The Lost Army of Cambyses (25 page)

details he knows the better.'

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There was the rattle of various locks being

undone and the door swung open.

'My apologies for keeping you waiting. Please,

do come in.'

Samali was tall and very thin, completely bald,

with a faint sheen to his skin as though he was

wearing moisturizer. He turned and led them

down a hallway into a large living room, all very

minimalist, with pale wood floors, white walls

and a scattering of leather and metal furniture.

Through a door to the side Tara glimpsed two

young boys, one wearing a bathrobe. The door

swung to almost immediately, however, and they

were gone.

'I don't think we've met,' smiled Samali.

'Tara Mullray,' said Daniel. 'An old friend.'

'How enchanting.'

He stepped forward and took her hand, raising

it and kissing the backs of her fingers, his nostrils

dilating momentarily, as if he was smelling her

skin. He lowered the hand again and waved them

both towards a large leather sofa.

'A drink?'

'Whisky,' said Daniel.

'Miss Mullray?'

'The same. Thank you.'

He turned to a drinks cabinet and, removing a

decanter, poured out two glasses, clinking an ice

cube into each. He handed the drinks over and sat

down opposite them, picking up a jade cigarette

holder and screwing a cigarette into it.

'You're not having one?' asked Daniel.

'I prefer to watch,' said Samali, smiling.

He lit the cigarette and drew deeply on the

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mouthpiece. His eyebrows were very thin and very

dark and, Tara realized suddenly, highlighted with

liner.

'So,' he said, 'to what do I owe the pleasure?'

Daniel glanced up at him and then away

towards the window, fingers drumming nervously

on the edge of the sofa.

'We need help.'

'But of course you do,' said Samali, still smiling.

He turned towards Tara, crossing his legs and

smoothing the material of his slacks with his hand.

'I am what is rather crudely termed a fixer, Miss

Mullray. A much-maligned species, until someone

actually needs something. Then, suddenly, we

become indispensable. It is a rewarding vocation'

– he waved his hand, indicating the expensive flat –

'although a dispiriting one. A man in my

profession soon learns he is never the object of a

purely social visit. There is always, what is the

word, an agenda.'

He said it jokingly, although in his eyes there

was something cold, as if he understood their

politeness was just an act and wanted them to

know that his was too. He leaned his head

back and drew slowly on the cigarette holder,

gazing up at the ceiling.

'So,' he said. 'What do you need, Daniel?

Problems with your dig permit, is it? Or perhaps

Steven Spielberg has expressed an interest in film-

ing your work and you require help with the

necessary permissions.'

He chuckled at his joke. Daniel downed his

whisky and laid aside the glass.

'I need information,' he said tersely.

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'Information!' cooed Samali. 'But how very

flattering. That a scholar of your repute should

come to me for advice. I really can't think what it

might be that I could know and you don't, but

please, ask away.'

Daniel hunched forward, the leather upholstery

creaking beneath him. Again his eyes flicked up to

Samali and again they swerved away towards the

window, unwilling to meet the older man's gaze.

'I want to know about Sayf al-Tha'r.'

The briefest hint of a pause.

'Anything in particular?' asked Samali. 'Or just

a general resume?'

'I want to know about Sayf al-Tha'r and

antiquities.'

Again, a whisper of a hesitation on Samali's

part.

'Might I ask why?'

'It's best I don't go into details. For your safety

as much as ours. There's a particular antiquity we

believe he wants and we need to know why.'

'How very cryptic of you, Daniel.'

He lifted his left hand and began examining the

nails. Tara thought she could hear whispering

from the room to the side.

'This mysterious antiquity,' said Samali. 'Would

I be right in thinking it is in that box in Miss

Mullray's bag?'

Neither Tara nor Daniel spoke.

'I take it from your silence that it is.' He flicked

his eyes at Tara. 'Might I see it, please?'

She stared at him, then across at Daniel, then

down at the knapsack in her lap. There was a silence

and then the throaty rasp of Samali's chuckle.

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'No doubt Dr Lacage has told you not to show

it to me. Another lesson one soon learns in my line

of business. That one is very rarely trusted.'

He gazed at them for a moment and then waved

his hand.

'It is of no consequence. Keep it to yourselves if

you prefer it that way. It simply makes it more

difficult for me to answer your question. Like try-

ing to play a hand of poker when one is prevented

from seeing all of one's cards.'

He resumed his examination of his nails.

'So you want to know about the Sword of

Vengeance and antiquities, do you?' he mused. 'A

most perilous line of enquiry. And what, I

wonder . . .'

'Is in it for you?' Daniel stood, picked up his

glass and crossed to the drinks cabinet, pouring

himself another whisky. His hand seemed to be

trembling. 'Nothing. I'm asking you to help us out

of the goodness of your heart.'

Samali's eyebrows arched upwards. 'Well, well.

First I am cast as the fount of all wisdom, then the

great philanthropist. By the time we are finished I

shall barely know who I am.'

'I can give you a few hundred dollars. Three,

maybe four. If that's what it takes.'

Samali tutted. 'Please, Daniel. I might be a self-

made man, but at least I've done my self-making

in style. I am not a common street whore taking

cash handouts in return for services rendered. You

can keep your four hundred dollars.'

He took another slow puff on the cigarette

holder, smiling faintly, as though he was enjoying

Daniel's discomfiture.

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'Although, of course, nothing in life is wholly

free. Especially information about someone as

dangerous as Sayf al-Tha'r. So let's just leave it

that you owe me. And one day I might call the

debt in. Agreed?'

They stared at each other for a moment and

then Daniel downed his drink. 'Agreed.' He

poured himself another large shot and returned to

the sofa.

Samali's cigarette had burnt down to the butt

and, leaning over, he tamped it into a metal

ashtray.

'Of course, I have no links with Sayf al-Tha'r's

organization. Let that be understood from the

start. Anything I tell you is purely hearsay.'

'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

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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, retriev-

ing his lighter, lit his cigarette.

'Perhaps I will have a drink after all,' he said.

'The afternoon appears to have grown

uncommonly hot.'

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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 regis-

ter 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,

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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, turn-

ing. '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?'

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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