Grains of Truth (12 page)

The evidence before her of these endless societal contradictions sent Julia’s thoughts down a familiar path. A region-wide revival of Islamic conservatism was currently taking place. Here in Egypt, women, more and more these days, covered their heads in the traditional hijab, appearing to move backwards in time. The women’s rights movement, however, was still strong despite the deeply held belief that their lives could only be successful within the context of marriage and family. Again, Julia sighed. For a woman in business, it was always an uphill struggle.

A university professor of Middle Eastern history, a friend made during her long stay in Cairo the previous year, had illustrated the irony. One night, over endless glasses of minted tea in her home, she expounded on the subject as Julia sat fascinated.

“You see how we struggle for equality now. How we must be fierce in our demands for respect.” The professor, black hair shining like jet to match the sparkle in her eye, held up a rigid finger to emphasize her point.

“And yet, Khadija, first wife of Mohammed the Prophet, was a successful business woman, a wealthy widow fifteen years his senior. He, an illiterate camel herder, entered her service at the age of twenty-five and she, as the story goes, became impressed by his prudence and integrity. Their relationship deepened into affection, then love. When no one believed in him, not even he himself, Khadija remained steadfast and consoling. Even through the long, bleak period of preparation before his ministry began.”

With a knowing smile, the professor gave a philosophical shrug. “Without her love and support, who knows what might have been?

“Now, here are the fundamentalists extolling the ideology of their narrowed vision of our faith as ‘the only true path,’ attempting to banish women back into obscurity.” Again she shrugged. “Go figure.”

Julia shook her head, making a conscious effort to rein in her wandering thoughts and return to the garden scene. She felt tired and drained, having taken copious notes that day for her imaginary book. She glanced at her watch. Where the hell was Mohamed?

As she searched the milling crowd for sight of him, her attention was drawn to a tall, attractive man with close-cropped, silvered hair, standing only a few yards away. With an odd jolt of recognition, she remembered him from the plane. He was engaged in subdued conversation with another, younger man, probably Egyptian, dressed in casual Western clothes and carrying a worn leather bag over his shoulder. These days, Julia always nervously noted anyone here carrying a bag of any kind. At least inside the museum gates, she could feel sure it would’ve been cleared through security.

As she continued to watch, the two men shook hands, and the younger one walked away toward the exit. The tall one’s gaze followed him until he reached the gate. Then the man from the plane glanced pointedly at Julia before turning to enter the museum. The quick tableau left an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was near closing time, and she couldn’t help but wonder why he would’ve left it this late.

~

Early next morning, Julia and Mohamed checked out of Mena House and headed for the airport. Once there, they plunged into the clamorous confusion to push their way through to security control. As she waited to place her bags on the ramp, Julia noticed a distinctive head above the crowd. Then her full attention was required for the tedious process of getting through clearance. After a long exchange, of which she understood little, and the passing of baksheesh, they proceeded to the departure gate.

There again was that familiar figure. The man from the plane sat reading a newspaper but looked up to nod as she passed. 

“Is this some friend of yours, Julia?” Mohamed impulsively laid claim to her elbow and steered her firmly to a far corner.

“No. Just someone I’ve seen around.” She found a seat and began to leaf through the latest issue of Egypt Today.

~

The plane arrived in Luxor, amazingly without delay, and they took a quick and relatively direct taxi ride to the boat. As usual, Mohamed greeted numerous friends and acquaintances along the way. They all, to a man, darted sly glances at Julia from the corners of their eyes, no doubt assuming the worst of her character and moral virtue. With head held high, refusing to acknowledge the affront, she nonetheless could not control the grinding of her teeth before she was at length shown to her cabin. 

The Isis was a fine tourist craft, considerably more luxurious than many, certainly several steps up from the one of Julia’s previous cruise. In addition to the tasteful decor, it boasted a hot tub by the swimming pool on the upper deck, an exercise room, and even a small token library.

“Nice to see taxpayer dollars at work,” Julia said to herself as she surveyed the well-appointed cabin. On the other side of the king-sized bed, a comfortable seating area filled the space beneath a large picture window that framed the river and opposite bank. She collapsed in a plush chair and looked out at the ageless scene.

This was where the magic began. The mighty Nile—the heart and soul of Egypt. Some memorable prose from an old forgotten tome flowed through her mind.

“The same rhythms of rising sun and dispersing mist, of village and fields, the long shadows and rosy light of sunset were as old as ancient Egypt itself.”

The Nile had always been an important travel corridor for Northern Africa. While the river itself flowed north, into the Mediterranean Sea, the prevailing winds blew to the south. For at least five thousand years, it was a perfect natural route, with boats drifting north on the strong, unfailing current and raising their sails for the return trip upriver. Historically, the Nile cruise was the only way to visit the temples and tombs located along its banks.

Julia rose to stand at the window, allowing herself the idle diversion of remembering lessons learned. It had also been said that Egypt was the gift of the Nile. The rich silt deposited along its banks over the centuries made possible a diverse and bountiful agriculture. Once the “breadbasket” of the Middle East, Egypt produced grain, corn and dates that fed the peoples of many lands. Today, the fellahin lived along the banks, much the same way they did thousands of years ago: in mudbrick houses, moving their crops on over-burdened little donkeys, and tending their fields with wooden plows pulled by water buffalo.

Across the river, on the opposite bank, Julia watched a young man, shirtless and knee-deep in mud, prodding one of the stoic water buffalo with a stick.

~

Julia took a brief rest and then joined Mohamed for a light lunch. They left the boat shortly thereafter and, according to her detailed schedule, took a taxi to Karnak Temple. Entering the site was an acute kind of anguish for them both. An ever-bright sun heated the massive stones around them, adding to the warmth of the day. They walked silently, side-by-side, through the delicately painted ancient columns in the Hypostyle Hall, flushed with the remembrance of their first time there together.

The strident voice of a German woman calling her husband’s name mercifully relieved the bittersweet moment. This jarring note brought Julia back to the job at hand. She glanced around for sight of a man who might be Zed. Nothing. She shifted the copy of Egypt Today that she carried in one hand in order to remove a notebook from her purse. “Mohamed, tell me something about these hieroglyphs.” 

He also appeared grateful to be rescued from his memories and began to lecture. “You of course recall that Thebes was the city of Amun-Re, the sun god, one of the most ancient deities of Egypt.”

The richness of his mellow voice inevitably began to weave its old spell. She bent her head and concentrated on note-taking. The task provided a much-needed shelter from her disquieting feelings as they moved through the temple. When they came to the sacred lake, he reminded her of how the temple priests had monitored the rise of the water in the spring of each year. It was connected underground with the nearby Nile, which brought the annual deposits of rich silt along its banks. The higher the water level, the better would be the crops, thus the heavier the taxes on the farmers.

“Very clever, those priests, as priests tended to be, certainly in matters of finance,” added Mohamed with a touch of characteristic sarcasm.

Julia touched the back of a hand to her damp brow. “Let’s go sit in the shade for a rest and have a cool drink.”

He nodded and they strolled to the nearby café. Seated under the protection of the palm-frond awning, with fans turning lazily overhead, Julia removed the laptop and began to tap in the notes just taken.

Mohamed relaxed back in his chair, gazing out over the artificial lake. “Tell me, Julia, about this book of yours.” He raised an eyebrow. “Am I in it?”

She smiled in spite of her anxiety. “Naturally. How could I write about Egypt and not include you? You’re the star of the show—the Egyptologist Extraordinaire.”

“Ha. I think you may be lying. Let me see.” He reached for the computer.

“Later,” she pronounced, quickly closing it. “You may read it after I’ve finished this chapter.”

Their last stop before returning to the boat was the local internet café. Mohamed greeted the proprietor and carried on a lengthy and animated conversation while Julia completed her business. She also checked her own email while she was at it. At the top were two messages from Sarah. The first wished her a good time on her hiking trip. The next inquired where the heck she was.

If only she knew, thought Julia with no small amount of guilt. If only she knew.

~

A cadaverously thin man on crutches collapsed against the wall, releasing one hand to clutch at his throat. Unable to balance on his one remaining leg, he fell to the floor of the dirty, crowded ward. Throughout the room, other patients and hospital staff choked, retching as their eyes burned into blindness. Two figures in galabeeyas, their faces eerily covered with alien-like gas masks, watched from the doorway as everyone around them writhed in agony.

At length, they turned to weave their way down a hall littered with overturned trays and carts and more victims suffering the effects of the gas. Outside, they ducked into an alley near the seedy hospital in the slums of Mallawi and removed the masks.

“Excellent. They are completely incapacitated, as promised.” Ahmed spoke in his customary cool, dispassionate voice, as if he were describing a scene in a play.

“But for how long?” The hideous features of his companion twisted with doubt.

“Supposedly at least two days. You will remain here. Report to me when they begin to recover.”

“But what if… ”

“Do not concern yourself. No one will suspect you. Why would a good Muslim intentionally poison his brothers?

Chapter 16

“Is this strictly necessary?” Alexander Bryant firmly suppressed his annoyance.

They sat on the terrace of The Old Winter Palace Hotel in Luxor, looking out over the throng on the street to the river and the Theban Mountains beyond. The famous old establishment would not have been his first choice, being overly grand for his taste. Built in 1886 to attract the nobility of Europe, the hotel had less the air of Egypt than that of a refuge of European flavor and Victorian charm. Howard Carter had been in residence when he made his world-awakening discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun. The ultimate privilege of days gone by was to have one’s private dahabeeya, or yacht, moored along the quayside, opposite the grand hotel.

But Jalal insisted when they met in Cairo that he stay here—probably because they had “connections” in place who could keep an eye on him. Alexander found himself situated in a spacious room in the original building, overlooking a newer addition, which boasted a colossal pool and health club. At least he’d be able to work out and do his laps. In any case, with this latest irritating development, he’d be here for only one night.

“I assure you, Commander Bryant,” came the unruffled reply, “it is necessary. Your entry into the country will definitely have been noted by the authorities. They most probably will still be monitoring your movements. We cannot risk your being followed. This diversion may allay their fears.” He shrugged with the hint of a smile. “It will also make it more difficult for them to keep you under surveillance.”

Alexander doubted that, but he had no choice in the matter. If he hoped to make contact with the buyers, he had to play their game. As much as he wanted to expedite the process, he knew from past experience that these things couldn’t be rushed.

“Understood. Give me the details.”

After the man calling himself Jalal departed, Alexander strode in his purposeful way to the reception desk to inquire after his messages.

The eager face of the uniformed young man behind the desk broke into a euphoric smile. “Ah, yes, Mr. Bryant! A package came for you only moments ago!” This may well have been the highlight of his day. He addressed an even younger attendant, only a boy really, in rapid Arabic, and a heated debate ensued.

“La! La!” protested the boy, over and over, evidently denying any culpability in the disappearance of the alleged package. After a considerable amount of shuffling around under the desk, in the cabinets behind it and the office behind that, the package miraculously appeared. 

Alexander couldn’t help but grin as he handed over the expected gratuity for such a performance. With the heavy parcel tucked under his arm, he climbed the stairs to his room. Inside, he locked the door and slid the bolt firmly in place before laying the well-wrapped box on the bed. It was, as instructed, hand-delivered, with only his name and the hotel’s address printed in large block letters. No return address.