Grains of Truth (19 page)

He gave her a sideways glance and saw that this thought had already occurred to her. “You are not thinking of doing something crazy, Julia. Are you?”

The color drained from her face. He knew her well. Without question, she planned to advise the agency of the arms dealer’s presence and possible involvement. The little voice in her head kept whispering He carries a gun. Another idea had also occurred to her. She kept seeing the murder scene. Seeing Zed’s empty, staring eyes as he lay in his own blood in the dirt. Something else about that image troubled her until she had at length realized what it was. Or wasn’t, as the case may be.

The cloth bag he’d carried away from the stall in the suk hadn’t been anywhere near his slain body. Of this she was certain. Where had it gone? She’d arrived right behind the other bystanders and was positive no one there had picked it up. It must’ve been removed by the killer.

Alexander had come into the lounge several minutes after the others. What if he’d slipped away to hide the evidence? If she could gain access to his cabin, she could possibly identify him as the murderer. Of course, failure to find the bag there wouldn’t absolve him of the crime, she mused.

Mohamed interrupted this bleak train of thought. “Answer me, Julia. What are you planning?”

Chapter 23

Alexander glanced down at the heavy gold Rolex watch clamped on his wrist. He’d at first been put off by the pretension of the gift from one of his clients. He could not, however, deny its utilitarianism and had to admit it sent a message of status that proved useful in his line of work. It accurately told him now that his contact was late.

This was the third—and last—designated rendezvous point today. Jalal had failed to show at the first two. The day had dragged on, Alexander’s apprehension growing with each no-show. If the regrettable incident in Kom Ombo had unnerved the customers, he was out of luck. At this stage, he had no way to make further contact. His only course of action was to follow the instructions he’d been given and wait. Waiting had never been his strong suit. 

The restaurant, several blocks from the corniche, buzzed with conversation. Local businessmen occupied nearly every table. A few foreigners mixed in among them were enjoying a late lunch. Alexander sat, back to the wall, with a clear view of the room.

An impressive Middle Eastern man, probably in his mid-thirties, sat at the table nearest his own. His neighbor’s companion appeared considerably older, and his grotesque features contrasted sharply with the other’s classic ones. A web of scars ruined his sun-scorched face. One puckered the left side from hairline to chin, drawing his upper lip up into a perpetual sneer. Alexander heard them exchange an occasional low word in Arabic but, although he had a passable understanding of the language, couldn’t make out their meaning.

At long last, after ordering a meal he didn’t particularly want, he breathed a sigh of relief as the familiar face came through the door. Jalal paused with a fleeting look around the room and his eyes flickered across the men at the next table before he moved to join Alexander. Jalal sat in the chair next to him, allowing for a clear line of sight for the two men seated nearby.

“Marhabba kaif halak.”

“Greetings and good health to you as well,” replied Jalal smoothly in English. “Please accept my apologies for the delay. Much has happened since our last meeting.” He surveyed the room again with a cautious eye before continuing. “The unfortunate events in Kom Ombo have made things considerably more complicated. We must proceed with extreme caution.” 

Jalal fell silent as the waiter approached bearing several dishes. He laid out the typical regional meal of roast chicken, hummus, salad and black olives; he placed a plate before each of them, and retreated without having said a word. Alexander made note of the waiter’s atypical reticence and it added to the tension already tightening his jaw. He suppressed his uneasiness at the reference to Kom Ombo, and waited.

“The police are under the impression it was a simple robbery. Rumor has it that the victim carried a large sum of money in his bag, which seems to have disappeared.” What could only be described as a smirk passed across Jalal’s face.

“All of the activity surrounding the murder has made everyone understandably nervous. The meeting has been rescheduled for tomorrow.” He nodded in acknowledgement of Alexander’s barely-concealed impatience.

“We realize this presents a change in plans for you. You must leave the boat in the morning and check into a hotel. Go to the Old Cataract when you leave here and book a room for a few days. There should be no difficulty. We will contact you there tomorrow afternoon with instructions for the meeting later in the evening.” His voice remained steady, but Alexander sensed a high level of strain pulsing beneath the surface of his deliberate calm.

They ate in silence for a while, each clearly absorbed in his thoughts, before the Brother spoke again. “There is another small problem. We have reason to believe that an American spy may be on the boat. Our sources in Cairo did not send an alert, but her presence has been detected en route.”

Her presence echoed like a drum in Alexander’s ears. He didn’t like the sound of that.

“What do you know of the woman called Julia Grant? And the man she travels with?”

It was a no-win question. Alexander couldn’t admit his own suspicions, as that would further incriminate her. If they knew for certain that she was an agent and he attempted to exonerate her, it would cast doubt on his own credibility, jeopardizing his mission—perhaps even his life. He settled on a diversionary tactic.

“Don’t know much about either of them,” he said, feigning indifference. “Supposedly, she’s touring the country doing research for writing a book and he’s her guide.” He leaned closer with an insinuating air. “They do appear to be working rather closely, if you take my meaning.”

A sly smile stole across Jalal’s face, his active libido clearly relishing the idea of the pale American beauty with the Egyptian man. “Well, let us hope for her sake that is her only crime.”

Alexander clenched a fist under the table to keep from swiping away the lewd grin. Uttering the suggestive implication had left a dirty taste in his mouth, but it was the best he could do on the spur of the moment.

He noticed the two men at the next table exchange a look. The unsightly face wore a broad, offensive leer. The handsome one did not.

~

A rich cerulean-blue sky, the kind found only in desert regions, spread wide overhead, almost completely uncluttered by clouds. In the west the great ball of fire had begun its eternal descent, sinking into the other world—according to the ancient Egyptians, the world of the dead.

Raising a hand to shade her eyes, Julia followed the flight of a large bird, probably a hawk. A row of bright white feathers stood out against the dark on the underside of its powerful wings as it soared high into the velvety blue sky.

No, she thought with excitement: It’s an eagle—a golden eagle. As always, she felt envy at not being able to spread wings and join it: to ride the breeze over the Valley of the Kings and along the mighty Nile. In the world of centuries past, eagles were thought to be messengers. The sighting of this majestic bird must surely be a good omen. 

Absorbing the dramatic atmosphere from the upper deck, Julia once again experienced a surge of fascination for the ancients and their worship of the sun god over thousands of years. Amun-Re. He gave life. And he brought death.

As she continued to watch, the sky shifted into a stunning kaleidoscope of color, made possible by the billions of tiny sand particles in the air. The few clouds hanging low on the horizon became shadows of deep blue-gray surrounded by brilliant streaks of orange light. Taking in a deep breath, Julia forced her brain to return to the task that lay ahead. 

The decidedly heated debate had continued late into the night. After endless recriminations, tedious declarations of remorse and redundant promises of caution (all on Julia’s part) Mohamed eventually—reluctantly—agreed to conspire in her plan. 

After a fast breakfast that morning, they’d left the boat, now docked along Corniche el Nile Street in Aswan, and headed for the nearest establishment offering wireless internet access. Even though the shop was meant to open at eight, by almost nine o’clock, it showed no signs of life. Almost choking on her angst, Julia sat down across the street, staring at the untouched minted tea before her while Mohamed made several calls on his mobile phone.

The time crawled by before his phone finally rang. “Come, Julia,” he ordered, snapping it closed. “My friend is on his way to open the shop.” 

Hunched in the furthest corner while Mohamed distracted the proprietor in lively Arabic, Julia opened the laptop, signed on to the internet and sent the email with the coded message attached. She then sent a second email she’d composed and coded through Vocabulary in the wee hours of the morning. In it she sketched a brief overview of yesterday’s traumatic event, made a caustic reference to one Alexander Bryant, international arms dealer, and requested permission to contact Brad directly by phone as soon as humanly possible. 

With this out of the way came considerable relief. It was short-lived. When she clicked onto the publishing house website and checked the Special Events page, she discovered a posting from yesterday. The sight of it brought a new wave of anxiety. Copying it and saving it as instructed, she decoded it on the spot—in direct rebellion of her instructions. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

The message came from Brad, letting her know they’d learned of the “incident” in Kom Ombo and cautioned her to stick with the plan.

Easy for him to say. She checked her watch. It read almost ten a.m. San Francisco was ten hours behind, making it only midnight there. There was no telling when Brad would retrieve her email. At eight a.m. in San Francisco, it would be six in the evening here, she calculated. Well, at least that would allow her time to prepare for her audacious plan.

They spent the day going through the motions of the ridiculous itinerary. By the time they returned to the internet café at six on the dot, apprehension had wound them up and spit them out as a couple of limp rags. The reply to her request to call Brad popped up on the screen, brief and to the point: If absolutely necessary, she should go ashore tomorrow morning and call from a private booth at the Old Cataract Hotel at precisely six a.m.

This was, his message said, the most secure location for placing the call. Further instruction directed her to use his office number, where the call could be scrambled. It would be eight in the evening of the previous day in San Francisco. His reply made no mention at all of the content of her first message—the coded message from Zed. Nor did it refer to Alexander Bryant.

Now, with a last wistful glimpse of the dazzling sunset, she turned away to return to her cabin and dress for dinner.

~

Julia squared bare shoulders and advanced upon the dining room, elegantly clad in a figure-hugging cocktail dress. The richly colored russet silk perfectly accentuated her shining auburn hair and amber eyes. Only in the relative privacy of the boat or a hotel would she have worn such a thing. Several heads turned in her direction as she made her way across the room. Henrietta Langley smiled approvingly and glanced over at Alex. 

Part of the plan was to appear, especially to Alex, as innocently feminine as possible. Apparently things were going according to plan. She smiled at Ali, her faithful waiter, and he practically fell over himself to reach the table and pull out her chair. Already seated, besides the Langleys and Alexander, was a pleasant couple from Belgium—Gregor and Christina Braun—as well as the faded rose, who had evidently abandoned her group to pursue her prey fulltime. Fiona scowled as she took in the sexy dress and its contents.

“Good evening,” Julia smiled to the table at large as she slipped into the chair being held by the smitten Ali. She wasn’t sure if he anticipated a big tip or dreamed of special favors. Probably both.

One of the aspects of contemporary Egyptian society she found infuriating was the male obsession with sex. Of course, it was common in all societies to a certain degree. Here, it pervaded like an unreachable itch. The issue invariably arose in any dealings between a Western woman and any Egyptian male. It’s because they think we’re all promiscuous, thought Julia, but it’s damned annoying.

Other societies at least have some kind of legal protection for women, or else the men have just learned how to conceal their foul fantasies. Julia had known women who’d had extremely unpleasant encounters here: one with a driver who made inappropriate references to female underwear, and another with a doctor who’d fondled her breasts during an examination. Disgusting perverts.

Shaking her head to dislodge these unwelcome images, she scanned the room for her accomplice. Half an hour later—with a growing edginess—she was still searching for sight of Mohamed when he at last sauntered in. He spoke affably to the young Italian woman who clung possessively to his arm, virtually glowing with an unmistakable aura of promise. Passing Julia, he flashed her that “what can I do? I’m so irresistible” look and continued on to escort the girl to her group at a nearby table.

The girl’s mother thanked him much more warmly than the courtesy warranted, wearing a mischievous smile distinctly suggestive of her desire to make her gratitude more personal. What was it, Julia wondered, that made people (including herself, to be brutally honest) behave like lascivious idiots on these trips? It appeared that the loins somehow short-circuited the brain.