The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Scott Mariani

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, sounding anxious.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. Tell Jeff I’ll be back there as soon as I can.’

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ she said. ‘Talk to me, Ben.’

  ‘Nothing to be worried about. I’ll see you again soon.’

  After the call was over, he dressed and wandered up on deck. Part of him was hoping Zara would be around, but another part dreaded it.

  Out on the lower aft deck, the long table was set for breakfast. The scent of freshly percolated coffee drifted on the sea breeze. A basket was filled with warm croissants and pain au chocolat, and a jug of orange pressé sparkled in the sun. Zara was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘My wife sends her apologies,’ said Paxton’s voice behind Ben. ‘She had an early dental appointment and won’t be joining us. Said to say goodbye to you.’

  Ben turned. ‘Morning, Harry.’

  Paxton was smiling. ‘Did you sleep well? I hope the noise of the helicopter didn’t wake you.’

  ‘I slept fine, thanks,’ Ben said. ‘How was your business meeting?’

  ‘It went very well.’ Paxton motioned at the table. ‘Please, take a seat. Have some breakfast. I can have the chef prepare you bacon, eggs, anything you want.’

  ‘This is fine, thanks, Harry.’ Ben reached for a croissant, poured coffee into his cup.

  They chatted over breakfast for a few minutes. ‘I still don’t know how to thank you for what you’re doing for me,’ Paxton smiled, the sadness in his voice tinged with warmth. ‘You’re booked on a Swiss International Airlines flight from Nice at eleven. There are a few particulars I wanted to run through with you. When you’re finished, perhaps we could go down to the library?’

  Ben put down his empty cup. ‘I’m finished. Let’s go.’

  The first thing he noticed when he walked into the library was the attaché case on the table. Paxton went over to it, took out a slim card folder and handed it to Ben. ‘These are all the details,’ he said as Ben leafed through the contents. ‘The address of Morgan’s rented flat in Cairo. A copy of the coroner’s report, and of my correspondence with the homicide department, for what it’s worth. Your tickets will be waiting for you at the airport.’ Paxton reached back inside the case and took out a thick envelope. He handed it to Ben.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your expenses,’ Paxton said.

  Ben looked inside at the fat wad of banknotes.

  ‘Egyptian currency,’ Paxton said. ‘Three hundred thousand Egyptian pounds. That’s about forty thousand Euros, give or take.’

  ‘That’s too much, Harry. Take some back.’

  Paxton shook his head vehemently. ‘Keep it, please. Spend as much as you want and, whatever’s left over, change it back to whatever currency you need for yourself.’

  Ben shrugged. ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I absolutely do.’

  Ben ran his eye along the row of pictures on the sideboard. He skipped over a photo of Zara in a swim-suit sitting by a pool in some exotic place. Next to it was a picture of Morgan. ‘It might be useful for me to have a picture of him,’ he said. ‘Something recent, so I can ask around. It might jog a memory.’

  Paxton picked one up and handed it to him. ‘This was taken the last time I saw him, just before he left for Cairo. One of the rare times he ever came to stay with us on board.’

  Ben looked at the photo. It showed Morgan sitting in the Scimitars dining room, looking a little flushed and uncomfortable, holding a champagne glass. He was wearing a lightweight blazer, white with thin blue pinstripes. Ben could see the edge of a chunky gold watch protruding extravagantly from his cuff. It seemed somehow incongruous on him.

  ‘Expensive-looking item,’ he said. ‘Was that the one he was wearing on his trip? You mentioned it was stolen.’

  Paxton nodded sadly. ‘A Rolex Oyster. He always wore it. It was a present from his mother. She had it engraved. He treasured it.’

  ‘Tempting chunk of gold for a thief.’

  ‘I know. Morgan wasn’t especially streetwise. Academics live in their own little cocoon. I warned him about the watch, advised him to leave it here so that I could put it in the safe. But he didn’t want to know.’ Paxton let out a long, trembling breath. ‘I should have been more insistent. I let him go out there and make himself a target. It was my fault.’

  Ben was wishing he hadn’t mentioned the watch. ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Harry. They might just have been going after his wallet, his computer, his phone, even his shoes. He was a wealthy Western tourist. It happens. People get murdered for a lot less.’ He waved the photo. ‘Can I take this with me?’

  ‘Take it,’ Paxton said. ‘I have a copy.’

  Ben removed the picture from the frame and slipped it into the folder with the other papers. There wasn’t much, but he was already forming his plans. He put the folder in his bag and buckled the straps. ‘I’m ready.’

  Paxton looked pleased. ‘Good. There’ll be a taxi waiting for you at Porto Vecchio to take you to the airport.’

  As Ben was about to leave, Paxton suddenly and unexpectedly embraced him. Ben could feel the tension in the man’s body.

  ‘I love my wife, Ben,’ Paxton said in a low voice.

  Ben recoiled at the words but tried to hide it. ‘I know that, Harry.’

  ‘I’m too old for her. I don’t even know what she sees in me. But I love her more than anything. She’s all I have left in the world.’

  Ben just nodded.

  Paxton patted him on the back, drew away and wiped away a tear. He collected himself quickly. ‘I’ll wait for your call, then.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Harry.’

  Ben stepped off the launch at Porto Vecchio and got into the waiting taxi. Forty-five minutes later he was back at the Côte d’Azur International Airport across the border in Nice, grabbing his bag out of the boot and heading across the car park towards the airport terminals.

  He wished he were getting on a plane back to Normandy, not boarding a flight bound for Amsterdam and then on to Cairo. He felt trapped. He thought of Brooke and Jeff, wondered what they were doing at that moment. They felt a long way away. He suddenly realised how much he missed having them around.

  He was halfway across the tarmac when the sound of a car approaching fast made him turn. Zara’s BMW Roadster had pulled in off the street and was speeding towards him. The car screeched to a halt five yards away from where he was standing and the door flew open. Zara jumped out and came running up to him. Her face was tense.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, bewildered.

  ‘I couldn’t let you go without seeing you again.’

  ‘You followed me all the way from San Remo?’

  ‘I had to say goodbye. I’m sorry I walked out on you last night. It was stupid of me to run away like that.’

  ‘It was better that you didn’t stay.’

  ‘I meant what I said. That I love you. I do. I want us to be together. I’ll find a way, some way that won’t hurt Harry.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that. I can’t listen to this. It’s not right.’

  ‘You know it’s right,’ she said. ‘We both do.’ She held him tight. He stroked her hair as she moved her face up to his. The struggle was killing him. He gave in to the kiss. They embraced for a few seconds, and then he pushed her away reluctantly, his throat tight. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m going to miss this flight. I’ve got business to take care of

  ‘Stay with me. Take the next flight.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that.’

  She reached up and gently caressed his cheek. ‘Take care.’

  ‘You too,’ he said.

  ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He turned to go, tearing himself away.

  ‘Call me,’ she said as he walked off. ‘Promise you’ll call me.’

  He wanted to turn back and hold her again, be wi
th her, take her somewhere where they could be alone. But he kept walking. Just before he pushed through the doors into the terminal building, he glanced back. She was standing there by her car, a small, forlorn figure in the distance. She waved. He sighed and entered the building.

  Across the car park, two men had been sitting in a car watching the whole thing. The driver had been about to get out to follow their target inside the airport to find out what flight he was getting on.

  Then the BMW had screeched up and the Paxton woman had jumped out. The man had ducked back inside the car, not wanting to be spotted.

  He turned to his companion in the passenger seat, who was wearing a white foam neck brace. ‘What’s going on here? What the hell is she doing?’

  The passenger looked grim as he watched Zara Paxton with her arms around the target. ‘Christ,’ he groaned. ‘She wasn’t supposed to get emotionally involved with him.’ He glanced at his colleague, wincing at the pain that the movement cost him. ‘You think she’s told him anything?’

  The other one sighed. ‘I don’t know. We’d just better pray she isn’t going to fuck this whole thing up for us.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pierre Claudel was a master at what he did. In the shadowy circles in which he moved, his name was a whispered legend. The truth about his life was a closed book, and he preferred to keep it that way.

  At the age of forty-two, he was a confirmed member of the Cairo rich list. He was tall and suave, always well-dressed, impeccably mannered and extremely eligible. He played tennis and polo, enjoyed fine art and fine wine, had a private box at the opera, could recommend the best restaurants and hotels in any city in the world, and was seldom seen in public without the latest addition to the procession of expensive, but always eminently replaceable, women who passed through his life and bed. He drove a bright red Ferrari and lived in a mock Tuscan villa set in 1.6 acres of clipped and manicured country parkland in Hyde Park, one of Cairo’s most exclusive gated communities.

  As to where all this had come from, Claudel was highly secretive about the nature of his business. When asked what he did, he would just smile his charming smile, give a modest little wave of his hand and reply that he specialised in cultural exports. That answer was good enough for the small-talking country-club elite and the women he seduced at the city’s fashionable high-society parties. They didn’t need to know the truth. Nobody did.

  A long time ago, back in his native France, Pierre Claudel had been a passionate archaeology scholar. As a young student he’d worked himself mercilessly, graduated top of all the classes he’d ever taken and formed the makings of a glittering career in academia. He’d taken a lecturer’s post at the Sorbonne, where some of the students were older than he was. He’d done well, settled into a comfortable if not terribly luxurious lifestyle. Found himself a nice girlfriend, Nadine, and moved into a flat together. A little car, a little dog, a cosy little Parisian routine. Talk of marriage, starting a family one day.

  It would have satisfied a lot of men, but that wasn’t the way Pierre Claudel’s mind worked. He wanted more. And within a year or two, he was becoming restless.

  Then, at the age of twenty-seven, his passion for Egyptology had brought him to his first excavation in the Western Desert and he’d felt the first kiss of adventure. He’d been hooked. It suddenly hit him what he should be doing with his life. Fortune and glory were the promises that lurked under the sands, and he was going to find them.

  On his return to France he instantly started winding up his old life there. He quit his job, left Nadine weeping over a brief note on the kitchen table. With his whole world in a suitcase he boarded a flight, stepped down on the hot Egyptian soil and never looked back.

  The new, reinvented Claudel installed himself in the cheapest rented rooms he could find in Cairo, and immediately got down with fierce enthusiasm to setting up his new business. He became, in effect, a professional tomb robber. And within a year of starting up his operation, he was already on the fast track to becoming a very wealthy man. He could still remember the day he’d made his first million. This is fucking easy, he’d thought.

  And years later, that was still exactly how he felt about it. It was easy. Ridiculously easy. He was damn good at it, and it had been very, very kind to him.

  He liked to think that his profession was older than prostitution. Ever since the earliest civilisations had started honouring their dead by burying them with precious objects, there had been opportunities for men like him. He wasn’t the kind of idiot that the Egyptian Antiquities Police would catch, shovel in hand, digging at the foot of the Step Pyramid at Saqqara. Claudel’s operation was slick and sophisticated. And safe. He made sure that the guys doing the actual thieving never knew who they were working for, while he himself never even went near the desert. The wine bars and top class restaurants and golf courses were the places he carried out his business, and that suited him fine. Hot sand was bad for his handmade Italian shoes.

  Claudel had travelled everywhere in the course of his trade-Rome, Athens, Ankara, Beirut, Damascus, Delhi were all potential sources of prime merchandise for him. But Egypt was the real deal. Egypt was where it was truly at, and he wasn’t the only greedy piglet suckling on her fat teat. Everyone with half a connection was muscling in for a piece of the action. Even government officials trusted with the job of protecting Egypt’s heritage had been caught amassing huge fortunes by squirrelling artefacts to private buyers in Europe and the USA. Pharaonic slate palettes, pottery, glazed figurines, bronze statuettes, amulets, gold trinkets, carved stone heads, tapestries, even furniture-not to mention the wealth of items left over from the Graeco-Roman period. There was a veritable avalanche of stuff pouring out of the country.

  Claudel was careful never to let the artefacts too close to him. There was no Egyptian art in his home, not a scrap of anything that the Ministry of Culture or the Antiquities Police could ever catch him with. They’d never come close to suspecting him, but if they ever did come knocking on his door he’d be only too happy to show them around the place. Everything he personally owned was legit. Nobody could ever know that he’d paid for his collection of Ming vases by tunnelling through the wall into a storeroom used to house artefacts at a temple in Karnak and making off with a truckload of statues. He’d never even seen them. Even before they were his, they were sold.

  It had been the same with the priceless Louis XIV desk in his study, a trade for a Ptolemaic-era gold mask lifted from a mummy at the necropolis of Deir-el-Banat. One of his first really big sales. He could still remember it well. The tombs had been nice and shallow, sometimes just a metre under the surface. Grab and go. By the time the authorities had rolled up, all the good stuff was gone. They could keep the bones and bandages. Claudel had little use for dusty old corpses.

  And that was the way it had continued. Fifteen years on, business had never been more brisk. The appetite for Egyptian antiquities was as hot now as it had been in ancient times. Occasionally, an eagle-eyed Egyptologist would spot the stolen goods that cropped up in the auction rooms of Christie’s and Sotheby’s and the alert was sounded. The trail would sometimes lead back to the source and heads rolled, especially when the Ministry of Culture boys got together with Interpol to hunt down the crooked dealers. But Claudel was far too clever to let that happen. He’d made a fine art of creating buffers and paper trails to protect himself, and in any case most of his trade was with private owners. Unscrupulous connoisseurs were always keen to expand their collections, and blush-making sums of money would change hands-even if the artefacts could never be openly displayed.

  So, Pierre Claudel was a man with just about everything in life. But it was in his nature to want more, as it had always been. He would stand at his balcony in the mornings, sipping espresso, and gaze out towards the desert far away. The sands still held many secrets. There were still undreamed-of fortunes to be made out there. He yearned for one really big find, something he could retire on. Some of the legendary treasu
res of ancient Egypt were still undiscovered-like the fabled tomb of Imhotep, one of the nation’s earliest and most influential rulers, a man long thought not even to have existed. Armies of archaeologists and historians were out there and had been for years, scouring the sands for that elusive prize. If only he could snatch something of that magnitude out from under their noses-what a coup that would be. Something like that would set him up for life and for twenty lives afterwards.

  He would lie awake at night, just imagining it.

  Then, one day in late September, seven months ago now, Claudel had had a call that changed his life.

  The minute he’d heard the man’s voice on the other end, he’d known this was serious, heavy shit. Normally he’d have slammed the phone down or demanded to know where they’d got his private number. But instinct had told him otherwise, and he’d listened to what the man had to say.

  As a result of the call, a meeting had been set up. Not in the city, but in the desert. The man had been insistent on that point. Claudel had been uncomfortable with the idea, but his gut feeling again directed him to go with it. So he’d driven out there, alone as instructed. It had been a long, hot, dusty drive. The meeting place was a spot he knew from years ago, one that had never been worth visiting again. Whatever scraps the lonely ruined temple had to offer had been pilfered centuries ago. Now it just stood there, neglected and half buried in the sand, in the shade of a towering escarpment miles from anywhere.

  As he’d pulled up and stepped out into the searing sun, Claudel had sensed he was being watched from the escarpment high above. Time had passed. He’d paced up and down, checked his watch impatiently. The heat of the sun was giving him a headache. He wasn’t used to roughing it any more. He’d been just on the point of leaving when four off-road vehicles had appeared out of the shimmering heat haze and bounced across the dunes towards him.

  He’d shielded his eyes from the sun and watched them approach. The ten men who climbed out of the dusty vehicles weren’t the kind he normally did business with. Most of them looked like ex-soldiers, or mercenaries. Nobody was smiling. Several of them were carrying stubby automatic weapons on slings over their shoulders. Claudel didn’t generally come into contact with guns in the course of his work, and he didn’t much like them. These had evil-looking, curved magazines, folding stocks, a brutal military appearance to them. They looked scuffed and worn with use, and he could only wonder how many people had been shot with them.