Grains of Truth (35 page)

William Hirschfield represented all that James found unattractive. Never had he met a man so totally devoid of all charm. “Slippery Billy’s” flashy, tasteless clothes emphasized the artificial darkness of his overly-suntanned skin, suggestive of unnatural and repulsive habits. One couldn’t have a conversation of the shortest duration without his dropping at least half a dozen names of his supposed jet-set social circle.

To have to actually sit down across the table from the man pushed things to the out-and-out limit. He would, of course, do it for Alex. Especially since James had been the instigator of this sortie. According to Alex, Hirschfield was the only man who could guarantee delivery of the required weapons in such a ridiculously short timeframe.

It had been a long time since James had heard the sense of urgency—almost desperation—in his old friend’s usually dispassionate voice. This business of the kidnapping aside, their last conversation was most troubling.

What the devil was going on down there?

~

Henrietta expressed her sincere gratitude to the captain. The decrepit craft had proved as reliable as his claim. Although the journey across the Gulf turned out to be near five hours instead of the estimated three, they reached El Tor safely and without incident. He and his entire crew worked like animals to make the crossing, the captain wheedled, and their efforts should be fairly rewarded. The already exorbitant fee, interpreted Mohamed with tightly compressed lips, had almost doubled from the original amount.

There was no escape for Brad Caldwell from Henrietta’s reproachful stare. He took out his wallet and shelled out the king’s ransom to free the vehicle. 

Mohamed went to speak with several men lounging around the El Tor dock area and learned that two men, with a heavily veiled woman and another van, came across the day before, in the late afternoon. This meant they were less than twenty-four hours behind. If the others stopped for any reason, they might be able to close the gap.

If they were on the right track.

After another hair-raising episode of ejecting the van over the shaky ramp to land safely ashore, they all piled in. Brad took his turn at the wheel, with Linda up front. Everyone managed to get a few hours sleep on the boat, and Linda had the foresight to purchase enough food items to provide a basic but adequate lunch. It wasn’t exactly what she would call a festive group, but the mood improved immeasurably from only a few hours before. 

Brad drove like a demon. The others clenched their teeth and held on to anything they could grab to keep from bouncing off the walls.

~

Mariette Chatillon spent a restless night. Misgivings about events of the previous evening nibbled away at her. She’d prudently taken note of the van’s description and license number. Now she must decide what to do with that information.

Rising at dawn as usual, she downed a cup of coffee and a boiled egg before climbing up to the dig. The early hour made it impossible to place phone calls, in any case. Ragaa, already on the site, gave orders to the men. She conferred with him over the work for the day and attempted to focus on the excavation.

When they stopped for a mid-morning break, she walked back to the house. After rinsing the sand from her hands and arms, she went to the elegant French desk. Her sun-browned fingers dug through the top drawer until they located a worn leather book. She leafed through the pages, found the name and number she sought and placed a call. With a slight feeling of accomplishment, she proceeded to polish off the leftovers from last night’s dinner then returned to the site.

By four o’clock, Mariette abandoned any further attempt at work. Those amber eyes haunted her, making it impossible to concentrate. The very least she could do, she admonished herself, was to ask around down at the oasis to see what the locals may have observed. The languid pace of life in these remote villages guaranteed that any out-of-the-ordinary activity generated much interest, to be noted and discussed—usually at great and elaborate length. She called a halt to the day’s work, made a quick stab at achieving a presentable appearance, and grabbed up her keys. 

The Jeep pulled up in a great cloud of sand and dust outside the open-air café in Feiran. Another van, with a mountain of luggage piled on the roof, was parked in front. A man stood in conversation with the bent old proprietor in the shade of the palm frond roof. A group of tourists sat around a table under a nearby gazebo. Numerous bottles of water cluttered the table, where a serious debate appeared to be in progress.

~

The old man pointed at the woman getting out of the Jeep and Mohamed turned to look in her direction. “Shukran,” he mumbled, tossing coins in the outstretched hand. “Bonjour, Madame,” he called out as he closed the distance between them. After a few brief words, spoken in French, Mariette dug in her pocket and produced the charm. She was taken aback at the quick descent on Mohamed’s face from anxiousness to angst.

In this stranger’s palm lay the golden angel he’d given Julia as a token of his love. He snatched it up and rushed to the others.

“She was here.” He held out the charm. “She left this.”

The pronouncement landed like a heavy, dead weight. Mariette noticed with interest how his hand closed tightly around the charm. “She wore it on a chain around her neck. Never took it off. It was either left as a clue—or lost in a struggle. She would never have been careless with it. Never.”

Sarah nodded grim affirmation as she glanced at Alex. His face was a blank.

Everyone at the table snapped to attention and listened raptly as the French woman repeated the events of the previous evening. 

Alexander looked down at his watch, exerting strict control over the pounding in his ears. Julia lived. And she’d had the presence of mind to leave this clue. “If they left around one this morning, they’re fourteen hours ahead. We’re closing the gap.”

“And if they had engine trouble,” said Sarah in a voice filled with contagious hope, “maybe they’ll break down again.”

The rescue party scrambled to collect their belongings and sprinted for the van.

Mariette grabbed Alex’s arm. “I will go with you.”

He forced himself to stop. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Monsieur, vicious bastards like these killed my husband. I will come. Besides, I know the road. And I am a friendly face to this ‘Sharif.’” She’d been powerless to prevent the death of her husband. The idea of helping to save another victim offered a form of retribution—a respite from her feelings of grief and despair.

The soldier’s strategically-trained mind clicked on. Her encounter with “Sharif” might provide a crucial diversion when—if—the time came.

~

The van followed the Jeep up the hill and Mariette went to a stone hut where she found Ragaa with some of the other men. She told him she would be leaving unexpectedly, possibly for several days. After instructing him on how to proceed in her absence, she sprinted back to the house, where she quickly packed a small valise. Throwing whatever food supplies came to hand into a wicker basket and grabbing up a first-aid kit, she locked the door and joined the group waiting impatiently in the shade of the veranda.

“I will lead the way,” she announced. “One of you should ride with me.” 

Mohamed stepped up, but Henrietta mused out loud, “Perhaps it would be best if it was someone they wouldn’t recognize.” Everyone understood what she meant. If they suddenly came upon the kidnappers, a familiar face would give them away in an instant.

And that instant could prove fatal for Julia. It came down to Brad, Linda and Sarah, all of whom eagerly volunteered. Linda broke the stalemate. “It should be a professional and it should be a woman. We’re less likely to be considered a threat.” She grinned. “Especially here in macho-land.”

They clambered into the two vehicles and tore down the hill. Mariette needed no prodding to set a rapid pace. The memory of those haunted eyes still burned in her brain. In the van, Alex and Brad shouted to be heard over the roar of the engine and the wind. The good news was that they were on the right track and narrowing the gap.

The bad news was the call Mariette had made earlier that day.

Chapter 42

Abdel Handoussa exited glass doors at the front of the enormous brown building on Tahrir Square in the heart of Cairo. The complex, with manic traffic swirling around it, housed thousands of the bureaucrats that clog the Egyptian government. People swarmed through the series of metal detectors, mostly failing to remove anything from their pockets, which constantly set off the alarms. The security guards, whose job it was to see that they did, took no notice. Boys bearing trays of drinks and snacks wove their way through the throngs pouring in and out in various stages of agitation and aggravation, adding to the general turmoil. It could take a novice days to even discover where he needed to go within the labyrinth, much less to resolve the problem that drove him there.

Handoussa chewed thoughtfully on the toothpick protruding from his thick lips as he crossed the chaotic street. It had been a while since he’d come across any information that might be of interest to the Brothers. Information they might be willing to pay for, in any case. He was not what one might call “dedicated to the cause.” After all, he rationalized, he had a family to support. If he could help the Brothers and earn a little extra on the side, that was all to the good.

His government-provided university education led to a position with the police force where his climb to the middle of the vague lines of hierarchy was tiresome—and slow. Not that he was particularly ambitious. His current position in Intelligence provided excellent opportunities to supplement his income. The captain to whom he reported was either unaware of his entrepreneurial activities, or he turned a blind eye to them. Handoussa didn’t know which and didn’t much care. 

The call came in that morning. He informed the French archeologist that, unfortunately, his superior was out of the office for a few days. Could he do anything to help? Mariette hesitated briefly but decided it best to leave a message. Perhaps Monsieur Handoussa could reach the captain and relay it? Certainly, he said, he would do his best. Most fortuitous, he thought once again.

Mariette and Captain (then Lieutenant) Rashwan had met several years before during an investigation of antiquities smuggling. She’d provided valuable information that led to the successful break-up of the illicit operation, which resulted in a promotion for Rashwan. A mutual regard sustained their relationship and they stayed in occasional touch. She felt confident in expressing her qualms about the “newlyweds” and relaying the vehicle’s description and license plate number to him.

It was simply serendipitous for Handoussa to have taken the call in his superior’s absence. It was nothing short of uncanny that the vehicle in question had been part of a shipment of merchandise he’d overseen through Customs last year.

A container full of stolen cars, vans, motorcycles and various miscellaneous electronics had come from Japan. Such deliveries arrived a couple of times a year, and the Brothers were often interested in purchasing the vehicles, since they were difficult to trace. Handoussa happened to remember that particular vehicle because he’d been the one to arrange for the new license plate—stolen, of course.

He swaggered into the coffee shop, removing aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses. Groppi’s was one of his favorite haunts. Once the most famous café, tearoom and patisserie in Egypt, it had been “the place” to be seen by Cairene society in the 1920s all the way through the early 1950s. Today it was a mediocre shadow of its former glory but continued to serve delicious pastries.

Handoussa ordered a coffee with cream and an assortment of cookies and sprawled back in a chair to wait. Powdered sugar drifted down onto his protruding belly as he greedily contemplated how much this tidbit of information might be worth.

~

Ahmed stood by the side of the road in the pre-dawn light, cursing silently. Smoke billowed from the engine. His dark eyes clouded, foretelling the imminence of a great storm. “Can it be fixed?”

  Faoud’s mouth twisted into the usual scar. “It must cool. Then I add more oil. But it will happen again.”

Ahmed turned away sharply, flipping open his mobile phone. He offered no word of greeting as a voice answered. “Get another vehicle. One that runs. Meet us in Wadi Ghazala.” 

Without further comment, he disconnected and stalked back to the van. It was his own fault. They could have easily hired a newer, more reliable vehicle. His innate sense of prudence had led him to use this piece of crap. Anything too new might attract undue attention. Now, stranded here beside the road, they might not only attract attention but could delay the operation. He cursed under his breath as he yanked open the back door.

Julia flinched at the sudden noise. She’d been lost in thought at the possible ramifications of another delay. It could only be good news for her, she thought—until she caught sight of her abductor’s face. Instinctively, she shrank back with dread. Up until now, his treatment of her had been respectful, above reproach. This new ferocity sent a spasm of alarm vibrating to her toes.

“Get out.”

A sense of self-preservation told her to do as ordered—without comment or delay. He addressed a few curt words to his accomplice before slinging a rucksack over his shoulder and taking a firm grip on her arm. He led her away from the road out into the rocky desert. Jagged red mountains surrounded them on all sides. The going was tough, especially in the thin-soled ballet slipper-style shoes Julia wore to that memorable dinner by the pool in Aswan, a lifetime ago.