Free The Lost Army of Cambyses by Paul Sussman Page A

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.
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    He had spoken to the doctor – in faltering
    Arabic – and had asked Tara where she was
    staying.
    'Here,' she had told him. 'Or at least that was
    the plan. I suppose it's not very appropriate now.'
    Oates had agreed. 'I think the best thing would
    be to get you back to Cairo and booked into
    somewhere there. Let me make a couple of calls.'
    He had pulled a mobile phone from the pocket
    of his suit – how on earth can people wear suits in
    this heat, Tara had thought – and wandered out-
    side, returning a few minutes later. 'Right,' he had
    said, 'we've got you into the Ramesses Hilton. I
    don't think there's much more to do here, so
    whenever you're ready . . .'
    She had lingered in the dig house for a moment,
    gazing around at the bookcases and moth-eaten
    sofas, imagining her father relaxing here after a
    day at his excavation, and had then joined Oates
    in his car.
    'Funny,' he had said, starting the engine. 'I've
    been in Cairo for three years and it's the first time
    I've ever been to Saqqara. Never been much inter-
    ested in archaeology, to be honest.'
    'Me neither,' she had said sadly.
    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 –
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    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'll leave you to settle in then,' said Oates,
    hovering at the door. 'The restaurant's quite good,
    or else there's room service.'
    'Thanks,' said Tara. 'I'm not really hungry.'
    'Of course. I quite understand.' He put his hand
    on the door handle. 'There'll be various formal-
    ities to go through tomorrow, so if it's all right
    with you I'll pick you up at, say, eleven a.m. and
    take you over to the embassy.'
    Tara nodded.
    'One small thing. 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.'
    Tara thought of the man she had met at the
    airport by the baggage carousel. 'Sayf al-Tamar,'
    she said, remembering the name he had
    mentioned.
    'Al-Tha'r,' said Oates, correcting her. 'Al-ta-ar.
    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.' He handed
    her his card. 'Anyway, call me if there's anything
    you need and have a good night's sleep.'
    Rather formally he shook her hand and then
    opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
    Once he was gone Tara fetched a beer from the
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    mini-bar and threw herself onto the bed. She called
    Jenny in England and left a