The Lost Army of Cambyses

The Lost Army of Cambyses by Paul Sussman Page B

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Authors: Paul Sussman
Tags: Fiction, General, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Crime
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until
    the first week in December so please don't leave a
    message. You can either call me on my return or,
    if it's university business, contact the faculty direct
    on 7943967. Thank you. Goodbye.'
    She stopped, startled by the sound, as though
    a part of her father was not properly dead
    but remained suspended in some sort of electronic
    limbo, neither in this world nor fully departed
    from it. By the time she had regained her
    senses the machine had beeped and started
    recording.
    At first she thought the caller had hung up, for
    there was no voice from the other end of the line.
    Then she caught the faintest hiss of susurration,
    no more than a rumour of breath, and realized the
    caller was still there, just not speaking. She took a
    step towards the phone and reached out, but then
    snatched her hand away again. Still he didn't hang
    up – she knew instinctively it was a man – just
    waited, breathing, listening, as if he knew she was
    in the apartment and wanted her to know that he
    knew. The silence seemed to go on for an age
    before eventually there was a click and the
    metallic whirr of the machine resetting itself. She
    stood frozen for a moment and then, gathering up
    her things, hurried out of the flat, slamming and
    locking the door behind her. She felt suddenly
    menaced by the building: the gloomy interior, the
    creaking lift, the silence. She moved quickly down
    the corridor, wanting to get out. Halfway along
    something caught her eye, a large beetle sitting on
    the clean marble floor. She slowed to look at it,
    only to discover it wasn't a beetle at all but a
    110
    heavy nub of grey cigar ash, thick as a back-
    gammon counter. She began to run.
    The lift wasn't there and rather than wait for it
    she took the stairs instead, leaping down them two
    at a time, desperate now to get back out into the
    fresh air. She reached the bottom and turned
    the corner into the foyer, but suddenly her way
    was blocked. She cried out, startled. It was only
    the concierge.
    'I'm sorry,' she said, breathing hard. 'You
    surprised me.'
    She handed him the keys and he took them. He
    said something, his voice low, gruff.
    'What?'
    He repeated himself.
    'I don't understand.' Her voice was beginning to
    rise. She was desperate to get out.
    Again he spoke, jabbering at her, and then
    reached into his pocket. She had a sudden
    irrational fear he was reaching for a weapon and
    when he whipped his hand out again and up
    towards her face she arched back away from him,
    raising her arm protectively. It was only an
    envelope. A small white envelope.
    'Professor Mullray,' he said, waving it in her
    face. 'Come Professor Mullray.'
    She stared at it for a moment, breathing hard,
    and then laughed. 'Thank you,' she said, taking
    the letter. 'Thank you.'
    The concierge turned and shuffled back towards
    his desk. She wondered if she was expected to give
    him another tip, but he didn't seem to be expect-
    ing one and so she hurried straight out of the front
    door, turning left and heading down the street,
    111
    enjoying the space around her and the warmth of
    the open air. She passed a couple of schoolchildren
    in starched white shirts, and a man in uniform, a
    kaleidoscope of medal ribbons on his chest. On
    the other side of the road a gardener in overalls
    was watering a row of dusty rose bushes with a
    hose.
    After twenty metres she looked down at the
    envelope in her hand. Instantly the colour drained
    from her face.
    'Oh no,' she whispered, staring down at the
    familiar handwriting. 'Not after all this time, not
    now.'
    The gardener stared after her and then, leaning
    his head to one side, began talking into his collar.
    112
    12
    N O R T H E R N SUDAN, NEAR THE
    EGYPTIAN BORDER
    The boy emerged from the tent and started run-
    ning, sprays of sand kicking up beneath his feet, a
    herd of goats scattering in front of him. He passed
    a burnt-out campfire, a helicopter covered in
    netting, piles of crates, before eventually coming
    to a halt in

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