The Lost Army Of Cambyses

by Paul Sussman

  He lifted her head so that their eyes were joined.

  'Tell me to drop the case, Zenab. Tell me and I will, without a moment's hesitation. Tell me.'

  For a long while she held his stare, her eyes huge and brown and moist. Then, slowly, she came to her feet.

  'What time's your train?' she said quietly.

  'The last one goes at ten.'

  'Then you'll just have time for dinner.'

  She shook back her hair, and went out into the kitchen.

  He left at nine-fifteen. With him he had a holdall containing a change of clothes, some food and his revolver, a Helwan 9mm, standard police issue. He also had 840 Egyptian pounds, money they'd been putting aside towards making the Hajj to Mecca. He felt terrible about taking it, but it was the only cash they had in the flat and he'd need it to get where he was going. Whatever else happened over the next few days he promised himself he'd replace it.

  He turned left out of his block and set off on the fifteen-minute walk to the station, the night air echoing to the bang of firecrackers as people celebrated the feast of Abu el-Haggag. He wondered whether he should go via the office to pick up more ammunition, but decided against it. There was too big a risk of bumping into one of his colleagues. He needed to get out of Luxor without anyone knowing. He glanced at his watch. Nine-twenty.

  The crowds grew heavier as he came into the centre of town. The streets around Luxor Temple were teeming. Children in party hats ran to and fro throwing firecrackers; impromptu bands – mizmars and drums mainly – played at the roadside. The sweet sellers could barely keep up with demand.

  In a small park beside the temple a group of zikr dancers were performing – two lines of men facing each other, swaying from side to side in time to the devotional chanting of a munshid at their head. A large crowd had gathered to watch them and Khalifa slowed too. Not to observe the dancers, but to check out the men who were following him.

  He couldn't be sure how many of them there were, nor when they'd latched onto him, but they were definitely there. Three, maybe four, mingling with the revellers, clocking his every move. One he'd spotted as he stopped to buy some cigarettes, another as he stood aside to let through a procession of men on horseback. Just a momentary glimpse, a fleeting eye-contact before they'd melted back into the throng. They were good, he could tell that much. Trained. Secret service, maybe. Or military intelligence. For all he knew, they could have been with him all day.

  Standing in the park now, he ran his eyes over the crowd. Ten metres away a man was leaning against some railings. His eyes kept flicking up towards Khalifa and the detective began to think maybe he was one of them. Then a woman came up and the two of them walked off together, arm in arm. Nine-thirty. Khalifa lit a cigarette and moved away.

  He had to lose them before he got to the station. He wasn't sure precisely who they were or what they wanted, but he did know that if they got any inkling of where he was going they'd try to stop him. And if they stopped him once he wouldn't get another chance. He had to lose them.

  Nine-thirty-one. He turned left down a narrow street, past a group of children watching television on the pavement. He quickened his step and turned right down another street. Two old men were playing siga in the dust, using stones as counters. He hurried past them and dodged left again, down a winding alley. Twenty metres along a motorbike was parked up against a wall and he glanced in its wing mirror. He was alone. He broke into a trot.

  For ten minutes he zigzagged through the back-streets of Luxor, taking sudden unexpected turns, constantly looking behind him, before eventually emerging into Midan al-Mahatta, the square in front of the station, with its red obelisk and fountain that never seemed to work. He breathed a sigh of relief and stepped out into the road, glancing to the right to check for traffic. As he did so he noticed a suited figure standing in a shadowy doorway opposite, staring straight at him.

  'Dammit!' he hissed.

  The Cairo train was already waiting at the platform, passengers jostling around it, porters hefting bags up through its doors. There was no way he was going to get to it without being seen. He looked down at his watch. Nine-forty-three. Seventeen minutes.

  For a moment he stood still, uncertain what to do, then, suddenly, turned left down Sharia al-Mahatta, away from the station, walking fast. It was a crazy idea, mad, but he couldn't think of anything else. He had to get home.

  He took the shortest route he knew, weaving through the back streets, not bothering to look behind him, knowing they'd be there. He reached the apartment block in ten minutes, sprinting up the stairs and bursting through the front door.

  'Yusuf?' Zenab came out of the living room. 'Why have you come back?'

  'No time to explain,' he gasped, pulling her into the kitchen. He threw up his watch arm. Nine-fifty-three. This was going to be horribly close.

  He pulled open the kitchen window and looked down into the narrow alley below. As he'd expected there were two men standing there in the shadows, covering the building's rear entrance. The twenty-metre drop made his head spin. He looked over at the roof of the block opposite, which was just below the level of his window, about three metres away, flat, with lines of washing strung across it and, at one end, a doorway leading down into the building below. He'd often wondered if it would be possible to jump from one tenement to the other. Now he was about to find out.

  He took another look down, groaning inwardly, and then, leaning out, threw his holdall across the gap. It landed with a heavy thud, disturbing a flock of pigeons, which rose into the air and flapped off into the night.

  'Yusuf,' hissed Zenab, fingers digging into his arm, 'what are you doing? Why did you throw your bag over there?'

  He seized her face and kissed her on the mouth.

  'Don't ask. Because if I start thinking about it I won't do it.'

  He clambered up onto the windowsill and, clutching the metal frame, turned towards her.

  'I want you to keep the doors locked tonight,'

  he said. 'If anybody calls, tell them I've gone to bed early because I'm going to Ismailiya tomorrow.'

  'I don't—'

  'Please, Zenab! There's no time. If anybody calls tell them I'm not to be disturbed. Tomorrow morning I want you to take the kids and go to Hosni and Sama's. Stay there till you hear from me. Do you understand?'

  She nodded.

  'I love you, Zenab.'

  He leaned forward and kissed her again, and then, turning, faced across the alley to the roof opposite. It looked a very long way away.

  'And shut the window after me,' he whispered.

  There was no point trying to pluck up courage and so mumbling a swift prayer he counted to three and jumped, driving himself away from the sill with all his strength, fighting back an urge to scream out in terror. For a moment time seemed to stand still and he was hovering in the air directly above the alley. Then, with a jarring thud, he landed on the opposite roof and sprawled onto his face, grazing his elbow on the concrete.

  He lay still for a moment, even more terrified now the jump was over than he had been before it, and then clambered to his feet and looked back. Zenab was standing at the kitchen window, a shocked look on her face. He blew her a kiss, recovered his holdall and hurried over to the roof door, which opened onto the stairwell leading down through the building. Another glance at the watch. Nine-fifty-four. He began sprinting down the stairs.

  The front entrance to this block faced in the opposite direction to his block and his theory was that with both sides of his own tenement covered there was no reason for them to be watching this one too. He could get out and away without being seen. He would have liked a few minutes to check the street was clear, but there wasn't time, and on reaching the bottom of the stairs he ran straight out into the road and back towards the centre of town. He had about a mile to cover and five minutes to do it in. Adrenalin was burning through his veins like magma.

  After two minutes he had an excruciating pain in his left side, after three he co
uldn't breathe. He kept going, however, powering forward, forcing every last ounce of energy into his legs, until eventually he burst from a narrow grid of streets and staggered up to a level crossing, clutching his side. Two hundred metres to his right the Cairo train was slowly pulling out of the station, its wheels creaking and clanking.

  Dammit! he thought. The first time a train had ever left Luxor on time and it had to be tonight.

  He stayed where he was, gasping for air, until the train was almost level with him, then ducked beneath the crossing barrier and began running beside it, a high concrete wall to his left, the train's huge iron wheels to his right, coming up almost to the level of his chest. He clutched at the handrail beside a door, but couldn't hold on and had to let it go. The gap between train and wall was getting narrower. Another fifty metres and there'd be no more space left to run. He grasped another rail, desperate, and this time managed to keep hold, swinging himself up onto the footplate and, with his last ounce of strength, heaving open the door and slipping through, slamming it shut again just as the concrete wall came flush with the side of the train. He collapsed onto a seat, gasping.

  'Are you OK?' asked a man sitting opposite.

  'Fine.' Khalifa's lungs were raging. 'Just need . . . need . . .'

  'Some water?'

  'A cigarette.'

  Outside the buildings of Luxor slowly slipped back into the night as the train built up speed and flew north towards Cairo.

  34

  THE WESTERN DESERT

  'I'm not going to let him rape me, Daniel.'

  The two hours were almost up. They'd been the worst two hours of her life – a slow water torture as the minutes ticked relentlessly down towards her meeting with Dravic. She felt as if she was in a river being swept towards a cataract, with nothing she could do to save herself. She understood how a prisoner on death row must feel as the hour of execution approaches.

  'I'm not going to let him rape me,' she repeated, standing, too nervous to sit. 'I'd rather die.'

  Daniel said nothing, just stared up at her in the glow of the kerosene lamp, wanting to speak but unable to find the words. The guard gazed at them both through empty eyes. She began pacing around the tent, a heavy weight in her stomach, sickened by her powerlessness, looking down at her watch constantly. It was cold now, and she was shivering.

  'We don't know that's what's going to happen,' he said, trying to offer some words of comfort.

  'Sure,' she spat. 'Maybe he just wants to talk about archaeology.'

  Her voice was angry, full of bitterness and sarcasm. Daniel dropped his head.

  'I'm sorry,' she said after a moment. 'I'm just so scared.'

  He stood and took her in his arms, holding her tight. She clung to him like a child, desperate, tears stinging her eyes.

  'It's OK,' he whispered. 'Everything will be all right.'

  'It won't, Daniel. It won't be all right ever again if he does that to me. I couldn't stand it. I'd feel dirty for the rest of my life.'

  He was about to say it wouldn't make much difference since they were going to be killed anyway, but stopped himself. Instead he just stroked her hair and held her close against him. She was shaking uncontrollably.

  They stayed like that until they heard the crunch of approaching feet. The tent flap was pulled back and someone spoke to the guard. He stood, and motioned Tara outside.

  Daniel swung her behind him, shielding her. The guard motioned again and then stepped forward, reaching out his hand. Daniel slapped it away, raising his fists, ready to fight. The guard called and two other men came in. Daniel lashed out at one, but the man dodged the blow and, raising the butt of his gun, knocked Daniel to the floor, standing over him and jamming the muzzle against his chest. His companion grabbed Tara's arm and pulled her towards the entrance.

  'I'm sorry,' groaned Daniel. 'I'm so sorry.'

  'I love you.' Her voice was shaking. 'I've always loved you. Always.'

  And then she was outside and being dragged through the camp, one guard clutching her arm, the other walking behind and jabbing at her with his gun. She struggled violently, kicking and biting, but it was no good, the man's grip was firm. Ahead the pyramid rock loomed vast and silent against the night, glowing in the light of the arc lamps below.

  They came to another tent, larger than the one she and Daniel had been kept in. One of the guards said something and she was pushed through the entrance, the flap dropping down behind her. It made only a slight sound as it closed, a soft rustling of canvas against canvas, but there was something horribly final about it, as though a cell door had been slammed shut.

  'Good evening.' Dravic chuckled. 'I'm so glad you could come.'

  He was sitting on a canvas chair beside a wooden trestle table. In one hand he held a half-smoked cigar, in the other a glass. A three-quarters empty bottle of vodka sat on the table beside him. The pale side of his face had turned a bright pinky-red, as though his birthmark was leaking beneath the bridge of his nose and slowly colouring his other cheek. The tent stank of cigar smoke and sweat. Tara shivered with disgust.

  The German shouted something and there was a sound of receding feet as the guards left her to him.

  'Drink?'

  She shook her head, so scared she felt as though her chest was going to split open. Dravic drained his glass and poured himself another. He downed that too and took a puff on his cigar.

  'Poor little Tara.' He smiled. 'I bet you wish you'd never got mixed up in all of this, don't you? And if you don't now, you certainly will in a few minutes.' He laughed raucously.

  'Why have you brought me here?' Her voice was hoarse.

  He sensed her terror and his laughter grew louder. 'Surely I don't need to spell it out!'

  Again he filled his glass and knocked it back in one gulp, his throat swelling as the liquid passed through it. She looked wildly around for something to use as a weapon. She could see Dravic's jacket with the trowel handle sticking out of the pocket and edged slightly towards it. There was another bellow of laughter.

  'Go on,' he said, 'try and get it. I want you to. I expect you to. What's the point if there's no struggle?'

  She lunged for the jacket and pulled out the trowel, backing away, holding the point towards him.

  'I'll kill you,' she hissed. 'If you come near me, I'll kill you.'

  He laid the glass aside and stood, wobbling slightly. She could see the bulge in his groin, and her throat tightened as though she was being strangled. He came towards her, puffing on his cigar, coils of smoke winding around his huge head.

  'I'll kill you,' she repeated, stabbing at him with the trowel.

  He was in front of her now. Her head barely came up to the level of his chest, his arms were as big as her thighs. She backed away against the wall of the tent, slashing at him, frantic.

  'Get away from me!'

  'I'm going to hurt you,' he whispered. 'I'm going to hurt you so badly.'

  She slashed at him again, but he caught her arm easily and twisted so that she dropped the trowel. She cowered against the tent wall, desperate, wanting to bring her knee up into his groin but somehow unable to make her leg move. He leaned down over her, a towering monstrosity, and then his hand whipped out and clawed down the front of her shirt, ripping the material, exposing her breasts. She squirmed sideways, wrapping her arms around her.

  'You fucking animal,' she screamed. 'You fucking filthy ugly animal.'

  The punch hit her on the side of her head, heavy as a sledgehammer, sending her reeling across the tent onto the floor. Half dazed, she heard him coming over and then felt the crushing weight of his body as he straddled her. She couldn't breathe.