despondency and reach out for the phone. He snatched it up and muttered a desultory ‘Hello?’
‘Is that Pierre Claudel?’ said the voice on the line.
Claudel didn’t recognise it. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Speaking. Who is this?’
‘You don’t know me. My name’s Ben Hope. Are you free to talk for a minute?’
Claudel jolted into life at the sound of the name. Ben Hope-of all the people who could have popped up. The man Kamal had encountered, and been raging about ever since. The mysterious foreigner who seemed to know an awful lot about Morgan Paxton’s project.
Claudel’s head was suddenly spinning with possibilities. He covered his surprise well, and summoned up all the polite charm he had left in him. ‘Certainly. How may I help you, Mr Hope?’
‘I’m a writer carrying out research for a book,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve been told you’re the best person to approach regarding a query about Egyptian antiquities.’
For the first time in days, Claudel managed a smile as he listened to the lies. Why was this person interested in the throne of some obscure High Priest? His mind raced to connect the dots.
‘Why, I would be delighted to help you. You must come over to my home to talk it over and see if I can be of any assistance. Yes, I’m free now. Let me give you the directions.’
The Shogun’s fat tyres rasped on the gravel as Ben pulled up outside the grand villa. ‘This place is incredible,’ Kirby muttered as he scanned the classical facade of the house, the gardens, the ornamental fountain that tinkled and burbled in the courtyard, and the sleek red Ferrari gleaming in the hot sun. He turned to Ben. ‘Who did you say this guy was?’
‘I don’t really know. An antiquities expert. Maybe a dealer.’
The front door of the villa opened, and a tall, elegant man in beige chinos and a dark blue silk shirt ambled easily down the steps to greet them. He smiled and extended his hand as Ben stepped out of the car. ‘Mr Hope? Pierre Claudel. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
They shook hands. ‘This is my research assistant, Lawrence Kirby,’ Ben said.
‘That’s, uh, Dr Lawrence Kirby,’ Kirby shot sideways.
Genial and suave, the Frenchman led them inside to a plush reception room and offered drinks. Ben felt restless and jumpy as he sat back with a glass of excellent white wine and tried to look as though his interest in Egyptian antiquities was purely intellectual. Kirby was admiring the decor, open-mouthed.
‘So, Mr Hope, tell me more about this book you’re writing,’ Claudel said with a smile.
Ben kept his composure as he rattled off what he hoped was a convincing stream of lies about his reasons for wanting to locate the throne of Wenkaura. ‘It seems to be an area of that period’s history that’s little touched upon,’ he finished. Inwardly, he was wincing at his performance. To him it reeked strongly of bullshit.
But Claudel seemed quite convinced. He topped up their glasses with more chilled wine, nodded thoughtfully, agreed unreservedly, and for a few minutes they chatted about the desirability among collectors of relics from the Akhenaten era.
‘I don’t want to take up too much of your time,’ Ben said, fighting to keep the tension out of his voice. ‘Would you happen to have any idea of where the Wenkaura throne could be?’
Claudel seemed about to reply, but then glanced at Ben’s empty glass and tutted. ‘I seem to have run out of wine to offer you. Let me fetch some more from the cellar.’
‘Please,’ Ben said, biting his tongue. ‘There’s no need.’
‘Really,’ Claudel replied warmly. ‘I insist. Excuse me for just one moment.’
When Claudel had left the room, Kirby leaned towards Ben and whispered, ‘Seems like a decent bloke.’
Ben didn’t reply.
A second later, Claudel reappeared in the doorway. He was holding something in his right hand, but it wasn’t a bottle of wine. It was an AKS automatic weapon.
Chapter Forty-Four
Tripoli, Libya
At that moment, Kamal was in the middle of a business meeting. He knew little about the three men sitting facing him across the table in the stark white room. Just that they were Europeans, that they spoke English with an accent he’d never heard before, and that they were extremely dangerous people to deal with.
The senior member of the group was a large, broad-shouldered man in a boxy suit-unquestionably the Boss. He looked about seventy, thick white hair and a complexion that had seen too many hard winters. His eyes were small and beady, so penetrating that even Kamal found himself breaking eye contact first, looking down at the closed folder that lay on the table in front of him.
He hated himself for doing it. On any other day, in any other situation, with anyone but these people, he would never have tolerated that kind of humiliation. But he knew he couldn’t afford aggression here. He’d been waiting for this meeting for a long, long time, and he was going to get only one chance. It was a desperately important moment in his career. One that was going to make his name forever. It was going to change everything.
So Kamal bit his lip and paid the appropriate respect to these men who had come a long way to meet him. These kind of people didn’t make themselves available to just anybody. Just meeting with them face to face was a privilege.
And a gigantic risk. He was committed now.
‘The money,’ said the Boss. He was a man of very few words, and when he spoke his voice was low and rumbling.
‘I can make a downpayment of one million US dollars,’ Kamal said. ‘Cash or wire, whichever way you prefer.’
‘The price is twenty million dollars,’ the man on the right said, arching an eyebrow. He was thinner and younger than the leader. His hair was oiled and combed back slickly across his scalp. His left eye was surrounded by a mass of scars, as though someone had once tried to remove it with barbed wire. ‘Cash only. I thought we had already made all of this clear to you.’
‘I am concerned that you might be wasting our time here, Mr Kamal,’ said the man on the left, fingering a briefcase on his knee.
The Boss kept his penetrating gaze locked on Kamal, saying nothing. His big, gnarled hands rested on the table.
Kamal glanced away. ‘I will have the money.’
‘When?’
That was the question that worried Kamal the most. After all these months, he was still no closer to the treasure. That dog Claudel was going to answer for it one day.
‘Soon,’ he said. ‘I will have it very soon.’
‘You realise this is highly irregular,’ said the one on the right. ‘There will be a penalty to pay for the delay. An extra five million. As well as a time limit for completion of payment. You understand these terms?’
Kamal understood them very well. No cash, and the men would show their lack of appreciation in their own particular way. But he was willing to take that risk for what was inside the folder in front of him.
He opened it and spread the documents out again to look at them. The photographs were black and white prints. The A4 sheets were the technical specifications of the five ex-Soviet warheads that had never made it back after the post-glasnost Russian recall of the nuclear stockpiles in Kazakhstan.
He ran his eye down the printouts and his heart quickened. Just looking at them brought it all so much closer. Now, at last, reality was dawning. All that he’d dreamed of looked possible. He, Kamal, was going to be the one.
‘We would like to know your plans,’ the Boss rumbled. ‘You understand.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘We also live somewhere.’
‘I understand,’ Kamal replied. ‘Please rest assured that my plans will not pose any risk to you personally.’
‘Your proposed targets?’
Kamal couldn’t hold back the grin that crept over his face as he reached into his jacket and took out a single sheet of paper. He unfolded it and laid it flat on the table. Spun it around with his fingers, and slid it across to show
