He led Kirby to where he’d parked the SLK behind the trees, out of sight of the manor.
‘I feel sick,’ Kirby moaned as he settled into the car.
Ben fired up the engine and the acceleration pressed them hard back in their seats as the car sped up the road. The countryside was open and the roads were quiet. He didn’t know where he was going-he just wanted to put distance between them and the house before finding somewhere they could talk. He drove fast along the winding coast road, between green fields dotted with sheep and spring lambs, drystone walls, little white cottages and farmhouses here and there in the distance. The sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky, casting a reddish glow over the sea.
‘Do you have to drive so fast?’ Kirby complained.
‘We’ve got to talk, Kirby.’
‘Stop the car,’ Kirby muttered in a strangled voice. Ben snatched a glance away from the road ahead and saw that the historian was deathly pale, slumped over in his seat, both hands pressed against his sternum.
‘I’m going to puke.’
Ben hit the brakes and pulled over onto a grassy verge. Kirby’s door was swinging open as they rolled to a halt. He staggered out across the verge and leaned against a fencepost. Bent over double, he clutched his stomach and threw up violently.
Ben let him get on with it for a minute or two, then got out of the car and walked over to join him. ‘It’s just stress,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a shock. Can we talk now?’
‘I need some air,’ Kirby muttered. ‘I’m going for a walk.’
On the other side of the road, a little rocky path led downwards towards the shoreline. Kirby set off down it, and Ben followed. Minutes were passing. Minutes he couldn’t afford to lose. He was thousands of miles from where he needed to be, and getting nowhere. He could only hope this guy was worth the effort.
Kirby paused by a big rock and took several deep breaths. ‘Oh, Christ.’ He ran trembling fingers down his face. ‘How did I get into this? Those people, back there. Did they kill Morgan?’
‘It’s complicated. I don’t have time to go into every detail.’
‘I need to know.’
Ben let out a sigh. ‘I suppose you’re entitled to an explanation.’ He ran quickly through what had happened. About the robbery, about Kamal, about Harry Paxton. But it was a simplified version in one major respect. There was no reason why anyone needed to know about Zara.
‘He’s blackmailing you?’ Kirby asked, amazed.
Ben nodded. ‘Someone close to me stands to get hurt if I don’t retrieve whatever it is you and Morgan found. I’m on the clock. Can you help me, or not?’
‘It’s unbelievable,’ Kirby said. ‘Morgan always regretted having let on to his father about the discovery. He knew the old bastard was too interested in it for comfort.’
‘Now it’s your turn to talk,’ Ben said. ‘What’s the connection between you and Morgan? What’s this about?’
‘Morgan was my friend,’ Kirby muttered. ‘We were at university together. We went back a long way.’
‘So this was a joint project. You were in it together.’
‘It was Morgan’s brainchild, but we were both working on it. I was going to join him in Cairo. But then I heard about what happened. I’ve been crapping myself ever since. Just waiting for them to come after me.’ He looked up. ‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘I told you. Your number was scribbled on a piece of paper in Morgan’s pocket.’
‘Damn,’ Kirby said. ‘When Morgan went to Egypt, I was in the middle of moving here from Lancaster Uni. This is a new job for me. I called him on his mobile to tell him about my new number. He must have jotted it down on the first thing that came to hand.’
‘Fine. Now tell me what you know.’
‘I need a drink,’ Kirby said. ‘There’s a pub another mile up this road. Get me a drink, and I’ll tell you everything.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The road twisted downwards until they came to a coastal village. A cobbled street led to a harbour where small fishing vessels drifted and bumped on the tide, flanked on three sides by an ancient stone dock and a rocky beach. Lobster creels and salt-crusted nets lay piled on the pier, and in the falling dusk the lights from the huddled cottages on the sea front threw a golden, shimmering glow out across the water.
Ben parked the car and he and Kirby walked down a cobbled slope to a long, low pub with a weathered sign that said ‘The Whey Pat’. Inside, the decor looked as though it hadn’t been touched in centuries. A pitted old bar, some spartan benches and a couple of bare tables. No paper napkins or place mats on the tables, no chalkboard menus on the wall, just a well-used dartboard for the men who came in here to drink and nothing else. Ben wouldn’t have been surprised to see sawdust on the floor.
There were a few locals at the bar. The hum of conversation paused a beat as Ben and Kirby walked in, and one or two stares landed on Kirby before people looked away and the chatter picked up again.
‘Seems you’re popular round here,’ Ben said as he guided Kirby towards the empty far end of the pub. They grabbed a table near the fire, where a couple of logs were crackling and spitting. Ben went over to the bar and ordered two double Scotches. He didn’t know if Kirby drank whisky normally, and he didn’t care. If the guy wanted a drink, he was going to get him one that would loosen him up as fast as possible. There wasn’t much time to mess about, and beer was just too slow. He took a fistful of change from his pocket and fed it into the CD jukebox in the corner, selecting a bunch of noisy rock tracks that would allow them to talk without being overheard.
Back at the table, he slid Kirby’s glass over to him. He took out his Zippo and his last few Gauloises, and lit one up.
‘You can’t do that in here,’ Kirby said. ‘It’s illegal.’
Ben glanced up towards the bar. It wasn’t the kind of establishment where anyone seemed to give a damn, and he didn’t care if they did. ‘So is murder,’ he said. ‘And you’ve got two dead bodies at your place. Now drink that and start talking. The Akhenaten Project. Facts, figures, details, the works. Now.’
Kirby peered down at the glass, looked as if he were about to complain, then thought better of it. He picked it up, closed his eyes and knocked it back like medicine. When he put his glass down, his face had lost some of its pallor. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
‘Backstory first,’ he said. ‘You need it, to understand the rest.’
‘OK, but keep it short.’
‘Akhenaten was a pharaoh,’ Kirby said. ‘He reigned during the Eighteenth Dynasty, 1353 to 1336 BC. His real name was-’
‘Amenhotep IV,’ Ben cut in.
Kirby stared, arching an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t take you for an Egyptologist.’
‘I’m not. Theology at Oxford, years ago. But I still remember a few things.’
‘You said you were a soldier.’
‘I was. But we’re not here to discuss the story of my life.’
‘Army Theology. Kind of a culture clash, wouldn’t you say?’
Ben just stared at him.
Kirby shrugged. ‘OK. Whatever. Where was I?’
‘Akhenaten.’
‘Right. So maybe you know that Akhenaten was a little unusual. In fact, he was totally unique in the whole history of ancient Egypt.’
‘I know that he was the first king of Egypt to worship a single god.’
Kirby nodded. The whisky seemed to be relaxing him. ‘Aten. Otherwise known as the sun god, symbolised by the sun disc that Akhenaten instituted as a national icon. That was the guy’s whole crusade, to wipe out the old polytheistic religion, do away with all the traditional gods that Egyptians had venerated for thousands of years, and introduce this radical new thing that he called Atenism. It’s the first time in recorded history that anyone tried to
