He took out his phone.

‘Who are you calling?’ Kirby asked. ‘Why can’t you talk to me? You know, I’m getting pretty tired of the whole Mr Mysterious routine.’

Ben scrolled down to a preset entry in the phone’s address book and hit the speed dial.

A sequence of rapid beeps as the phone automatically dialled the number in its memory.

Then a deafening explosion from the perimeter of the Embassy grounds.

There was half a second’s stunned silence as people recoiled and whipped around in horror at the blast, and then the screaming and panic and mayhem took over completely. The crowd broke into turmoil as security guards ran everywhere, yelling into radios, tearing out their guns as alarms shrilled. Smoke was pouring out of the white Peugeot and drifting up over the street. Almost instantly, a flood of US Marines poured out of the Embassy building, rifles poised. This is not a drill, their faces said.

Ben and Kirby were in a sea of chaos as the security staff fought to control the panicking crowd. Kirby’s eyes were huge. ‘What the hell was that?’ he yelled.

‘We’re under attack,’ Ben yelled back as a security guard shoved past with a squawking radio. Sirens were already wailing in the distance, and Marines were dousing the Peugeot with fire extinguishers. Ben grabbed Kirby’s sleeve and led him quickly through the mayhem. ‘Follow me and stay close,’ he said in his ear. Kirby looked blank for a second, then understanding dawned. ‘Oh, Christ. It was you.’

Ben dragged him through the gate. The security personnel and soldiers were all too preoccupied to notice them slip into the grounds, trot across the shadowy lawn to the building and sneak into a side entrance. They found themselves in a back kitchen. The place was empty. Alarms were still screaming all through the building. Ben could hear voices and running footsteps moving in all directions. He guessed that the Ambassador and his wife were already being whisked across town in a high-speed limo convoy, under heavy guard.

‘Mind telling me what just happened?’ Kirby rasped.

‘Not much,’ Ben said. ‘Just over an ounce of PP-01. That’s what the Serbs call C-4 plastic explosive. Enough to make a bit of a bang, not enough to do any serious damage.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Not really. Think of it as doing them a favour. It’ll shake them up a bit, keep the CIA busy for a few weeks. Their security’s not as tight as they think it is.’

‘There was a sniffer dog. How did you do it?’

‘Sniffer dogs can’t smell through a sack of spices. Now let’s get moving. Try not to get under my feet, OK?’

They made their way through the Embassy, following Claudel’s layout plan and the directions to get to the Ambassador’s private residence within the huge building. Nobody noticed them move quickly and quietly through the red-carpeted hallways and corridors full of gilt-framed paintings until they reached the backstairs Claudel had described. The scream of the alarms grew a little fainter as they climbed to the third floor. Kirby was red-faced, badly out of breath and gripping the banister rail as they reached the top landing. ‘I’m going to have a heart attack.’

‘Fourth door on the right,’ Ben said. ‘This way.’

There was no longer any point worrying about setting off alarms. When Ben found the door Claudel had told them about, he took a step back and lashed out his foot. The door ripped open, crashing off the wall inside. Ragged splinters hung from the shattered frame. Ben walked quickly into the room, dragging Kirby behind him. He flipped on the lights and took in the scene.

‘Look at this place,’ Kirby gasped, forgetting all about his heart attack.

The room was large and magnificent, the walls lined with crimson velvet. The light from the crystal chandeliers shone down on Ambassador Sam Sheridan’s priceless collection of ancient Egyptian artefacts. Statues from five thousand years of history lined the walls. Glass-fronted display cabinets were filled with vases and pottery, alabaster jars and sculptures, scarab amulets, old papyri, fragments of tapestry. On a large marble pedestal sat a block of stone with painted reliefs showing images of Egyptian nobles.

‘People shouldn’t be allowed to have this stuff,’ Kirby muttered under his breath. ‘It belongs in a museum. There should be a law.’

But Ben wasn’t listening. He moved through the room, interested in only one thing. He quickly saw that Sheridan’s collection comprised about a dozen different chairs of various size and design. ‘Kirby, come and help me.’ He pointed at a large seat woven from rushes. It looked remarkably like modern bamboo furniture, staggeringly well preserved. ‘Would this be it?’

‘That’s not it,’ Kirby said. ‘We’re looking for something much grander.’

‘What about that one?’

‘That’s more like it.’

Half hidden behind a tall painted urn was a sturdy-looking, imposing chair made of wood and leather. The stunningly modern frame was square in design, with criss-crossed struts in the lower section and a high back. The seat was a thick pad of decorated hide that hung between two parallel spars. The throne’s condition was incredible, the woodwork gleaming and smooth, as though the finest craftsmen in the world had built it just yesterday.

Kirby fell on his knees in front of the artefact, eagerly inspecting the intricate carvings and painted symbols that covered it. ‘This is it,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Look-the seal of Wenkaura. This was definitely his seat.’

‘Can you see anything?’

‘Give me a chance,’ Kirby snapped. ‘I need to examine it.’

‘We don’t have all night.’ Ben was very conscious of the alarms still ringing through the building below them. It wouldn’t be long before the security teams swept through the whole Embassy and locked down every room.

‘I don’t see anything,’ Kirby said.

Ben grabbed the throne impatiently and started dragging it into the middle of the room. It was solid and heavy. ‘Let me have a look at it.’

‘Careful. That’s three and a half thousand years old.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s been a while since I smashed any museum exhibits.’ Ben crouched down and inspected it from every angle, running his fingers over every surface and join. The leather seat was incredibly well preserved, only slightly hardened and cracked with age around the edges. In the middle it was still supple and pliable. He touched and pressed every square inch. Crouched back away from the throne and studied the designs on it thoughtfully.

‘I don’t see anything,’ Kirby said again. ‘Maybe it’s the wrong chair.’

The alarms stopped abruptly, plunging the building into sudden silence. That meant the situation downstairs was under control. Ben’s ear tuned in sharply. Voices in the distance, maybe two floors below, maybe one. A door slammed. A radio crackled. It wouldn’t be long now. His heart beat a little faster.

‘These designs painted on the leather,’ he said. ‘What do you make of them?’

‘It’s all Atenist symbolism,’ Kirby replied in a flustered voice, pointing out the stylised images of Akhenaten’s sacred sun disc.

Ben nodded. ‘So what does that tell us?’

‘It tells us that the original artwork has been removed or painted over.’

‘So if Wenkaura had planned for the artwork on the throne to convey a message of some kind, you’re saying it’s been obliterated?’

Kirby sighed. ‘Looks that way. Obviously the throne went the same way as so many other religious artefacts of the period. It’s been hijacked by the sun-worshippers.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the door. ‘We’d better get out of here. It’s all been for nothing.’

Ben didn’t reply for a moment. He just sat there crouched in front of the throne, gazing at it thoughtfully.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Kirby said. ‘Let’s go. We’re going to get arrested. What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking about winners and losers. About the spoils of war. The nature of revolutions.’