Grains of Truth (6 page)

Sleep came at long last, and when Julia awoke in the early dawn it was with a clear resolve to undertake this next journey. It must be, she concluded, one of life’s never-ending tests.

Chapter 8

Alexander Bryant stepped from the black London cab in front of the Connaught Hotel and walked briskly to the entrance. The doorman, splendid in a silky black top hat and immaculate white gloves, greeted him by name as he ceremoniously opened the door. Alexander in turn thanked him by name and strode purposefully through the lobby, which had more the air of an ambassadorial residence than an exclusive hotel.

He paused at the entrance of the main dining room to scan its occupants for his luncheon appointment. One of the city’s most respected and time-honored eateries, paneled in old mahogany and comfortable in understated elegance, the room perfectly reflected the grandeur of its one-hundred-and-fifty-year history. According to tradition, the tables were set with seasonal flowers, polished antique silver and sparkling crystal. Today, brilliant deep purple and pale yellow tulips stood out against crisp white linen cloths. One could easily imagine royalty seated among the distinguished guests, as they frequently were.

Zeroing in on the man he sought, Alexander worked his way through the tables to one by the window. Leave it to James to commandeer the best spot in the room.

“Good day to you, Mr. Marshall,” he said as the rotund, rosy-cheeked Englishman rose to grasp his hand.

“Alex, my boy! Very good of you to come, and on such short notice, very good indeed.” Collapsing back in his chair, James added, “I say, you’re looking quite fit, and about time, too.”

Alexander inwardly winced at the abbreviation of his name but, after all these years, he’d become resigned to it, more or less. He strategically chose a chair backed to the wall, which provided a full view of the other diners as well as the entrance. A force of habit, this placed him next to his companion rather than across, as he felt more at ease in having complete awareness of all that transpired around him. 

“Well, I’ve somehow managed to stay at home for more than a few hours at a time. It’s a distinct pleasure to wake up in my own bed for a change. And how do the Marshalls fare these days?”

“Excellent, excellent,” replied James as he signaled the waiter for menus. “Went abroad for all of August. Rented a lovely cottage in the south of France and had a proper holiday. First one in several years. Liz was over the moon. Had the damnedest time getting her to come back to what she calls ‘the daily grind.’ Doesn’t seem to realize she’s living the Life of Riley.”  

Alexander had to agree. The Marshalls resided on an ancestral estate: a grand thirty-room Georgian manor on over a hundred acres of magnificent country gardens in the heart of Gloucestershire, the entirety tended, as expected, by an army of staff. Picturing life there “a daily grind” certainly did challenge the imagination.

“Let’s order straight away, shall we? Then we can talk.” James took the red leather folder embossed in gold bearing the tempting offers of the day.

Angela Hartnett’s Menu, as the dining salon was now called after its illustrious chef, was known far and wide as one of London’s finest eating establishments. James took his culinary experiences seriously, as his ever-expanding waistline testified, and was always more than happy to play host in their pursuit—especially when he sought something in return. 

Alexander watched with amusement as the gourmand queried the waiter on several points and then, after the food had been meticulously selected, spent a considerable amount of time in choosing the proper libations to complement it. He faithfully adhered to the custom of his countrymen in enjoying abundant spirits with the midday repast.

This presented a challenge for Alexander. Of course he wanted to appear an appreciative guest but found that downing large quantities of alcohol in the middle of the day could be problematic. Once, after an especially overindulgent episode, he had “fallen asleep” on the train home and awakened several stops past his own. He now practiced strict control over his consumption during daylight hours. 

“Fine, now then,” said James with satisfaction while rubbing well-padded hands in anticipation, “how’s business these days?”

One of James’s more likeable qualities, as far as Alexander was concerned, was his habit of getting right down to the issue at hand. Here in “jolly olde” England, it usually took several meetings for the crux of the matter to even be introduced. He still occasionally found himself grinding his teeth as the latest cricket match was dissected ad infinitum.

“My business, as you might imagine, has never been better,” he replied with the slightest hint of regret. “Thanks to your lead in Somalia, I bought that Italian villa I’ve had my eye on. And circled the globe at least three times since then.”

Alexander Bryant preferred to think of himself as more of a military advisor than an arms dealer. Strictly speaking, he didn’t sell weapons. He developed strategic defense plans for struggling countries, wealthy families and individuals and then put them in contact with those, like Slippery Billy Hirschfield, who could provide his recommendations. After all, he rationalized, if every illiterate red-neck in the U.S. could brandish a shotgun at the slightest provocation or “hunt” game with an AK-47, why shouldn’t people living in violent communities rife with civil unrest have the means to protect their property and loved ones?  

Most of his clients were wealthy beyond imagining, to be sure, but the rich were no different than anyone else. It was just that their wealth allowed them to further develop their desires, as well as their eccentricities and failings. But that was not Alexander’s concern. He provided a service—no more, no less. It was, in his precise military-trained way of thinking, a black and white situation.

James harrumphed as he shook his head. “Oh, yes, I can well imagine. These are turbulent times, my boy, turbulent times. Violence is a frightening reality these days and each of us must do what we must.”  

He was presumably quite current on his country’s activities in “doing what they must” in this area, due to his long-standing position as a member of the House of Lords. And his years spent in military service had left extensive connections throughout the intelligence community. James had also been discreetly involved in a number of Alexander’s transactions, to their mutual financial benefit. The extra income went a long way in subsidizing the upkeep of his princely country estate, and made possible holidays in “cottages” like the one in France. The fact of these exceedingly lucrative collaborations was not widely known.

They sat back in their comfortably upholstered chairs as chilled plates of Scottish sea scallops in lime and cucumber marinade were placed before them. Lord Marshall examined the dish with a critical eye before reaching for his fork. Alexander sipped the splendid Semillon Blanc from the Loire Valley and waited. The man definitely had an agenda. Best to let him proceed at his own pace.

After reveling in a succulent bite, the Englishman sighed with satisfaction. “Alex, we’re of the same mind on these matters, as we’ve discussed before. In the past, we’ve collaborated and been more than satisfied with the results.”

He reached for his wine, taking an appreciative sip. “Things change now from day to day, sometimes moment to moment, or so it seems. Even the rules are changing and it’s damned difficult to know who is on whose side. When things go wrong, fingers point in every direction. Our right is someone else’s wrong—our truth, someone else’s lie.”  

Murmurs from diners at nearby tables filled the momentary lapse in James’s philosophical observations. Then he cut straight to it.

“A dodgy situation’s popped up down in Egypt and you naturally came to mind. Needless to say, this is all very hush-hush. Seems that a group within the Muslim Brotherhood is planning a show, perhaps a rather big show. Don’t have the full picture yet, but they are definitely in the market for some merchandise and appear to be particularly well-funded.”

Had it been possible, Alexander would have sat up straighter in his chair. “I was under the impression that Mubarak’s boys had driven the militant arm of the Brotherhood underground and were having a hard time following their activities these days.”

“Yes, yes, that’s true enough. Even so, seems you Yanks managed to get a few well-placed moles in line before they went to ground.” He waved his fork to punctuate. “One of the regulars, working for your boys but known to the Egyptians, has disappeared. In the meantime, the buyers are getting anxious. They need the merchandise soon to keep the show on schedule.” 

He paused as Alexander’s guarded eyes warned of the waiters’ approach. After whisking away the empty plates, they presented a tantalizing caramelized moulard of duck breast with a flourish, and a jewel-like ’83 Chateau Ausone Saint Emilion cascaded into his host’s fresh glass. Alexander knew the price of this particular vintage to be well over three-hundred dollars a bottle. This was superb salesmanship indeed. James closed his eyes and inhaled the fruity aroma, indicated approval and waited for the servers to retreat.

“It might be a good idea for you to nip down and have a look ’round. I know I don’t have to tell you the edge you have over the other boys. And one never knows what possibilities might develop.”

The two men sat in silence for several long moments, thoughtfully chewing the tasty fowl and savoring the fine wine. Although little had actually been said, they both fully understood the implications—as well as the ramifications—any number of actions might bring. Alexander was the first to speak.

“Of course, this would be a solo operation.” His eyes narrowed as he added, “with the utmost discretion.” These were statements, not questions.

Raised bushy eyebrows and a slight nod constituted his only answer.

“James, my friend, you possess, as always, a great deal of information that would send any number of governments, especially Washington, into a state of pandemonium.”

The other man shrugged at what he clearly considered a compliment and sipped the silvery-red liquid.

Once the outstanding meal had reached its conclusion and the proper accolades bestowed, Alexander said circumspectly, “Give me some time to think about it, all right?”

“Bloody little time is what you’ll have. In order to make the connection, you’ll have to be on your way to Cairo by tomorrow afternoon.”

Chapter 9

Julia sat on the edge of the sleek leather sofa next to Brad Caldwell. His jacket hung squarely on a hanger on the back of the office door, leaving him looking disarmingly harmless in a perfectly pressed shirt of light blue that softened that of his eyes. He opened and turned on a laptop computer on the coffee table as he spoke in a brisk, business-as-usual tone.

“Okay. You’ll carry this with you. It contains files for the book you’re supposedly writing, in case anyone should check. “It has special software here,” he pointed to an icon, Vocabulary, on the screen. “It appears to be a simple writer’s tool. In fact, it’s a program that codes and decodes messages for safe transmission over the net. The message you’re to collect will also be in another cipher, for double security.”

“But why can’t your agent just send you his message?”

“Good question, Julia. You have good instincts. Trust me, he can’t. It’s too risky.”

Without elaborating, Caldwell returned to the briefing. “It’s also programmed for wireless internet, but service there can be irregular. Every afternoon, you’re to send an email to the publishing house, with an attachment of your writing for that day. The manuscript files are set up in sequence; all you have to do is add the current day’s date. This will establish a normal routine and let us know that things are going according to plan—again, just in case. There may be times on the boat when you’ll be unable to find a wireless connection. He handed her a flash drive that fit easily in the palm of her hand. “If you can’t, copy the text onto this and go ahead and send it from another computer. But this should be the exception rather than the rule.”

Julia nodded comprehension. The whole thing felt increasingly surreal.

“When you make contact with the undercover agent, code name Zed, he’ll pass you a devise of some kind. Download it and use Vocabulary to convert the data. Date the file and save it in the manuscript folder. Destroy the devise—thoroughly—and dispose of it. Discreetly. When you reach Aswan, attach the file to your daily email. This transmission must be sent on the laptop. Under no circumstances send it any other way. After that, continue with the daily emails until you leave Egypt.”

“I know,” she said, one end of her mouth pulling to the side, “just in case.”

Brad shut down the computer and zipped it back into its carrying case. “Go to an internet café or a place that has Wi-Fi every afternoon. Establish a routine. Zahar is always to escort you. Don’t go alone.” 

He sat back, throwing an arm up along the back of the couch. His cloudless blue eyes focused on her tense, chiseled features. “In the unlikely event we should need to communicate with you, it’ll be through the publishing house. Every day, visit the website and click on Special Events. If that day’s date is posted, click on it, copy the text into a Word file and save it. Once you’re safely back in your room or cabin, copy the data into Vocabulary. Once it decodes, read it, then delete it and clean out the trash.” 

He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and held it out. It bore his name, with the title of “Editor,” along with a website address for Empire Publishing. “If you need to contact us, send an email to this address with an attached message pre-coded in Vocabulary. You won’t have access to the preliminary cipher, which means these messages aren’t fully secure. Ditto for whatever we might post for you. They could be intercepted and decoded, so be cautious with anything you send. In an extreme circumstance, you can email that you want to call and we’ll make arrangements, or you can call my cell phone—but only in a dire emergency—like life or death.” His boyish grin failed to lend the humor he’d obviously intended. “The call might be monitored by the Egyptians and could blow your cover.”