The Heretic's Treasure

  He stood up. Stronger now, somehow. More focused. Clearer.

  He walked out of the church, leaving its cool serenity behind. The building was surrounded by pretty, well-tended gardens railed off from the street. The trees rustled lightly in the breeze, and little sparrows hopped across the lawns. Ben headed for an old wooden bench under a gnarly oak. He sat down on the edge of it, took out his phone, glanced again at the number on his hand and punched it out on the keys.

  After four rings his heart was already sinking. Maybe this wasn’t going to lead anywhere. Maybe the number meant nothing. If the junkie girl had been wearing the blazer for a few days, the piece of paper might have been hers. Doubts gripped him.

  On the sixth ring, an answerphone cut in.

  ‘University of St Andrews. Faculty of History,’ said the female voice on the recorded message. She spoke with a lilting Scottish accent. ‘If you know the extension number you require, please enter it now. Otherwise, please hold for an operator.’

  This didn’t sound like a contact a Cairo dopehead would have. Ben entered the extension and waited. Then swore under his breath as another answerphone kicked in after a couple of rings.

  ‘Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of Dr Lawrence Kirby. I’m not around right now, so please leave your message—’

  Ben killed the call before he got to the beep. So now he knew whose number he had. This was suddenly looking more promising. Maybe not much, but better than nothing.

  Leaning back on the bench, he did an Internet search on ‘Dr Lawrence Kirby, St Andrews University’. His phone’s search engine took him straight to the Faculty of History website, where he found Kirby listed in the directory of staff members. He clicked on the name, and a thumbnail photo appeared with a two-line bio. The picture showed a somewhat bemused-looking, pasty-faced individual who hadn’t shaved that morning. He had a wild shock of black hair, a tuft of it hanging down across his brow.

  Ben gazed at it. Is this fucker going to be any use to me? he wondered.

  He laid the phone down next to him and took out his cigarettes and lighter. Lit up, watched the smoke curl away on the wind and tried hard not to think of Zara. It didn’t work. He finished the cigarette and went straight into another. After a few minutes he snatched up the phone and dialled Kirby’s number again.

  This time, there was no answerphone, and it kept ringing and ringing. Just as he was about to hang up, a man’s voice answered breathlessly, as though he’d been running to get the call.

  ‘Dr Kirby?’ Ben said.

  ‘Speaking,’ the voice panted.

  ‘Dr Lawrence Kirby?’

  ‘This is he,’ the voice replied jovially. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘You don’t know me. I’m calling about Morgan Paxton.’

  The phone went dead.

  Ben swore. He tried again. This time, Kirby answered on the second ring.

  ‘We got cut off,’ Ben said.

  ‘No, we didn’t.’ Kirby didn’t sound so jovial any more. ‘I cut you off.’

  ‘Why did you do that? I was just trying to talk to you.’

  ‘I cut you off because I don’t know any Morgan Paxton.’

  ‘You remember his name pretty well, though.’

  ‘Listen, I don’t know who you are, or what you’re talking about,’ Kirby answered, sounding panicked. ‘You must have the wrong number.’

  ‘It’s the right number and, if you let me explain, you’ll understand why I need to talk to you. It’s important.’

  There was a pause on the other end. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you. I don’t know who Morgan Paxton is.’ Kirby hung up again.

  Ben turned off his phone. OK, if that’s the way you want to play it, Kirby, he thought. St Andrews. East coast of Scotland, just north of Edinburgh.

  Fuck it. He could be there in a few hours.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Ben hammered the Mini the fourteen miles northeast to Paris Roissy airport and got on the first plane bound for Edinburgh. After a short flight, he stepped down on Scottish soil. The air was colder and crisper than France, but he wasn’t interested in taking in his surroundings. At the Avis car rental outlet he picked out a Mercedes SLK two-seater sports that seemed about right for someone in the kind of hurry he was. Settling into the snug black leather interior, he entered his destination into the sat nav and hit the road fast and hard. Edinburgh shrank away quickly to nothing in his mirrors. He blasted across the giant suspension bridge spanning the Firth of Forth and carved northwards up the twisting A roads of the east coast until he reached St Andrews.

  He vaguely remembered from his theology studies that the old university town had at one time been the religious capital of Scotland, steeped in the blood of butchered, tortured and burned martyrs. Its violent past was hard to imagine as he drove through the quiet streets, past ivied university buildings, cafés and hotels. It didn’t take him long to locate the Faculty of History. He left the car and walked along a path overlooking the sea, with the ruins of the medieval cathedral behind him and the craggy remains of St Andrews castle and the coastline stretching out in a wide curve ahead in the distance. He filled his lungs with the fresh, salty air and tried hard, for the millionth time, to keep Zara from the foreground of his thoughts but knew it was impossible.

  Arriving at the fine stone building that housed the Faculty of History, he walked in the iron gates, crossed a small car park and shoved through the front entrance into a large reception area. There was nobody at the desk. He glanced around him. A row of chairs, some historical prints framed on the wall, a broad staircase winding upwards. On a panel by the bottom of the stairs were the names of the academic staff with their room numbers and a little push-button LED that showed who was in. Ben ran his finger down the list until he found Kirby and a room number-42. The little light next to it was on.

  He headed up the stairs, two at a time. A bunch of students were heading down, clutching books and folders, chatting among themselves. They glanced at him as he went by, and he ignored them. At the top of the stairs, a sign pointed right for rooms 21 to 45. He batted through a fire door and strode quickly up the narrow, neon-lit corridor. When he got to room 42 he checked the name-plate on the door: DR LAWRENCE KIRBY’.

  Ben pushed in without knocking, and found himself in a large office. The place was a chaotic sprawl, books and papers and yellowing crumpled copies of the Guardian everywhere, piled high on the desk, stacked in heaps on the floor. At the back of the room was a dusty window, and between it and the cluttered desk stood the man Ben instantly recognised from the Internet page as Lawrence Kirby.

  Kirby had been in the middle of stuffing a huge book into a crammed, battered leather briefcase on his desk when Ben burst in. ‘Can’t you kn—’ he started. His voice trailed off, and he froze, staring at Ben. He was exactly like his photo, except maybe a little scruffier, and the unruly shock of black hair hung even lower over his brow.

  Kirby dropped the book and walked out from behind the desk. He was wearing frayed cord trousers, his shirt was hanging out under his tweed sports jacket. He was a few pounds overweight and moved awkwardly. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. His eyes darted up and down, as though he were nervously sizing Ben up.

  ‘I’m the one you didn’t want to talk to on the phone,’ Ben said. ‘Remember?’ The draught from the opening of the door had blown some documents off the desk, and he stooped quickly to pick them up. The top one was a car insurance renewal form with Kirby’s name and home address on it. ‘You dropped these,’ he said, trying to keep his tone more friendly. He could see Kirby was rattled, and he didn’t want to seem a threat to the man. He laid the papers down on the desk and smiled.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ Kirby said abruptly.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I told you, I have nothing to say to you,’ Kirby said, flushed. ‘I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘I came a very long way to talk to you, Dr Kirby. Just give me a few minutes. That’s all I ask, then I??
?m gone and you won’t see me again.’

  ‘I’m calling security.’ The historian made a grab for the phone that was half buried under the sea of paperwork on his desk.

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ Ben said.

  Kirby’s hand stopped short of the phone. His eyes were round and staring. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘I’m not threatening you,’ Ben said. ‘You don’t have to be afraid. All I want is to ask you some questions about Morgan Paxton and the Akhenaten Project. I need to know what you know.’

  ‘Morgan’s dead,’ Kirby said.

  ‘I know that. And your number was in his pocket when he died. Were you and he working on the research together?’

  Kirby swallowed. ‘His father sent you here, didn’t he?’

  The mention of Harry Paxton brought a fresh image of Zara into Ben’s mind. He felt his blood rise. ‘No. I’m not working for Morgan’s father. I was in the army with him. And until two days ago, I thought he was my friend. I was wrong. When this is over, I’m going after him. But right now I need your help. I need it badly, Dr Kirby’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘My name’s Ben Hope. And I’m not here to hurt you. Trust me.’

  Kirby hesitated, frozen by indecision and nerves.

  ‘Please,’ Ben said.

  Kirby stared at him a second longer, then stabbed a button on the phone keypad. ‘Security? This is Dr Lawrence Kirby. There’s an intruder in my office.’

  There was nothing Ben could do to stop him. He could have taken the phone off him, or ripped the wire from the wall. But strong-arm tactics weren’t going to get him anywhere. He knew he had only seconds before security arrived and he needed to make the most of that time.

  ‘I know that Morgan was looking for treasure. I need to know where it is.’

  ‘That’s a surprise.’

  ‘I haven’t time to explain,’ Ben said. ‘How much do you know?’

  But before Kirby could answer, the door flew open and two security guards walked in. The older one was craggy, hardened-looking, the white hair contrasting with his red nose and the thread veins on his cheeks. Maybe a former boxer. His companion couldn’t have been more than twenty. Not long in uniform, Ben thought. Itching for some action.

  ‘This man burst into my office and has been threatening me,’ Kirby said, pointing at Ben. ‘I want him removed.’

  ‘Let’s go, son,’ the older guard said, reaching for Ben’s arm. ‘We don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘I’m not bringing any,’ Ben said. ‘I just wanted to talk to him about something.’

  Kirby grabbed his briefcase. ‘Well, I’ll leave it to you gentlemen to take care of He walked past Ben with his eyes on the floor, breezed through the doorway and was gone.

  ‘You’ll have to come with us,’ the craggy guard said. ‘We have to take details from you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Ben said. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  The younger guard folded his arms. ‘That’s not what Dr Kirby said.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit what Dr Kirby said. I’m leaving now, and you’re going to let me.’

  ‘No chance, pal. You’re coming down to our office and we’re calling the police.’ He pronounced it ‘polis’.

  Ben made a step for the door. The younger guy grabbed his wrist. ‘I have to warn you, I’m a black belt in Aikido. I don’t want to have to hurt you.’

  He was unconscious before he hit the carpet.

  Ben turned to the older guy. ‘I didn’t come here looking for trouble. Best you don’t give me any, OK?’ He pointed to Kirby’s chair, and the old guy went over and sat down, fuming but knowing better than to get up.

  ‘Sensible,’ Ben said. ‘Give me your radio and mobile phone.’

  The guard wordlessly slid them across the desk and Ben shoved them in his pockets. ‘Now I’m leaving, and you’re going to sit quietly until this prick comes round.’ He ripped the phone wire out of the wall, and walked to the door. He threw a last warning look at the guard, left the room and locked the door behind him, leaving the key in the lock.

  He looked at his watch as he walked down the corridor towards the exit. Time was ticking by too fast. As he strode out of the entrance and headed for the car, he was already dialling up Google Maps on his phone and punching in the postcode that had been on the car insurance renewal form in Kirby’s office. The address came up as Drummond Manor, eight miles west of St Andrews.

  Ben slid inside the Mercedes and entered the details on his sat nav. Now to find Kirby and make him talk. Properly.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lawrence Kirby knew he was a terrible driver, but he didn’t generally care and he cared even less today. As he sat peering over the wheel of his bright yellow Smart Car and lurched and stalled his way towards the old family home eight miles out in the countryside, he was thinking about this guy, Ben Hope, who’d accosted him in his office. And about Morgan, and about the treasure. He wondered how the hell Hope had managed to track him down so easily.

  Whatever it all meant, it scared the shit out of him. As he pulled in off the road, passed under the archway of trees and into the gravelled forecourt of Drummond Manor, he was wondering whether it was time to pack some stuff and take a holiday. Maybe take the sabbatical leave he’d cancelled the day he’d heard about Morgan’s death and bailed out of his Cairo trip.

  He climbed the steps to the big stone manor house, fumbled for the key in his pocket and pushed open the heavy oak door. Every time he walked inside the huge stone-floored entrance hall, he had the same thought: how much he hated all the crap his father had insisted on displaying on the walls. The stuffed trophy deer heads always seemed to watch him wherever he went, and their antlers made spiky shadows at night that freaked him out. He couldn’t stand the sight of the crossed sabres and muskets gathering dust on the carved wood panels, either. On a velvet panoply over the fireplace were two big ceremonial Kukhri knives, left over from His Lordship’s days as an officer with the Gurkha regiment.

  But the old man’s will hadn’t specified that his son, the new Laird of the manor, couldn’t just bung the offensive lot in a skip. And Kirby planned to do exactly that. He just hadn’t got around to it in the months since he’d inherited this rambling pile.

  He dumped his briefcase in the passage, walked through to the kitchen and made himself a mug of instant decaf. Carrying the thin brown liquid through to the only one of the manor’s many reception rooms that he ever used, he gazed out of the window across the overgrown lawns behind the house. Beyond a stone wall and a row of trees, he could see the derelict agricultural buildings in the background. The place had been a working farm once but, ever since the old man had got frail and sick, everything had fallen into decay. Abandoned stacks of hay bales were mouldering and turning black in the rusty barn. And the slurry pit was sure to be attracting rats. It was becoming a health hazard. He’d have to tear the whole lot down.

  That was Kirby’s last thought before he sensed a presence behind him and spun around in surprise to see two men striding fast towards him across the room. Two guns in his face. He dropped his coffee and let out a short scream. Fell to his knees.

  Neither man spoke a word as they grabbed his arms, hauled him roughly to his feet and marched him out of the room and down the passage. He struggled and pleaded. ‘What do you want with me?’ As they frogmarched him across the hall, he glanced up and saw with a shock of horror that there was an empty space where one of the Gurkha knives had hung.

  Oh Christ, they’re going to cut my head off.

  ‘What are you going to do to me?’ he screamed.

  They ignored him and dragged him out of the front door. There was a white Suzuki mini-van sitting parked on the gravel outside. The back doors were open. The men shoved him towards it.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  No reply.

  All the strength had left Kirby’s legs and he was shaking with pure terror as they bundled him into the b
ack. He slid across the bare metal floor, tried to scramble to his feet and whacked his head against the low roof. The doors slammed shut. There were no windows. Kirby was suddenly in darkness.

  The kidnappers walked around the van’s sides to the cab, pulled open their doors and climbed in. They spent a moment making their pistols safe and securing them inside the tactical concealment holsters they were both wearing under their jackets. They didn’t speak, but shared the quiet satisfaction of a job cleanly and quickly executed. Now it was time to get out of here and deliver the package to the place outside Glasgow that their cell used as a safehouse. Neither man had any clear idea of the purpose of this job-they only knew that a call had come in from overseas the night before, and it was from someone their bosses obeyed instantly. It had also been put in no uncertain terms to them that to mess this up would mean severe punishment.

  The driver twisted the key.

  Nothing happened. The van was stone dead.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said in Arabic.

  ‘What’s wrong with it? It was fine a minute ago,’ said the man in the passenger seat.

  The driver muttered another curse, reached down below the dash and yanked on the bonnet release mechanism. There was a dull clunk and the bonnet popped free of its catch and opened half an inch. He kicked open his door, jumped down from the van and walked around to the front.

  The passenger watched through the windscreen as his colleague lifted the bonnet and disappeared behind it. He heard some noises, then nothing. He stuck his head out of the window. ‘Hurry the fuck up,’ he yelled in Arabic. ‘We’ve got to get moving.’

  The bonnet crashed down with a clang that shook the van. The passenger looked, expecting to see his colleague wiping his hands and giving the thumbs-up-OK, sorted, let’s roll.

  But there was nobody there.

  He frowned, opened his door, climbed down. His footsteps crunched on the gravel as he walked around the front wing. He looked down and saw the driver’s legs sticking out as though he were lying on his back to work on the underside of the van.