The Heretic’s Treasure. Scott Mariani

difference was that, instead of containing a compressed solution of Salbutamol, the tube was hollow and housed a tiny electronic device. She shook it out. Coiled up with it was a miniature earpiece on the end of a thin wire. She fitted the mike into her ear and activated the device.

      Somewhere miles above the earth, the GPS signal was instantly rerouted.

      She knew her accomplices would already be listening on the other end, keenly waiting for her to report. It was all going smoothly so far.

      ‘I’m on board,’ she whispered.

      ‘Copy,’ said a man’s voice.

      ‘I’m going to take a look around.’

      ‘Go easy,’ said the voice. ‘Don’t get caught.’

      ‘I won’t,’ she said softly. ‘Out.’

      She switched off the device, plucked the earpiece out of her ear and wound the wire around two fingers. She stuffed everything back inside the hollow Salbutamol bottle, and replaced it in the plastic body of the asthma pump. Slipping the pump in her pocket, she walked towards the door and opened it a crack. She peeked out into the corridor, glanced left and right. Nobody around. She slipped out into the passage. Her heart was thudding.

      She knew she had to move fast. But she knew exactly where to go.

       Chapter Nine

      Ben and Paxton stared at each other in silence for a long moment.

      Ben’s glass was empty. He rotated it thoughtfully on his knee for a moment. Searched for the right words.

      ‘I’m not a hitman, Harry,’ was all he could answer.

      Paxton reached for the decanter and refilled their drinks. ‘It’s a small community, our little world of ex-officers. Especially when it comes to men with your background. I’ve heard things on the grapevine. I know what you’ve been doing since you left the regiment. You didn’t go into business, like me. Not conventional business, anyway. You tracked people down.’

      Ben shook his head. ‘You’re making me sound like a bounty hunter. I found missing people. Kidnap victims, children mostly. That’s what I did. And I certainly didn’t do contracts.’

      ‘But people died,’ Paxton said, gazing at him steadily. ‘At least, that’s what I heard. Perhaps I was misinformed.’

      Ben winced inwardly. ‘No, you heard right. People died. But not like this.’

      ‘Will you hear me out?’

      Ben sighed. ‘Of course. Go ahead.’

      Paxton stood up and went over to one of the paintings on the wall. The gilt-framed oil depicted a naval battle, two sailing warships ripping into each other broadside on a stormy sea, jets of flame bursting through billows of white smoke, sails hanging in tatters. He gazed at it pensively as he went on.

      ‘Let me tell you about my son. He was very unlike me. He was a man of intellect and philosophy, not a man of action. And I think he had problems coming to terms with that. He tried to follow in my footsteps, but it just wasn’t him. He was a timid sort of man. That’s not to say he didn’t have talent. Somewhere inside him, I believe there was even the potential to be brilliant. But he wasn’t ambitious. He had no drive, never really shone. Sometimes that frustrated me, and he knew it. Perhaps I was guilty of being too hard on him. I bitterly regret that now.’

      Paxton turned away from the painting. ‘Because the fact is,’ he went on, ‘that Morgan had one overriding passion in his life, which I never understood. It all started when he stumbled on something in the course of his research.’

      ‘Stumbled on what?’ Ben said, wondering where this was leading. He was still reeling from Paxton’s request.

      ‘You have to understand the academic mind,’ Paxton replied. ‘These aren’t men who seek glory. It’s hard for you and I to relate to that. They’re men whose joy in life lies in things that we might consider trivial.’ He paused. ‘Morgan’s great passion was a discovery he’d made to do with ancient Egypt. Some sort of papyrus relating to a minor political or religious upset that happened three thousand years ago. He told me a little about it, though to be honest I don’t remember the details. It’s not the kind of thing that would interest me, personally. But it meant a great deal to him.’

      ‘And this was what he was researching in Cairo?’

      Paxton nodded. ‘He’d been working on it for a long time. When the opportunity arose to take a sabbatical year, his plan was to stay in Egypt for a few months. And so he’d taken all his research material with him. But when his body was found, all his belongings had been taken. They took his watch, his phone, his wallet and his camera. Even some of his clothes. And his briefcase, his laptop, everything. Which means that all his research is gone. It was all for nothing. All the effort he poured into it, the passion he had for it. All gone, because of some murdering little lowlife who thought he could make a bob or two passing on stolen goods.’

      Ben didn’t know what to say.

      ‘I can’t bear that my son is dead,’ Paxton said stiffly. ‘But what I can bear even less is that his legacy could be wiped out like that, like swatting a fly. I want him to have counted for something. Whatever it was that he was discovering, I want his academic peers to know about it and give him the due credit for it.’ Paxton picked up the photo frame again and gazed at it, his face tight with emotion. ‘If one of our soldiers died in action, we’d want him to be remembered. His name on the clock tower.’

      Paxton was talking about the sacred SAS tradition of inscribing the names of the regiment’s fallen heroes on the clock tower at the headquarters in Hereford. ‘A tribute,’ Ben said.

      ‘That’s all I want for my son,’ Paxton replied.

      Ben thought for a long moment. ‘I can understand that, Harry. I really can. And if all you wanted me to do was try to bring back his research material, that would be one thing. But you’re asking for much more. You’re asking me for a revenge killing.’

      ‘Killing isn’t anything new to you.’

      Ben had to agree with that. ‘But this is different, Harry. It’s ugly.’

      Paxton’s eyes blazed for an instant. ‘Who are they, Benedict? The worst kind of shit. You’d be doing the world a favour. And me.’

      Favour. The word hit Ben hard. There was a lot of history behind it.

      He looked down at his feet, his mind racing back in time. Half-repressed memories drifted in his imagination.

      He looked up. ‘May 14th, 1997.I haven’t forgotten.’

      ‘That isn’t why I contacted you,’ Paxton said. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m calling in old favours. I don’t feel that you owe me anything, Benedict. Understood? I need you to believe that.’

      Ben said nothing.

      ‘I called you because I know you’re the only person in the world I can trust,’ Paxton said. ‘And someone I know can see this through. I can’t do it myself. I’m too close to it. It would kill me.’

      Ben was silent.

      ‘I would pay you, of course,’ Paxton said. ‘I’m a wealthy man. You can name your price.’

      Ben hesitated a long moment before he replied. ‘I need some time to think it over.’

      ‘I can appreciate that, and I’m sorry for having sprung this on you.’

      ‘One thing I can tell you right now. I don’t want your money.’

      ‘I appreciate that too,’ Paxton said. ‘But remember, the offer is there. You’d want expenses, at least.’

      Ben