The Lost Army of Cambyses (24 page)

inside.

'Who are they?' whispered Tara.

'I don't know. But they're not here for an after-

noon stroll, that's for sure. Let's get out of here.

Before they see us.'

They turned and hurried down the far side of

the knoll and out of the zoo. On the street Daniel

hailed a cab and they got in.

'I get the feeling we're in trouble, Tara,' he said,

peering anxiously out of the rear window. 'A lot of

trouble.'

Squires picked up the phone almost before the first

ring had finished.

'Yes?'

The voice at the other end spoke rapidly. He

listened, holding the receiver with one hand while

the other slowly worked the wrapping off a boiled

sweet. He said nothing himself, and his face

remained impassive. When the person had

finished he said, 'Thank you. Keep looking,' and

replaced the receiver.

The sweet was now out of the wrapper. Instead

of putting it in his mouth he laid it carefully on the

desk in front of him and made three calls, one

after the other, in rapid succession. In each case,

when the phone was answered, he said, 'She's

gone for it,' and then rang off. Only after the third

call did he sit back, reach for the sweet and slip it

onto his tongue.

He remained motionless for some while, eyes

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half closed, the tips of his fingers touching just in

front of his face as though he was at prayer. Only

when the last fingernail of sweet had dissolved did

he lean forward, open a drawer and remove a

large hardback book. On the cover was a photo-

graph of a wall covered in multicoloured

hieroglyphs, and the title:
Late Period Funerary

Practice in the Theban Necropolis.
The author

was Daniel Lacage.

He slipped his glasses onto his nose, sat back

and opened the volume, crossing his thin legs and

smiling to himself.

202

20

LUXOR

'The murders are connected,' insisted Khalifa. 'I'm

sure of it.'

He was sitting in a large, meticulously tidy

office on the first floor of Luxor police head-

quarters. In front of him, reclining behind his desk

in an extravagant black leather executive chair,

was Chief Inspector Abdul ibn-Hassani, his boss.

Khalifa himself was on a low stool, a seating

arrangement designed to emphasize Hassani's

superior position in the police hierarchy. The chief

rarely missed an opportunity to show his men who

was in charge.

'OK, take me through it again,' sighed Hassani.

'And slowly this time.'

He was a big man with broad wrestler's

shoulders and close-cropped hair, his face vaguely

reminiscent of President Hosni Mubarak, whose

portrait hung on the wall behind him.

He and Khalifa had never got on. Khalifa dis-

liked his boss's obsession with doing everything by

203

the book; Hassani mistrusted Khalifa's university

education, his preparedness to be swayed by in-

tuition rather than hard fact and his fascination

with the ancient past. The chief was a pragmatist.

He had no time for things that had happened

thousands of years ago. He was interested in

solving crimes in the here and now. And you did

that by hard work, attention to detail and respect

for your superiors, not daydreaming about people

with unpronounceable names who'd been dead

for three millennia. History was a distraction, an

indulgence. And Khalifa was, in his opinion, a dis-

tracted, indulgent person. That's why he was

stalling over his promotion. The man didn't have

what it took. He should be working in a library,

not a police station.

'According to the newspaper report,'

Khalifa was saying, 'this man Iqbar was found

in his shop with his face and body badly

slashed.'

'What newspaper?'

'Al-Ahram.'

Hassani snorted and waved him on.

'The same wounds as we found on our man

Nayar. Nayar dealt in antiquities. So did Iqbar. Or

at least he owned an antique shop, which amounts

to the same thing. Two men, both in the same

business, killed in the same way, within a day of

each other. It has to be more than a coincidence.

Especially if you factor in Nayar's train ticket. He

was in Cairo the day before Iqbar was killed.

There has to be a link.'

'But do we have any hard evidence? I don't

want guesses. I want facts.'

204

'Well, I haven't seen the Cairo medical report

yet . . .'

'So it could be that the manner of death wasn't

the same. You know how newspapers exaggerate.

Especially rags like
al-Ahram.'

'I haven't seen the medical report yet,' repeated

Khalifa, 'but I know it'll show they were both

killed in the same way. The cases are connected,

I'm sure of it.'

'Go on then,' sighed Hassani wearily. 'What's

your theory?'

'I think Nayar found a tomb . . .'

'I should have known tombs would come into it

somewhere!'

'Or someone else found one and Nayar got

wind of it. Either way, it was something big. He

went to Cairo. Sold Iqbar a few objects. Got paid.

Came back. Blew the money. Probably thought he

was set up for life. Except that someone else knew

about the tomb. And that someone else didn't like

the idea of sharing the spoils.'

'This is speculation, Khalifa. Pure speculation.'

The detective ignored him and ploughed on.

'Maybe Nayar took something valuable and they

wanted it back. Maybe the mere fact that he knew

about the tomb was enough to sign his death

warrant. Probably both. Whatever the case, these

people caught up with him, tortured him to find out

who else knew about the discovery, then went up to

Cairo and did the same to Iqbar. And if we don't

catch them, they're going to do the same to someone

else. Have done the same, for all we know.'

'And who are these people? Who are these

lunatics you're saying are prepared to butcher

205

people for the sake of a few dusty old objects?'

He sounded as if he was humouring an over-

imaginative child. Khalifa paused a moment

before answering.

'I have reason to suspect Sayf al-Tha'r is

involved.'

Hassani exploded. 'For God's sake, Khalifa! As

if it's not enough to say we've got some maraud-

ing serial killer on our hands, now you've got to

bring bloody Sayf al-Tha'r into it. What's the

evidence?'

'I have a source.'

'What source?'

'Someone who works at Deir el-Bahri. At the

temple. He used to be a guard.'

'Used to?'

'He was injured in the incident.'

'And now? What does this source do now?'

Khalifa bit his lip, knowing what Hassani's

reaction would be. 'He runs the site toilets.'

'Oh marvellous!' roared the chief. 'Khalifa's

great source: a bloody toilet attendant.'

'He knows more about what's going on around

Luxor than anyone else I know. He's totally

reliable.'

'I'm sure he is when it comes to scrubbing shit.

But for police work? Do me a favour.'

Khalifa lit a cigarette and stared out of the

window. The chief's office looked directly out over

Luxor temple, one of the best views of the monu-

ment anywhere in Luxor. A shame it had to be

wasted on a fool like Hassani, he thought. From

outside came the amplified call of a muezzin

summoning the faithful to mid-afternoon prayers.

206

'Every dealer in town is afraid,' said Khalifa even-

tually. 'Everybody I've spoken to about this case has

been afraid. There's something going on, sir.'

'There most certainly is,' snapped Hassani. 'And

it's in your head.'

'If I could just go up to Cairo for a day, have a

poke around . . .'

'It's a wild-goose chase, man. This Nayder or

whatever he was called was cut up by someone he

owed money to . . . You did say he owed money,

didn't you?'

'Yes, sir, but . . .'

'Or by someone he'd insulted . . . You did say he

insulted people, didn't you?'

Khalifa shrugged.

'And Iqbar was cut up by a thief, if he was cut

up at all, which knowing the reporting in
al-

Ahram
he probably wasn't. They weren't cut up

by the same person. You're reading too much into

it.'

'I've just got this feeling . . .'

'Feelings have nothing to do with police work.

Facts do. Clear thinking does. Hard evidence does.

Feelings just confuse the issue.'

'Like on the al-Hamdi case?'

Hassani glared at him furiously.

The case of Ommaya al-Hamdi had shocked

them all, even Hassani. Her body had been found

at the bottom of a well, naked, strangled. She was

only fourteen.

A boy from her village, a retard, had sub-

sequently been arrested and, under intense

questioning, confessed to the crime. For some

reason, however, Khalifa had been uneasy, sensing

207

things weren't quite as straightforward as they

seemed. His doubts had incurred the wrath of

Hassani and jibes from his colleagues, but he'd

ignored them and pursued the investigation in-

dependently, eventually proving that the culprit was

actually the girl's cousin, who had been infatuated

with her. No recognition had ever been given to his

role in solving the crime, but since then his hunches

had been treated with a little more respect.

'OK,' said the chief inspector, 'what is it

precisely you're asking for?'

'I want to go up to Cairo,' said Khalifa, sensing

his boss was weakening. 'Find out about the Iqbar

murder, see if that case can throw any light on the

one we're dealing with here. I only need a day.'

Hassani swivelled in his chair so that he was

facing the window. His fingers drummed on the

desk. There was a knock on the door.

'Wait!' he shouted.

'I'll take the night train,' said Khalifa. 'Save the

expense of flying.'

'Damn right you'll take the night train!' snapped

Hassani. 'We're not a bloody tour company!' He

swivelled back to face the detective. 'One day. That's

all you get. Just one day. Go tonight. Come back

tomorrow night. And I want a report on my desk

first thing the next morning. Clear?'

'Yes, sir.'

Khalifa stood and made for the door.

'I hope you're right about this,' growled

Hassani. 'For your sake. Because if you're not I'm

going to think even less of you than I already do.'

'And if I am right, sir?'

'Get out!'

208

21

CAIRO

'Where you go?' asked the taxi driver.

'Anywhere,' said Daniel. 'The middle of town.'

'Midan Tahrir?'

'Yes, that's fine.'

They drove for a couple of minutes, then Daniel

leaned forward. 'No, not Midan Tahrir. Zamalek.

Take us to Zamalek. Sharia Abdul Azim.'

The driver nodded and Daniel sat back.

'Where are we going?' asked Tara.

'To see my fixer, Mohammed Samali. Probably

the least trustworthy person in Cairo, but at the

moment I can't think of anyone else who can help

us.'

They sat back and stared out of the windows,

the taxi slowly shunting its way through the

traffic. After a couple of minutes Daniel reached

out and took Tara's hand. Neither of them spoke

or looked at the other.

Zamalek was a plush, leafy district of villas and

209

high-rise apartment buildings. They pulled up in

front of an exclusive-looking modern block, with

well-tended gardens and a glass-fronted foyer

and, having paid off the driver, climbed the steps

to the main door. There was a polished metal

intercom panel in the wall. Daniel pressed buzzer

43.

They waited thirty seconds and then he pressed

again. There was another long wait, then a voice

echoed out of the panel.

'Yes?'

'Samali? It's Daniel Lacage.'

'Daniel, what a wonderful surprise.' The voice

was soft, musical, slightly lisping. 'You catch me at

a rather inopportune moment. Would it be

possible for you to—'

'It's urgent. I need to talk. Now.'

There was a pause.

'Wait downstairs for five minutes and then

come up. Fourth floor, as you know.'

There was a click and they pushed the door

open, stepping into a carpeted foyer, the air

around them suddenly cool and air-conditioned.

As requested, they waited for five minutes and

then took the lift up to the fourth floor. Samali's

flat was midway along a carpeted corridor with

prints of ancient monuments hung along the walls.

They knocked, waited and then heard the soft pad

of approaching feet.

'Be careful what you say to him,' whispered

Daniel. 'And keep the box in your bag. It's best he

doesn't see it. Samali would sell his own mother if

he thought it would turn in a profit. The fewer