The Lost Army Of Cambyses

by Paul Sussman

  'Go on.'

  'Well,' he said, smoothing down his slacks again, 'it would appear that for some years now the dear man has been funding his operations through covert trading of antiquities.' He began screwing another cigarette into the holder. 'By all accounts he knows more about Egyptian artefacts than most experts, so it's an obvious source of income for him. The only source, given that his activities have alienated just about every other fundamentalist group in Egypt. Even al-Jihad won't touch him.'

  He came to his feet and wandered slowly over to the window, afternoon sunlight reflecting off his scalp so that it looked as if his head was made of polished brass.

  'He runs a veritable little cottage industry, by all accounts. Artefacts are stolen from digs, looted from newly discovered tombs, removed from museum stores. They're sent south to the Sudan and then shipped out to middlemen in Europe and the Far East, who sell them on to private buyers. The proceeds are then filtered back into the region and used . . . well, I think we all know what they're used for.'

  'There's a big man,' said Tara, 'with a birthmark on his face.'

  Samali remained at the window, staring down at the street.

  'Dravitt,' he said. 'Drakich, Dravich, something like that. German, I believe. Sayf al-Tha'r's eyes and ears here in Egypt. I'm afraid I can't tell you much about him. Except that the rumours are not pleasant.'

  He turned back to them.

  'I don't know what's in that box of yours, Daniel, but if, as you say, Sayf al-Tha'r wants it, then I can assure you that sooner or later Sayf al-Tha'r will get it. Antiquities are his lifeblood. When it comes to acquiring them he is utterly ruthless.'

  'But it's not even valuable,' said Daniel. 'Why should he be so desperate to get his hands on this one thing?'

  Samali shrugged. 'How can I tell you if you will not show it to me? I can only repeat what I have already said: that if Sayf al-Tha'r wants it, Sayf al-Tha'r will get it.'

  He padded slowly back to his chair and, retrieving his lighter, lit his cigarette.

  'Perhaps I will have a drink after all,' he said. 'The afternoon appears to have grown uncommonly hot.'

  He crossed to the cabinet and poured himself a glass of an opalescent yellow liqueur.

  'What about the British embassy?' asked Tara.

  There was a momentary pause and then a loud clank as Samali dropped an ice cube into his glass.

  'The British embassy?'

  His voice sounded innocent, although its register seemed to have risen ever so slightly, as if someone was squeezing his neck.

  'It seems they want this thing too,' said Daniel. 'Or at least the cultural attaché does.'

  Another clank. Samali laid aside the tongs and, lifting his drink, took a long sip, his back still to them.

  'What on earth makes you think the British cultural attaché wants your antiquity?'

  'Because he's been lying to us,' said Tara.

  Samali took another sip and wandered back towards the window. For a long while he was silent.

  'I shall give you a piece of advice', he said eventually, 'and I shall give it to you for free. Get rid of this antiquity, whatever it is, and leave Egypt. Do it quickly, do it today. Because if you do not you will die.'

  A chill ran up Tara's spine. Involuntarily she reached out and took Daniel's hand. His palm was damp with sweat.

  'What do you know, Samali?' he asked.

  'Very little. And I'm happy to keep it that way.'

  'But you know something?'

  'Please,' said Tara.

  Again a long silence. Samali finished his drink and stood with the empty glass hanging at his side, puffing on his cigarette holder. The windows appeared to be heavily glazed, for no sound came up from the street below. The whispering from the side room had stopped.

  'There is . . . how shall I put it . . . a conduit,' he said eventually, slowly. 'For stolen antiquities. Via the British embassy. And the American one, too, if what I've heard is correct, which it may well not be. These are simply rumours, you understand. Rumours of rumours. Chinese whispers. Objects are removed from museums, it is said, taken out of the country under diplomatic cover, sold on abroad, profits paid into secret bank accounts, all very cloak and dagger.'

  'Jesus Christ,' muttered Daniel.

  'Oh that's only the half of it,' said Samali, turning. 'The embassies organize the export of the objects. It is, however, our own security service that arranges their theft in the first place. Or at least an element within the security service. This runs high and deep, Daniel. These people have contacts everywhere. They know everything. For all we know they could be watching and listening to us this very minute.'

  'We have to go to the police,' said Tara. 'We have to.'

  Samali laughed bitterly. 'You are not listening to what I'm saying, Miss Mullray. These people are the police. They're the establishment. I cannot overemphasize how much power they wield. They manipulate you without you even knowing you are being manipulated. Compared to them Sayf al-Tha'r is your closest ally.'

  'But why?' said Daniel. 'Why for this one piece?'

  Samali shrugged. 'That, as I have already told you, I can't answer. What I can see is that on the one side there are the embassies and the secret service . . .' He raised the hand with the glass in it. 'And on the other side Sayf al-Tha'r . . .' He raised his other hand. 'And in between, about to be crushed into a million pieces . . .'

  'Us,' whispered Tara, stomach churning.

  Samali smiled.

  'What can we do?' she said. 'Where can we go?'

  The Egyptian didn't reply. Daniel was sitting forward, staring at the floor. The box in Tara's lap suddenly felt as if it weighed a ton. It was actually hurting her legs. The air seemed to hum with silence.

  'We need transport,' said Daniel eventually. 'A car, a motorbike, anything. Can you arrange that?'

  Samali looked down at them for a moment and then, his eyes softening slightly, crossed the room, picked up a phone, dialled and spoke rapidly into the receiver. There was a faint murmur at the other end and then he hung up.

  'There will be a motorbike downstairs in five minutes,' he said. 'The keys will be in the ignition.'

  'How much?' asked Daniel.

  'Oh, no charge.' Samali grinned. 'Even I would not be so mercenary as to take money from a condemned man.'

  It was warm in the room, but Tara found that she was shivering uncontrollably.

  The motorbike – a battered orange Jawa 350 – was waiting for them just as Samali had said. There was no sign of the person who had delivered it. Daniel slammed down the kickstart, revving the engine into life. Tara swung up behind him, the knapsack on her back, the box in the knapsack.

  'So where to?' she asked.

  'The one place where we might find out why this artefact is so important,' he said.

  'Which is?'

  'Where it came from. Luxor.'

  He clicked the bike into gear, yanked back the accelerator and they roared away down the street, Tara's hair streaming behind her.

  From his apartment window Samali watched as they disappeared round the corner and then crossed to the telephone, lifted the receiver and dialled.

  'They've just left,' he said. 'And they have the piece with them.'

  NORTHERN SUDAN

  The helicopter flew directly over the camp and descended onto a flat patch of ground a hundred metres beyond it. The down-draught from its blades threw up sheets of sand and gravel, which whipped across the tents like hail. The boy who had come out to meet it turned his back and covered his face with his arm. Only when the helicopter was down and the rotors almost stationary did he turn again, run across to it and heave open its side door. A man in a crumpled suit jumped out, a briefcase in one hand and a cigar in the other. He towered over the boy.

  'He is waiting, ya Doktora.'

  The two of them started towards the camp, the boy keeping his eyes firmly on the ground, away from the man's face, which frightened him, the way its left side was covered with
that terrible purple stain. The man strode beside him, swinging his case, oblivious.

  They skirted the side of the camp until they reached a tent set slightly apart from the others. The boy pulled back the flap and stepped in. The man threw away his cigar and followed, stooping as he entered.

  'Welcome, Dr Dravic,' came a voice. 'Will you take tea?'

  Sayf al-Tha'r was sitting cross-legged in the centre of the tent, his face half lost in the gloom. There was a book beside him, although it was too dark to see what it was.

  'I'd prefer beer,' answered Dravic irritably.

  'As you know, we do not drink alcohol here. Mehmet, bring Dr Dravic some tea.'

  'Yes, Master.' The boy left.

  'Please, sit.'

  The giant lumbered forward and sank onto the carpeted floor. He was clearly not used to sitting on the ground for he shifted this way and that, trying to find a comfortable position. Eventually he settled in a semi-kneeling posture, one leg curled under him, the other drawn up in front of his chest.

  'I don't know why you can't get some chairs,' he muttered.

  'We prefer to live simply.'

  'Well, I don't.'

  'Then I suggest that next time you bring your own chair.'

  Sayf al-Tha'r's voice was not angry, just firm. Dravic mumbled something, but didn't pursue the matter. He seemed subdued in the man's presence, unnerved by him. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed it over his brow, which in the two minutes since he had stepped from the helicopter had become sodden with sweat.

  'So?' said Sayf al-Tha'r. 'Do we have it yet?' In contrast to Dravic he sat very still, hands resting on his knees.

  'No,' mumbled the German. 'It was at Saqqara, like I said it would be, but the girl got away with it before we could stop her. Killed two of our men.'

  'The girl did?'

  'Her and some guy she was with. An archaeologist. Daniel Lacage.'

  'Lacage?' The man's green eyes glowed in the darkness. 'How . . . interesting. His book on Late Period tomb iconography is one of my favourites.'

  Dravic shrugged. 'Never read it.'

  'You should. It's an excellent piece of scholarship.'

  A spasm of annoyance passed across the giant's face. Not for the first time he wondered why the man bothered to employ him when his own knowledge of ancient Egypt was clearly so extensive. It was as though he was poking fun at him. Emphasizing the fact that he, an Egyptian, knew so much more about his country's past than any foreigner ever could. Black cunt. If it had been left to people like him, Egypt wouldn't have a past. It would all have been dug up long ago and sold off to the highest bidder. His fist clenched and unclenched, knuckles whitening.

  Mehmet arrived with the tea, handing one glass to Dravic and placing the other on the ground beside his master.

  'Thank you, Mehmet. Wait outside.'

  The boy left again, keeping his eyes away from Dravic.

  'Why is this Lacage helping the girl?' asked Sayf al-Tha'r.

  'God knows. She stayed with him last night, they went to Saqqara this afternoon, got the piece and disappeared again.'

  'And now?'

  'Now I don't know.'

  'Have they gone to the police?'

  'No. We'd have heard if they did.'

  'The embassy?'

  'No. We've been watching it all day.'

  'Then where?'

  'To the moon, for all I know. Like I told you, they've disappeared. They could be anywhere.'

  'Are they going after the prize themselves? Is that it?'

  'Look, I don't fucking know, all right! I'm not a mind-reader.'

  There was a faint tightening around Sayf al-Tha'r's mouth, the first hint of displeasure.

  'It is a shame you were not more careful at Saqqara, Dr Dravic. Had you been less forceful with the old man we might have saved ourselves a lot of trouble.'

  'I told you, it wasn't my fault,' said the giant. 'I didn't lay a finger on the old bastard. We waited for him in the dig house, but before we had a chance to start asking questions he had a fucking heart attack. Took one look at the trowel and dropped dead right in front of me. I didn't touch him.'

  'Then it's a shame you didn't search the dig house more thoroughly.'

  'The piece wasn't in the dig house. That's why we couldn't find it. He'd hidden it outside, in the wall of one of the mastabas.'

  The man nodded slowly and, without taking his eyes off Dravic, reached for his tea. He raised the glass to his mouth and tipped it slightly, moistening his lips with the liquid, no more. Dravic lifted his own glass and slurped loudly. Sweat poured down his face. He was finding it hard to breathe, such was the heat.

  'We'll find them,' he said. 'It's just a matter of time.'

  'Time is something we don't have, Dr Dravic, as you well know. We can't keep this quiet for ever. We need the piece now.'

  'We're watching the stations, the bus terminals, the airport. We've got men everywhere. We'll find them.'

  'I hope so.'

  'We'll find them!'

  Again Dravic seemed to be struggling to contain his temper. Then, as if to deflect his own fury, he broke into a low chuckle, wiping his handkerchief over his brow.

  'Christ, if this thing comes off, we'll all be millionaires!'

  The comment seemed to interest Sayf al-Tha'r. He leaned forward slightly.

  'Does that excite you, Dr Dravic? The idea of being a millionaire?'

  'Are you joking? Of course it does. Doesn't it excite you?'

  'What? To have a million pounds to spend on myself? To waste on useless luxuries while in the slums children go hungry?' The man smiled. 'No, it doesn't excite me. It doesn't excite me at all. It bores me.'

  He lifted his tea glass and touched it to his lips again.

  'To have a million pounds to spread the word of God, on the other hand.' His smile widened. 'A million pounds to cast down the oppressors and restore the law of Sharia. To cleanse the earth and do the will of God. Yes, that does excite me, Dr Dravic. It excites me very much.'

  'Fuck God!' Dravic laughed, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. 'I'll take the money any day!'

  Suddenly Sayf al-Tha'r's smile was gone. He glared at Dravic, his hand clasped so tightly around his tea glass it seemed it must shatter at any moment.

  'Be careful what you say,' he hissed. 'Be very careful. There are some insults one should not utter.'

  His eyes were boring into Dravic, green, unblinking, as though he had no eyelids. The giant mopped at his brow again, unable to meet the man's stare.

  'OK, OK,' he muttered, 'you have your priorities, I have mine. Let's just leave it at that.'

  'Yes,' nodded Sayf al-Tha'r, his voice hard. 'Let's just leave it at that.'