The lost army of cambyses epub

Her heart surged and, rushing forward, she tried the door handle. It was still locked and there was no reply to her frantic knocking.

Hassan selected a key from the ring, 68 slipped it into the lock and turned it twice, throwing the door open and walking in. Tara followed. They were in a long whitewashed room, with a rectangular dining table at the end nearest them and at the other a couple of moth-eaten sofas and a fireplace. Other rooms opened off to left and right, in one of which Tara could make out the edge of a wooden bedframe. It was dark and cool, with a faintly sweet aroma in the air, which she realized after a moment was the smell of cigar smoke.

Hassan walked across and threw open a window. Sunlight spilled across the floor. She saw the body immediately, slumped against the far wall. It was cold and stiff.

She didn't bother trying to revive him. He'd been six at the time and hadn't really understood what was going on. They had carried the body into the living room and laid it out on the table. His mother, weeping and tearing at her black robes, had knelt at its feet, while he and his brother Ali had stood side by side at its head, holding hands, staring at the pale, dust-covered face. I swear. A tourist bus, going too fast for the narrow streets, had spun out of control and slammed into the rickety wooden scaffolding on which his father had been working, bringing the whole structure down.

Three men had been killed, his father one of them, crushed beneath a 70 ton of bricks and wood. The tour company had refused to accept responsibility and no compensation had ever been paid. The people in the bus had escaped unharmed. They had lived in Nazlat al-Sammam in those days, at the foot of the Giza plateau, in a cramped mud-brick shack from whose roof you could look directly out over the Sphinx and the pyramids.

Ali had been the older by six years, strong and clever and fearless. Khalifa had idolized him, following him everywhere, mimicking the way he walked and the things he said. To this day, when he was annoyed, he would mutter 'Dammit! After their father had died, true to his word, Ali had left school and gone to work to support them.

He had found a job at the local camel stables, mucking out, repairing the saddles, taking the camels up onto the plateau to give rides to the tourists. On Sundays Khalifa had been allowed to help him.

Not during the week, however. He had begged to be allowed to work with his brother full time, but Ali had insisted he concentrate on his studies instead. Do the things I can't. Make me proud of you. He owed his brother so much. That was 71 why he had named his first son after him — to show that he recognized the debt.

His son, however, had never seen his uncle, and never would. Ali was gone for ever. How he missed him! How he wished things could have turned out differently. He shook his head and returned to the business in hand.

He was in a white-tiled room in the basement of Luxor general hospital and in front of him the body they had found that morning was stretched out on a metal table, naked. A fan whirled above his head; a single strip light added to the cold, sterile atmosphere. Dr Anwar, the local pathologist, was bent over the body, poking at it with his rubber-gloved hands. Very curious. There had been a lot of paperwork to fill out before they could get it examined and it was now late afternoon. He had sent Sariya to make enquiries about any person reported missing within a radius of thirty kilometres, thus sparing his deputy the unpleasant business of witnessing the autopsy.

He himself was finding it hard not to gag. He was desperate for a cigarette and every now and then reached instinctively into his pocket for the packet of Cleopatras, although he didn't take them out. Dr Anwar was notoriously strict about smoking in his morgue.

Anwar's bad jokes were as notorious as his dislike of smoking. Maybe twenty. Maximum twenty-four. I'm interested in bodies, not currents. It had been cleaned of mud and looked, if anything, even more grotesque than when Khalifa had first seen it, like a badly carved joint of meat.

There were lacerations elsewhere on the body, too — on the arms and shoulders, across the belly, on the tops of the thighs. There was even a small puncture mark in the scrotum, which Anwar had taken great delight in pointing out. Sometimes, Khalifa 73 thought, the man was just a little too enthusiastic about his job. You want to know what caused the injuries. He died from shock and loss of blood, both a result of the injuries you see before you.

There was comparatively little water in his lungs, which means that he didn't drown and then receive the injuries afterwards. This happened to him on dry land and then the body was dumped in the river.

Probably not that far away from where it was found. You'd have a completely different type of wound. Less clean. The flesh would have been more churned up. This man has been deliberately mutilated. And anyway, for your information, there are no crocodiles north of Aswan. And certainly none that smoke. Here, here and here. Cigar probably.

Too big for a cigarette. The detective refused. Khalifa 74 watched, wondering how he could eat with that ripped face only a few metres away. What caused those? Possibly a knife, although I've seen all manner of knife injuries and none that looked quite like this. It's hard to explain. More a gut feeling than proper science. It was definitely a sharpened blade of some sort, but not one with which I'm familiar. Look at this, for instance. And look, it's slightly deeper at one end than at the other.

Don't ask me to be more precise, Khalifa, because I can't. Just accept that we're dealing with an unusual weapon here. The room echoed to the sound of Anwar's chewing. High levels of alcohol in the blood. And he would seem to have had an interest in ancient Egypt. Not the most common of designs. And look here.

Here, and here, where the flesh is discoloured. This man has been restrained, like this. You can see by the depth of the bruising that he put up quite a struggle. A moment later two men appeared pushing a trolley. They lifted the body onto it, covered it with a sheet and wheeled it out of the room.

Anwar finished his nuts and, going to a small basin, began washing his hands. The room was silent apart from the purr of the fan. It's' — he paused, soaping his hands slowly, his back to Khalifa — 'ungodly,' he said eventually. But there's no other way to describe what happened to this man.

I mean they didn't just kill him. They butchered the poor bastard. Find them quickly and lock them away. He was halfway through it when Anwar called after him. Doing carvings for the tourists, that sort of thing. There was a lot of alabaster dust underneath his fingernails and his forearms were very built up, which might indicate he used a hammer and chisel a lot.

I might be wrong, but that's where I'd start making enquiries. In the alabaster shops. Anwar's voice echoed after him. The embassy official glanced across at her. My father hated them. Any form of smoking, in fact. He said it was a disgusting habit. Like reading the Guardian. To start with I couldn't place it. Then I realized it was cigar smoke. It was an absolute rule.

I know because he wrote to me once 78 saying he'd sacked a volunteer for breaking it. I can't get it out of my mind. It was almost dark and the lights of the city spread off into the distance around and beneath them. It was still hot and Tara had the window wound down so that her hair fluttered behind her like a streamer. She felt curiously detached, as though the events of the last few hours had all been some sort of dream. They'd waited with her father's body for an hour until a doctor had arrived.

He had examined the corpse briefly before telling them what they already knew — that the old man was dead, probably from a massive coronary, although more tests would be needed. An ambulance had arrived, followed shortly afterwards by two policemen, both in suits, who had asked Tara a series of perfunctory questions about her father's age, health, nationality, profession. The policemen had taken notes, but had not seemed to consider the matter especially important. She hadn't pursued it.

At no point had she cried. Indeed, her immediate reaction to her father's death had been no reaction at all.

She had watched as his body was carried to the ambulance and had felt nothing inside her, nothing whatsoever, as though it was someone she didn't know.

She had tried to recall some of the good times they had spent together — books they had both enjoyed, days out at the zoo, the treasure trail he had laid for her fifteenth birthday — but had been unable to make any emotional connection with them. The one thing she had felt — and had been ashamed of feeling — was a sense of acute disappointment that her trip had been spoilt.

I'm going to spend the next fortnight filling out forms and making funeral arrangements, she had thought. Some fucking holiday. Oates had arrived just as the ambulance was pulling away, the embassy having been informed of her father's death as soon as it was discovered. Blond, chinless, late twenties, quintessentially English, he had offered his commiserations politely but without real conviction, in a way that suggested he'd been through all this many times before.

I suppose it's not very appropriate now. Let me make a couple of calls. I don't think there's much more to do here, so whenever you're ready. Never been much interested in archaeology, to be honest. It was dark by the time they reached the hotel, an ugly concrete skyscraper rearing beside the Nile, on the edge of a tangled intersection of busy roads. The interior was brightly lit and gaudy with a cavernous marble foyer, off which various bars, lounges and shops opened and through which a constant stream of red-uniformed porters bustled with armfuls of designer luggage.

It was cool — 81 cold almost — which Tara found a relief after the heat outside. Her room was on the fourteenth floor: spacious, neat, sterile, facing away from the river.

She slung her bag on the bed and kicked off her shoes. I quite understand. Probably best not to go out at night, not on your own. I don't want to alarm you, but it's a trifle risky for tourists at the moment. There's been a bit of fundamentalist activity. Attacks, you know. Better safe than sorry. Yes, it does seem to be his lot. Bloody lunatics. The more the authorities try to clamp down on them the more trouble they cause.

Parts of the country are now virtual no-go areas. Once he was gone Tara fetched a beer from the 82 mini-bar and threw herself onto the bed. She called Jenny in England and left a message on her answerphone, telling her where she was, and asking her to call back as soon as possible. There were other calls she knew she ought to make — to her father's sister; to the American University, where he had been Visiting Professor of Near Eastern Archaeology — but she decided to leave them until tomorrow.

She wandered out onto the balcony, gazing down at the street below. A black Mercedes had just drawn up alongside the hotel, partly blocking the road, so that the cars behind were forced to pull out and around it, something they weren't too happy about to judge by the distant sounds of hooting.

Initially Tara didn't take much notice of the car. Then the passenger door opened and a figure stepped out onto the pavement and suddenly she tensed. She couldn't be certain it was the man she'd seen at Saqqara — the one who had been watching her as she walked along the escarpment — but something told her it was.

He was wearing a pale suit and, even from that height, looked huge, dwarfing the pedestrians around him. He leaned down and said something to the driver of the Mercedes, which moved off into the traffic. He watched it go and then, suddenly, turned and looked up, straight at her, or at least she imagined he was looking straight at her, although in reality he was too far away for her to see precisely where his eyes were directed.

It lasted only a moment and then he dropped his head again and strode towards the hotel's side entrance, raising his hand to his mouth and puffing on what 83 looked like a large cigar. Tara shuddered and, stepping off the balcony, closed and locked the sliding doors behind her. Shadowy reed forests slipped past on either bank, with here and there a small hut or house, but it was past midnight and there were few people left on deck to see them.

A young couple cuddled on the prow, faces nuzzling, and beneath an awning at the back of the cruiser a group of old ladies were playing cards. Otherwise the decks were deserted. Most of the passengers had either retired to bed or were sitting in the saloon listening to the late-night cabaret — a paunchy Egyptian man singing popular hits to a backing tape. There were two explosions, almost simultaneous.

The first came near the bow of the boat, engulfing the young couple. The second was in the main saloon, blasting tables and chairs and fragments of glass in all directions. The cabaret singer was thrown backwards into his PA, face grilled black by the heat; a group of women near the stage were lost in a hail of splintered wood and metal.

There was weeping, and groaning, and the screams of a man whose legs had been ripped off below the knees. The lady card-players, 84 unharmed, sat motionless beneath their awning. One of them started to cry. Away from the river, beyond the reeds, squatting on a small rocky hummock, three men gazed at the boat.

The glow from its flaming decks lit their bearded faces, revealing a deep vertical scar on each of their foreheads. They were smiling. They nodded and, rising to their feet, disappeared into the night. Despite her exhaustion she hadn't slept well. The image of the huge man had stayed with her, leaving her inexplicably edgy. She had eventually drifted into a light sleep, but then the phone had rung, ripping her awake again.

It was Jenny. They had talked for almost an hour, her friend offering to catch the next flight out. Tara had been tempted to let her come, but in the end had told her not to worry. Everything was being taken care of, and anyway she'd probably be home in a few days once all the formalities had been completed.

They had agreed to speak the next day and rung off. It was deep in the night when she had woken for a second time, suddenly, sensing something was 86 amiss. The world was silent and the room thick with shadows, although the moon was gleaming through a narrow gap in the curtains, casting a ghostly sheen across the mirror on the wall opposite. She had lain on the bed trying to work out what was troubling her and then rolled over to go back to sleep. As she did so she had caught a soft creaking coming from the direction of the doorway.

She had listened for several seconds before she realized that it was the sound of her door handle turning. The creaking had stopped for a moment and then resumed. Heart pounding, she had crossed to the door, where she had stood gazing at the handle as it inched carefully down and up, as if in slow motion. She had thought of shouting out again, but had instead just grabbed the handle and held it.

There had been a brief resistance on the other side and then a swift padding of feet. She had counted to five and opened the door, but the corridor had been empty.

Or rather almost empty, because one thing at least had lingered: a smell of cigar smoke. After that she had kept the lights on for the rest of the night, only falling asleep again just as dawn was breaking. When Oates had asked her if she'd had a good night, her reply had been terse: 'No, I bloody didn't. They walked down a long corridor and up some stairs to a suite of offices on the first floor, where they were met by a thin, slightly dishevelled man with white hair, thick eyebrows and a pair of glasses hanging around his neck.

We'll be in my office. Another man was standing beside the window. He stepped forward. He will be much missed. The three of them sat down. Unfortunately, as you may have heard, there was another terrorist incident last night, up near Aswan, and two of the fatalities were British, so he is somewhat preoccupied at present. I had the pleasure of meeting him on several occasions.

It's a great loss. There was an awkward silence. The year we found the tomb of Ptah-hotep. I shall never forget the excitement when we entered the burial chamber for the first time. It was virtually intact, untouched since the day it was sealed. There was a magnificent wooden statue near the entrance, about so high' — he indicated with his hand — 'wonderfully realistic, with inlaid eyes, in perfect condition.

It is currently on display in the Cairo museum. You must let me take you to see it. He was a good man. The four of them lapsed back into silence, sipping their coffee. It was a while before Squires spoke again. It was a coronary, apparently. Death would have been almost immediate. He was always happy there. And at some point you are going to have to decide what you want done with your father's body, whether it is to stay in Egypt or be returned to Britain.

For the moment, however, I simply want to stress that if there's anything at all you need in this difficult time you only have to ask. She was silent for a moment, fiddling with her cup. Squires raised his eyebrows. It sounds so ridiculous. It's just. I mentioned it to the police. And Crispin. Jemal removed a set of jade worry beads from his pocket and began telling them off one by one with his thumb. Tara could feel the three of them staring at her. I'm sorry, it sounds so stupid when I say it.

The worry beads began clacking faster, like someone tap-dancing. And then last night I saw the same man, or at least it looked like the same man, coming into the hotel and I'm sure he was smoking a cigar. And then in the middle of the night I heard someone trying to get into my room.

When I opened the door there was no-one there, but there was a smell of cigar smoke in the corridor. Events that in her head had seemed suspicious and threatening, now, recounted in front of other people, appeared no more than mildly coincidental. Given the circumstances it's hardly surprising you should feel slightly. You're in a foreign country, after all, and someone close to you has died.

It's easy to lose one's sense of perspective in such situations. Egypt is one of those countries where it's easy to imagine that something's going on behind one's back when in fact it isn't. Wouldn't you agree, Dr Jemal? Which in the Antiquities Service they usually are! He paused and then added, 'Unless, of course, you're not telling us everything. A brief silence. For a moment Squires stared at her, then he sat back and laughed again.

I think you can sleep safely in your bed at night, Miss Mullray. Can we get you a biscuit? Crispin will take you along to his office, where 92 he'll help you with whatever paperwork needs to be done. It's my direct line. We'll do whatever we can to assist. Jemal raised his hand in farewell. Eventually Jemal spoke. Or at least she doesn't think she knows anything.

Dravic certainly appears to be on the trail, but how Mullray got mixed up in it all. It's all very mysterious. The room echoed to the rhythmic clack of the worry beads.

They're not especially happy, but that was to be expected. We can't let them know that we know about the tomb. That would be fatal.

We just have to sit tight and hope things work out. Jemal fiddled with his beads. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Think of the rewards. I just don't know. It's getting out of hand. Help us to. So long as she doesn't go shouting her head off.

That wouldn't be at all productive. I trust you can handle things at your end? Then I think I should be able to take care of Miss Mullray.

Crispin's keeping an eye on her. And I've got other people on the job too. The most important thing is that they don't cotton on we're using her.

Because if we don't we're down the fucking creek. He'd known there were a lot, of course, but only when he started visiting them each in turn did he realize what a huge task it was going to be to track down the one he wanted.

He and Sariya had started late the previous afternoon immediately after the autopsy, him on the west bank, Sariya on the east, going from shop to shop with a photograph of the scarab tattoo, asking if anyone recognized it. They'd continued late into the night and resumed at six this morning. It was now midday and by Khalifa's reckoning he'd visited over fifty workshops already without any success.

He was beginning to wonder if Anwar had sent them on a wild-goose chase. He stopped in front of yet another shop: 'Queen Tiye for Alabaster, best in Luxor'. On its front were painted an aeroplane and a camel alongside the black cube of the Ka'ba — a sign the owner had 96 performed the Hajj to Mecca.

A group of workmen sat cross-legged in the shade beneath an awning chiselling lumps of alabaster, their arms and faces white with dust. Khalifa nodded at them and, lighting a cigarette, went inside. A man emerged from a back room to greet him, smiling. The man's smile faded. About your workers. We're looking for a missing person. You either recognize it or you don't. Why, is he in trouble?

He's dead. There was a low bed 97 against one wall, a television on a stand and a table laid for lunch with bread and onions and a slab of cheese. Above the bed hung a sepia photograph of an old bearded man in a fez and djellaba — an ancestor of the shop owner, Khalifa presumed — with beside it a framed print of the first sura of the Koran.

An open door led onto a yard where more men were working. The shop owner kicked the door shut. He was a good craftsman, but a drinker. Used to come in late, not concentrate on his work. Always trouble. Up by the tomb of Rekhmire.

He treated the woman like a dog. Beat her. You know. He'd always wanted to see the original, ever since as a child he'd stared at its likeness in the windows of craft shops in Giza and Cairo. He doubted he ever would see it, though. He could no more afford a trip to Berlin than he could a balloon ride over the Valley of the Kings.

He turned back to the shop owner. Anyone who bore him a grudge? He owed money left, right and centre, insulted everyone, got into fights. I can think of fifty people who'd want him dead.

A hundred. Any blood feuds? Come on, no games. Outside the workers had started to sing, a folk tune, one man taking the verse, the others joining in for the chorus.

A few shabtis, some scarabs. Everybody deals, for God's sake. It's no big thing. The shop owner shrugged and, leaning forward, turned on the television. A game show flickered onto the black-and-white screen.

He sat staring at it. After a long pause, he sighed. A tomb. Something big. Every week someone finds a new Tutankhamun. Who knows which ones are true? I don't get involved. I have a good business and that's all I'm interested in. Outside the men were still singing, the clank and thud of their tools echoing dully in the still afternoon air.

When the man spoke his voice was low, almost a whisper. That's a lot of money for a man who has no job. Draw your own conclusions. His hands, the detective noticed, were trembling. Khalifa had always been fascinated by the history of his country. He remembered as a child standing on the roof of their house watching the sunrise over the pyramids. Other children in his village had taken the monuments for granted, but not Khalifa.

Your Comment:. Read Online Download. Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:. Hot Playing the Game by J. Paul by J. The Labyrinth of Osiris by Paul Sussman. Uploaded by Lotu Tii on March 19, Internet Archive's 25th Anniversary Logo. Search icon An illustration of a magnifying glass. User icon An illustration of a person's head and chest. Sign up Log in. Web icon An illustration of a computer application window Wayback Machine Texts icon An illustration of an open book.

Books Video icon An illustration of two cells of a film strip. Video Audio icon An illustration of an audio speaker. Audio Software icon An illustration of a 3.