The Lost Army of Cambyses (35 page)

the
filet mignon
fits the bill.'

'Has it got a sauce on it? I don't want anything

with a sauce on it. Just a plain steak.'

Squires summoned the waiter. 'The
filet

mignon,'
he asked, 'does it come with a sauce?'

'Yes, sir. A pepper sauce.'

'I don't want a pepper sauce,' insisted Massey.

'Just a plain steak. No shit on it. Can you do a

plain steak?'

'I'm sure we can, sir.'

'OK, give me one of those, medium rare, with

french fries.'

296

'And to start, sir?'

'Christ, I don't know. What's that thing you're

having, Squires?'

'The seafood pancake.'

'OK, give me one of those. And medium rare on

the steak.'

'Jolly good,' smiled Squires. 'The seafood

pancake and quail for me, and could you please

bring the wine list.'

He handed his menu up to the waiter, who

bowed deferentially and disappeared.

Massey tore off half a bread roll and, smearing it

with butter, jammed it in his mouth. 'So what's

going on?' he asked, chewing.

'Well,' said Squires, watching the American's

mouth with a mixture of fascination and disgust,

'it seems our friends have finally turned up in

Luxor. Isn't that right, Jemal?'

'They got in this afternoon,' confirmed the

Egyptian.

'This whole charade is fucking ridiculous.'

Massey grunted. 'We know where the piece is.

Why don't we just go in and get it? Stop pussying

around.'

'Because there's too great a danger of giving

ourselves away,' explained Squires. 'We shouldn't

show our hand until we absolutely have to.'

'We're not playing pinochle here.'

The American sniffed. 'There's a lot riding on

this.'

'I appreciate that,' said Squires. 'For the

moment, however, it's better that we stay in

the background. Why take unnecessary risks when

Lacage and the girl can take them for us?'

297

'I don't like it,' said Massey, chewing. 'I don't

fucking like it.'

'Everything will work out.'

'I mean, Sayf al-Tha'r . . .'

'Everything will work out,' repeated Squires, a

faint hint of annoyance creeping into his voice, 'so

long as we keep our nerve.'

The waiter came back with the wine list and,

returning his glasses to his nose, Squires began to

study it. Massey got to work buttering the second

half of his roll.

'There is one slight problem,' said Squires after

a moment, not raising his eyes.

'Here it comes,' growled Massey. 'What?'

'A policeman. From Luxor. It appears he's

found out about the missing hieroglyphs.'

'Fucking Jesus fuck! Do you have any idea

what's at stake here?'

'I have every idea,' said Squires, the annoyance

in his voice now unmistakable. 'I do not, however,

intend to get hysterical about it.'

'Don't you patronize me, you cock-sucking

limey—'

Jemal slammed his fist on the table, making

their cutlery jump and glasses rattle. 'Stop it,' he

hissed. 'This is not helpful.'

The three of them sank into an angry silence.

Massey devoured the rest of his roll. Squires

played distractedly with his fork. Jemal started

telling off his worry beads.

'Jemal is right,' said the Englishman eventually.

'Arguing among ourselves is less than productive.

The question is, what do we do about this fellow

from Luxor?'

298

'I would have thought that was obvious,'

snapped Massey. 'This thing's too important to let

some hick paper-pusher screw everything up.'

'Holy God,' hissed Jemal. 'You're saying we

should kill him? A policeman?'

'No, we buy him a dress and take him dancing

for the night! What the fuck do you think I'm

saying?'

The Egyptian stared at Massey with undisguised

loathing, his fists clenching and unclenching on

the tablecloth. Squires laid aside the wine list and,

placing his hands together, rested his chin on the

tips of his fingers.

'Elimination does seem rather drastic in the

circumstances,' he said quietly. 'Using a sledge-

hammer to crack a nut and all that. I see no reason

why we shouldn't be able to solve the problem

without recourse to violence. Jemal?'

'I'll get him taken off the case,' he said. 'No

problem.'

'I think that would be best,' agreed Squires. 'A

dead policeman could lead to all sorts of un-

necessary complications. Make sure you keep an

eye on him, though.'

Jemal nodded.

'I still say we should take him out,' grumbled

Massey. 'Keep things clean.'

'It might come to that eventually,' said Squires.

'But for the moment I would suggest restraint is

the order of the day. This thing's led to too many

deaths already.'

'If you want a Nobel Peace Prize you're in the

wrong fucking business.'

Squires ignored the sarcasm and returned to his

299

examination of the wine list, running his finger up

and down the selection. At the far end of the

restaurant a man started playing the piano.

'There is one interesting thing about this police

chap,' he said. 'It seems he has a bit of a history

with Sayf al-Tha'r. Isn't that right, Jemal?'

'Apparently he has a score to settle,' said the

Egyptian, clicking his beads. 'Family business.'

'For fuck's sake,' snorted Massey.

'Yes, it is somewhat extraordinary, isn't it?'

Squires smiled, his composure now fully restored.

'What a tiny world we live in, eh? Ah! I do believe

those are our seafood pancakes approaching. A

half-bottle of Chablis to wash them down,

perhaps, and then onto a Burgundy for the main

course.'

He flapped open his napkin and laid it carefully

on his lap, waiting for his food to arrive.

Professor Mohammed al-Habibi's eyes were

aching. He rubbed them slowly, working the

knuckles of his clenched fists deep into the

wrinkled sockets, and for a moment the pain

lessened a little. As soon as he started looking at

the artefacts again the ache returned, as bad as

before, making his temples throb. It was a prob-

lem he often experienced these days. He was

getting old and his eyes could no longer take the

strain. He knew he ought to pack up and go home,

give himself a rest, but he couldn't. Not yet.

Not until he'd discovered everything the objects

had to tell him. Yusuf was his friend, after all. He

300

owed it to him. And, in a sense, to Ali too. Poor

Ali.

He poured another slug of sherry into his glass,

the last of the bottle, relit his pipe and, lifting his

magnifying glass, bent down to resume his

examination of the gold pectoral.

There was something puzzling about the objects

his young friend had brought him. Not so much in

the way they looked, but rather in the way they

felt. Artefacts were, to Habibi, like living things.

They sent out signals. Communicated. Provided

you knew how to listen, they could tell you all

sorts of interesting things. In this case, however,

the more he listened, the more perplexed he

became.

When he had first examined them, while

Khalifa was there, he had not been struck by any-

thing especially out of the ordinary. The artefacts

were of simple manufacture and common design,

easily datable, the same as dozens of similar

objects on display in the museum below.

It was only after Khalifa had left that he'd

started to have doubts. There was no particular

reason: just a niggling sense that despite their

apparent plainness, the objects were nonetheless

trying to tell him something specific.

'What are you saying?' he pondered aloud, rov-

ing across the face of the pectoral with his

magnifying glass. 'What do you want me to hear?'

It was completely dark in the office now, apart

from the pool of light cast by his desk lamp.

Occasionally he heard the footfall of a security

guard passing along the corridor outside, but

otherwise the museum was silent. A thick fug of

301

bluish pipe smoke hung over his head like a

raincloud.

He laid aside the pectoral and picked up the

dagger, holding it by the blade and turning

the handle back and forth in the light. It was a

simple piece, perfectly common, twelve inches

long, iron, with some crude bronze inlay at the top

of the blade and a strip of browned leather

wrapped tightly around the handle to improve the

grip. Typical of its period. He had authenticated

one almost exactly the same only a few months

previously.

He finished his sherry and took a puff on his

pipe, a cloud of smoke for a moment obscuring

the object in front of him. When he could see it

clearly again he noticed that the leather wrapping

was ever so slightly loose at the lower end of the

handle, close to where it joined the blade. He

tweaked it gently and the strip began to unwind.

At first he thought they were just tiny scratch

marks. Only when he twisted the handle so that

the glare of the lamp was not falling directly on it,

and held the magnifying glass right up close, did

he realize that the marks were actually letter signs.

Not Persian or Egyptian, as he would have

expected, but Greek. A series of tiny Greek letters

crudely inscribed into the metal of the handle.

ΔYMMAXOΣ MENENΔOY – Dymmachus, son of

Menendes. His eyes blinked in surprise.

'Well, well, well,' he muttered. 'So that's your

little secret, is it?'

He wrote the words down on the pad beside

him, spelling them out letter by letter, checking

and rechecking to make sure he had them right.

302

Then he laid the dagger down, lifted the pad and

sat back in his chair.

'Where have I seen that before?' he said aloud.

'Where? Where?'

For twenty minutes he sat without moving,

staring into space, occasionally lifting his sherry

glass and tilting it up to his mouth, even though

there was no longer any sherry in it. Then,

suddenly, he threw aside the pad, scrambled to his

feet and made for the bookcase on the far side of

the room, moving surprisingly quickly for a man

his age.

'Impossible!' he said. 'It can't be!'

He ran his finger urgently along the rows of

books before eventually levering one from the

middle of the case: an old leather-bound volume

with thick, parchment-like pages and its title

inscribed in gold lettering on the spine:

Inscriptions grecques et latines de tombeaux des

rois ou syringes a Thebes. J. Baillet.
He hurried

back to his desk and, swiping his arms across it to

clear a space, laid the book down beneath the

lamp and began leafing rapidly through the pages.

Outside the security guard shouted, 'Good

evening, professor,' as he passed the door, but the

old man ignored the greeting, so engrossed was he

in the volume before him. The silence of the room

seemed to magnify the excited rasping of his

breath.

'It's impossible,' he muttered. 'Impossible! But,

my God, if it's not . . .'

303

28

LUXOR, THE THEBAN HILLS

It was too cold to lie naked for long, even behind

the windbreak. After they had made love they

pulled their clothes back on and, with Daniel

taking the knapsack, wandered further into the

hills, the wind pushing at their backs, the landscape

glowing a dull silver in the moonlight. Tara

clutched Daniel's arm, her body suffused with a

rich, warm glow, a delicious ache between her legs.

She had forgotten what a powerful lover he was.

'What are you looking for?' she asked after a

while, noticing the way his head was turning this

way and that, eyes scanning the shadowy slopes.

'Hmm? Oh, nothing really. It's just been a while

since I was last up here.'

She tightened her grip on his arm.