Wings of Refuge (4 page)

“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.

“Yes, 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

A
bby 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 that 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.

“Don’t worry, it is in kilometers,” he said. “One hundred kilometers per hour is about . . . eh . . . sixty miles per hour.” It was a small comfort as they hurtled down the busy freeway. Brightly colored advertisements in Hebrew raced past, reminding Abby that she was in a foreign country. Aside from the signs, she might have been on a freeway in any American city.

“Is this your first trip to Israel?” he asked.

“Yes. My first trip to any foreign country, really. Well, we took the kids camping in Ontario once, but Canada hardly counts. We didn’t—” She stopped. There was no more “we.” Just Abby, alone. How long would it take to break a twenty-two-year habit, to stop thinking of herself as half of a partnership, a marriage? She had meant every word when she’d stood at the altar of her parents’ church in Indiana and vowed, “as long as we both shall live.” She had never imagined that Mark wouldn’t keep his promise.

Abby stole a glimpse of Ari’s hands gripping the steering wheel to see if he wore a wedding ring. Like her own, his hands were bare. He glanced at her curiously, as if waiting for her to complete her sentence. She didn’t know how to finish it without the “we.” “Um . . . have you ever visited the United States, Ari?” she asked instead.

“Not yet. I would like to someday, when there is time.”

“Do you work at the Institute year-round?”

“More or less.”

Abby wanted to ask how, exactly, did a specialist in Roman mosaics make a living in Israel, but her painful attempts at conversation had already proved too tiring. A tooth extraction would probably be easier than prying information from Ari Bazak. They drove to their destination in silence.