Chosen

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “I wouldn’t want to be you. So you’ll pull them together once you get the go-ahead?”

  “I’ve contacted four out of the twelve I’d like. I’m going to keep the team small, at least at first. So far, everyone I’ve contacted is busy on other projects. I just want them to get permission for a leave of absence once we get the all-clear sign.”

  “Do you think they can all get out of their current assignments at a moment’s notice?”

  “There will be the usual ruffled feathers here and there. But I’m banking on this project’s importance to smooth the way.”

  “You know my sister,” Sam said. “Somehow everything always falls into place for Sana.” His tone held a note of envy, but also one of pride.

  “Except for finding love,” Alexana sighed. “Sometimes I think God will never decide it’s the right time for me.”

  “Well, you are accomplishing good things for the Kingdom,” Christina said. “Look at your work at Kinneret and Hazor—you’ve opened up whole new excavation sites.”

  “We really just scratched the surface,” Alexana said modestly. “The teams on those sites now are accomplishing even greater excavations. If I had my druthers, and if Solomon’s Stables weren’t looming on the horizon, I’d be at Caesarea.”

  “No doubt,” Christina said, smiling. She sniffed the air delicately. “Something smells fabulous. What’s for dinner?”

  “Something light,” Alexana said, assuming her best stuffy, nasal chef’s voice. “A lovely baked chicken, spiced ever so delicately with rosemary, and pita bread with melted goat’s cheese over fresh, garlic-marinated tomatoes.”

  Sam’s stomach rumbled as if on cue, and the three laughed, each feeling as though they were sharing good, old times.

  FEBRUARY 16

  Hundreds of miles away, in Damascus, Ridge and his cameraman, Steve Rains, walked into an upscale house in a finer part of the city. As they passed through a dark passageway, they called out so as not to surprise anyone. Suddenly six guards in uniform rushed them, threw them to the wall, and began to yell in Arabic. Steve’s camera crashed to the ground, and both he and Ridge winced at the sound of heavy plastic cracking and metal crunching.

  “I’m Ridge McIntyre from CNN!” Ridge shouted as he was roughly searched. “I have an appointment with Fathi Shkaki!”

  “Who is this?” a man asked loudly in rough English, pointing his Uzi at the base of Steve’s skull.

  “Steve Rains! My cameraman!” Ridge stared over at his friend, who looked as concerned as he felt himself. Steve’s normally ruddy complexion was as pale as his blond hair.

  One of the guards searched their pockets and pulled out their wallets to review their identification. He nodded at his companion. “Proceed. Fathi Shkaki is expecting you.”

  Steve bent and gingerly picked up his camera. After briefly examining it, he shrugged at Ridge as if to say, “With any luck, it will work.” They passed through a room elaborately decorated in Middle Eastern fashion—with oriental rugs, brass lamps, spare furniture—then into a wood-paneled library that smelled of stale cigarette smoke.

  Across from them sat an obese, older man, dressed in a cardigan and wearing thick glasses. Nodding at them, he finished his conversation and hung up the phone. He then took a drag from his cigarette, held it for a moment, and forcefully blew out the smoke. “My friends from CNN. Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Ridge said, pushing the confrontation in the hall out of his mind. He and Steve had been through worse for an interview of this scale. “Do you mind if we tape this?”

  Shkaki shook his head, and Steve quickly set up his camera. He turned to Ridge. “Looks like the damage is superficial. We should be okay.” Ridge nodded.

  “Ready?” Steve asked.

  “Ready.”

  “Rolling. Three, two, one.” Steve focused on Ridge for the introduction.

  “We’re here with the Islamic Jihad leader, Fathi Shkaki, who lives in Damascus and has done so since he was deported to a refugee camp in 1988. Since 1989, Shkaki has been directing the Islamic Jihad from this city. The group is best known for its suicide attacks in Israel and the occupied territories.”

  Ridge paused uneasily as two guards silently entered the room, then he forged on.

  “Two days ago an attack at the Beit Lid bus station resulted in the deaths of twenty soldiers and five civilians.” Ridge glanced over at Shkaki, to make sure he was not overstepping his bounds, but the man was grinning and nodding his head, as if celebrating Ridge’s words. Ridge felt a chill but continued. “Although Shkaki disclaims direct responsibility for the attack, he has agreed to speak with us about how it might have been planned.”

  Ridge gazed steadily at the camera until Steve said, “… and cut.” He then sat down across from the grinning terrorist and tried to ignore the smile he found to be so extremely distasteful. Steve refocused and began the count again. “And three, two, one …”

  “How do you plan a bombing like Beit Lid? How was the target chosen?” Ridge began quickly, warming to the interview.

  “We send men to a potential target and study it carefully,” Shkaki said, as if lecturing to a crowd of students. The man’s English was quite good, Ridge noticed. He nodded, urging the man to continue. “Beit Lid was an obvious choice. At the appointed time, the mujahedin went from Gaza to Tel Aviv, and from Tel Aviv to the military bus station. They coordinated themselves: The first man was to enter the shop and detonate the bomb strapped to his body; the second was to stay outside, wait for the soldiers to run out, then rush into the crowd and blow himself up.”

  Ridge swallowed hard, carefully composing his face to be devoid of emotion. “Did you order the bombing?”

  “That is handled by our mujahedin in Palestine. It is not logical to give orders from outside. Of course I have contacts with the movement.”

  “Did you know in advance that the attack would take place?”

  Shkaki grinned. “I cannot tell you that.”

  Ridge could feel a muscle twitch along his jaw line. “How can you justify the killing of civilians, like the Hamas bombing that killed more than twenty in Tel Aviv last October?”

  Shkaki remained unrepentant. “You have to ask our brothers in Hamas about that. Our orders are to attack Israeli military targets and settlements. But Palestinians face an organized army, and most of our own losses are civilians, not mujahedin. We do not intend to attack civilians, but what can I say?” He gave a slight shrug. “This is a war zone.”

  “What was your reaction to the Beit Lid bombing?”

  “This was the biggest military attack ever inside Palestine, other than the Arab-Israeli wars,” the man said, sounding noncommittal.

  “You are pleased?”

  “My people are pleased,” he finally said smugly, his words sounding falsely humble.

  Ridge held the man’s gaze for a moment, then motioned for Steve to stop the tape. His stomach turned as he thought about the twenty young soldiers who had died at the bus station. Ridge had visited Beit Lid after the bombing that day and had observed rabbinate representatives scouring the scene for bits of human flesh; under Jewish law, the whole body had to be given a proper burial.

  In contrast, he had also seen Palestinian women mourning their children, slain in a slew of bullets after Israeli soldiers opened fire on a crowd of jeering, rock-throwing youths. Since the enactment of the peace accord, over two hundred Palestinians and a hundred Israelis had been slaughtered. Rather than embracing a new understanding in the region, the two groups had proven themselves irreconcilable: Many Palestinians refused to recognize Israel’s statehood, or its power to establish borders, while thousands of Jewish settlers continued to build houses and communities in the occupied territories, eating away at already-decreasing Palestinian land.

  Ridge met Shkaki’s level gaze.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said tightly. He couldn’t wait to leave and pushed away the urge to shiver.

  “It is my pleasure,” Shka
ki said, grinning. “You Americans must understand. We attack because we are attacked. The Jews are simply more subtle in their war tactics.”

  Ridge and Steve quickly packed their things and exited the building. This time they were ignored by the hall guards. “You think you got that on tape?” Ridge asked under his breath.

  Steve nodded. “With any luck, it’ll be on Headline News tonight. Why don’t you think about your recap? We’ll film it once we’re back in Israeli territory.”

  Ridge nodded and started the engine. He was anxious to get the long drive through Jordan over with. Jerusalem was looking better all the time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FEBRUARY 17

  Responding to an anonymous phone call he had received that morning, Ridge made his way toward the shops and vendor stalls near the Church of the Redeemer. There in the suk, he would meet his contact. As he walked the narrow street, covered by old arches and cloth canopies and founded on ancient stones, he ignored the vendors selling huge hammered copper pans, brightly painted Jerusalem pottery, leather bags, and fly-covered meats. Overhead, the dark afternoon skies were heavy with threatening rain clouds.

  “Special deal, mister!” one vendor called.

  “Every day a sale, American!” yelled another.

  As Ridge kept walking, his mind constantly wandered to thoughts of Alexana: where she was and what she was doing. He struggled to get her out of his mind and focus on the task at hand.

  He passed a spice merchant, who was selling colorful bins of bright saffron, golden cumin, brick red paprika, and dark green oregano. The combined aroma was powerful, and Ridge resisted the urge to stop. The vendor nodded sedately as Ridge passed, not needing to hawk his wares—everyone in the city needed spices and came to him at some point. Next to his stall stood a fruit stand, displaying brilliant red apples, huge pink grapefruit, and a luscious assortment of dried apricots, peaches, pineapples, and bananas. It was here that Ridge was to meet his contact.

  The fruit merchant emerged from behind a large drape. “Ah, you need fresh peaches? Or perhaps some dried pineapple, just arrived?”

  “I need a pound of dried apricots and two red apples,” Ridge said evenly, as he had been instructed. “No, make that a pineapple and two peaches.”

  “Ahh. Yes, of course. Please, come. The best peaches are behind here,” the man said. The vendor pulled aside the drape, and Ridge entered alone as the cloth fell behind him, blocking out the street market.

  A second man sat at a tiny table inside the cordoned-off room. Ridge instantly recognized him as the smaller guard from the Negev Desert. Hamas, Ridge thought. I have my Hamas contact at last. In the Old City, Hamas had recently been much more active than the Jihad. It was critical to Ridge’s work that he observe firsthand the inner workings of the fundamentalist group, and Khalil al Aitam had been less than helpful in this endeavor.

  “I am Ridge McIntyre.” He pulled out his wallet and set it on the table. “You are?”

  “You may refer to me as Shehab Madi.” The man glanced from Ridge to his wallet and back again. “I have news for you, worth at least two hundred American.”

  “Tell me your news, and I’ll figure out how much it’s worth.”

  “Two hundred,” the man repeated calmly as he leaned back in his chair.

  Ridge leaned forward and pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. He laid it on the table. “One hundred now. One hundred if the news is worthy.”

  The small man grabbed the bill and flashed a tobacco-stained grin. “There is to be another bus attack. This time in West Jerusalem. I tell you so that you might be at the right place at the right time, not so that you might alert the world. It would make for a good news story to have a camera there at the right time, no? We want no interference. If you try to interfere, you will find yourself in an uncomfortable position.”

  “When and where?” Ridge asked tightly.

  “Three days from now. On Habad Street outside the Zion Gate.”

  “So soon after Beit Lid?”

  “We owe them many Beit Lids. This has been planned for months. It will have even greater impact coming soon after the Jihad attack.”

  “There’s certain to be civilians on that bus. Surely, Khalil al Aitam won’t endorse such a mad attack …”

  “Khalil will endorse whatever is necessary. This is a war.” The veins in Shehab’s neck stood out as his speech grew more and more passionate. “They think they can push us away … continue to build on our land … even take the Haram from us!”

  “The Haram?” Ridge asked sharply, thinking instantly of Alexana’s involvement.

  Shehab sat back, rubbing his eyes as if weary. “I will talk of that with you later. First we will see how you fare with the news you have. And how you pay for your information.”

  Ridge rose from his seat and threw another bill on the table. “How do I get ahold of you?”

  “You don’t,” Shehab said, grinning again as he studied the new hundred-dollar bill. “I will contact you.”

  Ridge left the suk and went directly to Alexana’s apartment, asking directions from people along the way. Finding her number at last, he knocked on the door and hoped that for once she would be home. To his surprise, she opened the door.

  “Ridge!” She was obviously surprised to see him.

  “Are you free for dinner? I need to talk with you about something.”

  Seeing the concern on his face, she nodded soberly and waved him inside. “Let me pull on a sweater. We can eat over on Ben Yehuda Street. I’ve been craving French, and a rich CNN correspondent with a generous expense account makes for just the right dinner companion.”

  He smiled and watched as she walked up steep stairs and disappeared into the bedroom above. “Nice apartment,” he said, loud enough for her to hear.

  “It works well for me,” she said, coming back down the steps while pulling on a deep green V-neck sweater over her T-shirt. “The dress code isn’t strict at Ben Yehuda, but it’s still cool outside in the evenings.”

  Ridge smiled. “Let’s go.”

  They hailed a cab outside Jaffa Gate, and the driver pulled into the chaotic one-way street traffic of West Jerusalem. Around them, drivers changed lanes and honked constantly, as if each vehicle carried a mother in labor. Ridge and Alexana’s cab reached Ben Yehuda quickly, and the two found a secluded table at Chateau, Alexana’s favorite restaurant.

  “So. I assume you’ve been busy since you haven’t been leaving message after message on my machine,” Alexana teased quietly. She studied his serious expression, so different from his usual roguish, devil-may-care look. “Something’s obviously bothering you, Ridge. What is it?”

  A waiter came and Alexana—noting that Ridge was irritated by the interruption—quickly ordered for both of them. “Bottled water and veal Marsala, please. Ridge, I’m sure you’d like it, too.”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, handing his menu to the waiter. “I’ll go with the lady’s suggestion.” He tried a smile, but it came out crooked. Alexana took it as a sign of fear and frustration. “I’m sorry,” Ridge continued. “I wish I were taking you out as a date. But I’m afraid I have business to discuss.”

  “To tell you the truth, Ridge, a date would make me feel uncomfortable,” Alexana said with a relieved sigh. “I’d rather meet with you as a friend or a business contact.”

  He frowned at her easy rebuff. “Well then. Let me cut to the chase. I met with a member of Hamas today.”

  “Khalil?”

  “No. Another man. Here’s my dilemma. I need advice, and since you seem to be my most politically unbiased contact, here it is: My contact told me there is to be another bus attack. I can’t tell you when or where. If you were in my shoes, what would you do with this information?”

  Alexana was unfazed by the news. “It could be true,” she said, considering. “Of course, this puts you in the terrible position of choosing between reporting firsthand on the attack or trying to stop it. The report could also be fa
lse: a test to see if you truly are trustworthy, where your loyalties lie, which you fail if Hamas finds out that you alerted the Israeli authorities.”

  “Yes, yes. And?”

  “I assume you know when and where this bus attack is to occur.”

  “I do. If my contact told me the truth. Alexana, I need your advice.”

  His pleading, honest look went straight to her heart. The way he treated her, spoke to her … everything he did made her feel respected and valued. As much as she wanted to keep her distance from the man, he drew her like few had. I had better bury myself in my work soon, or this man will have me, hook, line, and sinker. She cast up a silent prayer: Protect my heart, Father.

  She sighed and forced herself to concentrate on their subject instead of Ridge. “My problem is that I understand the pain, the passion each group feels. I know many moderates on both sides who want only to find a peaceful, godly solution. I also know many radicals who want only to destroy their enemies. That is not of God. If the Jews were attempting a forceful takeover, endangering lives, if the Palestinians were attempting to make a statement by blowing up a bus … in either case I would have to try and avert it.”

  “So you’re the Switzerland of the Middle East,” he said, nodding at the waiter as he poured their sparkling water into glasses.

  “I suppose you could put it that way.”

  “Yet my job is to report the facts, not get entangled in the political goings-on of a war-torn country. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen impassioned people trying to tear each other apart. Check out Liberia on your next vacation, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “No, thanks. Israel is enough for me,” she said. “When I go on vacation, I want it to be far away from the pain I see here every day.”

  He nodded again, studying her. “So, Switzerland, what should … what would …” He paused. “What would a Christian do in a situation like this?”

  Alexana stared into his eyes, wondering that he would bring up Christianity. Maybe Jerome got to him after all … “I believe that a true person of God would do everything in his power to save a Jew or a Palestinian from death,” she said.