off his wrist and dropped it inside as well. He laid the bag on the floor, settled back on the sofa with cushions propped behind his head and the slim computer resting on his stomach. He flipped open the lid and pressed the power button. Waited as it loaded itself up.
Morgan’s screensaver was a shot of some archaeological dig in the sands. Ben clicked on the ‘My Documents’ icon and a list flashed up. It was a short one. He scrolled down, looking for anything promising. Then he came to it.
THE AKHENATEN PROJECT
Akhenaten. Ben dimly recalled the name from his theology studies. The so-called heretic pharaoh whose turbulent reign, more than a thousand years before Christ, had wrought havoc on Egypt’s economy and morale. Was this the subject of Morgan’s research? So this was what it was all about-some obscure pharaoh? Hardly a big deal. Ben clicked on the document, wondering what he was about to find.
The screen suddenly went blank. A box flashed up, asking him to enter a user name and password. Above it, a curt line of text informed him: Automatic access disabled. This file is stored in a password-protected vault.’
Access denied. He tried again.
Same response. The way was barred.
He gazed at the screen for a second. Shrugged. It wasn’t his problem. Harry might be able to access the document-if Morgan had talked about it, he might know the password or be able to guess it. But there was no way Ben was going to get in, and he didn’t care that much. He yawned.
But then he thought about Harry, far away, sitting surrounded by all that luxury and probably unable to relax for a single moment as he waited for Ben to report back to him. The man’s whole life was on hold.
Then Ben remembered that the apartment had Internet access. What the hell. Now was as good a time as any. He kicked his legs off the sofa, stood up and carried the whirring laptop over to the desk. He found a curled-up wire hanging out of a phone socket, and on the end of it a plastic mini-connector that matched up to a port on the side of the computer. He clicked it into place, and in a few moments he was online. He logged on to his webmail account and typed up a quick message:
Harry-Job completed. Coming back tomorrow, will talk soon. In the meantime, attached is Morgan’s research file. Encrypted document, hope you can access. B
He attached the Akhenaten Project file to the message, hoping it would work. It did, and when he hit ‘send’ the message disappeared into the ether with no problems.
That was it, then. He’d done his best.
He yawned again, more deeply this time, walked back over to the sofa, turned out the side-light and stretched out. A couple of hours’ sleep was all he could expect before heading to the airport. Then back to San Remo to deliver Morgan’s belongings to Harry, and then on to Normandy and Le Val. He relished the idea.
What he didn’t relish so much was seeing Zara again. He didn’t know if he could bear it. Maybe he should arrange for Harry to meet him at a bar in town and hand the things over there. He nodded to himself sleepily. That’s what he’d do.
That was his last thought before he drifted off.
Outside his window, dawn was breaking over Cairo. The city was beginning to grind back into life, the traffic rumble slowly building and the heat returning as the sun began its climb over the desert.
Ben slept. In his dreams he heard the gunfire and the screaming again. Saw the faceless man, the eyes full of hate behind the gun. He saw Zara, smiling at him through a haze.
Then he was waking in a panic and springing to his feet as the door of the apartment burst open and four heavily armed men crashed into the room.
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.
