Wings of Refuge

  He disappeared around the corner where she had seen a row of telephones. Abby sank into an orange plastic chair, fanning herself with her passport. The heat reminded her of August back home, but the little bit of Israel that she glimpsed through the glass doors certainly didn’t look like Indianapolis—palm trees swaying in the breeze, rich golden sunlight, traffic signs in Hebrew.

  Israel! She could scarcely believe that she was in Israel! According to her watch she had been awake for more than twenty-four hours. Abby couldn’t wait to get to her hotel room to shower and change her clothes. Then she remembered that she had no clothes to change into. Tears pressed against her eyelids, but she pushed them back. People traveled and lost their luggage every day. This was not a big deal. She cheered herself with the thought that she would call her son and daughter in a little while and let them know she had arrived safely. Would she need telephone tokens to place a call from the hotel? She had better ask Mr. Rosen where to purchase them, then let the poor man go home. He had done enough for her.

  As she stood and headed toward the phones, she heard a loud snapping noise, like the electric stapling machine in her school’s office. She rounded the corner and saw Benjamin Rosen staring at her, his eyes wide, his mouth open in surprise. The telephone dangled from the wall by its cord. The contents of her packet from the Institute lay strewn all over the floor. Mr. Rosen held on to the ledge of the phone cubicle with one hand as if for balance and clutched his chest with the other.

  She thought he must be having a heart attack until she saw the ragged hole in his chest, the dark blood spurting out. A vivid stain spread across his white shirt and seeped between his fingers. Speckles of blood splattered his face, her manila envelope, the glass telephone partition.

  “Help him!” she screamed. “Somebody help him!”

  He took a step toward her, his eyes pleading, his lips moving as he struggled to tell her something. She opened her arms to him and they sank to the floor together. His voice was urgent, desperate, as he tried to make her understand.

  Then, cradled in Abby’s arms, Benjamin Rosen died.

  * * *

  Agent Shur leaned across the table toward Abby. His breath reeked of tobacco. “Tell me exactly what Ben Rosen said, Mrs. MacLeod. Even if it makes no sense to you. This is very important.”

  She drew a deep breath. “The only word I understood clearly was traitor. He said he was certain there was a traitor. He repeated it two or three times. He also mumbled the word tore or torn. Something like that. Then . . . then he died. That sweet man . . . died in my arms.” The sob she had bravely held back erupted from deep inside her. She covered her face and wept. Neither agent spoke or moved.

  “I’m sorry,” she said when she was able to control her tears. “That’s all I remember. May I please go now?”

  “Not until we’re convinced you had nothing to do with it.”

  “Me?” The word came out in a squeak.

  “We’ve been observing you ever since you produced the phony airline ticket in Amsterdam. It’s a ploy that terrorists sometimes use. They book their luggage on a connecting flight but don’t board the plane themselves because of the mix-up with their ticket. Of course, the baggage handlers don’t know that. They have thousands of suitcases to deal with, and so the bag carrying the explosive device is loaded onto the plane. You were the only passenger who didn’t take advantage of the complimentary breakfast. You were the only passenger paying close attention as the aircraft was inspected. You spent a great deal of time in the ladies’ room, flushing something down the toilet. And, you may recall, you were quite insistent about waiting for another flight.”

  “But I already explained! I was scared! When I saw all the guards and the dogs, I was afraid there was a bomb. That’s why I didn’t want to get on the plane.”

  “Indeed. We did receive a tip about the possibility of a bomb shortly before you arrived with your phony ticket. The fact that you never met the man who purchased it made us suspect that you might be a mule.”

  “A what?”

  “Someone who makes a delivery for a second party,” the younger agent said.

  “For all of these reasons,” Shur continued, “Benjamin Rosen was assigned to sit beside you during the flight.”

  “Assigned?”

  “Yes. And now he’s dead.”

  Abby moaned involuntarily. The door opened and a policeman handed Shur a sheet of fax paper. He studied it for a moment, then folded it in half, creasing it several times with his fingernail.

  “Your brother lived in Beirut, Lebanon, for a while. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but . . . surely you don’t think he’s . . . ?” Agent Shur’s expression told her that it was exactly what he thought. “No, listen! Sam is a physician. He went to Beirut as a volunteer with a missions organization. That was years ago . . . and he only stayed for a month.”

  “Your husband’s computer firm, Data Age—are you aware that they are one of the subcontractors that does business with the Saudi Arabian government?”

  “No, I don’t know anything about Mark’s work. He and I—”

  “What are your views on Palestinian autonomy?”

  “I . . . I really have no views. Israel is the Jewish homeland, isn’t it?”

  “You have close ties to members of the Islamic faith, no? You have a friend . . .” He unfolded the fax and glanced at it for a moment. “Named Fatima Rabadi. She is a Muslim?”

  “Yes, she’s my friend. We teach at the same school, but we’ve never even discussed religion.”

  Abby felt hot and cold at the same time. A nightmare. This was a nightmare. How could she prove to them that she was innocent? Should she ask for a lawyer? Refuse to answer any more questions?

  Agent Shur held up the fax. “In light of this new information, Mrs. MacLeod, we would like you to start at the beginning and tell us your story once again.”

  When he pulled another cigarette from the pack and planted it between his lips, Abby was afraid she was going to be sick. She had read about the many forms of torture used throughout history—from the infamous racks of the Spanish Inquisition to Chinese water torture—but slow suffocation by foul Middle Eastern cigarettes was a new one. If she didn’t get out of this tiny room soon, she might confess to anything just for a breath of fresh air.

  The Israeli agent was fumbling for his lighter when there was a knock on the door. The younger agent opened it, and a tall bearded man stepped into the blue haze.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m Dr. Aaron Bazak from the Archaeological Institute. I’ve come for Mrs. MacLeod.” He looked like a dictionary illustration for “archaeologist” with his rumpled khaki shirt and shorts, dusty, flat-soled work boots, and deeply bronzed skin. He extended his hand to Shur, but the agent ignored it. The two men began to argue in rapid-fire Hebrew.

  Abby had felt intimidated by Agent Shur’s government badge and aura of officialdom, but the archaeologist never flinched. Maybe it helped that he stood well over six feet tall, topping Shur by at least five inches. And that he looked like a gracefully aging Olympic athlete compared to the paunchy, round-shouldered agent. Abby shrank into her chair, exhausted.

  Gradually, the argument resolved into the normal volume of speech. She didn’t realize that the archaeologist was addressing her in English until he touched her shoulder.

  “Mrs. MacLeod?”

  She nearly leaped from her seat.

  “Forgive me for startling you,” he said. “We may leave now.”

  “Really?” It seemed too good to be true. She stood and the room whirled. He gripped her around the waist to prevent her from toppling over. She felt very small beside him as he helped her through the door. The two agents followed them.

  “You will make certain that Mrs. MacLeod is available to us for further questioning, if necessary,” Shur said. It wasn’t a question but a command.

  The man from the Institute nodded. “Do you have any luggage?” he asked Abby.

  “Y
es, I mean, no . . . I mean, they lost it. But I had a carry-on bag.” One of the policemen retrieved it, and the archaeologist slung it over his shoulder. Abby walked out of the terminal at last, a free woman.

  CHAPTER 2

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL—1999

  Abby stepped outside into the sunshine. The ordeal was over. She would go to her hotel, get a good night’s sleep, and start fresh in the morning. Hopefully she would stop trembling soon and be able to enjoy the rest of her trip. Israel! She was in Israel, about to participate in an archaeological dig! It was a dream come true.

  With the man from the Institute still supporting her, Abby stumbled across the parking lot and climbed into the passenger seat of his battered compact car. She had been warm in the tiny interrogation room, but the inside of his car was like a sauna, the seat like a bed of hot coals beneath her. The archaeologist started the car engine, adjusted the impotent air-conditioner, and they were soon hurtling through the traffic-packed streets of Tel Aviv.

  “Mrs. MacLeod, I am very sorry that you had such an . . . eh . . . how should I say . . . unfortunate introduction to our country.” The archaeologist had a deep, resonant voice and spoke with a thick accent—slightly nasal, with British vowels. “I promise we will do our best to make it up to you in the weeks ahead.”

  “Thank you. And please call me Abby.”

  “Of course. I hope we shall become friends . . . Abby.” He pronounced it Ah-bee.

  She took a good look at him for the first time and saw that he was in his midforties and distinguished-looking, with a dark brown beard and mustache and thick, graying brown hair that fell in curly disarray across his forehead. His eyes, under straight dark brows, were the color of Hershey bars. The muscles in his arms flexed as he wrestled the stick shift into gear, and she could easily imagine him tossing rocks and shifting crumbled pillars to uncover exotic ruins.

  “Could you please tell me your name again?” she said. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch it the first time.”

  “That is quite understandable after all that you have been through. I’m Ari Bazak, Dr. Rahov’s associate. I’ll be working on the dig with you.”

  “Bazak? I don’t recall seeing your name on any of the materials Dr. Rahov sent.”

  He took his eyes off the road to glance at her in surprise. “That’s because I joined only a few days ago. The project I was supposed to be involved with fell through for lack of funds. Dr. Rahov allowed me to join her for the summer.”

  “Listen, Dr. Bazak—”

  “Ari. It’s short for Aaron.”

  “I don’t know what you said back there to get me out of that awful room, Ari, but I’m grateful. From the way everyone acted, I was sure I was going straight to jail—do not pass ‘go.’ Do not collect two hundred dollars.”

  “Two hundred dollars?” he said, frowning. “I don’t understand . . .”

  “It’s just an expression from a dumb Monopoly game. I’m exhausted and I’m not making much sense. But whatever you said to the police, thanks for rescuing me.”

  “I merely reminded them that Israel is still a democracy and that unless they had evidence of your involvement or charges to file against you, they had no right to detain you any longer.”

  Abby remembered Agent Shur’s accusations and shuddered. “They acted as if I had something to do with . . . with what happened.”

  “It is their job to be suspicious. Aren’t the police in your country the same?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been in trouble with the police before. Not even a speeding ticket. Umm . . . speaking of speed, do people always drive this . . . fast?” The ride resembled the view from the cockpit of an Indy car, wilder than anything she had encountered back home. Ari and all the other drivers were weaving between lanes, honking, swerving abruptly, barely touching the brakes, while dozens of pedestrians wandered heedlessly among them. She gripped the edges of her seat to keep from being flung about.

  “My driving makes you nervous?” he asked.

  “Yes, a bit. And I don’t think my nerves could survive another rush of adrenaline.” He braked and down-shifted, and a chorus of honking horns and angry shouts erupted all around them. Abby sighed. “Never mind. I’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

  “You’re not in trouble, Abby,” he said as he accelerated again, narrowly missing a tour bus. “There will be no charges filed. They released you, didn’t they? In fact, they cautioned me not to talk about the . . . eh . . . incident . . . unless you want to.”

  “Did they tell you what happened?” She leaned her head against the headrest and looked through the windshield at the cloudless sky, trying to ignore the swerving, racing traffic.

  “Only that you witnessed a shooting and that the victim died. I’m supposed to make certain that you enjoy the rest of your visit to Israel. They don’t want any negative publicity.”

  “I’m sure a lot of tourists would be put off if they thought a secret agent might die in their arms.” Ari gave her an odd look, a mixture of puzzlement and displeasure. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  Abby closed her eyes, hoping to avoid conversation and the harrowing traffic. She had been eager to see Israel, but the combination of heat and fear were making her nauseous. She didn’t open her eyes again until the car stopped a few minutes later and Ari shut off the engine. “Are we at the hotel?” she asked.

  “No. My favorite restaurant.”

  Abby groaned. “Look, I know you mean well, but the last thing in the world I want is food. I need a shower and a bed and—”

  “You don’t really think you’ll be able to sleep, do you?”

  “I’ll take a sleeping pill.”

  “On an empty stomach? Not a good idea.” His long bare legs unfolded grasshopper-like as he climbed out of the car and strode around to open her door. “A bowl of soup and a cup of tea, Abby. I promise you won’t regret it. Besides, the delay will help us avoid some of this traffic.”

  “I can’t go out in public like this,” she said, gesturing to her bloodstained dress.

  “Israel is a land of much bloodshed. I doubt anyone will even notice.” She guessed by the bitter tone in his voice that he hadn’t meant it as a joke. He retrieved a short-sleeved blue dress shirt from the backseat and handed it to her. “Here, wear this.”

  As he helped her from the car, clothed her in his shirt, and steered her into a restaurant she had no desire to enter, Abby felt angry with herself. She was too passive—too nice—always letting people walk all over her and tell her what to do. She envied assertive women who could get their own way, women like Lindsey Cook, the twenty-eight-year-old systems analyst from Mark’s office. She had decided what she wanted—Abby’s husband—and then gone after him.

  The restaurant was tiny and completely lacking in decor—they would call it a hole-in-the-wall back home. Ari waved away the menus and ordered for both of them in Hebrew. Savior or not, he annoyed her—herding her around like a child, making decisions for her. She decided not to touch the soup, but as soon as the waitress set the fragrant bowl in front of her along with a basket of warm pita bread and a bowl of green olives, Abby’s resolve collapsed.

  “Mmm. This is delicious,” she said, sipping the soup. “What is it?”

  “It is made with chicken and some vegetables. I don’t know how you call it in English.” He broke off a chunk of the bread and dipped it into the soup, chewing slowly. “Tell me about your interest in archaeology. Have you been on a dig before?”

  She exhaled. “Look, I know you’re just trying to be polite, but I’ve already answered so many questions today that I really—”

  “My apologies. You are quite right.”

  They ate without speaking until the silence made her feel rude. Dr. Bazak was trying to be friendly, but they weren’t connecting at all. Was it the language barrier? Her lack of experience with foreign men? Making small talk with an attractive stranger was too much like dating, and the thought of starting that process all over again now th
at Mark was gone was too distressing to contemplate.

  “Do you have a specialty or something, Dr. Bazak?” she finally asked.

  “A what?”

  “A special field of archaeology—you know, like Egyptian hieroglyphics or Philistine pottery.”

  “Ah, yes, yes. I understand. The Roman era. I have a special fondness for Roman mosaics.”

  “I read about the excavations during last season’s dig. Didn’t they date some of the ruins to the Roman era?”

  He chewed on an olive for a moment, adding the pit to the considerable pile he had amassed before looking up. If it was possible to blush beneath a tan, Ari Bazak was doing it. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about this dig. I joined the expedition . . . eh, last minute, and I haven’t done my research, as you obviously have.”

  Another step on the wrong foot with this man. Abby hoped she wasn’t assigned to work anywhere near him. “I’m sorry if I’ve put you on the spot,” she said. “Maybe you’d rather talk about your other project.”

  “My other project?”

  “The one that fell through.”

  “Ah, yes . . . yes, that one.” His laugh sounded as though it was rarely used. “That was very disappointing for me. It was a promising site.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Have you heard of Tel Hadar?” She shook her head. “It was Tel Hadar.” He returned to his olives and bread as another line of conversation came to a halt. Abby quickly finished her soup and drained her tea.

  “That was delicious. Thanks for suggesting it.”

  “You would like more? A refill, maybe?”

  “No, thanks. I’d really like to go to the hotel now.”

  “We will be staying in Netanya tonight, about thirty kilometers from here. Are you certain there isn’t anything you need while we’re still in the city?”

  “No, just take me to the hotel before I change my mind and fly back to Indianapolis.”

  They squeezed into the car again, and Abby braced herself for another nail-biting ride. She tried to enjoy the scenery as the car left the city, but the needle on the speedometer hovered around 100. Ari caught her glancing at it.