Grains of Truth (14 page)

It was, for some inexplicable reason, unsettling to see the man now known as Alexander Bryant—Mohamed had done his homework during the night—heading away from the tour groups on his own. His erect figure exuded an unmistakable masculinity, even though in beige slacks and a tan jacket he looked more like a businessman than a tourist.

An American tourist who booked a one-way ticket to Aswan at the last minute, Mr. Bryant traveled alone. That was the extent of the report for now. But, Mohamed assured her, he intended to learn more.

Whatever, thought Julia with irritation, dismissing him from her thoughts. She had more important things to worry about.

Mohamed led the way through the horde of peddlers, beggars and barefoot children to a waiting taxi. Once inside, they drove straight to the Temple of Khnum and disembarked. As instructed, Julia carried the current copy of the magazine, Egypt Today, prominently in her right hand while steadying the laptop case on her left shoulder.

They progressed through the site with Mohamed delivering what would’ve no doubt been, under other circumstances, a fascinating lecture. Julia scratched erratic notes and tried not to be too obvious about searching the crowd for anyone who resembled an undercover agent. Not that she had the faintest idea what to look for. All she knew was that he was a “he,” but no photograph was available.

As they came around a corner at the back of the temple, she caught a glimpse of Alexander Bryant, absorbed in conversation with two men who looked to be locals. Slowing her pace, she feigned attentiveness to whatever Mohamed was saying, while watching the unlikely trio from the corner of her eye.

Julia had no idea what prompted her suspicion, but after a few minutes she felt an unpleasant jolt, realizing that one of them was the same man she saw with Bryant in the museum garden in Cairo. Although he wore a galabeeya and sandals this time, it was definitely the same man. They remained intent on their discussion until a tour group came through a doorway right next to them. Startled, they looked up with what she could only call furtive glances, and moved to the end of the corridor to disappear.

“Julia, what’s going on? You’re not listening to me at all. I’m talking to the wall.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” she shrugged. “I have a headache.” She hoped Mohamed hadn’t noticed her scrutiny of Bryant. This was very odd.

They continued the tour through the temple, without any unusual encounters. Back at the main entrance, she asked Mohamed to get some cold drinks from the vendor in the outside courtyard. As he walked away, she leaned dispiritedly against a towering stone wall, glad for its shade. The temperature climbed as the day reached its height, spawning the threat of a real headache.

A barefoot beggar in a dirty robe sidled toward her with an outstretched grubby hand. “Baksheesh?” he croaked. 

Julia gave him a distracted glance then looked down to reach into her purse for change as he came closer.  

“You are not the one I expected. Where is Abeer?”

Her head jerked up, widened eyes on the grimy turban of the decrepit man’s bent head. “She,” Julia swallowed over the lump that sprang up in her throat, “she couldn’t come. I’m her replacement. I’m to take the message.”

The beggar darted a look around to ensure no one could overhear before snapping out, “I cannot give it here. We have a problem. That man, the tall one in the tan jacket, do you know who he is?”

Julia shook her head, knowing with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach exactly who he meant. She followed his glare to Alexander Bryant, standing alone near the high arch of the stone entryway. “No. I mean yes. Just someone from the boat. He came on board at the last minute.”

“He is Alexander Bryant, an international arms dealer. He met here with the Brothers. It is a very bad situation. If they recognize me, I will die.” He kept his head lowered at an angle, shielding his face, evidently well-disguised. “Who is the man with you? Another agent?”

In the outer courtyard, she saw Mohamed pay the vendor and start back with two bottles of water. “No, he’s my guide. He knows nothing of this. What…what am I to do?”

“Return to the boat. I will try to meet you again in Edfu. Or send a message. It will come from Zed.” He hissed as Mohamed closed the distance between them. “Quickly, give me baksheesh.”

“Shukran,” he gasped, thanking her like a tired old man, “shukran,” and scuttled away, bent from the waist.

Julia’s heart thundered in her chest. As she turned back toward Mohamed, only a few feet away now, she froze at the sight of the brown-headed bookworm leaning against the temple wall nearby. He was not there before—she was certain of that. What if he was listening? How much might he have heard? Perhaps he was the other agent, after all. If what this man called Zed just told her about Alexander Bryant was true, it sure as hell wasn’t him.

~

There was no convenient internet café at Esna, wireless or otherwise, Mohamed assured her, so they went directly back to the boat. Lunch would be served as the Isis slid back into the current, heading to Edfu. The dining room overflowed with people chattering about all they saw that morning.

Julia paused at the entrance to scan the crowd. A tall figure came up beside her and said, “Good afternoon, Ms. Grant. If you’ve not arranged to lunch with anyone, perhaps you’d care to join me?”

A rush of heat suffused her face; she clenched her hands to keep them from shaking. While wondering why this bothered her so much she said, “No, thank you, Mr. Bryant. I’d rather dine alone.” The words chilled the air as she turned her back and stalked away. It didn’t dawn on her until later that, although they hadn’t been introduced, they’d addressed one another by name.

When she had more time to think about it, Julia’s head spun with dire thoughts. This could be a decidedly nasty turn of events. “Almost no danger” suddenly could turn into what might be a well-camouflaged patch of deadly quicksand. What in the world was she supposed to do now? She had no ready means of communication with Brad, to ask for guidance. The other agent, whoever it might be, hadn’t revealed his—or her—identity. What was the significance of an arms dealer in all this? What should she do about it, if anything? 

Stick to the plan, Bob had instructed her.

Okay, she would stick to the plan. But she didn’t like this, not one bit. And she felt an illogically sour indignation at the odious occupation of the misleadingly attractive Mr. Bryant. Anger welled up inside at the thought of his earning a living, no doubt a princely one, trading on the oppression and destruction of his fellow human beings. Unreasonably, she felt betrayed. This made her angrier still.

Mohamed failed to show for lunch. It was a solitary and unsatisfactory meal, every bite sticking in her throat. After only a token attempt at getting anything down, she left the noisy room. She found him on the upper deck and slumped into a chair next to his. Mohamed regarded her thoughtfully.

“Julia, what’s going on? What’s wrong? I know you and something is not right.”

“I told you,” she said with a long, tired sigh, “I have a headache, that’s all.” With lowered eyes, afraid he might read the muddled emotions swirling behind them, she said, “I think I’ll go to my cabin and rest for a while.” She fled the deck and his keen scrutiny.

Much too agitated for the confines of her cabin, Julia instead sought refuge in the library. The limited offerings there would be predictably eclectic, but she always found it soothing to touch book bindings as she read the titles. Entering the minuscule space, she executed several deep breaths and began to feel slightly more relaxed. When the door swung open a few minutes later, it was to admit the bookworm, heavy glasses sliding down his nose.

A self-conscious smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he said, “Hullo. I’m Peter Werner.” He held out a hesitant hand.

In such close proximity, Julia found him much more imposing than she’d realized. The rolled up sleeves of his wrinkled cotton shirt exposed muscular forearms. She shook his hand, introducing herself, as her eyes traveled up to his well-tanned face. An expression of unmistakable speculation smoldered behind the heavy lenses. She waited with bated breath for him to reveal himself.

The question hovered on her lips. She almost blurted out the disclosure of the presence of an arms dealer on the cruise, but a thread of belated caution held her back. What if he wasn’t who she thought he was? Reeling into further confusion, she mumbled a lame excuse of fatigue and retreated once again, this time heading straight for the sanctity of her cabin.

As she fled down the passageway, she glanced through the glass door to the exercise room. Henrietta Langley marched along on the treadmill while Henry pumped impressive iron. Those two, she thought, smiling in spite of her troubled mind. No wonder they gave the impression of having discovered the fountain of youth.

~

Alexander closed the door to his cabin and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it across a chair by the open window. First unstrapping the shoulder holster with the small but deadly-accurate Mauser, he placed it in the safe and reset the combination. Not that he had any false sense of security that a child couldn’t open it if so inclined. It would at least be out of sight should the steward or anyone else wander in while he was there. At all other times, he wore it snugly under his arm.

In the bathroom, he turned on the faucet and methodically washed his hands. While drying them, he studied his reflection in the mirror. What was it? He asked himself. What did Julia Grant see there now that she found so repugnant? He overheard one of the other passengers mention her name. At first she thought him interesting; he could tell. Most women did. But her attitude at lunch was cold and aloof—downright rude, as a matter of fact. It was strange. When had the change taken place? They exchanged brief pleasantries in passing at breakfast only that morning. Then the icy brush off.

Not that it mattered. She was beautiful, of course, and intelligent, he could tell. But there was definitely something between her and her Egyptian companion, her “guide.” They did have separate cabins and their behavior in public was proper enough, but Alexander sensed that something—something deep and personal—lay between them. This bothered him. Like a burr under the saddle. And it bothered him that it bothered him.

He shook his head as if to clear it as he opened the closet to remove a clean shirt. Ms. Grant was not his concern, other than that everything concerned him when on this kind of operation. He missed very little of what transpired around him. The most seemingly insignificant factor might mean the difference between success and failure, even life and death.

The situation here was definitely tense. Tense and treacherous. Jalal assured him he would be able to make the introduction to the customer. The clever idea for Alexander to travel by boat to Aswan theoretically made it more difficult for the Egyptian security forces to monitor the necessary preliminary meetings at stops along the way. If Alexander passed muster, the important meeting would take place in Aswan.

He met with Jalal twice and was introduced to another of the Brothers at Esna. This was all well and fine, but patience did not number among Alexander Bryant’s virtues. Slowly cruising up the Nile, however pleasing it might be under other circumstances, was decidedly irritating.

And now this annoying distraction of Julia Grant. The nature of the relationship between her and her guide was none of his concern. But he couldn’t seem to banish her from his thoughts.

Chapter 18

After-dinner festivities were planned in the lounge that evening. Julia put the finishing touches on her makeup, inspecting her reflection closely in the mirror. For some curious reason, the sleeplessness and stress didn’t show in her face. This was difficult to understand. By this time, she expected to see the portrait of a deteriorating Dorian Gray.

“Ah well, gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” she whispered, laying a gold silk chiffon scarf over her neatly piled auburn hair. There was to be dancing after dinner and, to be a good sport, she dressed up for the occasion. Certainly not because she wanted to impress anyone. Certainly not.

The dining room, near full, hummed with animated conversation as she entered, pausing as she’d become accustomed, to survey the scene. Henrietta, seated with Henry at a table of their own, waved her over to join them. As Mohamed had told her earlier he planned to dine with the other guides on the boat that night, she gratefully sank into the chair offered by the always gallant Henry. Evidently they’d once again escaped their group and she was glad of it. Julia thoroughly enjoyed their spirited company, even more so when they discovered a mutual passion for bird watching. 

“Did you see the white storks along the bank as we left Esna?” Henry asked with contagious enthusiasm.

“Oh, yes, they were beautiful, weren’t they? And such a large flock, a spectacular sight.”

“Ooooo, there’s that divine man,” cut in Henrietta with more than a hint of awe. “You two would make such a lovely couple,” she added as she waved to Alexander. “If you could pry him away from the fading English rose, that is. Did you see the ridiculous way she behaved over the stuffed T-shirts?”

Members of the crew had entered several passengers’ cabins the previous evening and stuffed T-shirts with pillows, accessorizing them with hats and sunglasses of the occupants. Fiona MacDonald, it seemed, took a harmless prank, meant as an innocent joke in the spirit of fun, and turned it into the crime of the century, filing a formal complaint with the manager. Disapproval and disdain clouded Henrietta’s normally sweet features.