The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Scott Mariani

  The desk attendant pursed his lips, considering the odd request. ‘We house over one hundred and twenty thousand artefacts in the museum, including many thrones and ceremonial chairs. The Tutankhamun exhibit fills the upper floor, east and north wings. His throne is there. You may be interested to view it.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m not interested in Tutankhamun. I’m interested in a High Priest from a few years before that, called Wenkaura.’

  The man thought for a moment. ‘We have a chair and other furniture belonging to Queen Hetepheres.’

  ‘I’m not interested in her either.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I can’t be of much assistance,’ the man replied, a little hotly. ‘The item you wish to view must be elsewhere.’

  Wonderful, Ben thought as he walked away from the desk. He could see Kirby at the far end of the room, hopping excitedly from display to display. He wanted to wring his neck.

  He wandered around the lower floor of the museum, deep in thought, hardly noticing the archaeological treasures that he passed by. Where to now? It seemed like a complete dead end. They had a clue, but no way to follow it up.

  At the back of the room, Ben suddenly stopped dead and realised that he’d wandered into the Amarna exhibit, the home of the relics dating from the brief, troubled reign of Akhenaten and the city in the sands that his successors had tried so hard to erase forever.

  He’d found himself standing face to face with the heretic himself.

  The stone bust seemed to gaze right back at him with slanted eyes, and he was struck by the strangeness of its features. The long, drooping face and grotesquely elongated cranium were eerily peculiar, almost disturbingly alien in appearance. He remembered what Kirby had said about the king having been regarded as odd, perhaps misshapen. So little was known about the man himself. Who had he really been, this heretical pharaoh who’d inspired so much hate and fear, to the point that his own people would have tried to write him out of the history books?

  Ben was too absorbed by the strange relic to notice someone else walking up behind him. He sensed the presence and turned to see another museum attendant, a younger man with a friendly smile.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with my colleague a minute ago. I might be able to help you.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Ben said. ‘I was looking for the throne of the High Priest Wenkaura, from the time of Akhenaten.’

  ‘And I’m afraid that particular piece doesn’t belong to the museum’s collection,’ the attendant said. ‘My colleague was right about that. But there are many private antiquities collections across Egypt, as well as Europe, the USA and elsewhere. One of them may very well have what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Is there a directory anywhere of these collectors, and maybe a list of the items they have?’

  ‘I’d have to check that for you with the curator,’ the attendant said. ‘He’s very busy, and it might take some time. But there’s a way you could save a lot of trouble. I know a man who could have this kind of information. Frankly, what he doesn’t know about the antiquities world isn’t worth knowing. He might well know where your throne is.’

  A ray of hope. Ben felt his pulse pick up a step. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘His name is Pierre Claudel,’ the attendant said.

  ‘Where can I find him? I’m extremely keen to speak to him.’

  The attendant smiled. ‘Step this way. I have the number in my office.’

  Claudel was alone at the villa, sitting slumped at his desk with a long, strong drink and dwelling endlessly on morbid thoughts, when the phone rang at his elbow. He turned slowly and watched as the vibrations of the silent ringer propelled it towards the edge of the desk.

  For a long moment, he resisted picking it up. Why not just let it creep to the edge of the polished wood, drop off and smash itself on the floor? It would only be Kamal. He was the only person who called any more. Claudel could barely remember the days when he’d been running a thriving business and his phone had never stopped. For that matter, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a shit about blue skies and sunshine, or beautiful art and music, or beautiful women. When had he last woken up in the morning and not wanted to crawl deep under the covers and never come out again? Chronic fear was like a chilling, suffocating fog that had settled over his whole life.

  But then Claudel remembered that the caller couldn’t be Kamal. He’d said he was going to be away on business for a few days and wouldn’t be in touch. Something to do with those plans he kept alluding to. That was a subject Claudel didn’t want to dwell on, not for a moment. He wanted to blot it all from his mind forever-though how could he, when all he could think about was that, any day now, Kamal was going to take him out to the desert, put a bullet in his head and leave him for the vultures? He mused for a moment: would Kamal give him a quick death? Was being left out to rot in the desert a better end than a long, drawn-out suicide by booze and antidepressants?

  The phone kept ringing insistently. Claudel felt a surge of curiosity that was just strong enough to overcome his 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 façade 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 décor, 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 convin
ced. 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 the three men. The Boss drew a pair of thick glasses from his breast pocket and craned forwards to read what Kamal had written in bold black ink.

  It was a simple list. Five names. Five cities.

  ‘My targets in Western Europe and the USA,’ Kamal said quietly. ‘I will wipe them off the face of the planet.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The Claudel Residence, Cairo

  Claudel walked slowly towards where Ben and Kirby sat. ‘Stay in your seats, please. I’ll shoot if you make me.’

  The gun wavered slightly, and Ben could see the man wasn’t used to handling one. But, looking down the barrel of a high-powered assault rifle from across a room with no chance of disarming his enemy, that knowledge was little comfort.

  Beside him, Kirby was gripping the arms of his chair in desperate panic, his face tight and pale.

  Claudel took another step forward and stopped and looked keenly at Ben. ‘You see, Mr Hope, I know who you are.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘My associate, Kamal, told me all about you.’

  There was a long silence in the room. Ben was assessing his options. There wasn’t much to choose from. If Claudel took five more steps in the right direction, there was an outside chance that Ben could launch himself out of the armchair with enough speed and force to take the weapon away from him, or at least deflect its fire until he’d subdued him and got him to the floor. The rest would be easy. But the problem was that Claudel wasn’t coming any closer. At this range, any attempt at disarming him would be pure suicide. He’d be running headlong into a bullet.

  ‘So what happens now?’ he asked. ‘If you wanted us dead, you’d have done something about it by now. That means you want something else.’

  ‘Maybe I just don’t want blood all over my furniture,’ Claudel said.

  ‘Then you wouldn’t have brought us here. You’d have picked a better spot for it. Somewhere the neighbours wouldn’t hear rifle shots going off. So, what do you want?’

  Claudel paused for a few moments before replying, and Ben could see there was a lot of intense thinking going on behind the man’s eyes. He looked as if he was under immense pressure, and just about ready to crack. The AKS muzzle was trembling now, and Ben guessed that it wasn’t just because of the gun’s weight in the man’s hand.

  Then Claudel did something very strange. Keeping the gun aimed straight at Ben, he took a deep breath and said, ‘Please, I need your help.’

  There was another silence. Kirby was glancing frantically from Ben to Claudel, gaping in confusion.

  ‘You have a strange way of asking for it.’ Ben pointed at the weapon.

  ‘I’d put it down,’ Claudel replied. ‘But I’m rather concerned about what you might do next.’

  ‘You think I’d kill you a second later.’

  ‘It crossed my mind.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I’d be too curious to hear what you have to say.’

  Claudel bit his lip and hesitated. �
��I want you to get rid of Kamal for me.’

  ‘Get rid of?’

  ‘What’s the preferred terminology in your profession? Eliminate. Take out. Or do you just say kill?’

  ‘That’s a very peculiar request.’

  ‘This is a very peculiar situation. Will you let me tell you about it?’

  ‘You’re the one holding the gun,’ Ben said. ‘You have the floor.’

  ‘If I put it down, will that make you feel better?’

  ‘It usually does.’

  ‘No tricks?’

  ‘No tricks.’

  Claudel went to lay the assault weapon down at his feet.

  ‘I’d maybe apply the safety first,’ Ben advised. ‘That’s the little pressed steel lever near your right thumb. Push it until it clicks.’

  Claudel did it, then hesitantly put the gun down.

  ‘Now let’s hear it,’ Ben said.

  For the next few minutes, Claudel told his story. He described what he did for a living, and the day in the desert when Kamal had offered him the chance to make a lot of money fencing an incredible antiquities find.

  ‘The smaller treasure,’ Kirby breathed. ‘The stash that Wenkaura put away in a hurry when he was found out. Then we were right. It’s all real.’

  Claudel nodded sadly. ‘Yes, it’s all real. Kamal found it in the Western Desert, purely by chance. He was very quick to figure out that there was a great deal more, hidden elsewhere.’ Claudel went on, explaining how he’d become so inexorably dragged into Kamal’s affairs. ‘He’s a maniac. A reckless, brutal killer. I’ve never feared nor hated any man so much in all my life, and I bitterly rue the day I ever became involved with him.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure,’ Claudel said. ‘A professional criminal. A terrorist. He and his men have virtually taken over my life. He even keeps a store of firearms in my wine cellar, and ammunition, and boxes of something called PP-01.’ He pointed in disgust at the gun on the floor. ‘Where do you think I got this? I wouldn’t have such things in the house. I also know he’s working on some kind of plan. He talks about it all the time. It’s what he wants the treasure for, to finance it.’