The Heretics Treasure

Chapter Thirty-Two

Cairo

Around midnight, Egyptian time

Claudel had been working on the encrypted file day and night for longer than his frazzled brain could recall, and was seriously worried for his own sanity.

He’d exhausted every possibility, explored every avenue until his eyes were burning, his fingers trembling. He’d scoured his brain for every name, place and any other kind of reference he could come up with that might somehow unlock this infernal thing. But it was simply not within the bounds of feasibility to hit on the correct password. It could be absolutely anything. It might have to do with the Pharaoh Akhenaten; or then again it could be the name of Morgan Paxton’s great-grandfather’s cat.

And the more Claudel racked his brains and sat there typing in random entries that never came to anything, the more bitterly he resented Kamal for making him do this.

Earlier that day, feeling on the brink of a nervous breakdown, he’d driven back out to the Abusir pyramid site and just stood there under the hot sun. He wanted to weep as he scanned the ocean of rubble that was the four-thousand-year-old wreck of Sahure’s necropolis. Prayed for a miracle that could make him see what it was that Paxton was into. None had come.

Then he’d had a thought. Something poor Aziz had said that day, minutes before his death. That when Morgan Paxton had come running from the ruins, he’d been covered in dust and cobwebs. Cobwebs, in a place like this. That could mean only one thing. Paxton had been inside something. And there was only one place you could actually be inside in this arid ruin. Sahure’s pyramid.

Why didn’t I think of that before? he’d thought. He knew the answer. With Kamal’s brooding presence around, it was impossible to think clearly about anything.

So Claudel had dashed towards the crumbling old heap that was all that remained of the king’s ancient tomb. He’d run around the edge of the monument to the dilapidated entrance. He’d crawled inside the claustrophobic passage, webs brushing his face. No archaeology excavation had ever managed to access the rubble-choked interior burial chamber-but maybe there was something in the shaft leading up to it. He’d shone his torch all over the inside, looking for markings, clues, anything.

Nothing. Just dust and spiders and crumbled rock.

He’d crawled out again, feeling utterly defeated. Dragged himself back to the villa and the hated computer. He’d been sitting staring at that password box ever since, deep into the night, too paralysed with fear and stress and rage and frustration to eat or drink or even take a piss.

A sudden surge of resentment made him kick his desk chair back and stand up. He paced the room. Sitting on another chair nearby was the well-worn military-type haversack Kamal had taken from the Englishman, Hope. Claudel lashed out with his foot and sent the chair clattering to the floor.

For a moment Claudel thought he’d broken his toe, and he cried out at the pain. He fell back on the floor and sat there for a minute, groaning and rubbing his foot and hating himself for smashing up his own beautiful possessions. It was the kind of thing Kamal did.

Then he noticed the fallen bag. Half spilled out of it was the crumpled blazer that had belonged to Morgan Paxton.

Claudel staggered up to his feet and hobbled over. Even in his seething rage he hated to see these nasty things trailing on his expensive carpet. He bent down and picked up the blazer between finger and thumb and inspected it in disgust, holding it up in front of him the way someone might hold up a dead rat by its tail. Only an Englishman could wear something this tasteless, he thought to himself.

He was just about to stuff it back into the bag, out of sight, when something fluttered down out of the breast pocket and landed on the floor. He picked it up. It was just litter, a faded receipt. He crunched it up in his hand.

He stopped. Looked down at his hand. Opened his fist and gazed at the piece of paper. Straightened it out delicately with his fingers.

There was a phone number scribbled on there.

His mind suddenly went into overdrive, his anxiety forgotten.

It wasn’t an Egyptian number. It was British. He stepped quickly over to the phone on the desk, punched in the international code for the UK followed by the number on the crumpled piece of paper.

After a few rings an answerphone cut in. It was a woman’s voice, speaking English in a strange accent that Claudel couldn’t immediately pinpoint. What was that? Irish?

‘University of St Andrews. Faculty of History,’ said the voice. ‘If you know the extension number you require, please enter it now. Otherwise, please hold for an operator.’

Claudel’s eyebrows rose, and his heart began to thump. Faculty of History. Interesting. He glanced back at the paper and dialled in what he now realised was the extension number underneath. 345.

After a few rings, an answerphone cut in. Claudel listened to the voicemail message and scribbled down a name.

Then he called Kamal.