by Paul Sussman
'Should you?'
He gazed at her body – slim and dark, with high, firm breasts and a soft mound of coal-black hair between her legs. God, she was beautiful. He stood up and took her in his arms.
'I guess it won't matter if I'm a bit late.'
They kissed and, taking his hand, she led him into the bedroom. She sat on the bed and unbuttoned his shirt and trousers, pulling them down and clasping him around the waist. He pushed her back and lay down beside her, stroking her breasts and belly and thighs, kissing her shoulders, feeling her against him, breathing her . . .
The telephone rang.
'Leave it,' said Zenab, rolling on top of him and kneading his chest, draping her hair across his face.
They continued for a moment longer, but then the baby, disturbed by the ringing, started to cry and with a groan of frustration she got up and went over to the cot. Khalifa swung himself onto the side of the bed and picked up the phone. It was Professor al-Habibi.
'I hope I'm not disturbing you,' he said.
'Not at all. I was just . . . helping Zenab with something.'
She shot him an amused look and, pulling the screaming baby from his cot, went through into the other room, stooping to kiss his head as she passed. He kicked the door shut.
'Listen, Yusuf,' said the professor, 'there's something I thought you ought to know. About those objects you brought me yesterday.'
Khalifa bent and pulled his cigarettes from the pocket of his trousers. 'Go on.'
'I was looking at them last night, after you'd gone, and I found an inscription on the handle of the dagger, underneath the leather grip. Not a proper inscription. Just words scratched into the metal, very crude. The letters were Greek.'
'Greek?'
'That's right. And they spelled out a name. Presumably the dagger's owner.'
'Go on.'
'The name was Dymmachus, son of Menendes.'
'Dymmachus?' Khalifa turned the name over in his head. 'Does that mean anything to you?'
'That's the funny thing,' said Habibi, 'I was sure I'd seen it before. It took me a while to remember where, but then it came to me.' He paused for dramatic effect.
'Yes?'
'In the Valley of the Kings. The tomb of Ramesses VI. The walls are covered in ancient graffiti, Greek and Coptic, and one of them was left by a certain Dymmachus, son of Menendes of Naxos. I looked it up in my Baillet.'
'The same man?'
'Well, I can't be a hundred per cent certain, but I'd be surprised if there were two people in Thebes named Dymmachus with a father called Menendes. They're hardly common names.'
Khalifa let out a low whistle. 'Incredible,' he said.
'Indeed so. But not as incredible as what comes next.'
Again he paused for effect, and again Khalifa had to urge him on.
'This Dymmachus didn't just leave his name in the tomb. He left a short inscription as well.'
'Saying what?'
'Well, it seems to be incomplete. Either it's been written over or else he broke off in the middle of inscribing it . . .'
There was a sound of rustling paper at the other end of the line.
'It says: "I, Dymmachus, son of Menendes of Naxos, saw these wonders. Tomorrow I march against the Ammonians. May . . ." And then it stops.'
Khalifa still hadn't lit his cigarette. 'The Ammonians,' he said, thinking aloud. 'Wasn't that the name the Greeks gave to the people of Siwa?'
'Exactly. From the name of the god Amun, who had his oracle at the oasis. And so far as we are aware there was only one military expedition sent against the Ammonians during this period.'
'Which was?'
Again the dramatic pause.
'The army of Cambyses.'
Khalifa's cigarette snapped in his hand. 'The army of Cambyses! The one that was lost in the desert?'
'So the story goes.'
'But no-one survived that. How can we have a dagger belonging to one of its soldiers?'
'Well, that's the question, isn't it?'
Khalifa could hear the professor puffing his pipe into life. He pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it. There was a long pause.
'The dagger definitely came from a Theban tomb?' asked Habibi eventually.
'I think so,' said Khalifa. 'Yes.'
'Then there would seem to be several possible explanations. Perhaps this Dymmachus didn't go with the army after all. Or perhaps the dagger had already passed to another owner by the time he did go with it. Or perhaps Herodotus simply got it wrong and the army wasn't overwhelmed by a sandstorm.'
'Or perhaps it was and this Dymmachus survived.'
The professor was silent for a moment.
'I would say that was the least likely of the possibilities. Although certainly the most intriguing.'
Khalifa pulled deeply on his cigarette. He wasn't supposed to smoke in the bedroom because the baby slept there and, leaning forward, he pushed open the window. Thoughts were rushing through his mind, too quickly for him either to keep track or make sense of them.
'I presume the tomb of a soldier from the army of Cambyses would be a significant find?' he said.
'If it was proved to be genuine,' said Habibi. 'Of course. A huge find.'
Was that it, then? Abu Nayar had discovered the tomb of a man who'd been part of the lost army of Cambyses. Like the professor said, it would be a huge find. One of the most important in Egypt for years. Yet that didn't explain why Dravic would go to so much trouble for just one small piece of hieroglyphic text. He had, after all, not bothered about the other objects in Iqbar's shop. Just that one piece. There was something missing here. Something more.
'And the army itself?' The question seemed to come from his mouth before he'd even thought of asking it.
'How do you mean?'
'The lost army of Cambyses. How significant a find would that be?'
There was a long pause.
'I think possibly we're entering the realms of fantasy here, Yusuf. The army's buried somewhere in the middle of the western desert. It'll never be found.'
'But if it was?'
Another pause.
'I don't think you need me to tell you how important that would be.'
'No. I don't.'
He threw his cigarette out of the window and waved his hand around to clear some of the smoke.
'Yusuf?'
'Yes, sorry, I was just thinking. What else do you know about the army, Professor?'
'Not a lot, I'm afraid. Not my period. The person you need to speak to is Professor Ibrahim az-Zahir. He's spent most of his life studying it.'
'And where do I find him?'
'Right there in Luxor. He spends six months of the year at Chicago House. But he's getting on a bit. Had a stroke last year. His mind's starting to go.'
There was another silence and then, thanking the professor and promising to come for dinner next time he was in Cairo, Khalifa rang off. He went through into the living room. Zenab was cradling the baby in her arms, still naked. He went over and hugged them both.
'I have to go down to the office.'
'And there's me doing everything I can to get him back to sleep!'
'I'm sorry. It's just . . .'
'I know.' She smiled, kissing him. 'Go on. And don't forget it's the children's parade this afternoon. I told Ali and Batah we'd be there to watch them. Four o'clock. Don't be late.'
'Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll be back. I promise.'
THE WESTERN DESERT
Tara woke twice during the journey – brief chinks of consciousness in an otherwise all-enveloping shroud of oblivion.
First, in a hot, cramped, vibrating space that stank of petrol, and which, despite the impenetrable blackness and the excruciating pain in her head, she knew instantly was the boot of a car. She was alone, curled in a foetal position, her hands tied to her ankles, her mouth taped. She presumed they must be driving along a tarmacked road because, although the car was juddering, the jolts were not violent and they seemed to be moving at qu
ite a speed. She found herself thinking of all the films she had seen in which people locked in boots are able to work out where they are going by paying careful attention to the various sounds and sensations encountered during the journey. She tried to do the same now, listening for any external noises that might give a clue as to her whereabouts. Apart from the occasional beep of a car horn, however, and, once, a blare of loud music, there was nothing to tell her either where she was or where she was going, and she soon sank back into unconsciousness.
The second time she woke there was a loud thudding overhead. She listened to it for a while and then opened her eyes. She was sitting upright, strapped into a seat. Daniel was beside her, head lolling on his chest, blood caked around the side of his cheek and neck. Strangely, she didn't feel any concern for him. She merely noted he was there and then turned away and stared down at an endless expanse of yellow beneath her. For some reason the thought struck her that she was looking at a huge steaming sponge cake, and she started to laugh. Almost immediately she heard voices and some sort of sack was forced over her head. She began to sink again, but not before she had experienced a sudden, blinding instant of clarity: 'I am in a helicopter,' she said to herself, 'flying over the desert towards the lost army of Cambyses.' And then the blackness swept over her, and she remembered no more.
LUXOR
Khalifa had two surprises when he arrived at the police station. The first was that he bumped into Chief Inspector Hassani in the front foyer and, far from being shouted at for coming in late, was greeted with something approaching cordiality.
'Good to have you back, Yusuf!' said the chief, using his first name, which, so far as Khalifa was aware, he had never done before. 'Do me a favour. As soon as you've got a moment pop up to my office, will you? Nothing to worry about. On the contrary. Some rather good news.'
He slapped Khalifa on the back and strode off down a corridor.
The second surprise was that he found Omar Abd el-Farouk sitting in his office.
'He wouldn't wait downstairs,' explained Sariya. 'Didn't want anyone to see him. Claimed he had information about the Abu Nayar case.'
Omar was hunched in a corner of the office drumming his fingers on his knees, clearly uncomfortable with his surroundings.
'Well, well,' said Khalifa, walking to his desk and sitting down. 'I never thought I'd see the day when an Abd el-Farouk came in here of his own free will.'
'Believe me,' snorted Omar, 'I don't do it lightly.'
'Tea?'
Omar shook his head. 'And tell him to go.' He indicated Sariya. 'What I have to say is for you and you only.'
'Mohammed is my colleague,' said Khalifa. 'He's as much—'
'I speak to you alone or I don't speak,' snapped Omar.
Khalifa sighed and nodded at Sariya. 'Give us a few minutes, will you, Mohammed? I'll fill you in later.'
His deputy left the room, shutting the door behind him.
'Cigarette?' He leaned forward, proffering his Cleopatras. Omar waved him away.
'I came here to talk, not exchange pleasantries.'
Khalifa shrugged and, sitting back, lit a cigarette for himself. 'OK,' he said. 'So talk.'
The drumming of Omar's fingers grew faster.
'I think some friends of mine are in danger,' he said, lowering his voice. 'Yesterday they came to my house seeking help. Now they have disappeared.'
'And what does that have to do with Abu Nayar?'
Omar glanced around, as though to reassure himself no-one else was listening. 'Two days ago, when you brought me in, you asked if a new tomb had been found up in the hills.'
'And you said you knew nothing about it. Do I take it you've suddenly remembered something?' There was sarcasm in the question.
Omar glared at him. 'You must enjoy this,' he hissed. 'An el-Farouk coming to you for help.'
Khalifa said nothing, just drew slowly on his cigarette.
'OK, so Abu Nayar found a tomb. Where I don't know, so don't bother asking me. But he found a tomb. He removed a piece of wall decoration from that tomb. My friends had that piece of wall decoration. And now they have disappeared.'
Outside the window a firecracker went off. Omar jerked in his seat, startled.
'And who were these friends?'
'An archaeologist. Dr Daniel Lacage. And a woman. English.'
'Tara Mullray,' guessed Khalifa.
Omar raised his eyebrows. 'You know her?'
'It seems she and Lacage were involved in a shooting at Saqqara two days ago.'
'I know what you're thinking, Khalifa, but I have worked with Dr Lacage for six years. He is a good man.'
Khalifa nodded. 'I believe you.' He paused, then added, 'I never thought I'd see the day when I said that to an el-Farouk.'
For a moment Omar said nothing. Then a slight smile crossed his face. His shoulders relaxed a little. 'Maybe I will have that cigarette.'
Khalifa leaned forward and offered him the pack. 'So what exactly happened yesterday, Omar?'
'Like I said, they came to my house asking for help. They had this piece of decorated plaster in a box. The woman said her father had bought it for her and Sayf al-Tha'r wanted it. And the British embassy.'
'The British embassy?'
'She said people at the British embassy wanted the piece too.'
Khalifa pulled a pen from his jacket and began doodling on a piece of paper. What the hell was going on here?
'What else?' he asked.
'They wanted to know where the piece came from. I told them it was dangerous and they should leave it, but they wouldn't. Dr Lacage is my friend. If a friend asks for help, I do not refuse. I said I would make enquiries. I went out about four p.m. When I came back they had gone. I have not seen them since.'
'Do you know where they went?'
'They told my wife they were going to the top of el-Qurn. I fear for their safety, Inspector. Especially after what happened to Abu Nayar. And Suleiman al-Rashid.'
Khalifa stopped doodling. 'Suleiman al-Rashid?'
'You know, getting burnt like that.'
The colour drained from Khalifa's face. 'Dead?'
Omar nodded.
'Oh no,' groaned Khalifa. 'Oh God, not Suleiman.'
'You didn't know?'
'I've been in Cairo.'
Omar lowered his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I thought you'd have heard.' He paused, then added, 'Everyone knows what you did for Suleiman.'
Khalifa's face was buried in his hands.
'I'll tell you what I did for Suleiman. I killed him. That's what I did for him. If I hadn't gone to see him the other day . . . Dammit! How could I have been so stupid?'