Interlude (23 page)

Jon studied her face. “Who is he?”

“He's one of the men who's been debriefing you, at least I think he is.”

“Which one?”

“His name's Mike.”

“Mike . . . ,” Jon frowned and looked at the floor.

Dear God, I hope Mike hasn't said anything strange to him.

“Jon, you're making too big of a deal out of this.” Betty was trying very hard not to sound defensive, and perhaps even more importantly, not to give Jon any indication of Mike's interest in her. After all, she wasn't interested in Mike, so what difference did it make anyway? Finally, making a valiant attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere, Betty took a breath and asked, “Speaking of suspicious behavior, Jon, why were you so silent last night? I was beginning to wonder what
you've
been up to!”

Jon silently surveyed Betty's face, unable to shake off a troubling sense of skepticism. Finally he shrugged and answered quietly, “I was exhausted, but I guess I was nervous too. No matter how much I wanted to spend the night talking to you, for some reason I was tongue-tied. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.”

“Neither could I.”

Jon chuckled. “Well, that's a first.”

Betty frowned at him and shook her head. “Men always think women talk too much. But you're not going to get away with that today, because I want you to tell me how you got out of captivity. How much do you know? I've been so curious.”

“Well, which story do you want to hear?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean two things happened at the same time. One had to do with my captors' miserable performance as hostage takers. The other one was my own spiritual release, which happened before they actually let me go.”

“Let's start with the miserable hostage takers.” Betty again recalled Mike's comment about their “getting out of the hostage business.”

“Right. Well as I understand it, the men who took me were part of a loosely knit crime ring. They had no political aspirations at all but thought they might be able to scare up some American dollars in ransom if they picked up a hostage.”

“So they weren't the same people that kidnapped Anderson and Waite and all the others?”

“No. They tried to use the same Islamic rhetoric in their messages, but in actual fact the other kidnappers were appalled by their actions. I guess they felt it was a cheap shot, since they were representing the true Islamic revolutionary cause.”

“Who told you all this?”

“Well, that was one of the problems. Some of the guards they'd hired to take care of me were really pretty decent guys, and before long they were giving me all the inside scoop on my captors. Apparently there were all kinds of spies in the camp selling stories. Somebody even brought me your letter.”

“Do you remember a man named Abdul Badr?”

Jon stared at her in amazement. “Abdul Badr? Sure I do. I met him and his brother in '82 during the war. How do you know about him?”

“Well, he's the one who got the letter to you. I first heard about him from Vince Angelo, who said you were hoping to find him while you were there.”

“How on earth did you get in touch with him?”

“I didn't. He got in touch with me. As you'll soon find out, this whole mess has made celebrities out of us both—my name was all over the place in news reports, and the major news services gave my phone number out to anybody who asked.”

“So we're famous?” Jon laughed. “Perfect. Just in time for our honeymoon. But what about Badr?”

“Badr's dead. He was killed not long after the letter got to you, or so I gather. I've been getting a little information from a guy in Washington D.C. who talks more than he's supposed to.”

“Badr's dead?” Jon's face paled.

“Yes. And his brother too. And at one point the guys working on your case thought you were involved with them in some kind of drug dealing. To make matters worse a man claiming to be your half brother in New Zealand was spreading stories about you in the world press.”

Jon looked foggier than ever. “Betty, I don't have a half brother in New Zealand. I don't have any brothers or sisters anywhere.”

“All I know is that a newly released convict with the last name of Dixon said that you were his half brother and that you had been involved with drug dealing in Lebanon. He apparently sold his story to some tabloid in Wellington. The man who told me about all this said Dixon is a known pathological liar. I guess they listened to him anyway.”

Jon sighed and shook his head. “This is unbelievable. I had no idea rats like that would crawl out of the woodwork. I guess saying he was my brother seemed like a fast way to make a buck.”

“There's more money in the hostage issue than you might imagine, Jon,” Betty remarked, choosing to save her Ricky Simms saga for some future conversation.

“Just for the record, I met the Badr brothers on my first trip to Lebanon, and I'm pretty sure they were small-time criminals. For all I know they may have been involved in hashish—a lot of people are. But they were likable guys and seemed to know everybody in the country. I had befriended them by taking pictures of their family for an anniversary or birthday or something—I don't remember. Anyway, I figured they might help Vince and me out on our assignment. So you say Abdul got the letter to me?”

“Yeah, for $100.” Betty looked at Jon sheepishly.

Jon laughed in spite of himself. “It was worth it, believe me.” He put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. “That was quite a poem. In any case, my guards were letting me know that the men holding me were getting no ransom offers, and my care was costing them more than they expected. At one point they were going to shoot me, but God took care of that.”

“What did God do?”

“One of the guards brought his son to work with him sometimes, if you can believe it. The little guy was about four or five and he had a pretty bad rash on his arms and legs. I had the strongest feeling I should pray for him—I guess I remembered your skin problem, and I asked the boy's father if he'd mind. Of course he couldn't have cared less. I put my hand on the boy's head, prayed for him and then forgot all about it. At about the same time I heard through one of the guards that my life was at risk.”

“You must have been terrified, Jon. You know they broadcast a death threat.”

“Well, I think that death threat actually happened later, after they decided to let me go. They were just making noise, trying to draw attention to me one last time so someone would offer them money. I'm sure that's why they made the videotape, too.

“But listen to this—the little boy's skin cleared up within a week after I prayed for him. And when his father told the kidnappers about it, it terrified them! They were afraid of me, and even more afraid to kill me. Once the boy was healed, they wanted me out of there. They thought I had some sort of power they didn't understand.”

“You did.”

“Right. I did.”

“You know I prayed that you'd get that letter and poem. In fact several people prayed with me. This old friend of mine from college wrote to me after she saw our story on the news. Her husband's an Episcopal priest.”

“So she and her husband prayed for me?”

“She and her husband and their church, Jon. I've never met people quite like that.”

“By the way, how are Jim Richards and Joyce doing?”

“They did everything they could to help you. I'll tell you all about Jim's hard work later. But what about this other story of yours? What about the spiritual release you mentioned?”

Jon yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Betty, I've been talking too long, and I'm tired. Can we just go for a walk or something and not talk for awhile?”

“Do you want me to go back to my room?”

“Are you kidding?” Jon gave her a sly look. “I'm not letting you out of my sight this time. If I rest, you rest too. Understood?”

Betty looked sheepishly at him. “Understood.”

“Betty . . . ,” He turned toward her and gently held her upper arms in his hands. “Are you sure there's nothing going on between you and this Mike person?” Again, sadness shadowed his face.

Betty shook her head in amazement. “Jon, you're being unreasonable.” She tried to make her voice sound calm and reassuring. “Mike was a good friend during your captivity. In fact if it hadn't been for him, you'd never have received the letter and poem. But your captivity is over, and as far as I'm concerned, I don't care if I see him again. Mike's history.”

“Are you sure?”

“Jon, I'm sure! Now let it go, okay?”

By now Jon was looking sheepish. “Okay, Betty. I love you, that's all.”

“I love you too, Jon. I'm not interested in anyone else.” She paused briefly. “Don't you believe me?” Her face was beginning to register annoyance, and Jon saw it.

He paused, narrowed his eyes and scrutinized her playfully. “Okay, okay. I believe you. Subject closed.”

“My spiritual release started with a dream, Betty.”

“What kind of a dream?”

Despite a nap and a walk, Jon was still unclear in his thinking. He struggled to find the right words, but never quite came up with them. His mind drifted from one subject to another, causing him to forget what he'd started to say in the first place. Frustrated and weary, he put his arm around Betty, pulling her close and resting his head on hers.

“I'm going to try and tell you what it was like there, in Beirut, in that hole. Maybe the story will make more sense if you can picture it for yourself.”

Quietly and simply, Jon recreated his ordeal, so recent and vivid in his mind. And for the moment, as she closed her eyes and listened, Betty found herself imprisoned with him. It was dark, the smell in the air was foul, and Jon's mood was one of incomparable despair.

Jon had been held captive for nearly five months. Of the various men who guarded him, few spoke English. And only two of them actually conversed with him from time to time. Otherwise he had been painfully alone, bored and uncomfortable, visited only by unwelcome intruders such as guilt, fear, self-pity, and disbelief.

It seemed that just as he'd overcome one inner adversary, another would arise with its own set of allegations. Quiet as the fetid cellar was, there was no peace within him. Jon was tortured by his own thoughts, which troubled him nearly as much as his chain and blindfold. Even the Bible his captors had given him seemed more condemning than comforting.

As he slept restlessly one night, he dreamed of distorted images and incomprehensible scenarios. Just as he was waking, however, he clearly saw a book. On the cover was only one word written in red—TRUTH. Once he'd read the word, he awoke, immediately pondering the significance of the dream.

What did truth have to do with his plight? Puzzled and perplexed, he tried to shake off the impression that the dream was significant. But from time to time, he could see the book and its crimson title in his mind, demanding further consideration.

“Truth . . . ,” he muttered under his breath. “What does truth have to do with anything?”

The inner reply came to him immediately.
You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

Jon responded strangely to the thought. He found himself blinking back tears. “God knows I want to be free. But what does truth have to do with freedom?”

He determined that he would seek out every fragment of truth that could possibly pertain to his circumstances.“I am a hostage. I am chained to a wall. I am blindfolded. I am helpless . . .”

No, you are not helpless. That isn't true.

Jon reconsidered. His mind was functioning, so he could think. His spirit was bruised, but still believed in God, so he could pray. He had been given a Bible, so he could read it. His body was confined but still able to move, so he could choose to exercise.

Jon's process of mentally listing truths continued for hours. It became almost a game, often interrupted by the voice of reason.

“I am here because someone wants to use me for some purpose. I am here because I took a deadly chance in coming to Beirut. I am here because I deserve to be here . . .”

No, you do not deserve to be here. That isn't true.

“Okay, so God isn't punishing me. And I'm not going to die here. I'm not a born loser. And He hasn't forgotten me.”

To his amazement, Jon found that his quest for truth seemed to be weakening the power of the unpleasant emotions that had haunted him for months. And gradually, almost imperceptibly, a new premise began to spring forth from his faith in a Sovereign God.

“I have to believe I'm here for a purpose. But what?”

Jon reflected on other times in his life when he'd felt helpless, entangled in various webs of circumstance that seemed unyielding in their power over him. Problems with his mother. Difficulties in school. His wretched marriage. Those had been far less traumatic confinements, but they had immobilized him, nevertheless.

And how had he escaped? In every case, once he had stopped denying the bleak reality of his situation, he had been able to identify the steps he needed to take. When he'd unflinchingly confronted his problems, he had always found a way out.

“The common denominator was truth. Once I faced the truth, I was set free. But this time there are no steps I can take.”

That isn't true. God is going to set you free. So you can get ready to go home.

“I can't see any reason to believe that God is going to set me free.”

Believe it by faith. Faith is the evidence of the unseen.

“It wasn't easy, Betty. From time to time I was back to my old pattern of blaming myself, fearing death, wallowing in self-pity, and thinking God had forgotten me.”

Jon scrupulously avoided telling Betty about his mighty bout with guilt over his first marriage. He wasn't sure he wanted her to know how seriously he had doubted his qualifications for being a good husband.