Grains of Truth (26 page)

It was at this point that someone struck him…slapped him with such force it knocked him to the floor. That blow produced the nasty bruise now morphing into a rainbow of color on his cheek.

His abductors were careful not to divulge anything that might identify them or their purpose. After the interrogation, there had been no discussion among them—the only sound the faint afternoon call to prayer filtering through thick mudbrick walls.

At last, the cultured English voice spoke in Arabic, to deliver a harsh sentence. “You dishonor Islam and your namesake, Mohamed Zahar: by consorting with Western Infidels and failing to answer the call to Jihad. For this, you should be executed.” 

Sweat trickled down between Mohamed’s rigid shoulder blades. He’d never imagined such fear. It was shame for that gut-wrenching, all-consuming fear that ignited the firestorm of fury. He sat up straight as a rod on the hard bench, mustering the shreds of his wounded dignity. “We are all sinners in some way. I am a devout Muslim and strive to live each day by the wisdom of the Prophet. If I am to be punished for my sins, it is for Allah alone to decide.”

Silence echoed in the close, stifling room. Ahmed’s eventual response came in the placid English persona, as if it could be switched on and off like a light. “Well said, Mohamed Zahar, well said. We will spare your life today. With one condition.”

Another long pause sifted through the heavy air as Mohamed forced himself to continue to sit straight and tall, even as relief drenched every fiber of his being.

“You must speak of this to no one. Especially the woman. We have eyes and ears everywhere and will learn if you fail to obey. Should you choose otherwise, it will mean instant and painful death for you.”

The words rang in Mohamed’s ears as the soft voice added, “And an excruciating one for her.” 

~

Faoud spat on the dirt floor as the van drove off. “Why did you let him go? We should have killed him.”

“Do not distress yourself,” came the unruffled reply. “He is of much more use to us alive at the moment.”

“But he will surely tell the whore.”

“Of course he will tell her. She will quake with fear for him,” Ahmed murmured with satisfaction as he spread a worn prayer rug on the floor, facing in the direction of Mecca. “Perhaps this will make her careless for her own safety.” 

~

Wind filled the white sail as the felucca slid across the river. The near-toothless reis, skin burned to mahogany leather by days of exposure in the extreme elements, sat hunched over at the stern, bare feet protruding from the worn hem of his dirty galabeeya. His passengers huddled together in the bow of the boat, apparently enjoying the beauty of the scene.

Julia sat between Alex and Mohamed, hair blown back and eyes closed, savoring the feel of the sun and wind on her face. Being out on the water not only rejuvenated her weary spirit but provided the privacy required for the grave conversation that had just taken place.

Mohamed decided, after managing to tame his temper, in favor of telling her everything. Annoyance was his first response at her insistence that Bryant be included. Then he realized it was to their advantage for him to know. It was imperative that they both understood the severity of the situation. Bryant’s suggestion for the sail gave him the opportunity to recount his frightening experience, in bone-chilling detail.

The color drained from Julia’s face when he repeated the foretold consequence of his seeing the faces of his abductors. Bryant said little but Mohamed saw the disturbed look behind his restraint.

“That’s quite a story. Now it’s crucial that you stay on the hotel grounds. Both of you.” Alex made sure his back was to the reis as he reached inside his jacket to pull out the Mauser. “Julia, take this.”

She leaned away, shaking her head. “Oh, no. No way.”

“Goddamn it, you need protection. And he can’t carry it.” Alex jerked his head at Mohamed. “If he got caught, he’d go straight to jail.”

“Forget it. It’s pointless for me to have it.” She folded her arms tight over her chest. “Listen, in case you haven’t gotten this yet: I’m a pacifist. I would never, ever, intentionally harm another living creature. It’s just not in my DNA.”

“Even if another creature intended bodily harm to you? Or him?” He jerked his head again at Mohamed, who watched the heated exchange in silence.

Julia and Alex traded glare for glare. With irritation and a frustration heretofore unknown, Alexander replaced the weapon in his jacket pocket. As long as they stayed on the grounds, it probably didn’t matter. Probably. He felt confident he’d be able to protect her, should it come to that.

He deliberately withheld the news of his appointment later that night with the militants. Once the next message came from Brad Caldwell, he would reconsider his options. The bottom line was to get these two safely out of the operation and as quickly as possible. Their presence was making his job much more difficult. As the boat turned back toward the other side of the river and the hotel, he felt uncomfortably aware of the proximity of this woman who had become hazardously important to him. 

When they reached the shore, Alex jumped out, balancing the laptop case now hanging from his shoulder, and offered Julia a hand. The trio, in a glum truce, filed up the stone steps leading to the pool deck.

“Well, hello! Alex, how delightful to see you here. We thought you’d slipped away without so much as a fond farewell.” The familiar chirpy voice came from the shade nearby.

Startled, they all looked over to find Henry and Henrietta Langley sitting on the surrounding wall with legs dangling. A pair of powerful binoculars hung from each of their necks.

Alex bent to brush her thin cheek with a kiss. “Never, my dear. Julia told me you were staying on, so I knew we’d meet again. I’ll be here for another day or two.”

“How lovely. You must all join us for dinner this evening here at the hotel. No, no. No excuses. We insist, don’t we, Henry?”

The faithful Henry as usual beamed and nodded a good-natured assent. 

Alexander couldn’t have been more pleased. This meant the other two would remain safely on the grounds and he’d be able to keep an eye on them. He always enjoyed keeping an eye on Julia.

Julia felt relief at the prospect of a diverting evening in the company of the amiable couple, although she felt a trifle uneasy about those binoculars. They must have been bird-watching. There were plenty to watch from here. Silly, she chided herself again, to suspect the elderly pair. Her overwrought mind was imagining things.

Mohamed, neither pleased nor relieved, simply glowered. All he wanted was to get the hell out of here. He carefully kept the left side of his face turned away but there would be no way to avoid comment on the ugly bruise when they met for dinner. And the call he’d made earlier to Shahida was difficult. She appreciated the generous amount of money—Julia’s money—he’d wired to her that morning, before making that luckless stop at the coffee shop, but she expressed skepticism about the unexpected change of plans.

“Who is this woman?” she asked again. “Is it only the two of you there at the hotel?”

He hated lying to her—hated lying…period. It was not something that came easily and usually came back to bite him. 

“No, several people from the boat have decided to stay over,” he said in what he thought at the time to be a lie. “We will all be touring together.”

She seemed to accept this. But he could tell she wasn’t happy about it.

Chapter 31

James Marshall removed the stopper from a vintage crystal decanter to pour a hefty snifter of cognac. With glass in hand, he padded across a worn, yet still fine Persian rug and sank heavily into the wingback leather chair facing a flickering fire. The black Labrador retriever sprawled beside the chair lifted his graying head, grunting contentedly as his master leaned down to stroke a silky ear. 

“There’s a good boy, Tarquin, there’s a good boy,” crooned James before straightening to glance at the Georgian clock ticking away on the mantel. There was no telling how late the call from No.10 might come. Come though it would. He could be sure of that.

The liquor burned down his throat as he gazed into the hypnotic flames, organizing his thoughts in preparation for speaking with the Prime Minister. Alex’s call several hours ago had been an unusual break with security, but James understood the move once he heard the news. 

The “show,” it seemed, wasn’t intended for the U.S. or Europe as he and his colleagues had feared. Several terrorist groups were evidently collaborating in an alarmingly precise plot, in deadly secrecy, and had been for quite some time.

Of course, the Israelis had never officially acknowledged the existence of their nuclear arsenal, but that was beside the point. It was common knowledge they possessed perhaps as many as two-hundred nuclear warheads. If the terrorists gained control of Dimona for their Holy War, it would virtually open the gates of Hell. There seemed no end to the depth of insanity these radicals would plunge, taking themselves along with the rest of humanity.

The disturbing information came from the Yanks through irregular channels—most irregular. And to complicate matters, none of it could be verified. The PM would love that. His government continued to take searing heat for the intelligence failures that led to the invasion of Iraq. The damnable thing about this latest development was, if they waited for verification, it would almost certainly be too late.

Perhaps much too late. 

This presented the kind of disaster James had long feared. He was an Englishman, through and through. But he was also a pragmatist—and well-versed in history. The role played by the British government in the Middle East over the past two-hundred years was a murky one, at best. Their meddling in affairs, in the opinion of many learned historians,  was the underlying cause of much of the turmoil that existed there today: their “protection” of Egypt, for decades; the poor planning in the creation of the state of Israel, alienating the Palestinians and most of the Arab world; their collaboration with other Western powers in the creation of Iraq and Saudi Arabia; and their continuing support of totalitarian regimes throughout the region. The list went on and on.

No one could argue against the fact that the carving up of the Ottoman Empire following World War I created a situation destined to incite rage, resistance and rebellion. It was futile to attempt to lay all the blame on the governments of the problematic countries. James long ago acknowledged the hard truth: Diplomatic double-dealing and military incompetence resulted in devastating political upheaval, and his country had much to answer for.

Liz Marshall poked her head into the shadowy room. “I’m off to bed, my darling. Don’t forget to let the dog out. And do damp down the fire before you come up.” She peered at her husband over the top of trendy, red-framed reading glasses. “Last week you nearly burned the house down.”

“Humph. No, I shan’t,” murmured James. “Night, darling.” He blew her an absentminded kiss as his thoughts continued to sort through the grains of truth that made up this thorny mess.

It was easy to denounce the Islamic fundamentalists for their despicable actions, but all religions harbored similar violence in their past. People misused religion regularly for their own self-serving purposes, and the misguided Muslims, one must admit, did have some legitimate grievances. This, of course, could never condone what was happening all over the world under the auspices of a religious Jihad—this call for “blood for blood.”

Regrettably, the very dictatorial regimes supported by Britain and the United States—not coincidentally, sources of the much-sought-after almighty crude for their energy-driven economies—created perfect environments for the rise of fundamentalism. For the seasoned diplomat, seated in his comfortable chair, this was all too familiar uncomfortable territory. The debate thundered on even among James’s closest allies. Thompson, the current Minister of Foreign Affairs, was positively apoplectic when James suggested a drastic alteration in course. But even the most self-satisfied in their presumption of superiority knew bloody damn well it was going to take a new strategy to defuse the kind of hate—the kind of anger and violence that over the years had become so deeply entrenched on both sides of the savage conflict.

While the international community stood together in condemning the Islamic terrorist attacks, many equally condemned what they considered the brutal treatment of the Palestinian people by Israel—an issue they felt to be at the root of the Jihad. The Israeli invasion of Lebanon, Syria, Jordan and Egypt in 1967, when they occupied the Golan Heights, the West Bank and the Sinai Peninsula, resulted in hundreds of thousands of Palestinians having to flee their homes, taking up permanent residence in refugee camps. These camps quickly became festering sores of squalid conditions and degradation. Now, after generations of religious persecution and poverty, they virtually guaranteed unrest and revolt.

From the beginning, often standing alone against the rest of the world, the American government provided Israel with unwavering support, not to mention billions of dollars in aid each year. Along with the Yanks, Great Britain and a host of other nations continued to make sporadic attempts at mediating the Middle East peace process.

The Israelis remained immovable in their refusal to reconsider their controversial annexation of East Jerusalem, or to concede to the Arabs’ insistence that it be made the capital of a future Palestinian state. They also continued to encroach and build settlements upon the disputed lands, retaliating with brutal force each time their neighbors struck a blow in opposition.