The Heretics Treasure

Chapter Twenty-Two

As Kamal left the apartment he caught a last glimpse of the foreigner. Down on his knees, face white, eyes pleading as the men closed in around him for the kill. He’d seen a hundred pathetic lives ended that way. At that moment, facing a humiliating death, knowing that the sum total of their worthless existence was about to be snuffed out like a cockroach under the sole of a shoe-that was when Kamal felt most repulsed by his victims. That last undignified reaction in itself justified stamping them out. He couldn’t bear to be in the room with them any longer than he had to. Human detritus. Food for worms.

The foreigner was begging now. ‘Please! Don’t kill me! I’ve got a wife and child!’

Kamal smiled as he shut the door. He glanced left and right. There was nobody around. He made his way down the spiralling stairs, past the empty landings, and out into the street where the plain white van was parked across from the building. The early morning sun was already getting hot. He crossed the road and climbed up into the cab, slipped the stubby assault weapon out from under his coat and laid it down in the footwell. Kamal leaned back in his seat and watched through the dusty windscreen as the scattering of passers-by went about their business.

He looked at his shiny new watch. The men wouldn’t be long doing what they had to do. He was impatient to get back to Claudel’s house and try again to get into the laptop file. He was sure he could crack the password. How hard could it be? That French prick would have ideas, anyway. They’d spent a lot of time talking about all this history stuff. Stuff that would have been incredibly boring to Kamal, if it hadn’t represented unimaginable wealth. That kind of brought it to life for him.

Then again, why wait? He had a minute or two. The men would probably be finishing off the foreigner about now. Once they’d got bored of watching Mostafa smack him around, Tarek would hold him while Farid slit his throat. Then they’d close up the apartment and make their way downstairs. Maybe stop for a cigarette in the hallway. There was time enough to have another quick look at the file.

He reached for the bag. It was battered and worn, but he liked it. Deciding to keep it, he undid the fastenings, slipped out the laptop and powered it back up. First, he clicked into ‘My Documents’ and tried again with the little icon labelled ‘The Akhenaten Project’. He got the same response as before. ‘Access denied’.

No problem, he thought. He cast his mind back to his talks with Claudel, pondered for a moment, then clicked on the box that said ‘Enter password’, and typed the word ‘amun’.

Kamal didn’t remember exactly who Amun was. Some god who’d meant something in ancient times. It only meant anything now if it could unlock the file, lead him to his money.

It didn’t. Access denied.

But it was no big deal. Plenty more options.

He typed ‘amuniscontent’. No joy.

He typed ‘heretic’. That was denied as well.

He swore violently, slammed the computer shut and shoved it back in the bag. Looked at his watch again, glanced, seething, at the window of the building. What the fuck was keeping them up there?

His patience snapped. He reached down into the footwell and snatched up the gun. Slipping it under his coat he went storming back across the street. The precious laptop in the bag slapped against his hip as he walked.

As Kamal strode up to the entrance, an old man was coming out of the building holding a small child by the hand. The child looked up at Kamal with inquisitive eyes, and the old man shot him a fearful glance.

Kamal didn’t slow down. He marched straight ahead through the entrance, shoving the old guy roughly out of the way. He didn’t even look back, but the sound of the old man’s pain and confusion as he stumbled and fell against the wall, and the cry of the distressed child, pleased him.

Kamal took the stairs three at a time. He reached the landing where the apartment was and strode fast up to the door. It was open a few inches. He could hear no sound, no voices, coming from inside. He frowned. His instincts dictated caution, and he always trusted his instincts. He brought the AKS out from under his coat and held it at hip level, flipping off the safety. Then he jutted out his chin and marched in through the open door.

He stopped. Blinked and stared.

Two of his men were lying on the floor. Mostafa’s bulk was spreadeagled on his back with his arms flung outwards at his sides. He had a squashed red mess in the middle of his face where his nose had been rammed backwards into his skull.

Tarek was sprawled in a heap at an angle to him. He had a crushed trachea. It had been stamped on. There were bubbles of blood around the corners of his mouth, trickles of it down to his ears. His eyes were staring up at the slowly rotating ceiling fan.

Farid was sitting in a chair by the desk. One leg was bent under him, the other stretched out in front. His hands lay limply in his lap. His shaved head was on backwards.

The room was eerily undisturbed. Barely a sign of a struggle. The foreigner’s wallet and passport had disappeared.

And so had the foreigner himself.

Kamal’s mouth hung open. He suddenly felt cold, unnerved. Who the hell was this man, to have done this?

He was still standing there agape, his gun dangling loose at his side, when the door swung quietly shut behind him.