The Lost Army of Cambyses (51 page)

Below was a list of the various tours on offer,

including, to Khalifa's relief, a 'Thriller Five-Day

Desert Adventure including camp out under

beautiful stars, four-wheel drive and very exotic

belly dance extravaganza'. Abdul had clearly lost

none of his talent for selling a product.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

Abdul Wassami – Fat Abdul as he was generally

known – was a friend from Khalifa's Giza days.

They'd grown up next door to each other and

gone to the same school, where, from an early age,

Abdul had displayed a determinedly entre-

preneurial streak, selling 'miracle power tonics'

made from Coca-Cola and cough medicine, and

charging ten piastres a head for surreptitious

guided tours of his elder sister's bedroom (unlike

her sibling, Fatima Wassami had been tall, slim

and extremely good-looking).

Adulthood had tempered his exploits slightly,

although not his ingenuity, and after a brief spell

exporting Libyan dates to the former Soviet Union

he'd settled down to run his own travel company.

Khalifa saw him only occasionally these days,

but the old warmth was still there, and as he

entered the shop now there was a cry of delight

from the far end.

'Yusuf! What a marvellous surprise! Girls, say

hello to Yusuf Khalifa, one of my oldest and

thinnest friends.'

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Three girls, all young, all pretty, looked up from

behind their computers and smiled. Abdul

waddled over and enveloped the detective in a

suffocating hug.

'Look at Rania,' he whispered in his ear. 'The

one on the left, with the big you-know-whats.

Thick as a slice of
basbousa,
but the body on her!

Oh God, the body! Watch!' He released Khalifa

and turned to the girls. 'Rania dear, could you

fetch us some tea?'

Smiling, Rania stood and walked towards the

back of the shop, hips swaying provocatively.

Abdul stared after her, mesmerized, until she dis-

appeared into a small kitchen.

'The Gates of Paradise,' he sighed. 'God, what a

bum.' He ushered Khalifa over to a row of arm-

chairs and squeezed down beside him. 'Zenab

OK?' he asked.

'Fine, thanks. Jamilla?'

'As far as I know.' Abdul shrugged. 'She seems

to spend most of her time round at her mother's

these days. Eating. God, she eats. Makes me look

like I'm on a starvation diet. Hey, you know what?

I'm about to open a New York office.'

For as long as Khalifa could remember Abdul

had been about to open a New York office. He

smiled and lit a cigarette. Rania returned with the

tea, setting the glasses down in front of them and

going back to her desk, Abdul's eyes glued to her

receding backside.

'Listen, I need a favour,' said Khalifa.

'Sure,' said his friend distractedly. 'Anything.'

'I need to borrow a four-by-four.'

'Borrow?'

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Suddenly Abdul was all attention.

'Yes, borrow.'

'What, as in hire?'

'As in you lend me.'

'For free?'

'Exactly. I need it for four, maybe five days.

Something that's equipped for rough terrain.

Desert terrain.'

Abdul's brow had furrowed. Lending things for

free clearly wasn't a concept with which he felt

comfortable.

'And when do you need this four-by-four?'

'Now.'

'Now!' Abdul burst out laughing. 'I'd love to

help you, Yusuf, but that's impossible. All the

four-wheel drives are down in Bahariya. It would

take at least a day to bring one back to Cairo,

more if they're out on a tour, which, now I think

about it, they all are. If we had one here of course

you could have it. We're friends, after all. But as it

is . . . I'm sorry, there's no way.'

He leaned forward and slurped his tea. There

was a brief silence.

'There is that one in the garage,' said Rania

from behind her computer.

The slurping stopped.

'The new one that was delivered on Monday.

It's all filled up and ready to go.'

'Yes, but that's no good,' said Abdul. 'It's

booked out.'

'No it's not,' said Rania.

'I'm sure it is,' insisted Abdul, glaring at her.

'Booked out to that group of Italians.'

He spoke slowly and deliberately, emphasizing

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the words, as if prompting an actor who'd for-

gotten her lines.

'I don't think it is, Mr Wassami. Hang on, I'll

look on the computer.'

'There's really no . . .'

Her fingers were already clattering over the

keyboard.

'There!' she said triumphantly. 'I knew it wasn't.

No-one's using it for another five days. Which is

just how long your friend needs it for. Isn't that

lucky?'

She smiled broadly, as did Abdul, although he

clearly had to work at the expression.

'Yes, dear, marvellous.' He sighed, and buried

his face in his hands. 'Thick as a slice of bloody

basbousa.'

The four-by-four, a Toyota, was in a garage in the

next street but one. White, cuboid, solid, with

bull-bars across the front, two spare wheels bolted

to the rear and a row of eight jerrycans slotted

into the heavy steel roof-rack, it was exactly what

Khalifa wanted. Abdul drove it out and parked it

by the kerb.

'You will be careful with it, won't you?' he

pleaded, clutching the steering wheel protectively.

'It's brand-new. I've only had it two days. Please

tell me you'll be careful with it.'

'Of course I will.'

'It cost forty thousand dollars. And that was

with a discount. Forty thousand. I must be mad

letting you have it. Stark raving mad.'

He clambered out and walked Khalifa round

the vehicle, pointing out the various features,

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stressing and re-stressing how anxious he was to

get it back in one piece.

'It's four-wheel drive, obviously. Manual

gearing, water-cooled engine, electric fuel

pump. About as top of the range as you can get.'

He sounded like a car salesman. 'It's fully

equipped with fuel cans, water containers, tool-

box, traction mats, first-aid kit, compass.

Everything you'd expect, basically. There are

also blankets, maps, emergency rations, flares,

binoculars and . . .' Reaching into the glove com-

partment he removed what looked like a large

mobile phone with a stubby aerial and a liquid

crystal display on the front. '. . . a portable GPS

unit.'

'GPS?'

'Global Positioning by Satellite. It tells you your

precise position at any given moment and, if you

punch in the co-ordinates of a point you're trying

to reach, it'll tell you how far away it is and on

what bearing. There's an instruction manual in the

compartment. They're perfectly simple. Even I can

use one.'

He replaced the unit and, reluctantly, handed

the keys over.

'And I'm not paying for the petrol.'

'I didn't expect you to, Abdul,' said Khalifa,

climbing in.

'So long as that's understood. The petrol's down

to you. And take this.'

He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and

handed it over.

'If there are any problems, anything at all, any

strange noises or anything, I want you to stop, pull

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over, turn off the engine and call me immediately.

OK?'

'Will it work in the desert?'

'As far as I can tell it works everywhere except

in Cairo. Now just tell me one more time: you will

be careful.'

'I will be careful,' said Khalifa, starting the

engine.

'And you'll be back in five days.'

'Less, I hope. Thanks again, Abdul. You're a

good man.'

'I'm a madman. Forty thousand dollars!'

The car started to move off. Abdul waddled

along beside it.

'I didn't even ask which desert you're going to.'

'The western desert.'

'The oases?'

'Beyond the oases. The Great Sand Sea.'

Abdul clutched at the window. 'Hang on, you

didn't say anything about the Sand Sea! God

Almighty, the place is a car graveyard. You can't

take my—'

'Thanks again, Abdul! You're a true friend!'

Khalifa gunned the engine and roared off down

the street. Abdul ran after him, but his obesity was

against it and after only a few paces he wobbled to

a halt. In the rear-view mirror Khalifa saw him

standing in the middle of the road gesticulating

wildly. He beeped twice and swung round the

corner out of sight.

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36

T H E WESTERN DESERT

The helicopter roared across the camp and landed

on a flat patch of sand fifty metres beyond it. As

soon as it was down its side door slid open and

two people jumped out, a man and a boy. The

man stood for a moment looking around him and

then fell to his knees and kissed the sand.

'Egypt!' he cried, his voice drowned out by the

roar of the engines. 'My land, my home! I have

returned!'

He remained prostrated for several seconds,

embracing the desert, and then stood and set off

towards the camp, the boy at his side.

Ahead all was frantic activity. A stream of crates

was being carried away up the valley, while other

containers, heavier, were being lugged back into

the camp and piled up along its perimeter. Black-

robed figures swarmed everywhere.

So intent were the workers on their labour that

the new arrivals were almost at the tents before

anyone noticed them. Three men rolling an oil

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drum looked up, saw them and immediately

stopped what they were doing and raised their

arms into the air.

'Sayf al-Tha'r!' they cried. 'He is here! Sayf al-

Tha'r!'

The cry spread rapidly and soon men every-

where were laying aside their burdens and running

to greet their master.

'Sayf al-Tha'r!' they screamed. 'He has

returned! Sayf al-Tha'r!'

The object of their attention continued through

the camp, expressionless, the crowd surging

behind and to either side of him like the tail of a

comet. Word of his arrival flew forward to those

working at the excavations, and they too dropped

their tools and streamed back towards the camp,

shouting and waving their arms. The guards on

the dune-tops fired their guns into the air, ecstatic.

Reaching the mound on the far side of the camp

Sayf al-Tha'r climbed to its summit, the boy

Mehmet still at his side, and gazed down at the

scene below. Work had continued throughout

the night and a vast crater now cut into the valley

like a deep wound. Swathes of plastic sheeting had

been laid along its upper edge and were piled with

heaps of artefacts – shields, swords, spears,

helmets, armour. Beneath, in the trench itself, as

though the earth had split open and spewed forth

its entrails, lay a seething confusion of emaciated

bodies, human and animal, their skin brown and

crinkled, like wrapping paper. There was some-

thing apocalyptic about the scene, as though it

was the end of the world and the dead had come

forth to face their final judgement. Appropriate,

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thought Sayf al-Tha'r, for the hour was indeed at

hand when men would be judged. He gazed down

for a long moment and then raised his arms

triumphantly.

'Allah u akbar,'
he roared, his voice echoing

across the desert. 'God is great!'

'
Allah u akbar!'
responded the crowd beneath

him. 'Praise be to God.'

The cry was repeated several times, accom-

panied by gunfire from the dune-tops above, and

then, with a wave of his arms, Sayf al-Tha'r

signalled that the men should return to work.

They scattered immediately. He watched as they

resumed their labours, stripping, loading, carrying

and stacking, and then, sending Mehmet back

down to the camp, he descended to the excavations

and moved towards Dravic, who was standing

beneath an umbrella supervising the packing of

the artefacts.

'Sorry I didn't have time to come and applaud

you,' said the German. 'I've been busy down here.'

If he noticed the sarcasm, Sayf al-Tha'r did not

acknowledge it. He stood quietly just beyond the

shade of the umbrella, in the full glare of the sun,

gazing out over the mass of twisted corpses. Now

that he was close he could see that many had been

mangled in the hurry to strip them of their

possessions. Limbs had been ripped from torsos,

hands snapped away, heads knocked loose, dried

flesh torn.

'Was it necessary to destroy them like this?' he

asked.

'No,' sniffed Dravic. 'We could have done it by

the book and spent a week uncovering each one.

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In which case we'd be leaving here with a couple

of spears and that's about it.'

Again, Sayf al-Tha'r did not rise to the sarcasm.