The Heretics Treasure

Chapter Twenty-One

Ben stood, frozen, disorientated. There was nowhere to run, nothing to hand that he could use to defend himself and he could only watch as the men swarmed into the room and positioned themselves around him.

Four gun muzzles pointed right at his head. AKS-74U assault weapons, the radically cut-down version of the Kalashnikov rifle. The Russian military had nicknamed the gun the ‘okurok’-the ‘cigarette stub’. Uselessly random and inaccurate at long range, but devastating at close quarters as a high-capacity, high-powered submachine gun, it was a favourite tool of terrorists. Whoever these guys were, their armament alone told him they were serious. And he could see from the way they moved, slick and professional like trained soldiers, that they’d done this kind of work before.

‘Search the place,’ said the one in the long black coat.

Ben knew instantly that he was the leader. The other three were the brawn, but he was the brains. He wasn’t the kind who felt he had to pump iron or shave his head to look scary. It was all in the eyes. There was a wild ferocity in them, an imperious air of complete self-belief. Ben had no trouble believing that this guy would be the first to hose a full magazine of 5.45mm high-velocity rounds into him if he so much as twitched a finger. There was no doubt he was the most dangerous man in the room.

Except for one. They didn’t know who they were dealing with.

Not yet.

They frisked him, rifled through his wallet, took a look at his passport, and dumped them on the floor. The leader and the big bearded one kept their weapons glued to him as the shaven-headed one and the older, leathery one swept through the apartment. It was a quick search. There was little to find except Ben’s well-worn army bag and Morgan’s laptop. The leathery guy laid them both on the desk.

‘Down on your knees,’ the leader commanded.

‘I don’t think so,’ Ben said.

The leader gestured. ‘Mostafa.’

The big guy with the beard stepped towards Ben. He was about three inches taller and at least sixty pounds heavier. There was a lot of muscle behind the blow that sent Ben sprawling to the floor. He was ready for it, but it still drove the wind out of him. He struggled to his knees, gasping.

‘Better,’ the leader said. ‘Now where are Paxton’s things?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Ben said.

The leader snorted. His gaze flicked away and landed on the bag. He slung his AKS over his shoulder and strode across the room. Grabbing the bag, he upended it and spilled its contents across the desk. The wads of banknotes landed in a small pile. The man raised an eyebrow as he sifted through the stacks of money. He snatched up Morgan’s crumpled blazer, gazed at it coldly, and flung it aside.

Then he picked up the Rolex and examined it, flipped it over and studied the inscription on the back. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about. Yet you have Paxton’s watch. It makes me wonder what else you have of his.’

He laid the watch down on the desk and picked up the slim card folder that Paxton had given Ben. Opening it out on the desk, he rifled through the documents inside. His eyes skimmed quickly over the police and coroner’s reports, the photographs. His hand moved across to the laptop and flipped open the lid. The machine lit up, showing Morgan’s archaeological dig screensaver.

The leader peered at it and a small smile curled on his lips. He reached down, twirled a finger on the mouse pad and clicked. His smile widened. ‘“The Akhenaten Project”,’ he read aloud. ‘Very interesting. Now let’s see what we have here.’

He double-clicked and waited. Then he did it again. The smile melted away. He turned and glared at Ben. ‘The file is encrypted.’

‘I could have told you that,’ Ben replied. ‘Saved you the trouble.’

Cold fury filled the man’s face. ‘Tell me the password.’

‘I’ve no idea what the password is,’ Ben said. ‘It’s not my computer.’

The leader motioned to the big guy again. The powerful kick caught Ben in the ribs and sent him sprawling back down on the floor. White pain flashed through him. He saw stars. But he wasn’t about to let them see him beaten down. He struggled back up again, blanking out the agony.

The leader walked up to him, stood over him. Unslung his AKS and shoved the muzzle hard against Ben’s temple. ‘The password,’ he repeated.

Ben coughed, waiting for the pain in his ribs to subside. He didn’t think anything was broken in there. ‘I told you. I don’t know the password. I’ve no idea what’s on the file.’

‘Your friend didn’t tell you?’

‘Morgan Paxton wasn’t my friend.’

‘No? You have his things. You’re living in the same apartment. You were hunting the men who killed him.’

Ben’s mind was working hard as the pulse in his temple throbbed against the cold steel. Who the hell were these people? ‘I was sent here,’ he said. ‘I’m a private detective.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Jennifer Paxton,’ Ben lied. ‘Morgan’s mother in England.’ He knew that giving Helen Paxton’s real name could easily lead them back to Harry, if they checked. Which Ben couldn’t afford to assume they wouldn’t. The leader looked like the kind of guy who would check everything.

‘She paid you all that money?’

‘She wanted me to find her son’s killers and bring back his belongings. She doesn’t know what he was doing here, or what’s on the computer. She doesn’t care, and neither do I. She just wanted his things. Sentimental value.’

The leader drew away the weapon. ‘Sentimental value,’ he echoed thoughtfully. He crouched down and his cold eyes bored into Ben’s. ‘My name is Kamal. And I’m not that sentimental.’

Ben met his gaze and said nothing.

Kamal stood up and walked back over to the desk. He laid down his gun, grabbed the laptop and shoved it back in the bag together with the documents, the wads of banknotes and the blazer, and slung the bag over his shoulder. Then he paused, looked thoughtfully at the Rolex for a second, slipped it on and did up the clasp. ‘Nice watch,’ he muttered, admiring it on his wrist. He grabbed up his AKS and slipped it under his raincoat.

‘Kill this piece of shit. I’ll be waiting in the van.’