Grains of Truth (31 page)

“Close your eyes and sit.” The gruff command came in heavily accented English. 

Barely able to move after her long, uncomfortable confinement, she struggled to sit up but couldn’t do it. Rough hands grabbed her bare shoulders, pulling her up, accompanied by muttering in Arabic. The ropes binding her wrists cut excruciatingly into her skin. As unsympathetic hands removed the gag, she gasped for air.

A hard object was thrust against her mouth. Recognizing it as a plastic bottle, she tried to quench her desperate thirst, but choked and fell back onto the blankets. She heard more angry muttering as the hands groped to raise her again. Before any further ill-treatment could be inflicted, another voice spoke with authority. Released, she fell back and listened to a sharp, unintelligible exchange before hearing heavy footsteps stomp away.  

“Our apologies, Ms. Grant, for any discomfort we have caused. Please keep your eyes closed.”

Not that it would make any difference if she opened them. The bright light of day still rendered her virtually sightless. The hands that now brought her up to a seated position were strong, and gentle. One arm around her shoulders steadied her against a solid chest while the other carefully pulled a cloth sack over her head. It felt soft and smelled clean and, once it was in place, the man lifted the edge to expose her nose and mouth. His smooth fingers rubbed water soothingly across her dry, cracked lips.

“Lick your lips.” Happy to obey, she greedily licked the precious moisture. Two more times he administered the luscious fluid. Nothing had ever felt or tasted so good.

“Now try to swallow.” When she managed it without choking, he brought the bottle to her mouth and cautioned, “Drink slowly. Take small sips.” The warm, healing liquid brought indescribable relief—even as the thought flitted across her mind that it probably swarmed with parasites.

“We are going to take a voyage, Ms. Grant. Your cooperation will make the journey a much more pleasant one. For you, that is. If you do as you are told, you may sit on deck and enjoy the fresh air. If not, you will be stowed in the cargo hold. There, I can assure you, the trip will not be nearly as enjoyable.”

He paused for a moment to allow her time to consider her options. The silky voice of her abductor was cultured and beautiful, delivering the forbidding message in perfect and polite English. He could have been discussing literature or the opera.

“Will you cooperate?” he asked patiently.

Images of a hot, dark hole, smelling of rot and inhabited by rats, flashed in her mind’s eye. She would probably be seasick, too. Swallowing, she nodded her head. When she forced out the single word, it was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

“Excellent. Now remain silent while we finalize the necessary preparations. I will attempt to make you as comfortable as possible in the meantime. No one will hurt you.”

His touch felt paradoxically tender as he untied the ropes around her ankles and turned her to the side. Tightening a muscular arm around her shoulders, he lifted her to the ground. She couldn’t stand, so he supported her until the feeling returned to her numb legs. Then he guided her to a shaded area.

Deliverance from the airless vehicle into a fresh breeze brought overwhelming relief. Light filtered through the sack covering her head. The heat of the sun didn’t feel overpoweringly strong. It must be morning, she thought. Led to sit on a low bench, a mastaba, she heard the refined voice speak in Arabic. A woman’s voice answered with a few words. 

“Your needs will be taken care of now. Do not speak or attempt to escape. You will regret it, I assure you.” Light footsteps retreated following the honeyed threat.

Small, fleshy hands raised her to her feet and helped her cross a threshold into total darkness. The woman led her to a stool where the ropes binding her hands behind her back were untied. Stiffness in her arms made it impossible at first to even move. Thankfully, the sack covering her head was lifted. Dragging her hands around, she found wrists swollen and crusted with blood.  

Julia blinked in the dim light as she watched her warden shuffle to a table against a mudbrick wall and hold a match to a kerosene lamp. She adjusted the wick so that the flame revealed the room more clearly. The short but wide nut-brown woman, typically covered in dusty black robes, head wrapped in a black scarf, resembled millions of others across the Middle East. A low ceiling added to the closeness of the windowless room. The only other light came from the old wooden door, standing slightly ajar. They could be anywhere. 

The sound of a bolt shooting into place after the door closed behind the black-clad figure punctuated the hopeless reality of her predicament. Julia’s head fell to her chest as she took her first real breath in hours. Raising it, she looked around more closely at her surroundings. A lumpy mattress lay on a primitively constructed wood-frame cot, no doubt inhabited by colonies of vermin. Beneath it stood what must be meant to serve as a chamber pot. Besides that, the table, and the stool on which she sat, the room was bare. 

More feeling had returned to her legs so she rose from the stool to approach the table. Lamplight revealed an old-fashioned and cracked water pitcher with matching washbasin and a frayed but relatively clean towel. Next to the lamp lay a tray covered with a linen cloth. She lifted it to find a plate of cheese, bread and dried figs. And two unopened bottles of water. Evian.

She picked up one of the bottles, staring at it dumbly. Then she clutched it to her chest—as if her life depended on it—and sank to the dirt floor, rolled into a tight ball, and cried like a lost child.

~

Julia lost track of time before she heard the bolt slide back, followed by the door squeaking open. The old woman entered to find her sitting up straight on the stool, hands folded with composure in her lap.

After she had spent the last tear left in her bruised body, she rose to wash her face and the blood from her wrists in the cool, refreshing water and wipe the dust from the rest of herself as best she could. Pulling the stool up to the table, she methodically consumed every bite of food. It would have been easy to drink both bottles of water, but she prudently saved one for later. 

For Julia was determined that there would be a “later.”

There would be no more hysteria or tears. That was over. From this moment forward, all her energy, senses and resources would be conserved and concentrated on accomplishing one thing: Escape.

She would cooperate, take strength from whatever substances were provided and be ever-vigilant for her chance at freedom.

~

Ahmed was not, he assured himself, a monster. He had no desire to inflict needless discomfort or pain. His years at Oxford had resulted in an appreciation for many of the customs and finer things of life found in Western cultures. It was unfortunate for Julia Grant that she must become a tool for the successful completion of his operation, possibly a most useful tool. That did not mean, however, she need suffer unnecessarily in the process. He had been duly impressed in Kom Ombo on witnessing her kindness and generosity for those less fortunate. 

Coincidentally, she bore a strong resemblance to a young woman he had known in his first year at school in England. This girl, also American, attracted and captivated him with her lively inquisitiveness about life, and with her giving nature. Her effortless natural beauty tempted him beyond endurance and they became lovers. Who knows what might have happened if she had not suddenly been forced to return to her family in New York?

After she left, he turned to his faith for consolation for the emptiness in his heart.

He came to accept that the relationship had been haram, and a mistake. He would do penance for his sin and try to be a better Muslim.

At the mosque, he fell in with a group of fundamentalists and began to lean towards their teachings of defiance. This group advocated a radical and violent overthrow of governments across the Muslim world they deemed apostate. Totally opposed to democracy, they advocated the creation of Islamic states around the world. In a short time, he began to gravitate more and more to the extremists and support their cause.  

Holding Julia in his arms and touching the water to her lips brought back memories of the delicious and sinful pleasures he shared with his one and only lover. He would do his best to ensure that her death was as painless and honorable as possible.

It would also be widely covered by the international media.

Ahmed turned from these thoughts at the sound of shuffling feet to observe the two women emerging from the hut. One was draped in the universal robes, with a burqa concealing her face. The other, the shorter of the two, guided Julia’s footsteps across the sandy courtyard.

Beneath the burqa’s woven grill, the sack blocked her vision. Her hands were firmly tied, in front this time, which was immeasurably more comfortable. Her legs remained thus far free of bonds, and for that she was profoundly grateful. 

“Remember—make no sounds,” came the quiet command.

He led her to the vehicle and allowed her to sit upright on a back seat. They pulled noisily away and drove a short distance before coming to a stop. Even through the layers of heavy cloth, she could smell the salty sea air and hear the cry of seagulls overhead.

~

A cool, refreshing breeze swept across the open deck of the boat, penetrating the confining garments, doing wonders to uplift Julia’s spirit—and strengthen her resolve. She would escape. And in the dark moments of utter despair on the dirt floor of the hut, she made another resolution: She would, without the slightest doubt, do all she could to sabotage whatever these bastards were up to. 

After a while, the gentle motion of the waves lulled her into a state of mindlessness, and she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. A voice calling her name faintly penetrated the depths of her oblivion, drawing her reluctantly back to the surface. When she opened her eyes, panic seized her to find only darkness. Then everything came rushing back. The black robes kept out the light. But not the fear.

“Madame Grant, you must wake up now. We must talk.”

Their talk lasted a long time. He was, at first, patiently inquisitive. With her mounting denials of any wrongdoing, he became edgy and increasingly irritated.

“You expect me to believe that your purchase in Kom Ombo was only that? The simple purchase of a blanket? And that you are not lovers with the man Zahar? I think you are lying, Madame Grant.” His contemptuous emphasis on the word “Madame” made his meaning clear. “And you endanger your life with your lies. If I tossed you over the side right now, you would sink like a stone.” 

The threat closed in and smothered her, making her gag. With her face hidden by the robes, she hoped he would interpret her quavering voice as tearful. “We are not lovers. I wanted to be, but he would not. He is a devout Muslim and would not. I used the excuse of writing a book to come back to Egypt one more time to try to make him mine. Does that make you happy? Happy to know of my humiliation?” 

The genuine torment behind this poignant and deeply personal revelation was more convincing than any denial of espionage would have ever been. Ahmed looked up from the huddled black mass, out over the blue-green water sparkling in the sun. She could be telling the truth. He had seen how she looked at Zahar in Kom Ombo. Now that he thought about it, it did not really matter, one way or the other. He would leave her in peace. For now.

Chapter 37

Traveling the route along the western bank of the Nile presented a nerve-wracking experience, especially at night. Vehicles just stopped—right in the middle of the road—with their lights off, creating a deadly obstacle course. Top-heavy with luggage piled on the roof, the van careened around one of them to come within inches of an on-coming donkey cart, naturally not even equipped with lights. The overburdened animal, plodding at a snail’s pace, didn’t flick an ear as the van veered around it.

“I told you the roads were not good,” said Mohamed, hunched over the wheel.

“The understatement of the century,” murmured Linda in the back seat as she kept a death grip on the armrest.

Miraculously, he hadn’t crashed into any of these hazards—yet—while the van tore along the pitted, bumpy road. Well, perhaps “tore” wouldn’t be the right word. He went as fast as the treacherous circumstances would allow. With their “guide” at the wheel, no one dared complain about having the fillings jarred from their teeth.

Lights glared in the rearview mirrors as an overloaded truck came bearing down on their rear. The driver leaned maliciously on his horn as he sped maniacally past.

“These truck drivers use stimulants to stay awake,” said Mohamed through clenched teeth. “Just like in America.”

Alex, in the front passenger seat, gritted his and glared out at the road. Darkness made it difficult, even with his exceptionally good night vision, to see the next obstruction, or the gaping holes, in time to prevent the vehicle from plunging into their depths. He only hoped the damn thing held together and that the luggage, tied haphazardly to the roof, stayed put. He pointed up ahead. “Slow down.”

A wall of flashing lights stretched across the highway.

Mohamed had already seen them. “It’s the police. There’s probably a wreck. Or maybe a road block, checking for travel permits.” 

No one said a word. There hadn’t been time for them to obtain a permit.