Grains of Truth

Grains of Truth

A Novel of Suspense by

Lydia Crichton

Chapter 1

Mallawi, Egypt

Late at night.

Abeer Rashad darted into a dark, abandoned shack. The old wood creaked as she leaned against the wall, jerking away the scarf that covered her mouth, gulping air. Sweat trickled down between her breasts. She knew it came as much from fear as the hot, dry air. Black gloves and robe—making her all but invisible—stifled like a sauna but provided the anonymity urgently required. Without them, she would never have made it this far. The cramped quarters of a shared taxi from Cairo had put her in much too close proximity for maintaining her cover otherwise. For the last several hours she’d said little and tried to breathe out the open window to keep from gagging on the pervasive stench created by too many unwashed bodies packed into the rattling wreck.

Determination, aided by sheer luck, had allowed her to elbow her way through the crowded coffee shop to the counter and insert herself next to the Brother she followed. A strategic reach for the bowl of sugar in front of him brought her ear within inches of his mouth. Even over the din of the gurgling espresso machine, she clearly heard him mention Mallawi as his destination to the man behind the counter as he released a stream of steamy milk with a practiced hand. Abeer stooped over, feigning frailty, and, with mounting excitement, trailed him to the alley behind the shop. She kept her head down, eyes glued to his back, and watched him climb behind the wheel of a dusty van waiting there.

Now, she peered from the shack’s splintered doorway into a narrow, unpaved street. The van sat at the end of it, near a squalid house standing alone beside a ditch. Abeer knew Mallawi as a hellhole of a place, notorious as a perfect example of an Egyptian poverty-stricken nightmare—and the place where President Anwar Sadat had been assassinated.

When the drum of her heart ceased to fill her ears, and she determined no one else prowled nearby, she slipped out to join the shadows, listening warily to the neighborhood settling down for the night. The only sounds audible through the walls of drying laundry hanging from every balcony were the fussy clucking of chickens and the occasional baby’s cry.

As she crept toward the parked van, other noises began to emerge, growing louder as she drew near: a scraping and thudding, punctuated by unmistakable human grunts. Intent on interpreting the puzzling sounds, she failed to see the goat tied next to a crumbling mudbrick wall until she stumbled over it. The offended animal bawled in protest and she crouched to clamp its jaw.

Stroking the improbably soft, smooth hair soothed them both. When it calmed, Abeer rose and continued, as quickly as she dared this time, down the road and around a corner of the house. A yellowish light spilled from a lantern hanging from a crude fence of uneven sticks enclosing a small area of dirt yard. Two men raised and lowered shovels alternately in a shallow rectangular hole. One of them grunted each time his foot came down on his tool to penetrate the hard, parched earth.

“Careful. The crates are not buried deep. Trust me—you do not want to damage them.” The cool voice came from the darkness, unexpectedly cultured and serene.

Abeer’s eyes narrowed as she puzzled at the scene, anxiety making her slow to comprehend. They widened as meaning dawned: These men were recovering something. Something possibly vital for accomplishing whatever despicable—and no doubt deadly—scheme was underway. If she could reach her contact at once, maybe, just maybe, help could get here in time.

She took a cautious step back and turned to retreat. Talons of terror clutched her heart at the sight of the hideous face only inches from her own. Brutish hands shot up to close around her throat before she could make another move.

Chapter 2

The scream of a seagull reverberated as it soared up into the Technicolor blue of a late Sunday afternoon sky. Julia Grant closed her eyes and inhaled deeply of the cool, salty sea air. Her lids lifted with the inevitable exhale, and a bittersweet feeling swept over her at the spectacular beauty of San Francisco Bay. People strolled along the Embarcadero, enjoying the picturesque scene flanked majestically by its two famous bridges. Sailboats skipped across white-capped waves beneath a welcome, warming sun; their sails billowed out, filled with the fresh breeze. This was surely as close as one could hope to come to paradise on earth, wasn’t it? So why couldn’t she find what she was looking for? Why couldn’t she decide?

“Just another great day in paradise.” 

Sitting as she was, alone at the end of the quay, Julia flinched, startled by the proximity of the speaker as well as his apparent ability to read her mind. She turned to find a tall man in a dark suit looming behind her. As he came into clearer focus, she noted the sharp cut of his navy blue jacket and crisp white shirt, open at the collar. Sleek, impenetrable dark glasses added a note of inscrutability. He definitely was not, she knew at a glance, one of the sad, ubiquitous “lost souls” that inhabit San Francisco’s public streets and parks.

Her mouth twitched at his cliché. Not wanting to encourage conversation, she murmured, “Yes, always,” and turned away. Although his silhouette continued to hover at the edge of her eye, she deliberately refocused on the bay.

The sight never failed to bring a sense of life-giving energy. It beckoned her to dive in and swim across to the quaint town of Sausalito, shimmering up the hillside in the distance. A dozen or so large, rowdy seagulls still bickered and fussed over the remnants of the fish scraps she’d thrown them earlier. Sporadically they would take flight up, up and away into the breathtaking sky. She yearned to spread wings and join them, free to float on the wind.

But Julia could not swim to Sausalito and she did not have wings and she was not free. Oh, sure, it was true enough that she was in the unusual position of being able to start life anew—to re-create herself, in a way. But too much freedom, she had discovered, could be a prison of its own kind. She simply couldn’t seem to unshackle the memories and patterns of the past.

“This is a special place, isn’t it?” The stranger slid onto the bench. His left arm came up to rest along the back, with curved fingers inches from her shoulder. He casually crossed a long leg, causing his body to lean in toward hers, and looked into her eyes. At least she thought he did. The sunglasses, of an expensive and trendy make, concealed his eyes completely. And as she took a closer look, she couldn’t help but notice the stylish Italian leather shoes and smart tan socks adorned with little white whales. No, this was no lost soul—at least not of the street variety.

Julia sighed. “Yes. A great place to think. Alone.” Irritated at the intrusion, she considered getting up and walking away but, to be honest, she found him intriguing. And his presence no threat.

This was her first mistake.

Again, he appeared to read her thoughts. “Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Grant,” he said, removing the sunglasses to expose eyes of an unusually deep blue, “but I need to speak with you about an important matter.”

Her head swung around to face him more fully. “Do we know each other?”

“Well, no,” came the slow reply, “not exactly. I know who you are, but no, we’ve never met.”

A puzzled smile wrinkled her brow. “And how, may I ask, do you know who I am?” He was quite nice looking in an over-polished sort of way. His relaxed air suggested lazy days and a life of ease.

Looks can be masters of deception.

He returned the smile, exposing even, white teeth accentuated by the tan skin surrounding it, and reached inside his jacket to produce a card. “Brad Caldwell. U. S. Intelligence. Now, don’t get excited,” he added quickly as he saw her shoulders stiffen. “People always seem to think the worst when they hear those words. As if everyone had some deep, dark secret to hide.” The smile stretched a fraction wider.

Julia’s peaceful communion with nature burst like a pin-pricked balloon. The slightest cold shiver flitted up her spine as she looked down at the card in her hand. Brad E. Caldwell, Special Agent, External Affairs, National Counter Terrorism Center embossed in stark black type stretched ominously across the heavy white stock. She stared mutely as a cascade of dark thoughts tumbled through her mind.

External Affairs. It wasn’t possible that this could have anything to do with her trips to Egypt. Was it? No, of course not. How could they know? And then another obvious and equally chilling thought caused her heart to beat a little faster. How had he found her out here, anonymous in the crowd? 

She raised guarded eyes to find him watching her closely. A smile still lifted the corners of his lips, but she suddenly realized that it had never made its way up to those penetrating eyes, as cold and unfathomable as the churning bay.

After an uncomfortably long silence, she swallowed to relieve the dryness in her throat and, in an effort to steady a growing tremor born of anger coupled with a hint of fear, tilted her head to one side. “I can’t imagine what you could possibly want to speak with me about, Mr. Caldwell.” 

“Please call me Brad,” he said amiably. “Well, Julia…may I call you Julia?” A slight nod in the affirmative brought another one of those half-smiles. “As you are no doubt aware, the United States is taking strong initiatives in dealing with the critical terrorist situation that’s arisen in recent years.”

“I’d have to be in a coma not to know that, Mr. Caldwell.”

The smile flickered. “Fact is, we’re interested in talking with folks who’ve visited certain countries recently. We’re aware that you’ve spent a considerable amount of time in Egypt in the past couple of years. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. We understand that your visits there were of a strictly personal nature. Please don’t think for a moment that we have any concerns that you might be involved in activities that could be considered, ah, questionable.”

Julia didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t possible that he was intimating she was suspected of being involved in terrorist activities. Was it?

“What we would very much appreciate,” he continued in a low, reasonable voice, “would be if you could spare some time to answer a few questions and provide us with your impressions of the situation there.” He paused, turning to look out across the water. The sun had sunk lower in the sky; a soft breeze lifted a few strands of golden-brown hair from his smooth forehead. 

“Surely, Mr. Caldwell, our government is thoroughly familiar with ‘the situation’ in Egypt. We’ve had a significant presence there, on every conceivable level, for decades. And, as you say, the U.S. is taking strong initiatives in dealing with the terrorist situation by vigorously pursuing anything and anyone, anywhere in the world that might be remotely involved in activities that could prove harmful to U.S. interests.” She drew a necessary breath. “What kind of information could a simple tourist possibly provide that you don’t already know?” She failed to keep the sarcasm—as well as the heat—from her voice. But then, she hadn’t really tried.

He leaned closer, in a misleadingly comic conspiratorial manner, bringing with him a slightly musky scent, and fixed her with an unnervingly intent look. “You’d be surprised.” When he withdrew the look, it was to turn back to the picture-book scene.

“Is it out of line to ask for an hour or two of your time if there’s even the most remote possibility that it might prove helpful in protecting all of this?” His mellow voice resonated with genuine emotion as his hand swept across San Francisco Bay in dramatic sunset.

Her eyes following the gesture, Julia had to admit to herself that Mr. Brad E. Caldwell was very, very good at his job. He either knew or had cleverly deduced that one of the strongest of her heartstrings was securely attached to a deep and unbreakable bond with “all of this.” Anything that threatened to harm the planet, Mother Earth, was guaranteed to stir her blood. Had he played on any other string—home, hearth, country—she might have resisted. Julia was no fan of the way the “War on Terror” was being waged. But the opportunity to perhaps be of help in some small way in safeguarding this, her beloved environment, proved irresistible.

And, as he said, surely she could spare an hour or two.

“All right, Mr. Caldwell.” She smiled. “Brad. What would you like to know?”

An almost imperceptible nod indicated satisfaction in his success. “Okay. Thanks, Julia. Your contribution will be most appreciated. We’d like you to come to the office for a more private conversation. Please be at the address on my card tomorrow morning at nine. You needn’t worry about any kind of preparation. Everything will be very relaxed and informal.”

Well. What presumption. Did he think she had nothing else to do?  No, she understood intuitively before completing the thought; there was no assumption on his part. She found it deeply unnerving to realize that he might know a great deal about her schedule. And yet, she amazed herself by responding, “Yes, I suppose I can manage that. But first tell me something: How did you find me out here?”

Flashing the deepest smile yet, while replacing his dark glasses, he said, “Oh, well, it is, after all, our business to know these things. See you in the morning.” With that, he stood to saunter away into the orange glow left by the sun.

Julia sat in a stunned, immobile silence, chewing on her lower lip. The implications of this development were alarming—to say the least. The more she thought about it, the more questions the encounter raised. And they were deeply disturbing.