The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET (113 page)

But it was no use. He knew he couldn’t sleep until he’d taken a look at the computer. Jumping up, he grabbed his bag and carried it back to the sofa. Sitting on the edge, he pulled out the laptop. It was still rolled up inside the striped blazer.

As he unwrapped it, a small scrap of paper fell out of the blazer’s breast pocket and spiralled down onto the carpet. He laid the computer down next to him on the sofa and bent to pick up the paper. Unfolding it, he saw it was a receipt stub from a Cairo grocery store, showing the purchase of some tinned food and a bottle of beer. Across the pale columns of figures, someone had scribbled a phone number in biro.

Ben read the number three times before his tired eyes registered that it was a UK landline number. The area code was 01334. It wasn’t one he knew. Then there was the main number, and below that was what looked like a three-digit extension number, maybe for an office-345.

It might be important, or it might not. Ben folded the receipt and replaced it in the blazer pocket, making a mental note to tell Harry about it when he saw him. He bundled the blazer back in his bag, slipped the gold Rolex 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.

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:

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.

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.

The leader walked up to him, stood over him. Unslung his AKS and shoved the muzzle hard against Ben’s temple. ‘The password,’ he repeated.

Ben coughed, waiting for the pain in his ribs to subside. He didn’t think anything was broken in there. ‘I told you. I don’t know the password. I’ve no idea what’s on the file.’

‘Your friend didn’t tell you?’

‘Morgan Paxton wasn’t my friend.’

‘No? You have his things. You’re living in the same apartment. You were hunting the men who killed him.’

Ben’s mind was working hard as the pulse in his temple throbbed against the cold steel. Who the hell were these people? ‘I was sent here,’ he said. ‘I’m a private detective.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Jennifer Paxton,’ Ben lied. ‘Morgan’s mother in England.’ He knew that giving Helen Paxton’s real name could easily lead them back to Harry, if they checked. Which Ben couldn’t afford to assume they wouldn’t. The leader looked like the kind of guy who would check everything.

‘She paid you all that money?’

‘She wanted me to find her son’s killers and bring back his belongings. She doesn’t know what he was
doing here, or what’s on the computer. She doesn’t care, and neither do I. She just wanted his things. Sentimental value.’

The leader drew away the weapon. ‘Sentimental value,’ he echoed thoughtfully. He crouched down and his cold eyes bored into Ben’s. ‘My name is Kamal. And I’m not that sentimental.’

Ben met his gaze and said nothing.

Kamal stood up and walked back over to the desk. He laid down his gun, grabbed the laptop and shoved it back in the bag together with the documents, the wads of banknotes and the blazer, and slung the bag over his shoulder. Then he paused, looked thoughtfully at the Rolex for a second, slipped it on and did up the clasp. ‘Nice watch,’ he muttered, admiring it on his wrist. He grabbed up his AKS and slipped it under his raincoat.

‘Kill this piece of shit. I’ll be waiting in the van.’

As Kamal left the apartment he caught a last glimpse of the foreigner. Down on his knees, face white, eyes pleading as the men closed in around him for the kill. He’d seen a hundred pathetic lives ended that way. At that moment, facing a humiliating death, knowing that the sum total of their worthless existence was about to be snuffed out like a cockroach under the sole of a shoe-that was when Kamal felt most repulsed by his victims. That last undignified reaction in itself justified stamping them out. He couldn’t bear to be in the room with them any longer than he had to. Human detritus. Food for worms.

The foreigner was begging now. ‘Please! Don’t kill me! I’ve got a wife and child!’

Kamal smiled as he shut the door. He glanced left and right. There was nobody around. He made his way down the spiralling stairs, past the empty landings, and out into the street where the plain white van was parked across from the building. The early morning sun was already getting hot. He crossed the road and climbed up into the cab, slipped the stubby assault weapon out
from under his coat and laid it down in the footwell. Kamal leaned back in his seat and watched through the dusty windscreen as the scattering of passers-by went about their business.

He looked at his shiny new watch. The men wouldn’t be long doing what they had to do. He was impatient to get back to Claudel’s house and try again to get into the laptop file. He was sure he could crack the password. How hard could it be? That French prick would have ideas, anyway. They’d spent a lot of time talking about all this history stuff. Stuff that would have been incredibly boring to Kamal, if it hadn’t represented unimaginable wealth. That kind of brought it to life for him.

Then again, why wait? He had a minute or two. The men would probably be finishing off the foreigner about now. Once they’d got bored of watching Mostafa smack him around, Tarek would hold him while Farid slit his throat. Then they’d close up the apartment and make their way downstairs. Maybe stop for a cigarette in the hallway. There was time enough to have another quick look at the file.

He reached for the bag. It was battered and worn, but he liked it. Deciding to keep it, he undid the fastenings, slipped out the laptop and powered it back up. First, he clicked into ‘My Documents’ and tried again with the little icon labelled ‘The Akhenaten Project’. He got the same response as before. ‘Access denied’.

No problem,
he thought. He cast his mind back to his talks with Claudel, pondered for a moment, then clicked on the box that said ‘Enter password’, and typed the word ‘amun’.

Kamal didn’t remember exactly who Amun was. Some god who’d meant something in ancient times. It only meant anything now if it could unlock the file, lead him to his money.

It didn’t. Access denied.

But it was no big deal. Plenty more options.

He typed ‘amuniscontent’. No joy.

He typed ‘heretic’. That was denied as well.

He swore violently, slammed the computer shut and shoved it back in the bag. Looked at his watch again, glanced, seething, at the window of the building. What the fuck was keeping them up there?

His patience snapped. He reached down into the footwell and snatched up the gun. Slipping it under his coat he went storming back across the street. The precious laptop in the bag slapped against his hip as he walked.