The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET (120 page)

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.

Paris

It was after eleven by the time Ben and Zara found a quiet restaurant down a cobbled street in the Latin Quarter and were sipping iced Moët at an intimate candlelit table in the corner.

Watching Zara, Ben felt a surge of mixed emotions. He knew he should be consumed with rage, now that he knew the things Harry Paxton had done. But somewhere in the midst of all those feelings of anger and resentment and betrayal that had emerged from listening to Valentine’s revelations, a strange new sensation had begun to glow inside him.

It was a feeling of freedom. Incredible, heady, intoxicating freedom. No longer bound by any moral obligations and the old debt of gratitude to Paxton that he’d been harbouring for far too long, it seemed as if a whole new future had opened up in front of him.

It made him think about something else Brooke had told him.
Go with your heart.
Now, at last, he could.

‘Penny for them.’ Zara reached across the table and took his hand.

‘Sorry. I was miles away.’

‘Tell me about your home,’ she said.

‘You’ll be seeing it soon enough.’

‘Describe it to me.’

He smiled. His thumb caressed the back of her hand as he spoke. ‘It’s beautiful there. This time of year, the woods are full of flowers. Everything’s bursting into life. The air’s rich with wild thyme and rosemary and lavender, and at night the stars are so bright you feel you can almost reach out and touch them.’

Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. ‘And the house?’

‘It’s a traditional eighteenth-century country house. Rambling old place, stone floors, wine cellar. That kind of thing. A pretty far cry from the
Scimitar’

‘I can’t wait to be there.’

‘I hope you might want to stay there a while,’ he ventured.

She squeezed his hand tighter. ‘I know I’ll want to stay there a long time, Ben. All I want is to be near you.’

After dinner they wandered out into the street, feeling close, holding hands. Ben hailed a taxi. ‘The Ritz,’ he said to the driver as they slid across the back seat together.

‘The Ritz? We already had dinner,’ she giggled.

‘I meant, as in hotel. I was thinking you might want to stay somewhere nice tonight.’

‘But don’t you have a place here?’

He smiled awkwardly. ‘I was also thinking the Ritz might be more what you were used to.’

She frowned a little. ‘Is that how you see me? I didn’t always live on fancy yachts. You should have seen the place I grew up.’

‘Secondly—’ he started.

‘I know what you’re going to say.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. And the answer is that I do want to spend tonight with you.’ She touched his hand. ‘All night. At your place. I don’t want a fancy hotel. I just want you.’

Ben gave the driver the address, and the car took off. The city lights zipped by, but they were more interested in each other, talking softly, laughing, touching. A few minutes later, the taxi was pulling up in the street near the entrance to the underground parking lot.

‘Where is this place of yours?’ Zara asked, looking around her as the taxi drove off.

‘Follow me.’ He led her down the cobbled alleyway, through a side door that led into the dark, echoey parking lot.

‘Where are we going?’ she giggled.

‘You’ll see.’ He took her hand and she followed him to the concrete steps that led up to the security door. He entered the security code. ‘Remember this number,’ he told her as the door swung open.

‘Wow. Talk about secure. A client gave you this? What was he, some kind of mobster?’

‘Close. He was a government minister. Anyway, you’ll be pretty safe here.’

‘I’d feel safe anywhere with you.’

They walked inside, and he shut the heavy door behind them.

‘Alone at last,’ she said, taking his hands.

‘Drink?’

‘Later.’ She kissed him. ‘Is that the bedroom door?’

He nodded.

She started walking backwards, dragging him towards it. Pushed the door open with her back and led him inside. She lay back on the bed and pulled him down on top of her.

‘I can’t believe this is really happening,’ she murmured in his ear.

Streaming sunlight woke him the next morning. He stirred and rolled on the rumpled sheets. Blinked a few times and smiled to himself as he remembered what had happened.

He stretched his arm out sleepily and his hand touched the pillow next to his. Zara wasn’t there.

Hearing her pottering about the flat, he glanced at his watch. It was almost eight. Time to make a move, if they wanted to get to Le Val by lunchtime. He was just about to haul himself out of bed when the door opened and Zara walked into the bedroom. She was dressed, and pulling on her jacket. She bent over him and kissed him. ‘You slept like a baby.’

‘Going somewhere?’ he asked.

‘There’s nothing for breakfast. I’m off to the pâtisserie down the street to get some croissants.’

‘We can have something on the road.’

‘Come on. Indulge me. I want to make you a nice breakfast before we leave.’

‘But—’

‘No buts. I’m making you breakfast, and that’s official. You rest a while longer. I’ll be back before you know it.’ She turned to leave the room, but hesitated at the door. Stepped back to the bed and bent down over him again and kissed him long and tenderly. ‘I love you,’ she whispered in his ear.

When she was gone, Ben dozed. After a while, he opened his eyes and sat up. It was just gone eight-thirty. Feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time, he got out of bed and headed for the shower. He pulled on the spare jeans, a white T-shirt and grey V-neck jumper from his overnight bag.

He suddenly realised that Zara had been away a while. Was there a queue down at the pâtisserie? Or maybe she’d forgotten the combination for the security door. He went and checked, half expecting her to be standing there outside the door with an apologetic grin and a brown paper bag full of croissants. But the hallway was empty.

He came back inside, perplexed.

Then saw the folded note on the kitchen table. He snatched it up and read:

He stamped about the flat, furious with himself for letting it happen. Even more furious with Kim Valentine for luring Zara into putting herself on the line. Valentine and her colleagues should have known better than this, after what had happened to Linda Downey. He thought of the photograph of the agent’s mutilated body, and it made him shudder.

He snatched out his phone and was about to dial Valentine’s number when he thought better of it. He’d go there instead, talk some sense into Zara and bring her away. Then off to Le Val as planned.

He quickly gathered up the few things he’d brought with him, and stuffed them into his overnight bag. The gun was still lying under a chair where he’d thrown it carelessly down the previous evening. He grabbed it and chucked it into the bag as well. Locked up the flat, ran back down to the Mini. The squeal of tyres echoed through the concrete cavern as he skidded out of the parking lot, hit the ramp and burst out into the street.

He sped through Paris until he got snarled up in a major traffic jam caused by an overturned delivery van that was blocking a main street. Ben drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and cursed under his breath as the angry Parisian drivers sounded a cacophony of horns. Then police cleared the road, the
mayhem dissipated and fifteen minutes later he was on his way again.

It was almost ten by the time he skidded to a halt outside the house in the suburbs. He marched up to the entrance and thumped loudly to be let in.

The door swung open of its own accord. He stepped inside. They must have been expecting him, he thought. But it seemed strange to have left the door open like that. Careless. ‘Zara?’ he called down the hall. ‘It’s me.’

No reply. ‘Valentine? Where are you? We have to talk.’

He reached the door at the bottom of the passage. It was ajar, maybe an inch. No sound from inside. That worried him. Had they already left? Was Zara on her way back to San Remo? Then he was too late.
That fucking traffic jam.

He pressed his palm against the door and pushed it open. It creaked on its hinges and he stepped into the doorway.

The blinds were drawn, and the room was dark. There was a strange feeling underfoot. As though someone had spilled a lot of water, or there’d been a flood. He felt a squelch as he stepped into the room, groping on the wall for the light switch.

That smell. It was sharp and distinctive and triggered memories. Not good ones.

His fingers found the light switch and flicked it on.

What he saw in front of him made him stagger back towards the doorway.

Valentine, Harrison and Wolff were all staring at him from inside the room. Their mouths were gaping open, but they had nothing to say. Their three severed heads sat in a neat row on the makeshift coffee table. Blood was congealed thickly across the Formica slab, dripping down into the soaked carpet.