Abby wasn’t sure which shocked her more: the fact that he remembered her name or that he was forcing her to get on the airplane against her will. Could he do that? Didn’t she have a right to refuse? It didn’t really matter what her rights were because she was too weak with fright to do anything but submit. The manager led her down the aisle of the plane to her seat, and she collapsed into it. God had answered her prayer and told her not to board this plane, yet here she sat against her will, buckling her seat belt with shaking hands.
She was surely going to die.
The next several minutes passed in a haze of terror as Abby tried to prepare herself for the explosion she was convinced would come. She had attended church every week as a child, not to mention countless Sunday school classes and Bible camps. She should remember what she was supposed to do, what she should say to God. Yet her mind was a complete blank.
The plane began to move. The flight attendants bustled around, making everything secure, then strapped themselves in for the takeoff. Abby closed her eyes as the jet hurtled down the runway. She battled an enormous surge of nausea as she felt the wheels lift off the ground.
Oh, God, please help me!
“Are you all right, miss?”
Abby opened her eyes and looked into the kind, concerned face of her seatmate. He was about sixty years old, dressed in a dark business suit, crisp white shirt, and striped tie. He wore a Jewish skullcap on his balding head, and his trimmed brown beard was sprinkled with gray, his words sprinkled with the faintest trace of an accent. Yet it was his warm caramel eyes, creased at the corners as if from years of smiling, that won Abby’s instant trust. They were the eyes of a gentle grandfather.
“No,” she whispered. “I . . . I’m terrified.”
He peeled her hand from the armrest and placed it between his own. “May I?” he asked kindly. She nodded gratefully, feeling less alone. “You’re perfectly safe, my dear. Israeli Airlines has one of the best flying records in the world. And if you can’t bring yourself to trust the pilot, you can always put your trust in God.”
She managed a small smile. “That’s what I was trying to do. . . . Pray, I mean. I’m a little out of practice, though.”
He chuckled, and his laugh was as warm as melted honey. “Then allow me. ‘He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”’ How am I doing so far?”
Abby was surprised to find her anxiety attack subsiding. “Um, great . . . thank you. Please don’t stop.”
“‘If you make the Most High your dwelling—even the Lord, who is my refuge—then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent. For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.’”
“That’s one of the psalms, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m Benjamin Rosen, by the way. And you are . . . ?”
“Abby MacLeod. As you probably guessed, I’m terrified of flying.”
He smiled again. “Most people are, Abby, if they’re truly honest about it.” The plane banked unexpectedly, and she gripped his hand tighter.
“Are you afraid, Mr. Rosen?”
“Well, I suppose I was a bit anxious years ago, but I’ve flown so many times now that I’m used to it.”
“Do you travel on business?”
“Yes. My work takes me to conferences all over the world. I’m a so-called ‘agricultural expert,’ specializing in desert hydrology. But don’t let the title fool you. I’m really a simple farmer at heart, searching for new ways to grow crops in my tiny arid nation. And how about you, Abby MacLeod? What brings you to Israel—despite your aversion to airplanes?”
“I’m a history teacher and an armchair archaeologist. Now that my two children are grown, I decided to fulfill my lifelong dream to go on an archaeological dig.”
“That’s wonderful! Where will you be digging?”
“I’ll show you.” If Mr. Rosen’s plan was to help Abby take her mind off her fears, it was working. Grateful for the distraction, Abby pulled out her packet of materials and pored over the map and details of the expedition with him. Within minutes, she had begun to relax.
“Ah, I see that this is one of Hannah’s digs,” Mr. Rosen said. “Be sure to say hello to her for me. Hannah Rahov is my cousin.”
Abby turned to a blank page in the back of her notebook.
“Would you like to write her a note?” She watched, fascinated, as he quickly scribbled in Hebrew, writing from right to left.
For the next hour they talked as if they were lifelong friends. By the time the flight attendants served their meal, Abby had spilled the entire story of how she had watched the armed guards search the plane and how it had triggered an anxiety attack. She even told Mr. Rosen about her fleece and how the officials had forced her to board the plane against her will. He murmured sympathetically and patted her hand.
“I know the story of Gideon’s fleece,” he said, and they began to talk about the Bible. Abby showed him the travel-sized one she carried in her purse, a going-away gift from her daughter, Emily.
“I confess I’ve never looked closely at the Christian Scriptures,” he told her as he paged through it. “These first five books are the same as our Torah . . . the Prophets are the same . . . ah yes, and the Psalms are the same.”
Benjamin Rosen talked with Abby throughout the flight, leaving her side for only a short time. “If you will excuse me for just a few minutes, my dear, it is time to recite prayers. May I borrow this?” he asked, indicating her Bible.
“Yes, of course.”
“Here, you may have a look at mine while I’m gone. Of course, it won’t do you much good unless you know Hebrew.” He turned the book over in her hands, smiling. “It goes this way—it reads from back to front.”
He unbuckled his seat belt and walked to the rear of the plane to join a group of other Israeli men. They stood in a circle in the rear aisle, their heads hidden beneath prayer shawls as they swayed and bobbed in rhythm with the Hebrew verse.
When Mr. Rosen returned, he and Abby talked a while longer about religion and God. “I think it is good for people of different faiths to meet on common ground as we have done, don’t you, Abby? It pleases the Holy One.” He paged through Abby’s Bible for a moment, then began to read:
“‘How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity! It is like precious oil poured on the head, running down on the beard, running down on Aaron’s beard, down upon the collar of his robes.’” He sighed heavily. “I’m afraid we have not yet learned to live in unity in my country.”
It was nearly time to land. Mr. Rosen fastened his seat belt as the Jet Liner slowly descended over the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Abby could see the flat coastline of Israel ahead.
“I hate landings,” she said, feeling sick again. Mr. Rosen took her hand and talked her through each strange noise and dizzying turn the jet made until they landed safely on the ground. As they stood in the aisle, Abby surrendered to the urge to hug him.
“I don’t know how I can ever thank you, Mr. Rosen.”
“No, no, the pleasure was all mine. It’s not every day that I get to spend time with a beautiful young woman. Now, if you will allow me, perhaps I could also help you through customs and see about your lost luggage. I believe there are some forms to fill out.”
“You don’t have to do that. . . .”
“I know, but I would like to.”
In the end, Abby was grateful for his help. He seemed to know a lot of people at the airport and was able to cut through the red tape quickly. Before long, they stood in the outer lobby of the terminal by the main exit doors, saying good-bye.
“Is someone from the Archaeological Institute here to pick you up?” Mr. Rosen asked.
“No, they’re not expecting me to arrive this early.”
“That’s right, you said there was a mix-up in your flight times. Would you like me to phone Hannah and arrange to have someone come for you?”
“You’ve done enough for me already, Mr. Rosen. I know you must want to get home after your long trip.”
He smiled kindly. “A simple phone call won’t take long. I’ll feel better knowing I’m not leaving you at the mercy of our Israeli taxi drivers. Do you have the Institute’s phone number handy?” Abby fumbled in her tote bag for the packet of materials and gave it to Mr. Rosen.
“You sit right here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment with good news, yes?”
“At least let me pay for the phone call.”
He pulled an oddly shaped coin from his pocket. “The phone requires a special token, like this. Relax. I will be right back.”
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?”