“Something tells me we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” she murmured.
Abby had never been out of North America before—had rarely traveled far from her home in Indiana—and found it difficult to comprehend the fact that she was now halfway around the world on her way to Israel. The realization that she was doing it all by herself brought tears to her eyes. She cried easily when she was tired—“sleepy-weepy,” her husband had always teased.
The unwelcome reminder of Mark made her angry. It was his betrayal that had catapulted her here to begin with. She slung her tote bag higher onto her shoulder, drawing courage from her anger. Who needed him? She would be fine on her own.
Abby followed the crowd to the customs queue. While she waited, Abby studied her passport picture and saw an attractive middle-aged woman with pleasant “laugh lines”—she refused to call them wrinkles—at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Dark brown hair, cut stylishly short, fell across her forehead above sky-blue eyes. One front tooth bothered her, though—knocked slightly askew after she had fallen from a tree when she was eight. She thought she looked haggard in the picture, but who wouldn’t look haggard after grieving the loss of a twenty-two-year marriage?
“You look a lot better in person, Mom,” her son, Greg, had assured her. “Passport pictures always come out like mug shots.”
“Next? Madame?”
It was Abby’s turn to cross the magic line. The customs clerk stamped her visa page and waved her on. She was in Europe, on her own for the first time in her life. She could do this. She didn’t need Mark or anyone else to hold her hand.
While the other passengers lined up around the revolving baggage kiosk, Abby made her way to the main terminal, eager to begin her tour of Amsterdam. The travel agent in Indianapolis had assured her that her suitcase would be transferred directly to the flight to Tel Aviv, but he had advised her to check in at the Israeli Airlines desk and get a boarding pass before catching the shuttle bus into Amsterdam.
Abby felt as though she had journeyed out of the Netherlands and halfway through France by the time she reached the Israeli Airlines counter, isolated from all the others at the far end of the terminal. The travel agent had also warned her that the Israelis were fanatics about security, but it still startled her to see all three ticket clerks wearing guns in shoulder harnesses beneath their uniform blazers. Disgruntled passengers crowded around the counter, smoking cigarettes, sitting on suitcases, talking loudly in what Abby guessed was Hebrew. She took her place at the end of the line, frustrated at forfeiting her sight-seeing time.
Ten minutes later she reached the counter and handed the clerk her ticket. “I’d like to confirm my seat, please. I’m booked later tonight on the 5:20
P.M.
flight.”
The clerk frowned. “Where did you purchase this ticket?”
“At home . . . in Indianapolis. . . .”
“There is no 5:20
P.M
flight,” the clerk said abruptly.
“What do you mean? Has it been canceled?”
“No, this flight does not exist. We have no such flight with that number and no flights departing at that time.”
“Abby told herself not to panic. “Well, is there another flight I could take to Tel Aviv today?”
“Where did you book this ticket?” The clerk fired the question like a weapon.
“I didn’t actually book it myself. I’m taking a summer graduate course in archaeology. The school made all the arrangements for me.”
“Which school?”
“Western Evangelical Seminary. Dr. Voss’s office made—”
“You are part of a group, then?”
“Yes—”
“Where is everyone else?”
“Well . . . they’re on another flight. I’m meeting them in Tel Aviv.”
“Why aren’t you traveling with your group?”
Abby hesitated. The truth was, everyone else was traveling through Athens, which had a bad reputation for terrorist activity. Her fear of being hijacked had overridden her desire to see that ancient city. But should she confess her fear to the gun-toting clerk?
“The seminary is in Colorado,” Abby finally said, “but the summer students come from all over the United States. This is an archaeological dig, you see, sponsored by the Israeli Archaeological Institute.”
“How well do you know the man who bought this ticket for you?”
“We’ve never met, but—”
“One moment, please.” The clerk hopped off her stool and disappeared through the doorway behind her.
Abby drummed her fingers on the counter.
Great, fust great
. She had saved money from her meager teacher’s salary for this trip, and her finances didn’t allow for any unforeseen expenses. Maybe she should just take the next flight home.
The ticket clerk returned with an older man whose ID tag indicated he was the manager. His gun was a few sizes larger than everyone else’s, too. “Where did you buy this ticket?” he asked.
Abby gestured to the clerk standing silently beside him. “I already explained—”
“Explain again, please.”
“Dr. Theodore Voss at Western Evangelical Seminary in Colorado mailed it to me.”
“Do you know this Dr. Voss personally?”
“I’ve never met him. We’ve only spoken on the phone.”
The manager chewed his mustache as he tapped the keys on his computer terminal. Abby’s feet were beginning to ache. She shifted her tote bag to the floor, waiting a full five minutes while the manager consulted his computer.
“Did this Dr. Voss ask you to carry anything to Israel for him or give you a package of any kind?”
“Just a package of information about the dig and the graduate course I’ll be taking.”
“May I see it, please?”
Abby pulled the fat manila envelope from her tote bag and handed it to him. The female clerk disappeared through the door with it. What was going on?
“The flight you are booked on does not exist,” the manager said, laying Abby’s ticket on the counter in front of her. He made it sound as if she had committed a crime.
“Well, is there another flight to Tel Aviv I could take instead?”
“Flight 1013 departs at eight o’clock this morning.”
Abby glanced at the clock above the counter. “But . . . but that’s in less than an hour! Isn’t there a later flight?” He shook his head. Abby sighed as her plans for a day of sight-seeing in Amsterdam went up in smoke. “Well, I guess I’ll have to take it, then.” He began tapping keys on his computer again. The clerk returned with Abby’s manila envelope several minutes later, and Abby stuffed it back into her tote bag. “What about my suitcase?”
“If it was tagged for Israeli Airlines, it will be sent to our luggage area. You’ll be boarding at Gate 96, Concourse C.” He handed her the new ticket as soon as the computer spit it out. “Who’s next?”
Abby hated changes. There had been far too many in her life these past few months. She slung her tote bag over her shoulder again and followed the signs to Concourse C, passing through airport security. The guards and guns seemed to be multiplying like viruses.
Gate 96 was at the farthest end of the concourse, isolated from the rest of the airport. Abby sighed and sank into a seat. Her nerves felt frayed and the other passengers hadn’t started to board the plane yet. They either paced the aisles smoking cigarettes or sat reading Hebrew newspapers in glum silence. The atmosphere seemed unusually tense, like a cheap cloak-and-dagger movie. She should have taken her chances with hijackers in Athens.
At eight o’clock the manager from the ticket counter appeared and picked up the microphone, making an announcement first in Hebrew, then English. “Ladies and gentlemen, Flight 1013 will be delayed until 9:30
A.M
. You will be served a complimentary breakfast in the Skyline Coffee Shop.”
Abby expected the announcement to be greeted with groans and protests, but the passengers simply rose from their seats and straggled down the long concourse for their free meal. Abby fell in line with them, even though the last thing she wanted right now was food. Her stomach seethed from the long flight and from the tension that seemed to surround the Israeli ticket counter—not to mention all the guns, which never failed to make her nervous.
Halfway to the coffee shop she had a disconcerting thought:
Something must be wrong with the plane!
The free meal was probably a distraction so the passengers wouldn’t see the workers frantically repairing the engines. If something was wrong, Abby wanted to know about it. There was no way she would board an ailing aircraft. She hopped off the moving sidewalk at the first break and headed back toward the gate.
The departure lounge was deserted. She looked out the window in time to see the door to the Israeli Airlines jet swing shut and the boarding ramp slowly fold into the terminal. The huge plane backed up, then taxied out of sight. Abby sank into a chair and popped another antacid into her mouth. Great. Something was definitely wrong with the plane.
A lone sanitation worker wheeled his cart into the lounge and began lethargically emptying ashtrays. Abby closed her eyes and tried to doze. When she opened them ten minutes later, the janitor was still emptying ashtrays, in spite of the fact that there was no one in the lounge to fill them. Paid by the hour, no doubt. When he leaned against his cart and lit his own cigarette, she nearly laughed out loud. There’s a job she’d like to have—smoking cigarettes and emptying her own ashtray. The janitor took a long drag and, in the same motion, casually turned his head toward her. When their eyes met, he quickly looked away. The man obviously wasn’t working—there was no work for him to do in this deserted corridor. And he certainly wouldn’t keep his job for very long if he never worked any harder than this.
Abby closed her eyes again and was trying to nap when she heard a faint beeping sound. It came from the janitor’s cart. Did he set his watch so he wouldn’t miss his coffee break? As he disappeared with his cart behind an unmarked door, something about him struck Abby as wrong. He was too dark-skinned to be Dutch, too young and well-built to be a janitor. Was he a security guard posing as a janitor? If so, who was he watching? A shiver crawled up her spine when she realized that she was the only person in the lounge.
Outside the window, a Dutch National Airlines jet pulled into the gate where the Israeli Jet Liner had been, and workers wheeled a set of stairs to the door. Abby watched in horror as a dozen uniformed guards with machine guns—some leading dogs—hurried up the stairs and disappeared into the plane. She could see them moving around inside it. Beneath the plane, workers opened the luggage hold and several more guards with dogs crawled inside. When they finished their inspection, the guards stationed themselves around the perimeter of the plane, cradling their machine guns. What on earth was going on?
Only one explanation made sense. A bomb threat.
A sickening fear washed over Abby like syrup.
Oh, God, please, no
. . . she prayed. Her heart began to race as if she had just completed a marathon. She couldn’t catch her breath. Suddenly she felt so nauseated that she had to sprint into the women’s room and kneel in front of the bowl. There was nothing for her stomach to expel, but the toilet flushed automatically. When she realized that she had left her tote bag in the lounge, she tried to stand. Her knees were too wobbly to support her, and she collapsed onto the seat. The toilet flushed again. What was happening to her? She had read about anxiety attacks, but this was the first time she had experienced one.
She rose to stagger from the booth and the toilet flushed a third time. Abby made her way back to where she had left her tote bag, clinging to the sinks, the backs of chairs, and anything she could find to support her rubbery legs. Several of the other passengers had returned. She would have to board the plane soon.
Oh, dear God . . . I can’t get on that plane! I can’t!
Her nausea was so overwhelming that Abby snatched up her tote bag and ran back into the rest room. Her stomach heaved. As she alternated between sitting on the stool and leaning over the bowl, the automated flush drained repeatedly. Her lungs pumped so hard she felt dizzy.
Pray. She had to pray She remembered the story of Gideon’s fleece from Sunday school and decided to offer a fleece of her own.
Oh, God . . . if something is wrong with this airplane, if I shouldn’t get on it . . . let my luggage be the sign. If they can’t find my suitcase, then I’ll know I’m supposed to wait here
.
She sat in the toilet stall, praying as she hadn’t prayed in years, until the loudspeaker announced her flight. She glimpsed herself in the mirror on her way out—her face was as white as the porcelain sink.
The ticket agents had wheeled all of the luggage into the departure lounge on huge carts and were asking the passengers to identify their bags and open them. After the agents inspected each suitcase, it was loaded into the cargo hold and the passenger who owned it was allowed to board.
Abby searched for her suitcase. It wasn’t on either cart. It was the sign she had prayed for. She should not get on this airplane. She couldn’t breathe.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?” the big-gun manager asked her.
“My suitcase isn’t here.”
“If you fill out a form stating your address in Israel, it will be forwarded to you. Kindly step aboard the aircraft.” Abby glanced around. She was the only remaining passenger in the lounge.
“Umm . . . I’d rather not do that. Everything I need is in that suitcase. I’ll wait here until it shows up. I’ll take a later flight.”
“This is the only flight to Tel Aviv today.”
“Well, then I’ll stay overnight. It will give me a chance to see a bit of Amsterdam—”
“Why don’t you want to board this flight, ma’am?”
What should she say? That God had told her not to? She would sound like a crackpot.They would lock her away somewhere. “I . . . I want to wait here for my luggage.”
“But you have a ticket for
this
flight. I must insist that you board it now.” He gripped her arm and led her to the door.
“No . . . wait . . .”
“You
must
step aboard, Mrs. MacLeod.”