LITMIR.BIZ

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in here without being disturbed.’

      Ben stepped inside the huge room and gazed around him at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. He ran his eye along the spines of books. Shakespeare. Milton. Virgil. Row after row of military history and the age of sail. Where the walls weren’t covered in books, gilt-framed oils of nineteenth-century warships glistened in the sunbeams that streamed through an overhead skylight.

      Paxton motioned to a pair of burgundy Chesterfields. ‘Please, have a seat.’

      Ben sat down. The leather was cool against his back. He sipped his drink and watched Paxton for a moment. The colonel looked as if he was full of things to say, but didn’t know where to start.

      ‘What’s this about, Harry?’ Ben asked softly. ‘You said you needed my help.’

      ‘I’m sorry I was so mysterious on the phone,’ Paxton said. ‘It’s something I can discuss only in person.’ He walked over to a glossy antique sideboard that was covered with silver-framed photos. Some were of sleek white yachts in a variety of exotic locations, but most were family shots. Paxton picked one up, gazed at it for a moment, sighed and handed it to Ben.

      Ben looked at it, wondering what this was about. The picture showed a man in his early thirties, rather bookish, serious-looking. Glasses, thin sandy hair, a slight belly, narrow shoulders.

      ‘My son, Morgan,’ Paxton murmured.

      Ben glanced up in surprise. He’d known that Paxton had a son, but the man in this photo wasn’t what he’d have expected.

      Paxton seemed to read Ben’s thoughts. ‘He took much more after his mother, physically. Our kind of life, the military life, wouldn’t have agreed with him.’

      ‘You talk about him in the past tense.’

      Paxton nodded. ‘I’ve made it quite obvious, haven’t I? That’s what this is about.’ His throat sounded tight with emotion. ‘The reason I asked you to come here is that my son is dead.’

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ Ben replied after a beat.

      ‘He was murdered.’

      Ben watched Paxton’s eyes. It wasn’t just pain in them now, but a depth of smouldering rage that was barely under control.

      Paxton let out a long, trembling sigh, visibly struggling to stay calm. ‘Let me get you another drink,’ he whispered. ‘Scotch, wasn’t it?’ He replaced the photo on the sideboard, reached for a decanter and topped up Ben’s glass. He poured one for himself, drained it, refilled it.

      Ben sipped the Scotch and waited for Paxton to go on.

      Paxton slumped heavily in the matching Chesterfield opposite him. ‘Morgan died in Egypt almost two months ago,’ he said. ‘He was found in his rented apartment. He’d been stabbed to death. There were thirty knife wounds in his body.’ Paxton related the details matter-of-factly but his fingers were white against the crystal glass. He gulped back the last of the drink and set the glass down heavily on the table between them.

      Ben watched every movement. He understood all too well what Paxton was going through. His heart went out to him.

      But he still didn’t understand why the colonel had called him here. ‘What was Morgan doing in Egypt?’ he asked. ‘Did he live there?’

      Paxton shook his head. ‘Morgan is…’ He paused, catching himself. Sighed and went on. ‘Morgan was an academic at University of London. He taught history, specialising in Near Eastern Studies. That’s what he was doing in Cairo. He was on a sabbatical, researching something to do with ancient Egypt.’

      Ben listened intently.

      ‘The police think it was an opportunistic robbery gone wrong,’ Paxton continued. ‘Whether he surprised the thieves, or they broke into the apartment while he was there, nobody knows. Or even cares. The Cairo police haven’t caught whoever did it. They’re not even close, and I don’t think they’re going to get results.’

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ Ben said again. ‘I wish there was something I—’

      ‘There is,’ Paxton said, cutting him off. They locked eyes for a moment, and Ben tried to read the look. The sadness was still there, and the rage. But there was something else. The look of a planner at work, a tactician. The mind working hard through all that pain. Focusing, not folding.

      Ben waited for the rest.

      Paxton didn’t keep him waiting long. ‘You must be wondering why I called you here. The fact is, there’s something I want you to do for me.’

      Ben was silent. He could feel his neck and shoulders tensing up with anticipation.

      ‘As you can tell, I’m not happy with the outcome of the police inquiry,’ Paxton said. ‘You wouldn’t believe how sloppy and inept they’ve been.’

      Ben had no trouble believing it-but he kept quiet.

      Paxton went on. His voice was calm and controlled, his jaw set. ‘As far as they’re concerned, Morgan was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. These things happen every day, and they appear not to be pursuing it. Just one of those things.’ Paxton paused and looked hard at Ben. ‘And that’s why I need your help. Justice hasn’t been done.’

      Ben waited. He was scared of what was coming.

      Then Paxton came out with the thing he’d been dreading.

      ‘I want you to go to Cairo,’ he said. ‘I want you to find whoever did this to my son. And I want you to kill them.’

       Chapter Eight

      ‘You were really unlucky,’ Marla Austin was saying to Kerry. They were in the Scimitars VIP stateroom, far away from the library in which Ben and Paxton were talking. ‘San Remo’s normally a safe place. You don’t hear of women getting attacked, as a rule.’

      Kerry was reclining on a huge bed as Paxton’s PA bustled around her. ‘I still can’t believe the way he handled those men,’ she murmured, eyes half shut. ‘He was so…’ her voice trailed off.

      Marla smiled at her from the foot of the bed. ‘He certainly sounds like quite a guy,’ she said. ‘Now, you need to get some rest. You’ve had a nasty shock. I think your new friend and Mr Paxton will be talking for a while. I’ll come back in an hour or so to check on you.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Kerry slurred in a sleepy voice.

      And I do think you should maybe see a doctor when you get back to port. Just to be sure. All right?’

      ‘I will.’

      ‘See you later, then. Rest yourself, OK?’ Marla unfolded a blanket that was lying on an armchair. She laid it over Kerry. ‘And if you get cold, there’s a sweater there for you.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Kerry murmured again. ‘See you.’

      Marla tiptoed across the vast Oriental rug and slipped out of the stateroom. She shut the door quietly behind her and went about her business.

      Inside the huge opulent room, Kerry lay on the bed with her eyes shut. She listened to the sound of Marla’s footsteps disappearing up the passageway.

      Once she knew she was alone, she opened her eyes and sat up straight, sweeping the blanket off her.

      She scanned the room, alert and focused. The sleepy look was gone. She swung her legs off the bed and stood up. Strode across the room to where Marla had carefully laid her shoes and handbag. She picked up the bag, opened it and took out her asthma puffer.

      She gazed at the little blue plastic pump for a second. Her eyes ran up its length to where the aluminium tube poked out of the top. Gripping the end of the tube between finger and thumb, she gave it a tug and

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