Free The Lost Army of Cambyses by Paul Sussman

bastard.'
    He turned off the taps and started to dry his
    hands.
    'Find who did this, Khalifa. Find them quickly
    and lock them away.'
    The earnestness of his tone surprised Khalifa.
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    'I'll do my best,' he said. 'If any more information
    comes up, be sure to let me know.'
    He put his notebook away and started towards
    the door. He was halfway through it when Anwar
    called after him.
    'There is one thing.'
    Khalifa turned.
    'Just a hunch, but I think he might have been a
    sculptor. Doing carvings for the tourists, that sort
    of thing. There was a lot of alabaster dust under-
    neath 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.'
    Khalifa thanked him and set off down the
    corridor, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket.
    Anwar's voice echoed after him.
    'And no smoking till you're out of the hospital!'
    77
    8
    CAIRO
    'He hated cigars,' said Tara.
    The embassy official glanced across at her.
    'Sorry?'
    'Cigars. My father hated them. Any form of
    smoking, in fact. He said it was a disgusting habit.
    Like reading the Guardian.'
    'Ah,' said the official, perplexed. 'I see.'
    'When we first went into the dig house there
    was a smell. To start with I couldn't place it. Then
    I realized it was cigar smoke.'
    The official, a junior attaché named Crispin
    Oates, returned his eyes to the road, honking
    loudly at a truck in front of them.
    'Is that significant in some way?'
    'As I said, my father hated smoking.'
    Oates shrugged. 'Then I guess it must have been
    someone else.'
    'But that's the point,' said Tara. 'Smoking
    was banned in the dig house. It was an absolute
    rule. I know because he wrote to me once
    78
    saying he'd sacked a volunteer for breaking it.'
    A motorbike overtook on the inside and
    swerved in front of them, forcing Oates to slam his
    foot on the brakes.
    'Bloody idiot!'
    They drove in silence for a moment.
    'I'm not sure I see what you're getting at,' he
    said eventually.

'Neither am I,' sighed Tara. 'Just that . . . there
    shouldn't have been cigar smoke in the dig house.
    I can't get it out of my mind.'
    'I'm sure it's just . . . well, you know, the shock.'
    Tara sighed. 'Yes,' she said wearily, 'I suppose it
    must be.'
    They were on a raised carriageway coming into
    the centre of Cairo. 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, prob-
    ably from a massive coronary, although more tests
    would be needed. An ambulance had arrived, fol-
    lowed shortly afterwards by two policemen, both
    in suits, who had asked Tara a series of per-
    functory questions about her father's age, health,
    nationality, profession. ('He's a sodding archae-
    ologist,' she had replied irritably. 'What the hell
    else do you think he was doing here!') She had
    79
    mentioned the cigar smoke, explaining, as she
    was later to explain to Oates, that smoking was
    banned in the dig house. 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 re-
    action 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.
    'Dad's dead,' she had mumbled, as though try-
    ing to elicit some sort of response from herself.
    'He's dead. Dead.'
    The words had made no impression. She
    had tried to