Grains of Truth (40 page)

Chapter 46

Sigmund Freud had called religion “the universal obsessive neurosis.” Julia, although brought up and confirmed as an Episcopalian, no longer thought of herself as a Christian at all. It wasn’t that she considered herself an atheist, or even an agnostic. Her belief was simple: that somewhere in the universe there was a power on the side of right.

Organized religion, in her opinion, often fell short of honoring that power. It was inconceivable to her to imagine how God—any God—could condone the acts committed in His name down through the centuries, up to the present day. She believed in the honesty and sincerity of the prophets: Jesus, Mohamed, the Buddha. Their intentions, doubtlessly, were honorable and good; but she feared that, over time, their messages had been grossly distorted by their followers to suit their own purposes.  

Islamic Jihadists around the world blew themselves up with increasing regularity, murdering thousands of innocent people, to further their cause of creating Islamic states. Muslims cheered in the streets by the millions when planes were flown into the World Trade Center towers and the Pentagon.

The Jewish people of Israel believed they were justified in forcing the Palestinians from their homes into refugee camps—and killing in retaliation when the Palestinians protested—because “God had given Israel to the Jews.”

And then there was Christianity. So many acts of brutality and destruction were committed over the centuries in the name of Jesus Christ—from the Crusades to the Spanish Inquisition to the Salem Witch Hunts—it boggled the mind.

And it saddened the heart.

The “leader of the free world” proclaimed that his direction for military invasions of other countries—resulting in death for tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands— came directly from God. This uncompromising religious righteousness and insistence of entitlement from every corner was surely going to be the death of us all, Julia thought bitterly—and not for the first time.

These dark thoughts rumbled through her mind like a churning locomotive as she watched the young militant set up a video camera. Light from a row of narrow, high windows near the roof illuminated the procedure quite clearly. Through the dirty glass she could see white clouds, tinged with gray, rolling across a robin’s-egg blue sky. The distinctive scent of the sea wafted through the air.

Her hands and feet were once again securely bound and a gag, thankfully not too tight, covered her mouth. A worn Turkish rug lay on the floor in a corner, with one straight chair in its center. Several automatic rifles, along with a long, heavy-looking sword, stood propped against the cracked, peeling wall on either side of the chair. The camera, on a tripod, pointed towards it.

Julia had no doubt whatsoever as to the purpose of this set-up. The news these days regularly carried images of kidnap victims—bound and pleading for rescue—while surrounded by men in hoods concealing fanatical features. The captors invariably proclaimed their righteousness and enumerated their demands. More often than not, deliverance failed and the murdered victims were found later, frequently with the head severed from its mutilated body.

A creaking door in the outer room announced a new arrival. The young man gave Julia a menacing look of implicit warning as he grabbed up one of the weapons, poised for fire. 

Shortly thereafter, Ahmed floated through a wide-open doorway to pause in a pool of sunlight. Resplendent in a fresh, clean white robe, he presented a spiritual sight. After a cursory glance at the cameraman, he projected a sweet and reassuring smile as he approached the table where Julia sat. He snapped his fingers at another man who followed behind.  

A plastic bag thumped onto the table. Ahmed reached in and removed a rectangular object. Julia stared dumbly for a moment before registering what he held in his outstretched hand: her cocktail bag—the one she took to dinner at the hotel in Aswan. With all that had transpired in the hellish hours since, she’d forgotten all about it. Confused, she frowned as she looked up into Ahmed’s serene face.

“There has been a change in plan.”

A new idea came to him with his prayers. The shame he felt for his fleeting moment of uncertainty—that strange moment in the desert—nagged at his conscience. He also repented for the shameful desire that now welled up inside his rebellious body each time he looked upon this tempting woman.

The startling, crushing need he experienced when her held her foot in his hands had made him as hard as a rock. If Faoud hadn’t called out from across the sand, he felt certain he would have taken her right there on the blanket. The uncontrollable urge overshadowed everything else, leaving only the carnal desire to feel her firm breasts beneath him as he plunged himself deep inside her, again and again. Even now, as he looked down at her in this sterile building, he felt his manhood stir.

He entertained the notion that she desired him as well. He could see the yearning in her eyes. If she could be made to believe he’d developed real feelings for her, perhaps she could be of even better use to him, better use to the cause.

Julia stretched out stiff hands to touch the satiny purse lying on the table, as he bent to remove the cord around her ankles. Rising gracefully, he placed a hand under her elbow to help her stand. “Come, Julia, let us go to more comfortable surroundings.”

She glanced back over her shoulder while being led, limping, from the cavernous warehouse, to see the young man strip the camera from its tripod and viciously kick the wires aside.

~

The catamaran’s engine pulsed beneath his feet as the boat skimmed across iridescent turquoise-blue water. Benjamin Richter stood as far forward as the crew would allow, the early morning wind blasting his solemn face.

Crossing over might be a mistake. They might be entirely on the wrong track.

It was not difficult to acquire two Jordanian passports. Entering Egypt as Israelis would be like sending up a red flare. The Jordanian authorities were most cooperative, not only by providing the false documents, but also sharing their intelligence file on Faoud Arabiyat. Before he’d joined Hamas, his shady background was that of a typical career criminal. No act of hatred or violence seemed too low. The photograph taken after his arrest in Egypt presented the disturbing image of a ruthless killer.

“Sir? Might I have a word?”

The commander consciously cleared doubt from his features before turning around. Although Joshoa had excelled in his training in espionage, Benjamin found it difficult to picture the limpid brown eyes in the innocent young face as those of the lethal operative he now must be. Benjamin had hesitated before bringing him along. The fact was, he needed to act quickly and could not afford to go into what might become an explosive situation without backup.

In the end, the deciding factor was Joshoa’s flawless command of Arabic, spoken with a distinct Jordanian dialect. As a boy, he’d spent several years with relatives in the diplomatic service in Amman. Benjamin now placed both hands on his subordinate’s shoulders and spoke close to his ear.

“From now on, speak only in Arabic, even if you think no one else can hear.” 

With not the slightest hesitation, Joshoa slipped into that language to inform his superior that the captain had approved them to be among the first to disembark. As the boat approached Nuweiba, they returned to the enclosed passenger area. A few minutes later, the cat glided smoothly up to the dock. They passed through Customs without incident. One of the Jordanian Intelligence officers had briefed them on the most likely locations to begin information gathering. Predictably, the first stop was one of the myriad coffee shops that punctuated the center of town.

In this delicate matter, the two Israelis knew they walked a hazardously thin line between immediacy and caution.

~

Mohamed’s phone rang, startling them all as they sat around a table at one of the waterfront restaurants. Sarah twitched at the sound and Henrietta patted her arm.

“They’re leaving the warehouse.” Linda’s low voice came through the instrument. “I’m following right behind.”

The connection went dead. Mohamed jumped up as he relayed the brief message.

“Wait,” urged Brad. “Linda knows what she’s doing. She’ll call back.”

Several tense moments of silence dragged by. Mohamed answered almost before the phone rang a second time. In a split second, with a look of aggravation, he passed it to Brad.

“Go ahead,” Brad said then listened while the others sat rigid in their chairs.

“Understood. On the way.” He flipped the phone closed, at the same time placing a firm hand on Mohamed’s shoulder as he once again started to rise. “Hold on.” He relayed Linda’s report that the house where Julia was taken wasn’t far away and repeated the directions. “We need to stick to the plan. I’ll relieve Linda. All of you go back to the motel.”

Chapter 47

The disguising and disabling burqa was replaced for the short drive. Without the use of her hands, still bound before her, Julia couldn’t raise the skirts, which caused her to stumble getting out of the car. She made use of the opportunity to steal a look around. A high wall surrounded several buildings inside a compound. Ahmed led her through a gate, up the path to a two-story mudbrick house.

The routine was the same: He escorted her to a room, the outer garments were removed and amenities provided. But there, the pattern changed. An old-fashioned claw-footed bathtub sat invitingly in a corner, filled with water. A stack of thick, fresh towels stood on a table beside it. And a beautiful, expensive-looking white silk robe hung from a peg on the wall.

“I thought you might enjoy a bath. There is soap and shampoo. If you require anything else, tell me now.”

She met his benevolent gaze across the bed and felt a prickle of alarm. As if reading her mind he added, “You may lock the door from inside. I will post a guard in the hall. No one will disturb you.” 

“Thank you.” Under the circumstances, the perfunctory polite response struck her as particularly absurd.

The door shut behind him. Julia crossed the room, rubbing her arms in an attempt to rid herself of the uneasy feeling, and pulled the heavy bolt. She leaned back against the door and struggled for calm.

Something had changed here. It was clear in his eyes. The fervent light behind those dark windows to his soul were replaced with. . .what? Not desire, as she’d first feared. It was something else. It was more like calculation. She looked over at the bed, to her satin purse lying there. 

It contained little when she left the hotel that night, only her valuables and what she might want during dinner: a lipstick, her wallet with a considerable amount of cash and, of course, her passport. One was advised to always carry one’s passport in Egypt. First stroking the soft fabric, she dumped out the contents onto the bed. Everything was still there, including all the cash.

“Incredible,” she whispered, thinking of the irony of these men who would not break Allah’s law governing theft, while planning to commit genocide. 

Still pondering this new puzzle, she wondered why the purse was returned to her now. The question circled in her weary brain as she slowly removed the now dirty, wrinkled khaki clothes. The unwinding of the scarf from her waist—her talisman— brought an illogical, nonetheless welcome, sense of consolation before she eased into the tub.

Bathing felt like being reborn. She ducked her head under the cool, rose-scented water and held her breath as her hair fanned out around her face, like that of a mermaid. The anxiety and terror of the past hours and days drifted away in the water, leaving her in a state of numb relief.

The feel of the robe’s soft silk next to her clean skin further induced the curious sense of well-being. After toweling her hair, she sat on the bed, back against the carved wooden headboard, legs stretched out on the pale-yellow cotton spread. Drowsiness descended, rendering her incapable of further comprehensive thought. Her fresh-smelling and still slightly damp hair spread across silk-clad shoulders. Her eyes closed in blissful mindlessness. 

A quiet knock at the door nearly stopped her heart. She started violently, instantly hurtled back to bleak reality, and went to tug open the cold metal bolt. Ahmed carried in a tray brimming with food. He placed it on a table by the window, pulled out a chair, and motioned for her to sit.

“Come. Join me.”

Delicious aromas rose from a platter of grilled shrimp, surrounded by bowls of hummus, olives, salad and fresh, still-warm flatbread. As he poured a glass of chilled white wine for her, Julia noticed the fluid movements of his long, slender fingers. They were both now garbed in flowing white robes. The scene struck her as incongruously domestic.

“I have been thinking about what you said, Julia. What you said in the desert.” He fixed her with seductive eyes. “You may be right about there being another way. But I need you, need your help.” He reached across the table to take her hand. “I need you to accompany me out of Egypt. If I remain here, I will surely be arrested. In captivity, there will be nothing I can do to try and moderate my Brothers.”

Julia found herself ensnared by his intensity, unable to look away.

“In my native Jordan, I can arrange to meet with them to propose other ways to achieve our goals. All I ask is that you accompany me across the Gulf to Aqaba on the catamaran. No one will question us with you traveling as my American fiancée. After that, you will be free to go.