Grains of Truth (13 page)

He retrieved a pocket knife from inside his jacket and sliced open the wrappings to remove the contents, positioning them in a neat row on a table by the window.

Sunlight streamed through the glass onto the arsenal.

The weapons represented what he considered to be the best of what was available on the market today in small firearms. The .44 Remington Magnum provided maximum power at a level of recoil that could be handled by any shooter determined to cope with it—an extremely powerful gun. The M2 Mauser, the safest of the semi-automatic pistols, could be easily concealed. As requested, a shoulder holster for it was included. Lastly, the Beretta Px4 Storm offered excellent flexibility and versatility. It could be adapted to different hand-sizes, shooting styles and levels of concealment. 

After methodically inspecting each weapon, he loaded the Mauser and slid it into the shoulder holster. His mouth stretched into a hard line as he put the other two revolvers in the safe inside the closet. Jalal was quite specific in Cairo about wanting only handguns. If James Marshall’s information was accurate—and Alexander had no reason to believe otherwise—it didn’t make sense: Why wouldn’t they be interested in larger, more effective pieces and heavier artillery?

The only logical answer he could think of made him distinctly uneasy.

~

Dinner on these cruises customarily provided an agreeable occasion, presenting an interesting social dynamic. The various tour groups usually sat together, mixing and mingling among themselves, but maintaining their distance from others. These factions were much smaller than in the past, when they could number as many as sixty. On the Isis, Julia quickly identified three different groups. One, numbering about fifteen, all English-speaking, appeared to come from several different countries. Eight Italians made up another. The largest, and by far the most boisterous, were the Germans. Then there was the odd scattering of couples and individuals.

Julia speculated on who the other agent might be, ostensibly sent to keep an eye on her. That diverting thought brought a welcome crumb of comfort. She looked forward to spending the first evening on the boat with Mohamed, but he announced right before they went to their cabins to change that he’d made arrangements to go ashore to see a friend. She mocked herself for failing to remember not to count on things going as planned.

After pausing briefly in the doorway, she headed to an empty table at the back of the dining room. As she neared another table, occupied by an elderly couple, the slightly-built man rose, looking vaguely expectant. 

“Good evening, my dear,” chirped the woman, with a pleasant smile. “Are you dining alone? We’d be so pleased if you would care to join us.”

Her male companion had already pulled out a third chair, so Julia returned the friendly greeting and slipped into it. Lord only knew when Mohamed would resurface, and their company might prove a pleasant diversion. 

“I’m Henrietta Langley and this is my devoted spouse, Henry. We’re from Indianapolis and tickled pink to be in this fascinating land.” Her voice held a musical quality that soothed Julia’s ear. And it was always nice to meet people who appreciated the finer aspects of Egypt instead of dwelling on the negatives—such as the rampant poverty and poor hygiene, as did many Western tourists, especially Americans.

“Julia Grant from San Francisco.” She took Henrietta’s frail hand. “Thanks for the invitation. My guide may join us later, if that’s all right.”

“If he’s the charming young man we saw you with earlier today, we’d be delighted. Wouldn’t we, Henry?” Henry bobbed a good-natured assent. “Everyone in our group has already been gossiping about you two.” Henrietta frowned severely. “That’s one of the reasons we chose to dine apart.”

Julia decided on the spot that she liked Henrietta Langley. No beating around the bush for this old girl. She chuckled. “Don’t worry, we’re used to that. In this country, any man and woman who aren’t married and traveling alone together are regarded as sinners—especially when it’s an Egyptian man and a Western woman.” She leaned closer with a stage-whisper of conspiracy, “We’re all brazen and decadent infidels, you know.”

The Langleys laughed and the next hour flew by, with Julia answering questions about her mythical book. As she elaborated on “her work,” she became aware of, with some amazement, not only the genuine depth of her knowledge on the subject, but also their seemingly genuine appreciation of her personal point of view. She glanced down at the laptop. Maybe I should write a book.

As they lingered over dessert, Mohamed strolled in and Julia made polite introductions.

Henrietta batted eyelashes up at him. “Won’t you join us, Mr. Zahar?”

“You are most kind, Madame Langley.” He rewarded her with a captivating smile. “I’ve already eaten with friends, but perhaps you would all care to join me in the lounge for coffee or after-dinner drinks?”

They adjourned to the lounge, where Mohamed further entranced Henrietta with tales of Egyptian folklore and humorous incidents from past tours. He was at his very best in this kind of situation, and Julia enjoyed the entertaining performance along with her new-found friends. But she did wonder what could’ve happened to put him in such a good mood.

~

In the cool of the morning, Julia and Mohamed crossed the river to the west bank. Again, at first, it was hard on them both, but Julia steeled her nerve and fired question after question until he found his natural cadence and lectured with detached professionalism.

They returned to the Valley of the Kings, where he managed to gain entry to one of the rarely visited tombs: Tomb No.35. The wall paintings there were completely different from any others Julia had seen, with reliefs in stark black on white enhanced by no other color. The profound silence of the three-thousand-year-old burial chamber surrounded them like a time warp, as if they were the last people on earth.

Outside, the temperature had climbed quickly, and they stopped to sit on a bench beneath the shade of one of the open-air buildings roofed by palm fronds. Julia pulled out the laptop and tapped away at the keyboard. She made an emphatic point of needing to stick as closely as possible to the itinerary. This was not the way things normally worked here. Her feeble explanation of the fictional publisher’s expectation of receiving her daily notes in a specific sequence sounded ridiculous, even to her ears.

Mohamed shook his head. “You Americans. Always so organized.”

At the end of the day, they went back to the internet café. Julia checked her email and the Events page on the publisher’s website, finding nothing unusual there. 

So far, so good. But still no sign of Zed.

They returned to the boat near dusk. Mohamed stopped to fhaddle with one of the crew and Julia climbed the stairs alone to the upper deck. She leaned against the rail at the stern as the Isis smoothly left the bank and began to move against the current up the mighty river. This was always her favorite time of day here—the passing of light into dark, from warm sunshine to cool evening breeze. Lights began to twinkle in the distance and a symphony of crickets softly chirping along the bank lilted through the air. Magic.

Lost in the cocoon of the moment, Julia failed to hear the approach of the man who noiselessly appeared nearby. Mildly surprised to recognize him, she wondered when he’d come aboard. 

“A lovely evening,” murmured the man from the plane, from a few feet away along the rail.

They exchanged tentative smiles. “Yes. Beautiful,” she replied, returning her gaze to the dreamlike scene sliding past.

He stood quietly for a few minutes more and then, without another word, turned and walked slowly away. Definitely an American. Curious, she thought after he left. Odd that a man like that would be on such a cruise alone. A new idea presented itself: Could he be the agent Bob Bronson mentioned at the last minute? Well, perhaps he isn’t alone at all. He may have a companion tucked away somewhere.

It was interesting to conjecture all the same. And, for an indefinable reason, strangely unsettling.

Later that evening, Julia observed the tall American enter the dining room sans companionship. It did seem strange that such an attractive man would be traveling alone. His manner was cordial enough as he interacted with several people near the door, but a conspicuous air of reserve hovered over him—an intriguing aloofness.

“Ah, I see you are watching your friend,” said Mohamed in a tone ripe with reproof. “When did he come aboard?”

“I have no idea. And he’s not my friend.” She replied more sharply than she’d intended, embarrassed that she’d evidently been staring. “I find him interesting, that’s all. Interesting that he’s traveling alone, I mean,” she attempted to explain without offense.

She then asked herself why he should take offense. They were, after all, just friends. Her eyes narrowed as she added, “Not that there would be anything wrong with my finding him attractive—as a woman is attracted to a man, that is.”

“Certainly not, Madame Grant, you and every other unattached female on this boat.”

Of course. All her attention had been focused on the object of intrigue, so she’d failed to take note of the behavior of those around him. Even as they spoke, a gaunt looking woman sidled up next to him and, with lowered lashes, began to speak in dulcet tones. Unfortunately, Julia couldn’t hear what was said, but his response must’ve been enough to embolden the woman to slide her arm in his and lead him proprietarily to a nearby table. 

The Langleys, it seemed, were reclaimed by their group, and sat at a large table in the center of the room. Henrietta wiggled fingers as she caught Julia’s eye, sending an unmistakable message of mischief.

“What about the other unattached man?”

“What? What other man?” Julia followed Mohamed’s nod to a table in the opposite corner, where a bespectacled and tousled brown head bent over a book. The fork somehow made its way to the mouth without the aid of sight. Surely, she thought disparagingly, he wasn’t her guardian agent. Julia rolled her eyes and shook her head, disdaining comment.

After dinner they wandered up to the deck and discovered the “odd couple” had preceded them. “Mutt and Jeff,” Julia muttered to herself uncharitably.

The American gentleman gave every appearance of listening patiently to the monologue being delivered by the bird-like woman in a shrill English accent. A caricature of a woman of a certain age—a woman on the hunt—she plainly determined the man to be her prey and seemed to think that the best way to entice him was to inflict a never-ending litany of trivia. He nodded occasionally while no doubt wondering if there were any crocodiles left in the Nile.

“You’ve missed your chance, I’m afraid,” Mohamed teased.

They turned away to stand with hands on the rail, looking down at the eternal flow of the river in the darkness.

Julia tossed her head, unable to keep the laughter from her voice. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste. He’s not my type anyway.”

“I know, Julia. I know what your type is.” His voice was low, seductive, as he slipped a surreptitious hand over hers.

A thrill ran through her veins as she looked down at his bronzed fingers covering hers on the rail.

“No. Don’t start.” She snatched her hand away, suddenly furious. “We’ve been through all this. We both know there’s no future for us. Nothing. It would only bring more pain. Friends, remember? Just friends.”

Eyes locked in combat, they struggled against all that lay behind them for an endless moment before she whispered a good night and retreated to the safety of her cabin.

~

She was sitting up in bed staring sightlessly at an open book when the phone rang.

“You are right, Julia, as always, you are right. We are friends and can be no more. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. It won’t happen again.”

“Thank you, Mohamed. Let’s please, please be careful. We mustn’t hurt each other any more than we already have.” She spoke with more conviction than she felt. “Thank you for calling. Good night.”

“Good night, Julia.”

Several seconds of heavy silence passed before she heard the phone click.

The flame of anger flared in Julia’s chest. She leapt to her feet and began to pace the cabin. A brush on the dresser caught her eye and she grabbed it up to assault her hair. Honestly, the man was impossible. This passive-aggressive crap was getting old. First he wanted her—then he didn’t. He brought her to the brink of all-consuming passion—then backed away. He wanted to marry her—then he didn’t. He wanted to be with her—then had no time.

It was always Inshallah this and Inshallah that. It was becoming seriously annoying. Oh, she’d been annoyed before, for sure, but always came around to be understanding and forgiving and supportive. Blah, blah, blah.

Honestly, things could not go on this way. He needed to make up his mind, one way or the other, once and for all and let her get on with her life. He really did.

Chapter 17

The boat stopped early next morning at Esna, one of the temples where the ancients had celebrated the goddess Isis. On her first visit, Julia found this site fascinating. This time around, her preoccupation made it impossible to take much notice of her surroundings. Surely Zed would make contact here. With her nerves tingling in anticipation, she felt a sense of hyper-awareness overshadowing everything else as they disembarked.