out on their foreheads. He grabbed the older one by the shirt collar and hauled him across the floor. The guy struggled and mumbled behind the gag. Ben dragged him along the passageway to the door, out into the hallway. He let the guy’s head crack down on the floor as he let him go to lock the door, then grabbed him again. ‘If you think I’m carrying you down,’ he said, ‘you’re much mistaken.’

The descent was fairly brutal, and after bumping down three flights of urine-smelling concrete stairs the guy’s protests had dwindled to a sobbing whimper. Ben heaved him up over his shoulder, glanced up and down the dark street to check nobody was around, and carried him across to the car.

The taxi driver was already out of his seat. His laid-back composure slipped a little when he saw the bound, gagged prisoner. ‘What are you doing?’ he gasped.

‘I’m making a citizen’s arrest.’ Ben opened the boot of the car and dumped the writhing body inside. ‘Leave it open. There’s another one to come.’

A couple of minutes later, both prisoners were stuffed in the boot. Ben slammed the lid. There was a muted squawk of pain and fear from inside. He checked his watch. It was after three in the morning. He turned to the taxi driver. ‘Last call,’ he said. ‘These guys are going to jail.’

The taxi driver grinned and shook his head. ‘You are one crazy motherfucker,’ he said as he slipped back in behind the wheel.

‘Tell me about it,’ Ben answered. He climbed in the back, slammed the door and the car took off again, riding a little low at the back.

Down at the police headquarters, Ben went up to the main desk and asked for Ramoud, the officer in charge of Morgan’s case. He refused to talk to anyone else. After some consternation and a lot of whispering, someone went to fetch him. When he finally came breezing out of a doorway, Ramoud looked cartoonlike, small, fat and bald in a double-breasted grey suit.

Ben didn’t say much. He led the policeman out to the car, opened the boot and let him see what was inside. Then he told him what it was all about, what these people had done and where the evidence was that could prove it hands down. A cast-iron, slam-dunk guaranteed conviction.

The prisoners were bundled out of the car and dragged inside the station to be processed and thrown in the cells. Ben watched them being marched away. Stepped back outside, handed his driver a clutch of notes, thanked him and let him go.

Ramoud reappeared, eyeing Ben curiously. He gestured to follow him, and they made their way through labyrinthine neon-lit corridors until they came to a small office. Ramoud showed Ben to a chair and offered him coffee in a foam cup. It was tepid and tasteless but he welcomed it. Fatigue was wearing him down. It was four in the morning and he’d been on the move for a long time.

He had no objection to giving his name and letting Ramoud see his passport. As far as anyone was concerned, he’d done nothing wrong, broken no laws. He filled in a couple of forms, signed and dated them and slid them back across the desk.

‘I have a few more questions,’ Ramoud said with a smile.

‘Fire away,’ Ben replied. He knew they wouldn’t be too tough. The arrest wasn’t exactly standard procedure, but he got the feeling that the police chief had no problem with someone else doing his work for him. Ben guessed he wasn’t in for much of a grilling-and he was right. Ramoud skirted none too subtly around the whole issue of exactly how Ben had come across his information. He didn’t even ask what was in the bag, and Ben didn’t volunteer any information about it. The laptop and the blazer were strictly for Harry and, besides, he didn’t want to bring heat down on his informants. Barada was what he was, but Ben didn’t have any personal issue with the man. Plus, the nightclub owner might be inclined to go after Abdou, and the old crook didn’t deserve to lose any more fingers. At least, not over this.

Ramoud scrawled careless notes as Ben gave his statement. Now and then he would stop, chew the end of his pen and look up to ask another question. The answers Ben gave were ludicrously vague and would have attracted the deepest suspicion in any European police procedure, but Ramoud seemed perfectly satisfied and kept scribbling.

Ben smiled to himself. Corruption had its place, sometimes.

By 4.30 a.m., the detective had the paperwork wrapped up and seemed happy. He gave Ben his solemn assurance that he had men already dealing with the evidence and that, if it were half as incriminating as it sounded, the two guys were in the deepest shit imaginable.

Ben didn’t reply. From what he’d heard about the brutality and torture record of the Egyptian police, he had the impression that Morgan’s killers weren’t in for a pleasant time. That was fine by him, and it was the best payback he could offer on behalf of Harry Paxton.

‘Then we’re done?’ he said.

‘You are free to go. You have done the city a service. I thank you once again.’

‘I need to call a cab.’

‘No need. I will have one of my men drive you home.’

‘Thanks.’ Ben checked his watch. It was 4.35 a.m. and he was looking forward to getting some sleep.

‘You wear two watches,’ Ramoud observed.

‘I travel a lot. Different time zones.’

‘You can get one watch that will do all that.’

Ben smiled. ‘I’m old-fashioned.’