The Heretics Treasure

Chapter Nineteen

The Claudel Residence,

Hyde Park, Cairo

4.45 a.m.

Pierre Claudel couldn’t sleep. He climbed out of bed, wandered out onto his balcony and watched the night creep towards dawn.

He was so weary. His senses felt bombed to numbness with stress. Ever since that day in the desert when Kamal had told him about his discovery, Claudel’s mind had been in turmoil. Two things had been constantly in the foreground of his thoughts, and he was thinking about them now as he reflected back over the events of the last few months. The worst time of his life.

The first preoccupation burning a hole in his brain was the frustration of knowing that the treasure was out there somewhere, but having no idea where to find it. Kamal had offered him ten per cent. Maybe not overly generous, but ten per cent of a gigantic fortune could still set him up for life. His hustling days would be over.

He couldn’t wait for it to happen. Up until that day in the desert, he’d felt pretty rich and successful. Now, in comparison to what he could get, might get, desperately longed to get out of this, he felt poor and miserable and shabby. The feeling was as though something had crawled under his skin, making his flesh creep.

The second major preoccupation was Kamal himself. Kamal terrified him. While Claudel couldn’t stop thinking about the treasure, another part of him bitterly regretted that he’d ever joined forces with this man.

What scared him even more, and kept him awake at night staring up at the dark canopy of his four-poster bed, was the knowledge that Kamal was fast running out of patience. Not even the million dollars that the first haul of treasure had generated, now sitting pretty in a numbered Swiss bank account minus Claudel’s ten per cent fence fee, could placate the Egyptian. He was getting jumpier by the day. Weeks were ticking by like seconds, merging into months, and still Claudel wasn’t coming up with anything.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d driven out across the Western Desert with Kamal and his men. A long, hot, dusty and exhausting trek that almost killed him. They’d found the Bedouin fort, and Kamal had shown him the well. Claudel had nervously clambered down there on a rope, examined the shattered empty chamber where the cache of gold had been. He’d frantically pored over every inch of the stone carvings, searching for more hieroglyphs that hadn’t been in the photos and might yield a clue. But there was nothing. The trip to the fort turned out to be a complete waste of time.

Back in Cairo, Claudel had considered his options. They were disturbingly limited. There were few people in the world whom he trusted, and he was especially cagey about letting anyone else in on the treasure hunt. But in his desperation he’d been forced to put out feelers in the shadowy world of illicit antiquities dealing. He’d sat back, chewed his manicured nails down to the quick and hoped his enquiries would offer up some kind of lead.

The silence of the phone seemed to taunt him.

Meanwhile, Kamal had invaded his life like a disease. He’d taken a liking to the luxury Hyde Park villa, started spending more and more time there and generally treated it as his home. He’d sprawl in the armchair that had once belonged to the inventory at Fontainebleau Palace, a glass of red wine precariously perched on Claudel’s irreplaceable period satin upholstery, stretch his boots out on the white cashmere silk carpet and flick ash from his Davidoff cigar all over the place. It made Claudel cringe, but he knew better than to complain.

If he hadn’t been so damn scared all the time, he might have chuckled at the irony that one of the city’s most exclusive gated communities, designed to keep undesirable elements away from the homes of the rich, had become Kamal’s luxury refuge. It was a perfect hideout for him-the guards at the gate were used to seeing Claudel’s van come and go. As long as the drivers showed their private pass, vehicles were just waved through without a second glance, without any clue that heavily armed men were riding in the back.

It had quickly descended into a nightmare. Claudel couldn’t go anywhere in his own home without some hostile-looking hard guy eyeballing him. Couldn’t bring anyone back to the house. No women. He was like a prisoner. He stopped going to parties. Friends were calling him to ask if he was ill, and he’d been fobbing them off with all kinds of lame excuses. He’d started drinking more, too, to calm the palpitations he’d started getting. One day he’d gone down to his wine cellar to fetch a bottle for himself, and he’d found a stack of weapons and ammunition down there. He’d nearly had a heart attack. But he could say nothing.

Then suddenly, eight weeks ago, after five months of anxious torment, the phone had rung. Claudel picked up. It was Aziz, one of the contacts he’d called in months before. They’d worked together on a few jobs in the past. When he wasn’t stealing antiquities, Aziz freelanced as a tourist guide. As far as anyone in the business could be trusted, Claudel was reasonably sure of him.

‘That thing you told me about. You still interested? I might have information.’

Claudel gripped the phone tightly. ‘I’m definitely still interested.’

At that moment, Kamal appeared in the doorway. He watched and listened, head cocked curiously to one side. His eyes narrowed.

Aziz chuckled on the line. ‘Let’s talk about my cut first. Pierre Claudel doesn’t get this jumpy if there isn’t a pile of money involved.’

Claudel darted an impatient glance at Kamal. ‘Five per cent of whatever I get. The usual.’

‘Fuck you. Make it ten per cent and I’ll tell you what I just heard.’

Claudel gritted his teeth. ‘Six.’

‘Eight.’

Claudel sighed. ‘OK. Eight.’

Aziz sounded satisfied. ‘I imagine you don’t want to discuss this on the phone. Meet me at Café Riche. I think you’ll find it worthwhile.’

‘Café Riche,’ Claudel repeated. ‘Give me half an hour or so.’

Kamal wagged his finger. ‘Tell him to come here.’

Claudel covered the receiver with his hand. ‘I don’t bring business associates up to the house. That’s a rule.’

‘I just broke it,’ Kamal said, raising a warning eyebrow.

Claudel paused, sighed, spoke back into the phone. ‘I can’t make that appointment, Aziz. Come up to the house. You know where it is. Yes, as soon as you can.’

Once the call was over, Claudel and Kamal waited. Paced, checked their watches, paced some more. Nothing was said, tension building like static between them. After an anxious half-hour, Claudel heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and saw Aziz’s car pulling up outside.

Aziz walked into the villa and glanced around him. ‘Nice place,’ he started saying.

But he hadn’t gone three steps inside the marble-floored hallway before Kamal’s men hauled him through to the living room, dumped the panicking man in a chair and surrounded him.

‘You had something to say,’ Kamal told him.

Claudel pushed past, trying hard to hide his fury ‘Let me talk to him.’ He leaned down and looked earnestly at Aziz. ‘I can’t explain, my friend. But it’s very important that you tell me what you know.’

Aziz glanced up at the circle of hostile faces and started babbling nervously, spilling out his story. Four days ago, he’d been hired as a guide by an Englishman who’d introduced himself as Dr Morgan Paxton. The guy had wanted Aziz to drive him out to the pyramid cluster at Abusir, seventeen kilometres south of Cairo.

The tomb complex of Sahure, Claudel thought. The second ruler of Egypt’s Fifth Dynasty of kings, buried a thousand years before Akhenaten’s reign. ‘What for?’ he asked. ‘What did this Paxton want there?’

‘I don’t know,’ Aziz replied. ‘He didn’t say.’

‘Tell me about this Englishman,’ Kamal cut in.

Aziz glanced from one man to the other and babbled on, talking so fast he kept tripping over himself. ‘An academic. Nerdy Sandals and socks and a little blazer. Not the most streetwise kind of guy-didn’t have the sense to cover up his Rolex. When we got there, he wanted to go off on his own. I told him there were snakes. He said he didn’t care about the snakes, and that I was to wait for him in the car. He seemed really cagey about letting me go with him, like he wanted to keep it to himself. But there was no way I was going to sit cooking in the car. So I got out and sat in the shade and waited for him. If the crazy foreign bastard wanted to get himself lost or bitten, that was his problem.’

Claudel was painfully aware of the mounting impatience on Kamal’s face. ‘Just tell us what happened, Aziz.’

‘I waited about an hour. Then I saw him walking back. No, not walking, running. He was covered in dust and cobwebs, all out of breath, red in the face, excited as hell. Like a kid. He was punching the air with his fist. I thought he’d gone crazy. He kept muttering to himself.’

‘Muttering what?’

‘I don’t remember the exact words. But as soon as he said it, I remembered your call that time. That’s why I phoned you.’

‘What did he say?’ Claudel asked feverishly.

‘It was something about Amun being happy. And something about the heretic.’

Claudel felt the blood rush to his face. ‘Amun is content; the Heretic of Amarna shall be denied?’

‘That’s it. That’s what he said.’

Claudel tried to think. What was the connection? ‘Did he say anything more?’

‘No.’

‘You’re absolutely sure about that? It’s important.’

‘I told you, he didn’t say anything. He was just cackling and laughing to himself, like a nut. Then he had me drive him back into Cairo, as fast as I could. He started getting nervous, looking at his watch. Told me to head for the Egyptian Museum, but we missed it by five minutes. He looked pretty pissed off, but he didn’t say why or what he was looking for there.’

And then?’

And then he had me drop him off at his apartment building. Said he’d call me if he needed me again. That’s it.’

‘But he hasn’t called?’

‘No.’

‘But you know where he’s staying?’

Aziz blurted out the address.

Kamal stood over the frightened guide with his arms folded and a cold look in his eye. There was silence in the room.

Claudel’s mind was racing. It was either a disaster, or it was a break. It was clear that this Paxton person knew something. He was an academic. Maybe a history or archaeology scholar of some kind. What had he stumbled on? How much did he know? Who else had he told? The thought made Claudel break out in a cold sweat.

‘I want to talk to this Paxton,’ Kamal said, breaking the silence. He motioned to his men. ‘Emad, Farid, Mostafa, go and fetch him. Bring him here.’

This isn’t your fucking house, Claudel wanted to scream as the three men obeyed instantly and left the room. But he was too afraid to say a word.

Kamal turned back to Aziz. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Aziz glanced nervously at Claudel.

Kamal smiled. ‘Come on. A little glass of something.’ He moved to the drinks cabinet, opened the doors and scooped up one of Claudel’s fine cut-crystal wine glasses.

It had all happened before Claudel could react.

Kamal’s eyes flashed at Tarek, the leathery one, and the burly Youssef, who were standing behind Aziz’s chair. They gripped the man’s shoulders, pinning him down in it. Aziz opened his mouth wide in protest, and Kamal stepped quickly up to him and rammed the glass into it.

Aziz tried to scream. Kamal slowly pushed with his palm against the base of the glass until the guide’s cheeks were bulging and his eyes were darting crazily from side to side in his panic. He struggled and flailed against the hands holding him down.

Kamal let go of the glass, leaving the stem and base sticking out of Aziz’s gaping mouth. He moved his hands either side of the man’s face. Balled them into fists. Then crunched them against Aziz’s cheeks.

Claudel heard the sickening crack of the glass breaking inside Aziz’s mouth. Kamal’s eyes were wide and bright. He pinched Aziz’s nose with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Used the heel of his right hand against his chin. Aziz was trying to spit, but all he could do was swallow. His screams were stifled against Kamal’s hand. Blood welled out of his mouth, gushing down his throat and chest.

Then Kamal let him go. Aziz writhed screaming out of the chair and collapsed to the floor. A blood-choked gurgle came from his lacerated lips.

Kamal hadn’t stopped smiling the whole time. He watched for a few more seconds, then took the pistol from behind the hip of his jeans. Worked the slide, pointed it down at Aziz’s head.

Aziz stared up. The bottom half of his face was slick with blood. His mouth was contorted. His eyes were pleading, full of terror. Then a hole appeared between them and he slumped to the floor with the back of his skull punched out.

Claudel stood numb with horror, deafened by the gunshot. He gaped down at the bloody corpse, and the stain that was seeping through the cashmere carpet. ‘What did you just do?’

‘He knew too much,’ Kamal said. ‘Get rid of him. Now we’ll soon see what this Paxton knows.’

But an hour later, there had been more bad news. By the time Kamal’s three men had got to the apartment building, police were all over it and there was a bloody corpse on a stretcher being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Dr Morgan Paxton’s corpse.

Someone had got to him first. But who?

The news had said it was a robbery gone off the rails, but Claudel didn’t trust it. He spent six straight hours on the phone, trying to find out more about the Paxton murder. Nobody seemed to know anything, not even his cop contact. Sergeant Hussein of the Cairo Municipal Police had proved a useful, if expensive, ally in the past when Claudel needed information, or for the cops to look the other way. But Hussein had nothing for him this time.

The Frenchman sank deeper into despair. What if the killer had taken information from Paxton? What if someone else beat them to the treasure?

His life would be over. Ended. The way Kamal kept glaring at him, he was scared that that time would come even sooner.

All that had been two months ago. Since then, Claudel had been like a zombie. Time seemed to have stopped. He couldn’t drag himself away from the news, convinced every time he turned on the TV that he’d be greeted with an announcement of a major archaeological discovery out in the desert. He’d driven out to the Abusir pyramids, south of Cairo on the edge of the great sands, desperately searching for whatever it was that this Paxton might have found there. The place was a broken-down wasteland of scattered rocks and dust. He’d spent hours there, wandering among the ruins, digging aimlessly in the sand. To no avail. He just didn’t know what he was looking for.

Back at the villa, Kamal came and went, sometimes staying a couple of days at a time, sometimes disappearing for a week. Claudel did his best to avoid him, and didn’t even want to think about what he might be up to during his absences. Each time he saw the van pull in through the gates he had the same chilling fear that today was the day Kamal would finally give up on him and put a bullet in his head. Claudel felt more and more as if he was living on borrowed time. It was like waiting for death.

He stood there on the balcony, his mind returning to the present as he watched the lazy red disc of the sun slowly begin its climb in the eastern sky. He sighed.

His phone rang on his bedside table. He wandered over to it, picked it up wearily and stabbed the reply button. Who could be calling him at this time of the morning?

It was the cop, Hussein.

‘You know what time it is?’ Claudel said irritably.

‘This can’t wait. I thought you’d want to know.’

Claudel tutted. ‘What?’

‘You know you asked me about the Paxton business?’

A faint glow of hope crept into Claudel’s burnt-out brain. ‘Yes?’ he replied cautiously. He listened as Hussein talked, and his eyes began to widen.

‘A citizen’s arrest, you say?’

‘Brought in trussed up like a couple of chickens,’ Hussein said. ‘And the way things are looking, they’re dead certs for the Paxton killing. They confessed inside of ten minutes. Probably swing for it. But here’s the strange bit. While we were locking them up, one of them was raving about the guy who brought them in. This crazy foreigner who’d stormed into their place, interrogated them about Paxton, beaten the crap out of them and stolen all their stuff.’

‘Who the hell is he?’

‘Somebody professional,’ Hussein said. ‘By all accounts, he mowed them down like grass.’

Suddenly there was blood flowing in Claudel’s veins again. ‘You have a name for this guy?’

‘I can do better than that,’ Hussein said. ‘A police car just took him back to his apartment. Not five minutes ago. He’s staying at the same place Paxton did.’