The Lost Army of Cambyses (58 page)

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around it. Vague black smudges spaced regularly

along the surrounding dune-tops were presumably

lookouts, and he dropped down immediately, fear-

ful of being seen. He glanced at his watch. Half an

hour till dawn.

He slipped back from the summit of the dune

and, laying aside the machine-gun, pulled his

pistol from his holdall and tucked it into his belt.

He took out the black robes and dragged them

over his head, wrapping the dead man's scarf

around his forehead and his face, the dried blood

giving the material an unpleasant, crusty feel. He

then stuffed the mobile phone and GPS unit into

his pockets, cast the bag aside and, picking up the

machine-gun again, climbed back up to the top of

the dune and started down the far side, making

straight towards his enemies.

'For Ali,' he whispered.

Tara weaved her way through the camp, the guard

walking slightly behind her, his gun slung across

his arm. It was cold and she hugged her arms

around herself, her body still stiff and painful

from Dravic's assault. There was shouting and

hammering and, from somewhere away to the

right, a raucous braying sound, like a symphony

of discordant trumpets. She gulped in the air, glad

to be out of the cloying interior of the tent where

she and Daniel were being held.

How many days had they been captive now?

She tried to focus her mind. Two? Three? She

searched for landmarks, events against which

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she could measure the passing of time. Sayf al-

Tha'r had come the previous night. Dravic had

attacked her the one before that. And that

had been, what? Their second night in the desert?

No, only their first. They had arrived that morn-

ing. So, three days in total. It seemed longer than

that. Much longer.

They continued through the tents, skirting a

wall of crates and emerging from the southern end

of the encampment. To the right a herd of camels

was standing, the source of the braying. A crowd

of men jostled around them, loading and unload-

ing crates.

Fifty metres further on they stopped and,

pulling down her jeans, Tara squatted and began

to urinate. A few days ago she wouldn't have con-

templated doing such a thing in front of a

complete stranger. Now she no longer cared.

The guard watched for a moment and then

averted his eyes. He was young, no more than a

boy. She hadn't seen him before tonight.

'You like Manchester United?' he asked suddenly.

His voice was a shock. It was the first time one

of their captors had spoken to her.

'Football team,' he added.

She looked up at him, urine pattering between

her feet, and despite herself started to laugh.

Could the situation possibly be more absurd, piss-

ing in the middle of a desert beside a gun-toting

religious fanatic who wanted to discuss football?

It was crazy. Her laughter redoubled, ratcheting

towards hysteria.

'What?' said the guard, turning, confused.

'What is funny?'

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'This,' said Tara, waving her arm around her,

'all of this. It's fucking hilarious.'

'You no like Manchester United?'

She came to her feet, pulling up her jeans and

stepping forward so that her face was just a few

centimetres from his.

'I don't care about fucking Manchester United,'

she hissed. 'Do you understand? I don't give a shit.

I've been kidnapped, beaten and soon I'm going to

be killed. Fuck Manchester United. Fuck you.'

The guard's eyes dropped. Although it was he

who was holding the gun, he seemed scared of her.

'Manchester United good,' he muttered.

His face was young, frighteningly young. She

wondered how old he was. Fourteen, fifteen? She

felt a sudden, inexplicable twinge of pity for him.

'What's your name?' she asked, her voice more

gentle.

He mumbled inaudibly.

'What?'

'Mehmet.'

'And why are you here, Mehmet?'

The boy seemed confused by the question.

'Sayf al-Tha'r say,' he replied.

'And if Sayf al-Tha'r said kill me, would you?'

The boy's feet shifted uncomfortably. His head

was still bowed.

'Look at me,' she said. 'Look at me.'

Reluctantly he lifted his eyes.

'If Sayf al-Tha'r said kill me, would you?'

'Sayf al-Tha'r good man,' he mumbled. 'He care

me.'

'But would you kill me? If Sayf al-Tha'r said,

would you?'

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The boy's eyes flicked nervously from side to

side, blinking.

'We go back now,' he said.

'Not till you answer me.'

'We go back,' he repeated.

'Answer me!'

'Yes!' he cried, lifting the gun and shaking it in

her face. 'Yes, I kill you. I kill you! For Allah, I kill

you! OK? OK? You want me kill you now?'

His breath was fast and uneven, his hands

trembling. She knew better than to push him

further.

'OK,' she said quietly, 'OK. We go back now.'

She turned and began walking towards the

camp. After a few seconds she heard the boy com-

ing up behind her. They walked in silence until

they had reached the edge of the tents.

'I sorry,' whispered the boy. 'I very sorry.'

She slowed and turned. What could she say? He

was a child. In a way they were all children,

simple, innocent, despite the acts they committed.

Children who had realized they were more power-

ful than the adults.

'Chelsea,' she said. 'I support Chelsea.'

The boy's face broke into a broad smile.

'Chelsea no good!' He chuckled. 'No as good as

Manchester. Manchester United very good.'

They continued on into the camp.

Khalifa lay gazing at the black-robed figures

ahead of him and below. There was now only one

ridge between him and the army, and the air

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echoed to the chug of generators and the distant

thud of hammering.

He could go no further without being seen. A

string of guards was lined across the summit

opposite and in the valley beneath, positioned at

regular intervals, so there was no way he'd be able

to slip through unnoticed. He could try to out-

flank them, but that would take time and a tinge

of grey was already weeping into the western sky.

Whatever else happened he had to be inside the

ring by sunrise, or he'd almost certainly be picked

up by the helicopter patrols that were bound to

start again at dawn. He slipped down from the

dune-top and rolled onto his back, lighting a

cigarette and wondering what to do.

It was Ali who decided his course of action. Or

rather a piece of advice Ali had once given him,

the first time they'd visited the Cairo museum

together. As they approached the front gates, his

brother had stopped to brief him on how they

would get in without paying.

'We're going to pretend we're with a school

party,' he had explained. 'Go in right through the

front door.'

Khalifa had asked whether it wouldn't be better

to try and slip in through a side entrance, but Ali

had shaken his head.

'If they see you sneaking around the side they're

bound to stop you,' he had said. 'Always go

through the front. Always look confident, like you

belong there. It never fails.'

And it never had. Whether it would work now

was a different matter, but he couldn't think of

anything else. Finishing his cigarette and pulling

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the scarf tightly around his forehead and face, he

stood, climbed back to the top of the dune and

started down the other side, waving at the guards

below.

'Salaam,'
he called to them. 'Everything OK?'

There was confused shouting and three guards

hurried forward, guns raised, intercepting him at

the bottom of the slope.

Always look confident, Khalifa told himself.

Always look confident.

'Hey!' he laughed, holding up his hands. 'It's

OK, guys! I'm on your side!'

The men continued to point their guns.

'What's going on?' said one of them. 'Where

have you come from?'

'Where the hell do you think I've come from?

I've been out on patrol.'

'Patrol?'

'Complete waste of time. I've been walking all

night and haven't seen a thing. Any of you guys

got a cigarette?'

There was a pause and then one of the men

fumbled in the pocket of his robe and pulled out a

packet of Cleopatras. His companion, the one

who had spoken before, motioned him back.

'There aren't any patrols out tonight. Guards

around the perimeter, that was the order. Nothing

about patrols.'

'Well, I wish someone had told me that,' said

Khalifa, trying to keep his voice steady. 'I must

have walked thirty kilometres.'

The man stared at him, eyes narrowed, and

then, lifting his gun, indicated he should remove

the scarf from the lower half of his face.

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Brazen it out if they start asking questions, Ali

had told him that day at the museum. Get angry if

necessary. Never show doubt.

'For God's sake,' snapped Khalifa, 'I've been out

all night. I'm cold!'

'Do it,' said the man.

With an annoyed grunt Khalifa slowly pulled

the scarf down over his chin, making sure it

remained wrapped closely around his forehead.

The man leaned forward and stared at him.

'I don't recognize you,' he said.

'And I don't recognize you! I don't recognize

half the people here, but I don't go around point-

ing my gun at them. This is crazy! Crazy!'

He paused and then took a risk.

'If you don't believe me why don't you go and

ask Dravic? He knows me. I was with him when

he cut up that old guy in Cairo. Ripped half his

face off with that bloody trowel of his. Fucking

animal.'

There was another brief pause and then,

nodding at each other, the men lowered their guns.

The one with the cigarettes stepped forward and

offered Khalifa the pack. He pulled one out and

put it in his mouth, hoping they didn't notice how

much his hand was shaking.

'You going back to the camp?' asked the one

who had been questioning him.

Khalifa nodded.

'Well, tell them to send someone down here to

relieve us.'

'Sure,' said the detective. 'And do me a favour,

will you? What I just said about Dravic, keep it to

yourselves, eh?'

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The men laughed. 'Don't worry. We feel the

same about him.'

Khalifa smiled and, raising his hand in farewell,

began walking away. After a few paces, however,

a voice called after him.

'Hey, haven't you forgotten something!'

The detective froze. What had he forgotten? A

password? A secret sign? He should have known

there'd be something else. Turning, he found the

three men staring at him, clutching their machine-

guns.

'Well?' said the one who had given him the cig-

arette.

Khalifa's mind was a blank, his heart racing. He

grinned inanely, his finger curling instinctively

round the trigger of his gun, eyes flicking from one