Grains of Truth (34 page)

“Shall we finish sifting the baskets, Madame?” Ragaa, a most reliable and knowledgeable fellow, Bedouin by birth, led the workmen with dependable dedication and skill.

“Bokra,” she called back. “It can wait for tomorrow.” In spite of his thoroughness, she hated not being around in case anything of interest turned up. Having to drive down to Feiran, the nearby and largest oasis in Sinai, was a bother, but she’d promised to deliver medicines to one of the Bedouin families there. The children were always coming down with something, and medical care in the area was practically nonexistent. 

She plodded across the rocky sand to a modest stone-and-mudbrick house. One large room served as living room, dining area and kitchen, with two bedrooms and a utilitarian bath chamber completing the home-away-from-home. An eclectic array of furnishings—comprised of priceless, well-worn rugs from throughout the region, local crafts and French antiques—created layers of interest and a cozy comfort. Two large amphorae—the two-handled, narrow-necked, swollen-bellied vessels used throughout the Mediterranean since the 15th century B.C.E.—stood in far corners of the room. It gave Mariette an inspiring sense of connection with the past to fill the porous ceramic vases with water, as had been done for thousands of years, so that the evaporation served as natural air-conditioning in the oppressive dry heat.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior after the harsh sunlight, but her movements didn’t falter as she went to the kitchen sink. She knew the exact number of steps from one place to another in the compact space.

Before her husband of over twenty years, also an eminent archeologist, died, they’d kept a lovely—much grander—house down near the oasis. Two years before, while visiting relatives in Israel, he was killed by a Palestinian suicide bomber. Now living and working alone, Mariette found this arrangement much easier, to be right on the edge of the dig. And it spared her some of the reminders and haunting memories, at times unbearably sad, of her married life. C’est la vie; life goes on.

She vigorously washed her gritty hands under the running faucet then splashed cool water on her face. After several long drinks of bottled water from the refrigerator, she dragged a comb through her hair. Bon. The rest could wait until her return. 

Her dented wreck of a Jeep started on the first try. Although not much to look at, it was well-matched to the challenging terrain. Most vehicles deteriorated rapidly in this hostile environment. A rasping noise assaulted the air with the shift of gears; a cloud of dust blew up behind as she roared down the hill.

She delivered the medicine and explained patiently how it was to be administered. The mother thanked her profusely and insisted on filling her basket with dates from the oasis as a token of gratitude. Mariette, anxious now for her bath and dinner, placed the basket on the back seat, climbed behind the wheel and bent to the ignition. As she leaned forward, the rear view mirror reflected a common sight: A van, turned off the main road, pulled over to the side. Great clouds of black smoke billowed from the engine.

She watched as a Middle Eastern man, in Western dress, stepped out from the driver’s side. His passengers remained where they were. He went to open the engine door and more black smoke poured out, sending him into a coughing fit.

“Mon dieu.” Mariette shook her head. Engine trouble in this out-of-the-way place could be a serious problem. There were no services for miles. It had happened to her many a time. She got out of the Jeep and walked toward the van, calling out good-naturedly, “Bon jour, monsieur. May I be of assistance to you?”  

Inside the van, Faoud turned in his seat. “One word from you and the woman dies.”

Julia had no doubt he meant what he said. The sack no longer covered her head under the burqa. But, even with her vision still impaired by the woven grill, she read the unmistakable menace on his repugnant face.

“Bon jour,” replied Ahmed. He glanced back at the defunct vehicle. “It appears we do have a problem.” He bestowed one of his devastating smiles.  

They agreed that Faoud would remain with the van. Ahmed used his mobile phone to call for help, but who knew when it might arrive? Mariette generously offered the comfort of her humble home to the driver and the woman accompanying him while they awaited assistance, which would most probably not be until tomorrow. If they were lucky.

“I am Sharif,” said Ahmed smoothly, “and this my wife, Omayma.” He helped Julia from the backseat, exerting a cruel grip on her arm. The warning was unnecessary. She had no intention of being the cause of harm to this stranger and kept her eyes, behind the woven grill, lowered to the ground as “Sharif” led her to the Jeep.

~

Mariette, alert with a growing curiosity, regarded the heavily veiled woman as they entered the house. Ahmed spoke to her in fluent French.

“My wife comes from an isolated region of Saudi Arabia and speaks an obscure dialect.” He shrugged as he added, “As she speaks no other language, this makes it impossible for her to join in our conversation.”

An indefinable note of discord surrounding the shrouded figure piqued the French woman’s interest. For one thing, she was too tall. For another, a glimpse of her ankles when she got out of the Jeep revealed skin much paler than one would expect.

No, there was definitely something not quite right about this.

Having spent many years traveling and working throughout the Middle East, Mariette knew better than to question or challenge the authority of the male figure. Subtlety would be required here if she was to learn anything about this peculiar situation. She offered refreshments, for which Ahmed expressed courteous thanks.

“Would it be possible for my wife to rest in one of the bedrooms? She’s finding the long and difficult journey rather exhausting.” His dark, hypnotic eyes settled on Mariette’s. “She is accustomed to the harem, in any case, and would prefer to take her meal in solitude.”

Bedazzled, as intended, Mariette showed them to the guest room and discreetly returned to the kitchen to begin preparing the evening meal. 

“Very good, Madame Julia,” Ahmed whispered, his warm breath penetrating the fabric covering her ear. “Remain silent and no harm will come to our amiable hostess.” Her eyes followed his movements as he made a quick search of the room, removing a pen and notepad from the nightstand drawer. 

When he returned to the main room, Mariette gestured for him to be seated at the table. Her frank stare of admiration for his manly virtues prompted the corners of his lips to lift, further enhancing his chiseled features. Ahmed knew how to use his assets to best advantage. He’d had plenty of practice. They came in handy in circumstances such as this, and he exhibited them with a practiced ease.

They chatted while she worked. When the dinner was ready, Mariette picked up a neatly laid tray and turned toward the door leading to the back of the house. “I will take your bride her dinner, oui?”

Ahmed’s chair, tilted back on two legs, rocked forward as he sprang from it like a panther to block her way. “Merci, madame.” He reached for the tray. “Allow me.”

Mariette froze, startled by the unspoken threat.

He found Julia exactly as he’d left her, sitting on the edge of the bed. Placing the tray on a table next to it, he raised her to her feet to lift the burqa before whispering, “You must eat with your wrists bound, I am afraid. Not that that will stop you from doing anything foolish.” He smiled sweetly. “The only thing that will prevent that is the knowledge that I will not hesitate to kill you both.”

~

All in all, it was a most enjoyable evening. Mariette served a simple and delicious meal of lamb stewed with vegetables and couscous. Ahmed entertained her with tales of his years at school in England and his mythical life in Saudi Arabia. She’d received her doctorate at Oxford and they reminisced of happy years spent at the venerable institution.

“Ah, yes,” nodded Ahmed, “most of the valuable lessons I learned there also came from outside the classroom.”

Mariette, feeling the comfort of camaraderie, ventured to ask, “You have recently been married, Monsieur Sharif?”

“Yes, at her family’s home. We were betrothed many years ago.” He shrugged with brilliantly feigned indifference. “An arranged marriage, of course.”

Try as she might, Mariette failed to coerce further information about the shy bride. Midnight approached as the two sat on divans, sipping a final cup of excellently-brewed Turkish coffee and nibbling dates from the oasis when a musical tone jingled in his shirt pocket. Ahmed removed his mobile phone.

“Ah, Shukran,” he murmured, “shukran.” He snapped the instrument closed and switched on the smile. “The vehicle is repaired. I must reluctantly bid you adieu.”

Mariette raised a skeptical brow. “You must have excellent connections, Monsieur.”

Ahmed opened the door of the back room to find his “bride” curled up on the bed, feet bare and eyes closed. Even with her hands securely bound, she’d somehow managed to remove the black robe. The open neck of the drab khaki shirt exposed several inches of smooth, creamy skin. Her shiny auburn hair fanned out across a snowy white pillowcase. She was, he thought with a twinge of regret, such a lovely woman. 

Crossing noiselessly to the bed, he sat close, took her hands in one of his and simultaneously placed a finger to her lips. Startled eyes flew open, clouded with bewilderment and alarm, evidently not at first remembering. He leaned down and sent a chill along her spine as his lips brushed her ear. “Do not speak,” he whispered, “I will help you into the robes. Keep your eyes down.”

She obeyed without a sound. Once again certain she would be anonymous beneath the robes, he led her to the door. Sorrow tangled with hope as Julia looked back at the bed—at the message she’d left there. He guided her outside to the waiting Jeep and helped her into the back seat.

Mariette fired up the beast and rolled off to return her unexpected guests to their fortuitously repaired vehicle. At the bottom of the hill, she slowed for the turn. Lights from an oncoming truck on the main road illuminated the Jeep and she hit the brakes, automatically glancing in the rearview mirror.

Flashing eyes met hers—so startling, she almost gasped out loud. The message there was not that of a blushing Saudi Arabian bride. A fierce intensity burned from these pools of amber fire. And sent a clear, desperate signal. A signal of heart-stopping anguish.

A frantic cry for help.

~

Mariette dropped off her intriguing guests and returned to the house.  A powerful sense of urgency drew her to the room where the mysterious woman had spent the evening in seclusion. Her dinner tray sat on the table, without a crumb left on the plate. The coverlet on the bed was rumpled but had not been pulled back. As she bent to straighten it, her hand came in contact with a metal object. She lifted the pillow to find a broken gold chain.

Next to the chain lay a beautiful gold charm, in the shape of an angel. 

Chapter 41

James Marshall was exasperated. Exasperated in the extreme. With the intelligence report passed along through proper channels, there remained nothing left for him to do—as far as his government was concerned, in any case. He’d been personally congratulated by the PM for his foresight in sending Commander Bryant to Egypt.

Nonetheless, Alexander walked a fine line here. To actually arrange for the delivery of arms to known terrorists constituted a capital crime. At the very least, Alex could end up in a prison cell, taking James along with him. The idea held very little appeal for Sir James. He was too damn old to be expected to give up the creature comforts of which he had become inordinately fond. Hardship was considered part of the territory during his active days with MI-6, and he, along with his compatriots, wore the inconveniences and injuries like badges of honor. But that time had long since passed.

He emitted one of his mighty sighs as he reached for the phone.

“Good afternoon. Greystone Manor,” said the meticulously pretentious voice at the other end of the line.

“Is that Willoughby?” inquired James, pressing on without waiting for a reply. “Master James here. Is the Mrs. about?”

“Good afternoon, sir. No. I’m sorry, sir. Madam has gone down to the village. It’s her afternoon for tea at the vicarage. After which she planned to attend her yoga class.”

The disparaging inflection placed upon the word “yoga” made clear Willoughby’s aversion for something he found questionable, if not downright reprehensible. He perpetually projected a hint of recrimination, as if Lord and Lady Marshall were always committing obscure but unpardonable social faux pas.

With no small amount of relief at not having to make excuses directly to his wife, James instructed his officious butler. “Well, let her know the moment she returns that I shan’t be home this evening.” He could feel disapproval flowing down the wire. “I’ll be stopping overnight at the flat in town.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Shall I inform Madam that you will ring her later?” he suggested inappropriately.

“No. Just give her the message. That’s all.” He slammed down the phone. Damned insolent man. Should’ve fired him years ago. Thinks he runs the place. Rubbing a bristly chin, James dismissed that irritation and forced his attention back to the other. Once again picking up the phone, he punched in the number scribbled on a pad before him.