The Lost Army of Cambyses (30 page)

pectoral; a small terracotta ointment jar with the

face of the dwarf-god Bes stamped on it; and three

pale-blue faience
shabtis.
He examined them one by

one, turning them over in his hand, and then turned

to the girl. She was no longer there.

'Maia,' he called, standing and, when she didn't

reply, walking back through into the shop. 'Maia!'

She had gone. And so too, he noticed, had al-

Ghul's bronze lamp. He went to the front door

and stepped outside, but she was nowhere to be

seen.

'Goodbye, Maia,' he said quietly. 'May Allah

smile upon you.'

L U X O R

Suleiman al-Rashid was dozing on a mat in the

shade behind his mobile lavatory when he heard

the creak of metal steps as someone climbed

into the trailer above him.

Normally he would have gone round to see if

they needed toilet paper and to make sure he was

suitably positioned for any baksheesh they might

offer once they emerged. The midday heat was too

intense, however, and so he remained where he

was, head cradled on his arm, while from above

came the thump of feet on the hollow trailer floor.

He didn't immediately register anything un-

toward. There was, admittedly, a curious

splashing sound, but he presumed the customer

was simply ladling water from the bucket in the

corner of the trailer into the basin of the urinal to

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clean it out. There was no need to, since Suleiman

made a point of keeping the trailer spotless, but

some people, especially the Germans, were

obsessive about these things and, rolling onto his

side with a grunt, he left them to get on with it.

Then, however, he smelt petrol, and at the same

time heard a loud dripping as something leaked

from the trailer and splashed onto the sandy

ground beside him. He struggled to his feet.

'Hey!' he shouted, making his way round to the

front of the trailer. 'What's—'

A heavy blow from behind pitched him forward

onto the trailer steps.

'Get him in here,' hissed a voice from above.

A pair of strong arms circled Suleiman's waist

and he felt himself being heaved upwards.

Someone else grabbed him from above and he was

half dragged, half pushed into the trailer's interior.

He tried to struggle, but he was still groggy from

the blow to his head and offered only token

resistance. The stench of petrol made him gag.

'Cuff him,' came the voice. 'There. To the pipe.'

There was a click as something closed around

his wrist. His arm was yanked violently upwards

and then another click. He winced as the handcuff

bit into his flesh.

'Now petrol.'

Something was poured over his face and

djellaba. He tried to get out of the way, but his

arm was held fast by the cuff. The liquid stung

his sightless eyes and made his mouth burn. He

couldn't see his attackers, but then he didn't need

to. He knew who they were.

The pouring stopped. There was a clatter as an

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empty jerrycan was thrown aside and then the

clump of feet as his assailants jumped from

the trailer. For a moment everything was silent and

then he heard a match being struck. Curiously, he

felt no fear. Anger, yes, and sorrow for his family.

How would they survive without him? But not

fear.

'Ibn sharmouta! Ya kha-in!'
hissed a voice from

outside. 'Son of a whore! Traitor! This is what

happens to those who inform on Sayf al-Tha'r!'

There was a brief silence and then Suleiman

heard a whoosh of flame and felt a fierce heat

rushing towards him across the flimsy plywood

floor.

'May God have mercy on your souls!' he

whispered, yanking desperately at the cuff around

his wrist. 'May the Almighty forgive you!'

And then the fire swallowed him and all that

could be heard were his screams.

CAIRO

An hour after leaving Iqbar's shop, Khalifa was

sitting opposite Crispin Oates in his office at the

British embassy. He hadn't bothered to call before-

hand to ask for an appointment, had just turned

up unannounced. Oates clearly hadn't been

pleased about the intrusion, but had had little

choice other than to invite the detective in. He was

getting his own back now by being as patronizing

and unhelpful as possible, albeit with impeccable

English politeness.

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'And you've no idea where this Tara Mullray

has gone?' Khalifa asked.

Oates sighed wearily. 'None at all, Mr Khalifa.

As I explained to you just a few minutes ago I last

saw Ms Mullray the day before yesterday when I

picked her up from her hotel and brought her to

the embassy. Since then I've had no contact with

her at all. Um, I'm afraid it's a no-smoking office.'

Khalifa had just removed his cigarettes from his

jacket. He put them back again, hunching forward

slightly, the artefacts from Iqbar's shop weighing

heavy in his inside pocket.

'Was she acting strangely in any way?' he asked.

'Miss Mullray?'

'Yes. Miss Mullray.'

'How do you mean strangely?'

'I mean did she seem . . . preoccupied?'

'She had just found her father's body. I would

have thought we'd all seem a little preoccupied in

such circumstances, wouldn't you?'

'What I mean is . . . you must excuse my

English, it is not . . .'

'On the contrary, Mr Khalifa, your English is

excellent. Much better than my Arabic.'

'What I mean is, when you last saw Miss Mullray

did she appear as though she was in any sort of

trouble? Frightened, perhaps? Under threat?'

No, replied Oates, so far as he could recall she

had appeared none of these things. 'I have told all

this to the men from Giza, you know. Of course,

I'm more than happy to co-operate, but it does all

seem a little . . . repetitive.'

'I'm sorry,' said Khalifa. 'I'll try not to take up

too much more of your time.'

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He stayed for a further twenty minutes. The

more questions he asked the more convinced he

became that Oates knew more than he was letting

on. What he knew, however, and why he should

wish to keep it secret, were things he clearly had

no intention of revealing, and eventually Khalifa

decided he'd got as much as he was going to.

Pushing back his chair, he came to his feet.

'Thank you, Mr Orts,' he said. 'I am sorry to

have troubled you.'

'Not at all, Mr Khalifa. My pleasure. And it's

Oates. OATES.' He spelt it out.

'Of course. Apologies. And I am
Inspector

Khalifa.'

They shook hands stiffly and Khalifa started

towards the door. After a couple of paces, how-

ever, he stopped and, pulling out his notebook,

scribbled swiftly on a blank page.

'One last question. Does this mean anything to

you?'

He showed the page to Oates. On it was a

rough square, just as the girl had drawn it for him

in Iqbar's shop, with some scribbled hieroglyphs

inside and, along its bottom edge, a row of

serpents. Oates glanced down, his mouth tighten-

ing ever so slightly.

'No,' he said after a brief pause, 'I'm afraid not.'

Liar, thought Khalifa.

He held Oates's eyes for a moment and then

folded the notebook and returned it to his pocket.

'Oh well,' he said, 'just a long shot. Again,

thank you for your help.'

'I don't feel I've been very helpful at all,' said

Oates.

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'On the contrary. You've been extremely . . .

informative.'

He smiled and walked out of the door.

In his office Charles Squires flicked off the inter-

com on which he had been listening to the

exchange and sat back in his chair. For a while he

remained very still, staring up at the ceiling, a

slight grimace pinching his face, and then, sitting

forward again, he lifted the telephone and dialled

swiftly. There were three rings and then a click.

'Jemal,' he said, 'I think we might have a

problem.'

258

24

LUXOR

They reached Luxor midway through the after-

noon, having been travelling for almost twenty

hours.

They could have done the journey in a third of

the time. Daniel, however, had insisted on taking

an extensive detour to avoid passing through

middle Egypt.

'South of Beni Suef the whole area's crawling

with fundamentalists,' he had explained. 'You

can't spit without Sayf al-Tha'r knowing about it.

And, anyway, there's a police roadblock at every

junction. Foreigners aren't supposed to travel

through the area without an escort. We'd be

picked up before we'd gone ten kilometres.'

Rather than go directly south as the crow flies,

therefore, following the Nile highway straight

down to Luxor, they had turned east at al-Wasta

across the desert.

'We'll cross to the Red Sea,' he had told her,

tracing their intended route on a map, 'and then

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follow the coast south to al-Quseir. Then we can

turn inland again and hit the Nile here, at Q'us,

just north of Luxor. That way we cut out the

whole of this middle stretch.'

'It seems a long way round.'

'Yes,' he agreed, 'but there are benefits. Like

getting to Luxor alive.'

Amazingly, given the circumstances, Tara had

enjoyed the journey. There hadn't been much

traffic on the road east and Daniel had pushed the

speedometer up past 140 kilometres per hour,

the sun dropping swiftly behind them until

suddenly it was dark and they were alone in the

middle of the desert. The air was clear and icy

cold, and above them a twinkling canopy of stars.

'It's beautiful,' she cried as they cut through the

emptiness. 'I've never seen so many stars.'

Daniel slowed slightly. 'The Egyptians thought

they were the children of Nut,' he called, 'the

goddess of the sky. She gave birth to them each

night and then swallowed them again in the morn-

ing. They also thought they were the souls of the

dead, waiting in the darkness for the return of

the sun god Ra.'

She tightened her grip around his waist, enjoy-

ing the warmth and firmness of his body. Suddenly

everything that had happened over the last two

days seemed to recede.

They stopped for the night in a small fishing

village by the sea, finding a room above a cafe

with two beds and a window overlooking the

water.

Daniel fell asleep almost immediately. Tara lay

awake late into the night, listening to the hiss of

260

the sea and gazing at Daniel's face in the moon-

light, sunburnt and strong, the brow furrowed as

though his thoughts were troubled ones. He began

muttering and, unable to stop herself, she leaned

closer to hear. It was a name. A woman's name.

Mary something. Over and over again. Mary. Her

stomach tightened and, rolling away, she stared

out of the window, inexplicably saddened.

She said nothing of it the next morning and,

after a swift breakfast, they continued south with

the dawn, down past Hurghada and Port Safaga

and El-Hamarawein until eventually they came to

al-Quseir and turned west again, the wind blasting

into their faces, the rocky desert rushing past to

either side. Daniel kept the Jawa at full speed and

Tara buried her face in his back, dreading the

moment when the journey would end and they

would once again have to face the reality of their

situation.

They reached Q'us at two, and western Luxor

half an hour later. As the cars and buildings closed

in around them and the streets filled with people,

Tara's head slumped forward against Daniel's

back, as though a great weight had descended on

it. She let out a deep sigh, her lungs aching for a

cigarette.

'So what now?' she asked as they pulled onto the

forecourt of a small Mobil garage at the edge of

town.