Grains of Truth (2 page)

Who were the “we” he’d spoken of? What kind of information were they looking for? How much did they know about her trips to Egypt? Did they know about Mohamed?

And they had been following her. For how long?

Perhaps, on the other hand, it was only as he’d said. They might only be interested in her observations of a country that had become increasingly strategic in the “War on Terror.” Damn. She hated that moniker. Anyway, maybe she was over-reacting and being paranoid about “Big Brother” watching her. Maybe. But as a dedicated pacifist, Julia recoiled at the idea of contributing anything—anything at all—that might help perpetuate the tragic violence erupting throughout the Middle East. 

From the beginning, she’d fiercely opposed the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq. She’d seen firsthand the far-reaching ramifications of those ongoing bloodbaths, for which she believed the government of the United States of America held sole responsibility. In addition to the senseless loss of human life and the thousands of casualties there, the ripple effect continued to be devastating to societies where no cushioning existed to protect innocent, peaceful people from the destruction of their economies and livelihoods.

Julia knew, from personal experience, what dire effects it had had on Mohamed and his family and thousands—no, millions—just like him. It was appalling. It was inexcusable.

A cold wind gusting around her brought Julia back to the present, surprising her at how quickly the night had fallen. Gathering her belongings, she hurried down the walk alongside the now surging black water. Her modest rental car sat alone beside the curb. Shivering, she slipped behind the wheel, uncertain if the chill resulted from the wind or from a premonition of things to come—things that might mirror the dark and treacherous sea.

~

Dawn had yet to steal into the sky when, after a predictably restless night, Julia left the comfort of a warm bed and automatically pulled on sweats for her morning exercise. She’d learned years ago that, no matter how tired or bad she might feel, a good session of cardio always improved things. Crawling into the gym like a caterpillar, she never failed to emerge a butterfly. And that day she needed to be a perfect butterfly—at ease, with unflappable wings.

On her way out the door she poured some dry cat food into a plastic bowl and grabbed up a couple of anti-war protest flyers from a pile on the kitchen counter. Downstairs, she posted one on the wall by the elevator and crossed the courtyard to the gym. She stopped by the door outside and before she could set the bowl on the ground, a scraggly cat darted out of the bushes. With a scratchy yowl, it rubbed against her ankles. The feline’s head dove into the bowl as Julia taped another flyer on the door to the gym.

Once established on the treadmill, she gave herself up to its tempo and allowed her mind to return to the ordeal that lay ahead. Last night, after endless internal debate, she’d decided not to speak with anyone else about this latest extraordinary development. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t have found sympathetic ears among her good friends or that she didn’t value their opinions.

Only one among them knew the complicated history that made this such a potentially thorny situation. And Julia could not quite bring herself to confide in her as yet. So, as had happened with increasing frequency of late, she found herself propelled into unfamiliar and risky territory—uneasy and alone.

After all, she told herself for the hundredth time, she had done no wrong. Well, nothing in a legal sense. Not illegal in this country anyway. Nor did she know of any specific wrongdoing among her friends and acquaintances around the globe. Smiling at the thought, Julia recalled someone once saying that she collected people the way others collected baseball cards or teacups. Those in her collection were remarkably diverse and frequently wholly incompatible, as she’d learned from painful experience. It was inadvisable to attempt to bring too many of them together, as a skirmish of some kind would likely ensue.

“Jesus Christ!”

The exclamation came from a man laboring on the machine a few feet away. People seldom spoke to one another in the gym at this hour, just plugged into their tunes or the TV. Julia looked from his sweaty face to the screen mounted on the opposite wall. A grainy image above a CNN banner showed a terrified man, hands tied behind his back, kneeling in front of a group of hooded men. She clicked off her music so she could hear.

“The Sri Lankan rebel group calling itself the Tamil Tigers confirmed the execution today of one of the hostages taken from a group of French engineers.” The announcer’s voice faded as Julia switched on her music and averted her eyes, knowing that the sword above the victim’s head would fall. It was an all too familiar scenario these days.

She forced herself to refocus on the problem at hand. The rational thing to do would be to learn more about all this before initiating any discussions about what it could possibly mean. After all, there would be only this one meeting; then she would have a fascinating new topic of conversation to share with her liberal friends. Right.

Chapter 3

A missile streaked from the rocket, arched high up in the sky then began to descend in relentless pursuit of its target on a distant hill. Within seconds, it exploded into a truck, creating a roaring fireball that could be seen, and heard, for miles.

“Ah. Yes. I see,” murmured Mr. Ranakawa to no one in particular, his unfailingly placid voice conveying a subtle note of awe.

“Once programmed, the missiles can’t fail,” said Alexander Bryant with quiet authority. He cut a commanding figure, with a solid build and close-cropped yet abundant dark hair threaded with silver. His seemingly effortless erect posture suggested a military background; appropriately so, as he’d spent over thirty years in the U.S. Army, retiring as a much-decorated four-star general.

“Well, mate, that’s bound to round out your arsenal nicely, ain’t it?” asked William Hirschfield, “Billy” as he liked to be called. When people referred to him as “Slippery Billy” he assumed it was due to his uncanny ability to elude the law of pretty much any country on earth, with his shipments of illegal arms, rather than his somewhat reptilian appearance.

A white-gloved servant, gold buttons shining on his spotless white jacket, carefully carried a heavy silver tray toward the three men. Shafts of light from the setting sun danced around crystal flutes brimming with champagne.

“Yes. Thank you, gentlemen.” Mr. Ranakawa reached out a hand, the back covered with the brown spots of old age, and raised a glass. “To you, Commander Bryant, for your invaluable expertise. And to Mr. Hirshfield, for such prompt delivery.”

Alexander lifted his glass and took a sip, eyeing Billy over the rim. Thus far, he’d held his temper in check at having been coerced into returning to Sri Lanka. Billy had been the one to suggest it and Mr. Ranakawa latched onto the idea like a dog with a bone.

The old man’s tortoise-like eyes shone with satisfaction as they slid away. “Ah, here is my wife, come to collect us for dinner.”

They turned to watch an SUV speeding recklessly toward them across the field. The young Asian beauty behind the wheel failed to slow as she drew near. Braking at the last possible second, she swerved to a stop less than a foot from Alexander. He hadn’t moved a muscle.

Mr. Ranakawa chortled. “Imolee likes to live on the edge.”

Imolee Ranakawa smiled coyly through the open window at her husband, almost four times her age, before her luminous black eyes, reminiscent of polished onyx, settled on Alexander. “It’s the only way to live, isn’t it, Commander? Grab life by the throat and wring it for all it’s worth?”

The old man laughed again at his wife’s bizarre remark. Slippery Billy looked startled. Commander Bryant showed no expression at all.

~

French doors opened onto a private terrace off the lavish guestroom. Alexander removed his shirt as he stood watching a peacock, with iridescent jewel-toned tail feathers unfurled, strut across the lush green lawn. A cadre of servants squatted here and there, tending the pristine gardens. He did not want to be here. Once the specifications had been finalized, his job was done. Coming back was always a mistake, like returning to the scene of a crime.

As he brooded, he heard the inside door open quietly, then close with a whisper. In the ensuing silence, he said, “You shouldn’t have come here. It’s asking for trouble.”

Alexander turned his head to find Imolee Ranakawa leaning against the door, devouring him with hungry eyes. She really was an exquisite creature. Firm, rounded breasts pushed against the silk brocade of the dress that fitted like a second skin. Black hair, shining like pearls, hung down below her tiny waist. She launched herself across the room to land hard against his solid, bare chest. As she began to stroke him, her long, bright red nails dug painfully into his flesh. He grabbed the deceptively delicate wrists.

“I told you last time: It was the last time. If your husband finds out, he might just kill us both.”

Outside, the peacock shrieked, punctuating the grim prediction.

“He won’t find out. He’s too busy plotting and playing with his toys. There’s plenty of time before dinner.”

Alexander looked down at her perfect porcelain face as she pressed against the length of him. In spite of his good intentions, his body responded. It always did.

Chapter 4

Julia marched into the Federal building on Golden Gate Avenue. Her left-wing tendencies provoked the thought that the imposing structure was meant to either convey confidence in the “system”—or to intimidate those entering, impressing upon them the unyielding power within. Probably both.

Inside the elevator, she fiddled with a blue silk scarf tucked into the collar of her form-fitting suit. With her long auburn hair pulled back in a severe knot at the nape of her neck, she knew she presented a polished, professional appearance. Not that she had any illusions about what difference that might make. At least it gave her confidence a boost.

At precisely nine o’clock, the elevator doors opened on the fourteenth floor.  She emerged to find a typical government office: unremarkable, with beige carpet, beige furniture and blank walls. The woman behind the reception desk, dressed in a neat navy suit and off-white blouse, spoke on the phone, eyes downcast with the carefully manicured fingers of one hand pressed to her temple. “Ms. Debra Manning” read the nameplate on the counter. She matched the office perfectly, as if made-to-order along with the furnishings.

“Yes. Yes. Yes, Mr. Bishoff. I understand. Yes. The moment he arrives. Yes, sir.”  Ms. Manning’s thin lips tightened for a telling moment as she returned the phone to its cradle with precision. Well-shaped brows rose slightly over knowing brown eyes as she looked up at Julia. “Good morning; may I help you?”

Julia offered a smile. “Good morning. My name is Julia Grant. I have an appointment with Brad Caldwell.” 

The eyebrows climbed higher and, with a faint air of condolence, Ms. Manning replied, “Oh, yes, Ms. Grant, they’re expecting you.” She did not ask Julia to take a seat before picking up the phone and touching one button on the pad. No more than a second passed before she said, “Mr. Caldwell, Ms. Grant is here. Yes, sir.” Without further conversation she replaced the phone as she stood.

“This way please, Ms. Grant.” Turning with a practiced assurance that Julia would fall in to follow in her wake, she took off at a brisk pace around the corner and sailed down a long hall.

It was the longest hall Julia had ever seen. Quickening her pace to keep up, she passed office after office, all with doors closed. Through the frosted glass panel beside each one she could see the shapes of people behind desks, talking on phones, working on computers or standing in various poses. But absolutely no sound penetrated those walls.

An almost palpable sense of urgency hummed beneath the surface of organized calm. When one of the doors swished open a few feet ahead, a tall man surfaced, holding a computer printout in one hand and a cell phone in the other. He frowned over the top of wire-rim glasses and Julia couldn’t help but notice his navy suit, white shirt and expensive leather shoes. Was this some kind of uniform?

Eventually they reached their destination, one of the closed doors indistinguishable from the numerous others behind and before. Debra Manning rapped three times swiftly then opened the door without being bidden to do so. She stepped to one side and indicated that Julia should enter. Brad Caldwell sat behind an impressive desk of dark, rich wood in front of a wide window, blinds open to reveal a sweeping view of the city. He came swiftly to his feet, relinquishing the phone at his ear. 

“Good morning,” he said, with his lazy grin, as he glided around the desk extending a hand. “Thanks for coming.”

As if I really had a choice said a little voice in Julia’s head.

Even more nattily turned out today, he sported an expensive navy suit with a narrow pinstripe. A muted red silk tie stood out against his white-on-white shirt. How patriotic murmured Julia’s sarcastic little voice. He took her hand, placing his other over it, as if they were old friends—or attempting to prevent her from a hasty exit. She noticed the same musky scent from yesterday, stronger in the closer confines of the office. It triggered the image of predatory animals in the wild and kicked up her pulse a notch.

“Please, sit down.” He led her to a black leather couch against an arctic-white wall. A multi-hued abstract painting hung above it, competing with the big window to dominate the room. For some reason, Julia found the painting’s bright, swirling colors disquieting. “Would you care for something to drink? Coffee, tea, a soda?”