The Lost Army of Cambyses (10 page)

'I'm sure it's just . . . well, you know, the shock.'

Tara sighed. 'Yes,' she said wearily, 'I suppose it

must be.'

They were on a raised carriageway coming into

the centre of Cairo. It was almost dark and the

lights of the city spread off into the distance

around and beneath them. It was still hot and Tara

had the window wound down so that her hair

fluttered behind her like a streamer. She felt

curiously detached, as though the events of the last

few hours had all been some sort of dream.

They'd waited with her father's body for an

hour until a doctor had arrived. He had examined

the corpse briefly before telling them what they

already knew – that the old man was dead, prob-

ably from a massive coronary, although more tests

would be needed. An ambulance had arrived, fol-

lowed shortly afterwards by two policemen, both

in suits, who had asked Tara a series of per-

functory questions about her father's age, health,

nationality, profession. ('He's a sodding archae-

ologist,' she had replied irritably. 'What the hell

else do you think he was doing here!') She had

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mentioned the cigar smoke, explaining, as she

was later to explain to Oates, that smoking was

banned in the dig house. The policemen had taken

notes, but had not seemed to consider the matter

especially important. She hadn't pursued it. At no

point had she cried. Indeed, her immediate re-

action to her father's death had been no reaction

at all. She had watched as his body was carried to

the ambulance and had felt nothing inside her,

nothing whatsoever, as though it was someone she

didn't know.

'Dad's dead,' she had mumbled, as though try-

ing to elicit some sort of response from herself.

'He's dead. Dead.'

The words had made no impression. She

had tried to recall some of the good times they had

spent together – books they had both enjoyed,

days out at the zoo, the treasure trail he had laid

for her fifteenth birthday – but had been unable to

make any emotional connection with them. The

one thing she had felt – and had been ashamed of

feeling – was a sense of acute disappointment that

her trip had been spoilt.

I'm going to spend the next fortnight filling out

forms and making funeral arrangements, she had

thought. Some fucking holiday.

Oates had arrived just as the ambulance was

pulling away, the embassy having been informed

of her father's death as soon as it was discovered.

Blond, chinless, late twenties, quintessentially

English, he had offered his commiserations

politely but without real conviction, in a way that

suggested he'd been through all this many times

before.

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He had spoken to the doctor – in faltering

Arabic – and had asked Tara where she was

staying.

'Here,' she had told him. 'Or at least that was

the plan. I suppose it's not very appropriate now.'

Oates had agreed. 'I think the best thing would

be to get you back to Cairo and booked into

somewhere there. Let me make a couple of calls.'

He had pulled a mobile phone from the pocket

of his suit – how on earth can people wear suits in

this heat, Tara had thought – and wandered out-

side, returning a few minutes later. 'Right,' he had

said, 'we've got you into the Ramesses Hilton. I

don't think there's much more to do here, so

whenever you're ready . . .'

She had lingered in the dig house for a moment,

gazing around at the bookcases and moth-eaten

sofas, imagining her father relaxing here after a

day at his excavation, and had then joined Oates

in his car.

'Funny,' he had said, starting the engine. 'I've

been in Cairo for three years and it's the first time

I've ever been to Saqqara. Never been much inter-

ested in archaeology, to be honest.'

'Me neither,' she had said sadly.

It was dark by the time they reached the hotel, an

ugly concrete skyscraper rearing beside the Nile,

on the edge of a tangled intersection of busy roads.

The interior was brightly lit and gaudy with a

cavernous marble foyer, off which various bars,

lounges and shops opened and through which a

constant stream of red-uniformed porters bustled

with armfuls of designer luggage. It was cool –

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cold almost – which Tara found a relief after the

heat outside. Her room was on the fourteenth

floor: spacious, neat, sterile, facing away from the

river. She slung her bag on the bed and kicked off

her shoes.

'I'll leave you to settle in then,' said Oates,

hovering at the door. 'The restaurant's quite good,

or else there's room service.'

'Thanks,' said Tara. 'I'm not really hungry.'

'Of course. I quite understand.' He put his hand

on the door handle. 'There'll be various formal-

ities to go through tomorrow, so if it's all right

with you I'll pick you up at, say, eleven a.m. and

take you over to the embassy.'

Tara nodded.

'One small thing. Probably best not to go out at

night, not on your own. I don't want to alarm you,

but it's a trifle risky for tourists at the moment.

There's been a bit of fundamentalist activity.

Attacks, you know. Better safe than sorry.'

Tara thought of the man she had met at the

airport by the baggage carousel. 'Sayf al-Tamar,'

she said, remembering the name he had

mentioned.

'Al-Tha'r,' said Oates, correcting her. 'Al-ta-ar.

Yes, it does seem to be his lot. Bloody lunatics.

The more the authorities try to clamp down on

them the more trouble they cause. Parts of the

country are now virtual no-go areas.' He handed

her his card. 'Anyway, call me if there's anything

you need and have a good night's sleep.'

Rather formally he shook her hand and then

opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

Once he was gone Tara fetched a beer from the

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mini-bar and threw herself onto the bed. She called

Jenny in England and left a message on her answer-

phone, telling her where she was, and asking her to

call back as soon as possible. There were other calls

she knew she ought to make – to her father's sister;

to the American University, where he had been

Visiting Professor of Near Eastern Archaeology –

but she decided to leave them until tomorrow. She

wandered out onto the balcony, gazing down at the

street below.

A black Mercedes had just drawn up alongside

the hotel, partly blocking the road, so that the cars

behind were forced to pull out and around it,

something they weren't too happy about to judge

by the distant sounds of hooting.

Initially Tara didn't take much notice of the car.

Then the passenger door opened and a figure

stepped out onto the pavement and suddenly she

tensed. She couldn't be certain it was the man

she'd seen at Saqqara – the one who had been

watching her as she walked along the escarpment

– but something told her it was. He was wearing a

pale suit and, even from that height, looked huge,

dwarfing the pedestrians around him.

He leaned down and said something to the

driver of the Mercedes, which moved off into the

traffic. He watched it go and then, suddenly,

turned and looked up, straight at her, or at least

she imagined he was looking straight at her,

although in reality he was too far away for her to

see precisely where his eyes were directed. It lasted

only a moment and then he dropped his head

again and strode towards the hotel's side entrance,

raising his hand to his mouth and puffing on what

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looked like a large cigar. Tara shuddered and,

stepping off the balcony, closed and locked the

sliding doors behind her.

T H E RIVER N I L E , BETWEEN LUXOR

AND ASWAN

Froth churned from the bow of the SS
Horus
as

she made her way slowly upriver, her lights casting

an eerie glow across the water. Shadowy reed

forests slipped past on either bank, with here and

there a small hut or house, but it was past mid-

night and there were few people left on deck to see

them. A young couple cuddled on the prow, faces

nuzzling, and beneath an awning at the back of

the cruiser a group of old ladies were playing

cards. Otherwise the decks were deserted. Most of

the passengers had either retired to bed or were

sitting in the saloon listening to the late-night

cabaret – a paunchy Egyptian man singing

popular hits to a backing tape.

There were two explosions, almost simul-

taneous. The first came near the bow of the boat,

engulfing the young couple. The second was in the

main saloon, blasting tables and chairs and

fragments of glass in all directions. The cabaret

singer was thrown backwards into his PA, face

grilled black by the heat; a group of women near

the stage were lost in a hail of splintered wood

and metal. There was weeping, and groaning, and

the screams of a man whose legs had been

ripped off below the knees. The lady card-players,

84

unharmed, sat motionless beneath their awning.

One of them started to cry.

Away from the river, beyond the reeds,

squatting on a small rocky hummock, three men

gazed at the boat. The glow from its flaming decks

lit their bearded faces, revealing a deep vertical

scar on each of their foreheads. They were smiling.

'Sayf al-Tha'r,' whispered one.

'Sayf al-Tha'r,' repeated his companions.

They nodded and, rising to their feet, dis-

appeared into the night.

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9

CAIRO

As they had agreed, Oates met Tara in the foyer of

the hotel at eleven a.m. and drove her to the

embassy, which was ten minutes away.

Despite her exhaustion she hadn't slept well.

The image of the huge man had stayed with her,

leaving her inexplicably edgy. She had eventually

drifted into a light sleep, but then the phone had

rung, ripping her awake again. It was Jenny.

They had talked for almost an hour, her friend

offering to catch the next flight out. Tara had been

tempted to let her come, but in the end had told

her not to worry. Everything was being taken care

of, and anyway she'd probably be home in a few

days once all the formalities had been completed.

They had agreed to speak the next day and rung

off. She had watched TV for a while, flicking aim-

lessly from CNN to MTV Asia to BBC World,

before eventually dozing off.

It was deep in the night when she had woken for

a second time, suddenly, sensing something was

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amiss. The world was silent and the room thick

with shadows, although the moon was gleaming

through a narrow gap in the curtains, casting a

ghostly sheen across the mirror on the wall

opposite.

She had lain on the bed trying to work out what

was troubling her and then rolled over to go back

to sleep. As she did so she had caught a soft creak-

ing coming from the direction of the doorway. She

had listened for several seconds before she realized

that it was the sound of her door handle turning.

'Hello!'

Her voice had sounded unnaturally shrill.

The creaking had stopped for a moment and

then resumed. Heart pounding, she had crossed to

the door, where she had stood gazing at the handle

as it inched carefully down and up, as if in slow

motion. She had thought of shouting out again,

but had instead just grabbed the handle and held

it. There had been a brief resistance on the other

side and then a swift padding of feet. She had

counted to five and opened the door, but the

corridor had been empty. Or rather almost empty,

because one thing at least had lingered: a smell of

cigar smoke.

After that she had kept the lights on for the rest

of the night, only falling asleep again just as dawn

was breaking. When Oates had asked her if she'd