The Heretic's Treasure

by Scott Mariani

  ‘Hey, what the fuck are you doing down there?’

  But then he saw the legs give a violent, spasmodic twitch.

  And he saw the blood that was pooling outwards from under the van and across the gravel.

  After that, he saw nothing more.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Ben cut the man’s throat in a swift sawing motion, stepped aside to avoid the blood spray and let the body slump to the ground. He laid the long, curved knife on the gravel between the two dead men and quickly checked them for any kind of ID. As he’d expected, there was nothing-but the moment he’d seen the van arrive and the two Middle Eastern guys get out, he’d known who had sent them. Kamal must have found the phone number in the blazer pocket and followed the same trail he had.

  There was a frenzied thumping and yelling coming from the back of the van. Ben walked around to the rear doors and opened them.

  Kirby looked crazed and dishevelled. ‘It’s you. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just dropped by for a chat,’ Ben said. ‘I was about to talk to you, when I saw you had company. Decided to hang back and see what happened.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Right now, under the circumstances, I’d say I’m the best friend you have in the world,’ Ben said. ‘Ready to trust me yet?’

  Kirby lowered himself gingerly out of the back of the van and froze when he saw the two bodies. He put his hands to his face. ‘Oh, my God. You killed them.’

  ‘You’re right. Maybe I should have just reasoned with them. I’m sure we could have worked something out.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Kirby gasped.

  ‘You know perfectly well what’s going on,’ Ben said. ‘Your secret’s out, and everybody wants a piece. What did you think was going to happen?’

  ‘I’m calling the police.’ Kirby started staggering towards the house.

  Ben stopped him. ‘Not if you want to stay alive.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You call the police, I’m out of here. Then, when these guys don’t phone in or turn up, more are going to come. Sooner or later, they’ll get you, take you away, interrogate you and probably torture you to death. There’s nothing the police can do to prevent it. If that’s what you want, go and dial 999, and I’ll say goodbye.’

  Kirby’s shoulders slumped helplessly. ‘All right. Obviously I don’t want that. So what am I going to do?’

  ‘First you’re going to tell me where there’s a tool-shed with a wheelbarrow in it. And then you’re going to help me carry these bodies over to the slurry pit over there, where nobody’s ever going to go looking for them.’

  It took less than ten minutes to make the two kidnappers vanish. A concrete lane led from the side of the manor to the dilapidated farm buildings two hundred yards away beyond the trees, and Ben used the creaky old barrow that Kirby found for him to roll them one at a time to the edge of the slurry pit.

  At twenty yards, the stink of putrescent liquid dung was noxious. At ten it was overwhelming, and very few people would have got closer than five. Ben held his breath as he kicked back the bolts on the hatches and opened them up to reveal the filth underneath. He rolled one corpse in with his foot, then the other. Two brown splashes, a stream of bubbles as the slurry filled their lungs, and they were gone. The next time anyone saw them, there would be nothing but bones left. Nature was efficient that way. Ben tossed the bloody Kukhri knife in after them, slammed the hatches shut, slid the bolts home and moved away quickly towards cleaner air.

  Kirby was waiting for him beside the old hay barn, looking deeply perturbed and shaken. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now let’s get out of here,’ Ben said. ‘My car, not yours.’

  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 t
hrew 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 décor 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 implement a monotheistic state religion. To some historians he’s the precursor to Jesus Christ, to others he’s just a radical crackpot.’ Kirby finished his drink, gazed a little wistfully at the empty glass. ‘Can I get another drink?’

  ‘In a minute.’ Ben slid his own glass under the historian’s nose. ‘Have this in the meantime.’

  ‘Thanks. I need it.’

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase. I know about Atenism. And I know that Akhenaten was called a heretic for his religious reforms. But what’s this got to do with Morgan Paxton? I’m not seeing the connection here.’

  Kirby picked up Ben’s glass. ‘Let me go on. You wanted to hear this, didn’t you? All the background stuff’s really important. Otherwise you won’t—’

  ‘OK, go on then,’ Ben snapped.

  ‘This pharaoh was only a young man when he took over from his father Amenhotep III,’ Kirby went on. ‘But he’d always been a little weird. Even physically weird, misshapen. All kinds of peculiarities about him. And soon after he took power, he started implementing this incredible, unthinkable plan. In the fifth year of his reign he adopted the name Akhenaten, which means “glorious spirit of the Aten”. That was the first sign of trouble. The crunch came when, in his ninth year, he basically abolished all of the old gods. We’re talking about a gigantic revolution, a total reorganisation of the whole foundation of the society. Figures like Anubis, the jackal-headed god. Osiris, ruler of the Underworld. Amun, big cheese of the whole lot. Akhenaten just swiped them away.’ Kirby gestured with his arm. ‘Just like that. All the people were left with was this very exclusive compulsory state religion, Atenism. Meanwhile, Akhenaten and his royal retinue abandoned the state capital of Thebes and went off to found a new city called Akhetaten, meaning “horizon of the Aten,” better known as Amarna.’ Kirby had finished Ben’s glass. He looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Same again?’ Ben asked, pointing at the empty glasses.

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Kirby replied.

  Ben got up, strode over to the bar and came back with two more doubles. He slammed them down on the table. ‘Right. Keep talking.’

  Kirby drank, seemed to lose his thread for a second, then continued. ‘OK, this is coming up to the important bit. While this crazy pharaoh is living it up in his own private paradise, worshipping his god like some new-age California hippie, the whole country’s going to the dogs. He basically didn’t give a toss what happened to the economy, to state security, or to the people. It all started crumbling away to shit. He was bringing Egypt to its knees.’ He paused for another long sip. His cheeks were rosy now, and his eyes were brightening steadily. ‘So, as you can imagine, a lot of people were terribly unhappy with Akhenaten. The temples played a very important role in the economic and social life of the community, and he’d destroyed all that. Meanwhile, the level of state censorship was pretty much on a par with the Nazi book-burning frenzy in pre-war Germany. Akhenaten ordered the destruction of vast hoards of treasures that had been created in veneration of the old gods. Everything from the biggest statue to the smallest amulet-if it depicted the old polytheistic order in any way, he wanted it suppressed. The gold was to be melted down and turned into Aten idols. The temples were all closed up. A whole profession of craftsmen, masons, sculptors, scribes, were suddenly forbidden from carrying out the trade they’d been practising all their lives. And the high priests were basically redundant. In short, just about everyone was seriously upset with this crazy pharaoh they regarded as a troublemaker. Worse than that. A heretic.’

  Kirby paused. And now we come to the legend. The old, old myth of the heretic’s treasure, which tells that someone may or may not have managed to rescue a gigantic quantity of precious religious artefacts from destruction by Akhenaten’s agents.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘They don’t call it a myth for nothing,’ Kirby said. ‘The fact is, nobody has ever known who, or how, or whether it even happened. It’s just one of those camp-fire tales that have been rolling around for millennia, and which nobody has taken seriously for centuries.’

  Ben could feel his muscles tightening. ‘So this is all just hearsay. No substance to it whatsoever. This is what I’m wasting my time on.’ He was on the brink of walking out of the pub. Despair was beginning to well up inside him again. Why was he here? Why hadn’t he tried to follow Paxton’s traces back in Paris?

  Kirby seemed to sense his mood. ‘Hold on. I haven’t finished. What I’m about
to tell you changes everything.’

  ‘It had better be extremely good,’ Ben said.

  ‘It is. Here’s where the legend ends and reality begins. Morgan’s and my involvement with this kicked off with a chance discovery in Antakya, Turkey. Which at one time was the site of the ancient Syrian city of Antioch.’

  Ben knew the name from his theology studies. Antioch was where the followers of Jesus had been called Christians for the first time. A city ravaged by centuries of wars and sieges, crusades and earthquakes. It had passed through the hands of the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Romans. But that still didn’t tell him much.

  ‘A couple of years ago, Morgan was there on holiday,’ Kirby explained. ‘He always liked browsing around in little antique shops, street markets. Most of what you find in those places is fake trash. Ancient papyri that are really last year’s banana leaves with a bit of paint on them. Any old bit of bone that’s been carved, fed to turkeys so that the gastric juices make them look all ancient, then passed off as precious artefacts. But then, on his last day before he was due to fly back home, among all the crap Morgan found something special.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A small casket,’ Kirby said. ‘All eaten away with age. The vendor said it had been dug up near the ruins of the Antioch ramparts. Must have thought it was just junk. Morgan snapped it up right away, took it home and spent half the night opening it up. Inside it was a papyrus.’

  ‘Not last year’s banana leaf?’

  ‘No way. This was the real deal. It was written in authentic hieratic script, which was a simplified, abbreviated form of hieroglyphics used for writing letters.’

  ‘I know what hieratic script was,’ Ben said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was an unfinished letter, written by a resident of Antioch around 1335 BC, sometime after the death of the pharaoh Akhenaten. The author introduced himself as Diodore of Heraclea, a very sick old man with something important to say.’