The Lost Army of Cambyses (52 page)

Instead he leaned forward and picked up a sword,

turning it over in his hand, admiring its graceful

lines and intricately moulded pommel. He'd only

ever seen its like in museums, locked away in glass

cases, beyond reach. Now there were hundreds

laid out before him. Thousands. And those only a

fraction of what was still hidden beneath the

sands. The enormity of the find was almost too

much to take in. It was more than he could have

imagined in his wildest dreams. The answer to his

prayers.

'Do we know how far it extends yet?'

Dravic puffed on his cigar. 'I've got men out

digging test trenches. We've found the front end,

almost a kilometre up the valley. We're still look-

ing for the rear. It's fucking huge.' He wiped his

arm across his forehead. 'When does the camel

train arrive?' he asked.

'The day after tomorrow. Perhaps sooner.'

'I still say we should start flying some of this

stuff out now.'

Sayf al-Tha'r shook his head. 'We can't risk a

stream of helicopters going back and forth across

the border. It would attract attention.'

'We flew in the men and equipment OK,' said

the German.

'We were lucky. We needed to start work im-

mediately and Allah granted us his favour. He may

not do so again. We will wait for the camel train

and take everything out on that. It is safer. We're

patrolling the area?'

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'We've got dune bikes doing sweeps out to fifty

kilometres.'

'And?'

'What do you think? We're in the middle of a

fucking desert. It's not like someone's just going to

wander past accidentally.'

They fell silent. Sayf al-Tha'r laid aside the

sword and picked up a small jasper amulet. It was

no bigger than a thumbnail but beautifully carved,

in the shape of Osiris, god of the underworld. He

rubbed it gently between his fingers.

'We have five, maybe six days,' he said. 'How

much of the army can we get out in that time?'

Dravic sucked on his cigar. 'A fraction of it. Less

than a fraction. We're working round the clock

and we've still only uncovered this small section.

It's getting easier as we move northwards because

the bodies seem to be nearer the surface, but we're

still only going to be able to clear a tiny part of it.

But then that's all we need, isn't it? The stuff we've

already got will raise millions. We'll be dominat-

ing the antiquities market for the next hundred

years.'

'And the rest of it? Preparations are being made?'

'We're working backwards from the front.

Don't worry, it's all under control. And now, if

you don't mind, I've got work to do.'

He jammed his cigar into his mouth and strode

off towards the sand-vacuums. Sayf al-Tha'r gazed

after him, a fog of distaste clouding his eyes, and

then, still clasping the amulet, made his way

around the edge of the excavation until he came to

the great pyramid-shaped outcrop, squatting

down in the shade at its foot.

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It saddened him to think of what they were

going to do to the army. If there had been another

option he would have taken it, but there wasn't.

The risk of someone else finding it was too great.

They had to cover themselves. It went against his

natural inclinations, but there was no choice. It

had to be. Like killing. It had to be.

He sat back against the stone, rubbing the

amulet between finger and thumb, surveying

the lake of bodies. One, he noticed, buried up

to the waist so that its torso was upright, seemed to

be staring straight at him. He looked away and

back again, but still the corpse's sightless eyes

were turned in his direction, its dried lips pulled

back from its teeth so that it appeared to be

snarling. There was hatred in that face, fury, and

for some reason he sensed that it was directed at

him. He held its gaze for a moment and then,

uncomfortable, stood and moved away. As he did

so he glanced down at the amulet, only to discover

that somehow it had snapped in half in his hand.

He gazed at it for a moment, and then, with a

grunt, cast it away into the trench.

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37

CAIRO

Through the smoked glass of the limousine

window Squires gazed over at two lanes of

stationary traffic. Beside him was a small Peugeot

with nine people squeezed inside it, a family by the

looks of it, and beyond that a truck piled high

with cauliflowers. Occasionally one of the three

lanes would creep forward and he would find him-

self momentarily staring out at a new neighbour.

Almost immediately the other lanes would

advance too and the familiar configuration of

limousine, Peugeot, truck would be restored, as

though they were drums in an enormous fruit

machine which, whenever it was activated, would

rotate slowly only to return always to the same

position.

'And what time was this?' he said into the

mobile phone.

A crackly voice echoed down the line.

'You've no idea how? Or when?'

Again, a crackly echo. A boy selling bottles of

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perfume came up and knocked on the window.

The chauffeur leaned out, shouted and the boy

moved on.

'And his family?'

The response came through in a cough of static.

There was a long pause.

'Oh well, no use crying over spilt milk. We shall

just have to adapt. Do what you can to find him

and keep me informed.'

Squires switched off the mobile and returned it

to his jacket pocket. Although he seemed calm

there was something in the narrow set of his eyes

that suggested disquiet.

'It seems our friend the detective has dis-

appeared,' he said.

'Jesus fuck!' Massey slammed a fleshy hand

onto the seat between them. 'I thought Jemal was

having him watched.'

'It seems he managed to give them the slip.'

'I said we should have got rid of him. Didn't I

say it?'

'You most certainly did, old boy.'

'Fuck, fuck, fuck!'

The American was slamming his hand harder

and harder against the seat, leaving deep indent-

ations in the leather. He continued to hit it for

several seconds more before slumping backwards,

breathing heavily.

'When?'

'They're not sure.' Squires sighed. 'Apparently

his wife and children went out at seven this morn-

ing. By ten he still hadn't appeared so they kicked

the door in and he wasn't there.'

'Amateurs!' spat Massey. 'Amateurs!'

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From behind came a loud blaring as a bus driver

hammered furiously, pointlessly, on his hooter.

'It seems he was at a library yesterday,' said

Squires. 'Looking through maps of the western

desert.'

'Jesus! So he knows about the army.'

'It looks that way.'

'Has he told anyone? Press? Antiquities

Service?'

Squires shrugged. 'I'd say on balance he hasn't

or we'd have heard something by now.'

'So what's he doing?'

'I really couldn't say. Going out there on his own,

by the looks of things. I fear we might have to make

our move rather earlier than we'd planned.'

For once Massey didn't argue.

'We have all the equipment ready?' asked

Squires.

'You don't have to worry about my end. As far

as Jemal goes, I've no idea. The man's a fucking

clown.'

'Jemal will do what's expected of him, just as we

all will.'

The American pulled out a handkerchief and

blew his nose loudly. 'This isn't going to be easy,'

he said, sniffing. 'Sayf al-Tha'r's going to have a

lot of men protecting that army.'

'Nonetheless I feel confident that we will

succeed. You'll inform your people in the States?'

Massey nodded, a series of chins sinking into

one another like an elaborately layered cream

cake.

'Good,' said Squires. 'Then it looks like we're

on our way.'

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The limousine jolted forward another few feet.

'Or we will be if we ever get out of this blessed

traffic jam.' He leaned forward towards the driver.

'What on earth's going on up there?'

'There's a lorry jackknifed across the road,'

came the reply.

With a sigh Squires removed a sweet from his

pocket and began picking at the wrapper, gazing

absent-mindedly at the Peugeot in the next lane.

The obvious route for Khalifa to have taken, and

the most direct, would have been to go south-west

to Bahariya Oasis and then west across the desert

from there.

He decided against it. Whoever had been tailing

him the previous night would know by now that

he'd given them the slip, and also probably that

he'd been on the ten p.m. train to Cairo. It

wouldn't take a genius to work out he was head-

ing into the desert, in which case there was a good

chance they'd try to intercept him en route. And

the route they'd be expecting him to take was the

quickest one available.

Rather than heading south-west, therefore, he

decided instead to go in almost the opposite

direction, north-west to Alexandria, picking up

the coastal highway to Marsa Matruh and then

turning south to the oasis at Siwa. Although

longer, this route had clear advantages. The roads

were in better condition; he would have less open

desert to cross from Siwa than from Bahariya;

and, most important, it was the last route his

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pursuers would think of him taking. Having

filled up with petrol, therefore, he headed out of

Cairo and onto Highway 11, up towards the

Mediterranean coast.

He drove fast, chain-smoking, the landscape

around him switching from desert to cultivation

and back again. There was a cassette player built

into the dashboard, but he could find only one

tape – Kazim al-Saher's
My Love and the Rain –

and after playing it through four times he ejected

it again and drove on in silence.

He reached Alexandria in two hours and Marsa

in five, stopping only twice en route, once to fill

up with petrol and once, just beyond Alexandria,

to look at the sea – the first time in his life he had

ever seen it.

From Marsa, having again filled up with petrol,

he continued west for a further twenty kilometres

before turning south onto the Siwa road, an empty

ribbon of tarmac stretching away across the

desert. The sun was dropping now and he pushed

his foot right to the floor. The odd ruined building

flashed past and a line of rusting signs marked the

course of a buried pipeline. Otherwise there was

nothing, just a forlorn expanse of flat orange

gravel broken here and there by distant ridges and

escarpments. He passed no other traffic and no

other signs of life, save an occasional herd of

dromedaries nibbling at the desert scrub, their

coats brown and shaggy.

Halfway to Siwa he came across a roadside cafe

– a makeshift shack optimistically styling itself the

Alexander Restaurant – and stopped briefly for

some tea before moving on again. Night fell and

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the desert melted into darkness. Every now and

then he glimpsed lights way out across the flats, a

settlement, perhaps, or an army camp and, once,

a flickering tongue of flame from a gas well.

Otherwise he was alone in the void. He put Kazim

al-Saher back on.

Finally, around seven p.m., he sensed the flat-

ness around him starting to break up. Vague hills

loomed, and peaks and scarps. The road started to

descend, snaking through a mess of crags

and ridges before the land suddenly opened

up and there, below and in front of him, was a

carpet of twinkling lights, like tiny boats on a still

sea. Siwa Oasis. He slowed momentarily, admiring

the sight, and then continued down.

He'd been driving for nine hours and was just

finishing his second packet of cigarettes.

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