Grains of Truth (16 page)

~

After a leisurely lunch the boat stopped at Kom Ombo. Zed had to make contact here. It was the last stop before Aswan. She adjusted the laptop case on her shoulder and clutched the now-worn copy of her magazine as they moved through the ancient ruins. With renewed anxiety, she approached every beggar, handing out baksheesh generously, expecting a repeat of the past performance.

No contact came. Back at the entrance to the site, she slumped down on a stone wall at the edge of the suk, fanning herself with the ragged magazine. The laptop weighed a ton and the strap dug into the groove it had carved into her tired shoulder. Mohamed had stopped several yards back to speak with a couple of the guides. As usual, she found herself promptly surrounded by barefoot, dark-eyed children, and she smiled while distributing pens. When the supply ran out, she waved them away and morosely contemplated her failure. 

“Blankets, madame, I have good blankets,” whined a vendor from the stall next to the wall where she sat.

“La shukran,” she thanked him, declining indifferently, and pointedly turned to look the other away.

The heavily bearded man in robe and turban edged closer, holding up a lovely green wool blanket that shaded his face from the crowd.

“Come,” he said in a low urgent voice. “We haven’t much time.”

Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream like a raging torrent as she rose and followed him to the stall. 

“Look at the blankets as I hold them up. Choose one. I’ll wrap the information in it,” Zed instructed, smiling through falsely blackened teeth as he offered a blanket of royal blue.

“Since preparing the message, I have learned more. It is very bad. And I think I may be suspected. You must get word to the agency right away.”

His rapid speech raised the hair on Julia’s arms in alarm.

“The new information is written by hand. I did not have time to put it in the final code. I will pass it to you with your change.” 

She nodded mutely as he held up another blanket, this one a bright scarlet. She pointed to it and watched him adeptly fold it around a small, square envelope. Digging in her purse, Julia removed two one-hundred-pound Egyptian notes and held them out to him. When he gave her the change, a white piece of paper, folded several times, lay between the bills. She stuffed the money in her purse and jerked the zipper closed. When he passed her the blanket, she saw that his hands were shaking.

“What can I do to help you?”

“Nothing. Just go.” He turned, grabbing up a worn, brown cloth bag in one fluid movement and raised a flap at the back of the stall. He paused only to look from one side to the other and, without so much as a backwards glance, he disappeared. The flap fell behind him, leaving a startling void.

Stunned, Julia stood perfectly still as several seconds ticked by. When she turned, the surrounding scene seemed surreal. Unchanged, tourists continued to haggle with vendors. Mohamed still fhaddled with the guides. The entire transaction took no more than a minute or two.

She stumbled back to the wall and sat holding the blanket in her lap, stroking it with a sweaty palm. The pounding in her ears intensified the elation. Thank goodness! She had the message, and the ordeal would soon be over. All she had to do now was transmit it tomorrow in Aswan and the mission would be complete. Relief washed over her like a cool tropical wave.

~

Ahmed squatted on his heels near the top of the steps leading up to the small temple to Sobek, the crocodile god. Tourists never seemed to tire of viewing the pathetic reptile mummies within the temple. He looked away, careful not to make eye contact with anyone, lest his contempt be observed.

It was risky for him to be here. But he felt it necessary to familiarize himself with Alexander Bryant’s appearance, as well as observe his movements. Thus far he’d seen nothing to cause alarm. At least not as far as Bryant was concerned. Something else caught his attention when he first arrived on the site. It nagged at the back of his mind the whole time he followed Bryant, until the truth finally dawned.

His present location provided a clear view of both Bryant, who had stopped near the edge of the ruins, and the last stall of the suk. His eyes narrowed with a cold suspicion, focusing on the merchant. What was Gamal doing here, in disguise, selling blankets to tourists? For he was certain that it was Gamal, or the man he knew as such—one of the Brothers. Supposedly, he’d gone ahead to Aswan to assist in making arrangements for the meeting with the arms dealer. Now, here he was, posing as a peddler. What could he be up to?

Whatever it was, it spelled trouble—not only for the operation—but for Gamal.

Ahmed could not help but notice the tall, striking woman seated near the stall as she gave handouts to the children. At least she was giving and not taking, or trying to bargain down to the bone, he thought scornfully.

He continued to watch surreptitiously and was intrigued to see Gamal approach her, invite her into the stall. The encounter appeared innocent enough. It could be a legitimate transaction. But Ahmed learned long ago that if something seemed too coincidental, it probably was not coincidence at all. Gamal approached the woman. She did not wander into the stall. He seemed jittery and after selling her the blanket, quickly disappeared. With a last hard look at the woman, committing her distinctive features to memory, Ahmed rose with ease and moved back in the direction of the main temple.

~

Once breath returned and her pulse slowed, Julia came to her feet and started toward Mohamed and his friends. Before she got halfway there, a loud noise exploded from the back of the ruins. It sounded like a gunshot. The men with Mohamed spoke sharply in Arabic and they all ran in the direction of the disturbance. A sick, new panic engulfed her and Julia ran after them with mounting fear crawling up her spine. 

A small crowd clustered in an open space behind the temple columns, their voices raised in agitation as they gesticulated at something on the ground. She pushed her way through the men and froze.

Zed lay in the dirt, in a pool of spreading blood, eyes open, staring sightlessly into the cloudless blue sky. Julia stood motionless while the crowd around her grew, even as the guides attempted to wave them away. A vise-like grip encircled her arm and roughly pulled her back.

“We must leave. Now,” said Mohamed.

Tearing her stupefied gaze from the grisly scene, Julia turned into the menacing stare of Alexander Bryant. Their eyes locked for an electrifying second before Mohamed yanked her down the hill.

Chapter 20

Ahmed Abdel Latif rose from Asr, the afternoon prayer, and wordlessly left the mudbrick shack in the center of the field of corn. He moved gracefully through the high stalks, their golden silk glistening in the sun. His long legs took him down to the river, where he climbed into a waiting boat, no more than ten feet long. Ahmed signaled his command with a single nod to the young man at the stern. The purring outboard motor revved into a roar and the boat pulled away from the muddy bank to head upstream.  

Ahmed sat up straight, proud and tall, on the cracked wooden bench, with the wind at his broad-shouldered back. He half-closed his eyes against the bright light—those lushly fringed, dark, unreadable eyes of the Middle East. A hawk-like nose dominated sharply-cut features artfully arranged on his bronzed skin. Generally, his demeanor was measured and resolute, his speech marked with an unruffled deliberation so that one could not doubt the deeply-held conviction of his words—whatever they might be. The expression on the face of the younger man steering the boat left no doubt that he held his Brother in considerable awe.

From an affluent Jordanian family, his early life one of privilege, Ahmed had benefited from an expensive education that included four years at university in London. The journey from that advantaged upbringing to his present position of leadership in the Mujahideen took place over a period of several years. His commitment was now absolute to the cause of putting a stop to the encroachment of Zionism and to the crusade of the Western Imperialists.

The small boat advanced steadily against the current, passing other larger crafts chugging along at a more leisurely pace. It was imperative that they arrive in Aswan before the Isis. Plans must be changed. And arrangements must be made for dealing with the woman. His Brothers had been unable to tell him what her role might be, but he knew—without doubt—that she was somehow involved. They would take advantage of this opportunity, rather than let her disrupt their carefully laid plans.

His full lips stretched in a smile as his computer-like mind reviewed the intricate details of the scheme, with its innumerable contingencies and deceptions. No, no one could spoil this foolproof plan. In less than two weeks time, the world would cower and bow to the will of almighty Allah.

~

It took quite a while before the local police allowed the Isis to continue on her journey. They questioned the guides endlessly, who had first appeared at the scene of the crime. Praise Allah, they all had alibis. The passengers still ashore were all shepherded into the lounge and told to remain there until further notice.

Julia sat alone in a corner, looking down at the red blanket in her lap and seeing the pool of blood. An unpleasant taste emerged on her tongue and would not go away. This was inconceivable—beyond belief. Zed was dead. Murdered. Only moments after passing the message. What consequences would this have for the mission? What peril did it mean for her? Because, of course, she thought miserably, anyone could’ve seen her with him.

Would the killer—or killers—find anything suspicious in the purchasing of a blanket?

She shivered in spite of the heat and tried to suppress the fear clawing at her throat as she waited to be released to go to her cabin, where she could examine the messages. She fought an almost overwhelming urge to look at the handwritten note stuffed in her purse. As much as she craved to do it, it was out of the question here in the lounge. What did they contain—these messages that may have cost the lives of two people?

Two that she knew of: Abeer and Zed. There might be more.

~

Alexander looked restlessly out one of the portholes, too agitated to sit. What a damned unfortunate turn of events. Thank god, he’d managed to slip back to his cabin and stash away what the police would no doubt regard as highly incriminating evidence. As an American tourist, it was unlikely he would be suspected, and even more unlikely that he would be searched. But still, having them find the gun was a chance he couldn’t take.

The scene he observed shortly before the assassination made him edgier still: Julia Grant in direct contact with the victim literally moments before the shooting. How was she involved in this business? It was glaringly evident to him that she must be involved in some way. That surely meant that her guide, Mohamed, was in it too. Was he a member of the Brotherhood? Or could he be working for the Egyptian Secret Service?

Damn. Damn. Damn! This definitely complicated things. He would have to learn as much as possible about the pair before his next contact with Jalal. That was another thing. He spotted Jalal in the excited group gathered around the lifeless body. Their eyes met for a split second before he faded into the crowd.

~

Mohamed had never—in his entire life—felt such fury. How could she do this? How could she deceive him? For he was certain that she had. He seethed with righteous anger as he turned from the dining room where he and the other guides were questioned interminably by the police. Praise Allah, they were all together, in plain view of several dozen witnesses, when the murder took place. He climbed the stairs two at time and entered the lounge, scanning the room for the object of his wrath. 

His stormy eyes descended on hers, sending fresh waves of cold fear through Julia’s body. What was wrong now? He stalked toward her as one of the policemen, shouldering a rifle, followed close on his heels and spoke from the doorway. 

“We have completed our investigation. For the time being. Everyone is free to leave the lounge.” He amended the announcement in a surly tone. “But no one is to leave the boat.” 

Mohamed reached her chair and stood before her, glaring down. “Come with me. Now.”

When he reached a far corner of the upper deck he rounded on her, his voice uneven with the effort to remain in control. “All right, Julia. Tell me what is going on. And don’t insult my intelligence further with tales of headaches and insomnia. I know you are hiding something from me. This precise schedule. Dragging that ratty magazine around like some kind of beacon. Now a man is dead. A man that you spoke with minutes before he was shot. Talk to me, Julia. I want the truth.” His eyes bore into hers like a burning infrared beam. 

Julia looked away, speechless. This possibility had not occurred to her. How could she have been so stupid as to have underestimated Mohamed’s keen perception? But how could she tell him the truth? She reminded herself of the need for discretion—for his safety as well as her own. She must tread very, very carefully here.

“Yes, Mohamed, it’s true. I haven’t been entirely honest with you. But please believe me, I haven’t done anything wrong.” She swallowed with difficulty, forcing herself to speak slowly. “The man that was killed was an undercover agent for the American government. They asked me to make contact with him, to collect some information. That’s all.”