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  Huss had taken it upon himself to organise an ambulance for the injured and had then stopped the military from entering so as not to disturb the site further. The young apprentice had held his ground against four armed soldiers, despite receiving deep shrapnel wounds to his left arm, and he had even used duct tape to hold the edges of the wound together so he wouldn’t have to leave the dig. If that wasn’t impressive enough, the tenacious teenager had convinced the soldiers that there had been threats of a second bomber, thus dissuading the soldiers from entering until Harker himself could finally arrive. He had hired the boy full-time the very next day.

  At first, Huss had accepted and then felt guilty about taking the job so soon after Richard Hydes’s death, but Harker had soothed his worries, and the young Palestinian was back on site within a day. Huss had remained with him ever since, participating in every dig over the past five years. Even though the blast had left him with a total of only six fingers, a thumb, and an ever-stiff biceps, he had always carried his injuries proudly as a badge of war. It also gave him, he believed, the right to be as sarcastic as he liked.

  * * *

  The exhibition room was now alive with movement as the guests milled their way around the seven smaller exhibits, each one flanked by a smartly dressed security guard. The large glass case standing in the middle contained the scrolls themselves, each securely perched on an oyster-blue perspex stand and protected by three additional security guards keeping an ever-vigilant eye on the well-dressed attendees.

  Harker allowed himself to relax for a few moments and just soak up the atmosphere. He had encountered so many problems, and even dangers, whilst trying to bring these scrolls to Cambridge, and now here they were, nicely packaged and sat on display in one of the oldest universities in the world, surrounded by some of the wealthiest people in Great Britain.

  ‘You know, Alex, I’ve heard you talk often about Hussain Attasi, but I could never believe he was quite the pain in the arse you described. Well, you were right,’ Dean Lercher said in a genuinely surprised tone.

  Harker glanced over at his assistant, who was now showing an elderly couple an exhibit at the far end of the room whilst berating the dutiful guard for not standing up straight.

  ‘Yep, he really is, but he’s also one hell of an organiser. He’ll always bitch and moan about it, but whenever you’ve got a problem, he’ll find an answer.’

  The dean nodded, courteously, before licking his lips in a manner Harker was all too familiar with. The twitch drew a smile from him as he waited for his friend to pluck up the courage and ask whatever was on his mind.

  ‘Alex, when you’ve got the time, I’d love to know the real story behind your acquisition of the Dead Sea Scrolls. So go on, how did you pull it off?’

  He could see the dean now going from playful to pushy. ‘Tom, you know everything I’ve ever learnt on all my other digs, but, without sounding too cryptic, I’m taking this one to the grave.’

  His old friend didn’t look surprised. ‘Well, whatever you did, I’m glad you did it. Or maybe he did it,’ he added, motioning towards Huss. ‘Maybe he’s the lead the media have so far missed. You haven’t been resting on his laurels, have you, Alex?’

  Harker almost tut-tted out loud at the suggestion. ‘Stop trying to goad me into telling you, because it’s not going to happen. Besides, Huss isn’t the negotiating type.’ The image of Huss, who was now reprimanding one of the security guards over a blemish on the man’s tie, instantly encouraged Harker to stress his point.

  ‘OK, you win, Professor,’ Lercher frowned, ‘but the board of trustees has been riding on my back about it for months now, and I don’t fancy the wigging they’ll give me for not finding out.’

  ‘So what will you tell them?’ Harker asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Basically something like you’re a bit of an arsehole who won’t tell me.’

  Both men chuckled and then stood silently, enjoying the spectacle of so many eager and excited-looking expressions all around. It was a short-lived pleasure, though, before a young man wearing a black suit burst into the room, looking breathless and flustered.

  ‘Dean Lercher, can I speak with you?’ the young man puffed, whilst straining for his next breath.

  ‘It looks like you already are, my boy.’ The head of archaeology raised his eyebrows. ‘For goodness’s sake, compose yourself, Jenkins.’

  The student took a few deep, calming breaths before continuing. ‘Thank you, sir. But there’s another guest just arrived, and he’s looking for Professor Harker.’

  The dean looked confused. ‘Well, then, why not show him up here?’

  ‘He’s not here for the event, sir.’ Jenkins looked a little embarrassed. ‘He says he’s a lawyer, and he insists on speaking with Professor Harker in private.’

  Dean Lercher again raised his eyebrows skyward. ‘Not in any trouble, are you, Alex?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Harker shrugged. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘It’s a Mr Caster, but he didn’t give me a company name. Shall I bring him up, then, sir?’

  Harker shook his head, feeling he could do with some fresh air. ‘No, I’ll come down to him. Thanks.’

  ‘Oh and, sir, some urgent post arrived for you.’ The undergraduate handed over a special-delivery letter, and Harker slipped it straight into his pocket, not wanting to discover at that moment if another debt collector was after him.

  Jenkins nodded politely and headed quickly back the way he had come, bumping into a security guard on the way.

  ‘That boy’s got no sense of balance. You should see him on the rugby pitch. Bloody useless.’

  Harker tapped Lercher on the shoulder. ‘Hold the fort. I’ll be right back.’

  Chapter 3

  Harker’s footsteps echoed around the empty cobblestone quad as he briskly began to make his way to the visitors’ waiting room. Suddenly, the 8 p.m. bell rang to signal the end of another day’s lectures, and with it emerged wave after wave of hungry students, all pushing their way forwards to the front gates. Many recognised him from his public lectures, and with a smile and a nod, they respectfully moved aside to let him easily slip through the swelling crowd. Most of them were in their early twenties, the age when teachers stopped being seen as the enemy and became potential equals much of the time.

  The mild night air carried the sweet smell of pollen, which seemed odd in late January but had been noticeable for the previous two weeks. Bloody global warming, Harker reflected as he pulled a small foil packet from his trouser pocket, popped out an antihistamine, and gulped it down. Regardless of his hay fever, it was still a pleasant change from the usual cold, wet weather that British winters were famous for.

  Harker reached the waiting-room door and paused momentarily as a twinge of apprehension caused his chest to tighten. Please don’t let this be about something negative, not tonight. He had racked up ten parking tickets in the last two months and hadn’t paid any of them off. Parking in Cambridge was a nightmare, and he had planned to question the council on every single ticket but hadn’t yet got around to it. Months spent preparing for the arrival of the Dead Sea Scrolls had thrown him out of organisational kilter, much to the detriment of his bank balance. He turned the cold metal doorknob and made his way inside.

  At a table on the far side of the room sat a well-dressed man in a pinstripe suit, with a purple tie neatly tucked in beneath his buttoned waistcoat. He immediately jumped to his feet and pushed back his thinning, almost nonexistent, blond hair as if keen to make a good first impression.

  ‘Professor Harker?’

  Harker nodded in response. ‘Mr Caster?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Many thanks for giving me some of your valuable time on such an important day.’

  ‘Not at all, but I can only spare you a few minutes. Please take a seat.’ Harker pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down. ‘I haven’t seen a hat like that for a while.’ He motioned towards the distinctively domed black
bowler nestled in the man’s lap.

  ‘Ah, yes, they’re an acquired taste, but I wouldn’t be seen dead without it.’ The lawyer chuckled and carefully placed it down on the table. ‘Congratulations on your Dead Sea Scrolls exhibition, by the way. It’s quite a coup for the university.’

  Harker politely nodded and then gestured to his black tuxedo. ‘As you can see, I’m right in the middle of it.’

  Mr Caster clasped his hands apologetically. ‘Yes, I am sorry for the timing of my arrival, but it is of upmost importance that we speak.’

  Harker waved his hand to cut off the older man mid-sentence. ‘This isn’t anything to do with parking tickets by any chance?’

  The lawyer looked confused. ‘Er … no, Professor, I’m not from the parking authorities.’

  ‘In that case, please continue,’ Harker said with a feeling of relief.

  The visitor reached into his top pocket and produced a business card, which he passed over. Its white surface was blank except for just two silver embossed words in the centre: Maptrel Associates.

  The name wasn’t familiar, but the puzzled look on Harker’s face was ignored by the lawyer as he continued enthusiastically.

  ‘I’m here on behalf of a client of mine who wishes to acquire your services.’

  Harker placed the card on the table and slid it back across. ‘I’m afraid you’ve a wasted trip, Mr Caster, because I only work for the university.’

  The lawyer nodded understandingly. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’ He once again reached into his pocket but, this time, pulled out a slip of paper, and placed it in the centre of the table. ‘But I’m hoping this might change your mind.’

  Harker cautiously peered down at what appeared to be a company cheque and read the print: ‘£250,000 payable to Mr Alexander Harker.’

  The sheer amount made him jolt upwards in shock, smacking his knee painfully against the table leg.

  ‘A quarter of a million pounds! For what?’

  Caster settled back comfortably in his chair. ‘For a meeting with my client later tonight.’

  Harker had momentarily zoned out as he envisaged the pile of bills he could pay off with that much sterling, not to mention his mortgage.

  ‘I’m flattered by this offer but … Who did you say your client was, again?’

  ‘I didn’t, and I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Professor. But I can assure you that if you’re not interested in what my employer has to say after you meet him, then I have been instructed to tell you that the money is still yours to keep.’

  There were three things that Alex Harker would never say no to: one was a friend in need, the second was a mystery to unravel, and thirdly, a cheque for £250 grand, no questions asked.

  ‘Mr Caster, I think I would be happy to take your client up on his offer.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Mr Caster clapped his hands together like an excited child. ‘I’ll have a driver pick you up at the front gate in an hour.’

  In only one hour! The dean would be furious with him if he left the exhibition early, but that kind of money bought a lot of excuses.

  ‘I’ll be ready and waiting.’

  The two men shook hands and stepped outside. At which point, an unpleasant thought entered Harker’s head, stopping him dead in his tracks.

  ‘Mr Caster, forgive me for asking but …’ He glanced around the now-empty courtyard to make sure they were alone. ‘This meeting isn’t of a sexual nature, is it?’

  He felt an idiot for asking: after all, who’d pay that kind of money for a thirty-eight-year-old archaeologist? Unless it was something kinky! His heart began to sink.

  ‘I can assure you, Professor, it’s strictly your expertise that is required. But please feel free to bring a friend along if you wish. Goodbye for now.’

  With that, the mysterious lawyer let out a chuckle of amusement and disappeared through the front gate. Harker found himself alone in the courtyard with nothing but his own embarrassment and the cheque to keep him company. He carefully slid it into the top pocket of his tuxedo and tapped it lovingly, his mind suddenly flooding with images of a new car and sun-soaked holidays. This was honestly turning into the best day of his life.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Honestly, Alex, you’re a bloody mercenary. You’ve got absolutely no soul whatsoever.’

  Harker gazed out of the limousine’s tinted windows and across the moon-lit woods surrounding them as the car continued up a dark, foreboding driveway. The black Mercedes had pulled up outside the college gate exactly on the hour and then had driven them out of London towards Milton Keynes, just off the M1. Dean Lercher had insisted on accompanying him as soon as Harker had shown him the cheque even if it had meant leaving the exhibition rather early. The only problem was that during the hour-and-a-half long drive, he hadn’t shut up once.

  ‘You know, I bet this is drug related.’

  Harker scoffed at the suggestion. ‘I hardly think a drug cartel would have need of an archaeologist. Besides, they could have just kidnapped me and saved themselves the money.’

  The dean wagged a knowing finger. ‘Not if they wanted you complicit and agreeable. Anyway, you’ve not had time to cash their cheque yet. Do you know I once heard of an Iranian archaeologist being forced to smuggle LSD into Britain, using hollowed-out religious statues?’

  Harker rolled his eyes in frustration, refusing to even consider the dean’s newest theory. His old friend was understandably suspicious of the mystery invitation, but he was also probably a little jealous of the huge sum of money involved.

  ‘Give it a rest, Doggie. If someone had offered you that amount, you’d have sold your own mother to pay for the taxi ride, so how about you cut me some slack?’

  Lercher started flicking his top lip back and forth with the tip of his index finger, a twitch telling Harker that his comment had touched a nerve. It was a twitch that made Dean Lercher, or Doggie to his friends, so easy to read and even easier to beat at poker. In fact, his nickname had been coined during one of their monthly poker sessions when someone remarked how the good dean possessed facial features resembling those of a pedigree Lurcher and how similar both their names were. Doggie, for his part, hated the nickname vehemently.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, I probably would have. But the thing you have to remember about me is that I’m a total sell-out when it comes to money, and everyone knows it. You, on the other hand, are not, and don’t call me Doggie. You know I hate it.’

  Harker returned his gaze to the dark expanse of woodland outside the window. ‘Let’s just hear them out and see what they have to say, OK?’

  Lercher sat back in silence and continued to flick his top lip ferociously. ‘All right, fine. Bloody merc.’

  The jibe didn’t even register as Harker now fixed his eyes on the dimly lit mansion looming out of the darkness in front of them.

  Situated in five hundred acres of Buckinghamshire countryside, Bletchley Park, which their driver had now identified, was a unique mixture of Victorian, Gothic, Tudor, and Dutch Baroque design, eliciting the marmite reaction from all who saw it for the first time. You either loved it or hated it, and Harker absolutely loved it but less for the place’s architecture and more for what had been achieved within its walls. The original building dated back to the eleventh century, but it wasn’t until the 1930s that it became truly interesting. In 1938, the site was due to be demolished to create space for a housing estate, but, before demolition commenced, Admiral Sir Hugh Sinclair (director of Naval Intelligence and head of MI6) bought the site on behalf of the government. During the next seven years, Bletchley Park became home to some of the greatest code breakers in the world, who assembled there to crack the Nazis’ military code during World War II.

  It was also the birthplace of Colossus, the world’s first computer, which was instrumental in breaking the Nazis’ Enigma machine and thus allowing the allies to eavesdrop on German intelligence and help win the war. For, had it not been for the events unfolding in Bletchley Park,
there would have been a very real possibility that the Nazis could have triumphed.

  The limousine’s tyres crunched as they moved off the smooth tarmac driveway and onto the gravel parking area, finally coming to a halt outside the main entrance. Waiting for them was a stocky blond-haired man, dressed neatly in plaid jacket and grey slacks, who promptly opened the passenger door.

  ‘Good evening, Professor Harker …’ He then turned to glare unwelcomingly at Doggie. ‘… and Mr Lercher. Welcome to Bletchley Park, gentlemen. My name is Lusic Bekhit, and I’ll be your guide here. Please follow me.’

  They were led briskly through the entrance hall and then immediately guided to a side door, opening into a long, white-painted corridor.

  ‘Just down here, gentlemen,’ said Lusic, ushering them along.

  Their guide’s accent was familiar to Harker, who had visited that country many times and even assisted at digs conducted in the Valley of the Kings, the final resting place of the ancient pharaohs.

  ‘That’s quite an unusual accent, but I recognise it. Southern Egypt, the Aswan region, isn’t it?’

  Their bulky guide smiled. ‘Impressive, sir. You’ve spent time there, then?’

  Harker nodded. ‘Yes, over the years. I have a friend there, a translator, who was born near Lake Kassar. But I think you’re the first person I’ve ever met from there who had blond hair.’

  The Egyptian proudly ran a hand through his the dense golden locks. ‘My mother was German,’ he explained.

  Doggie, perhaps feeling like third leg in this exchange, immediately jumped on the comment. ‘Ah, interesting heritage, I think I can detect the German twinge ever so slightly, and I’d say you spent your early years growing up just outside Munich.’ He finished this announcement with a smugly confident smile.