Promised Land

by Robert Whitlow

“Fabia is going to sleep between us,” Sadie said, moving the doll to her left.

  “Perfect.”

  Sadie wiggled into position. “Do you ever sing to Daud?” she asked.

  “He’s heard me sing,” Hana replied slowly. “But he’s never asked me to sing a song for him like I do for you.”

  “You should,” Sadie said. “He’ll like it, and it won’t make me jealous. I’m ready for my song.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  Hana began to hum. It always took a while for a spontaneous song to grow and build. Tonight, the words rose up from the deepest part of her heart. When that happened she always sang in Arabic. She began with a prayer for inspiration that transitioned into declarations of the will of God over Sadie Neumann’s life. Hana had a rich, mellow alto voice. It was the perfect sound for releasing a song with substance, a musical foundation upon which to build life. Even after Sadie was asleep, Hana continued to sing in a soft voice until fully releasing the pleasant burden of her heart. Finishing with the rise and fall of a final hum, she leaned over and kissed Sadie on the forehead.

  Chapter 10

  A young woman wearing the olive-green uniform of the Israeli border patrol began asking Daud the standard entry questions in Arabic. Daud showed his passport and replied in the same language. She searched the vehicle and told him he could proceed into the Israeli terminal to complete the process for entry into Israel and approved passage to the Jordanian border. Daud bought a cup of coffee to drink and filled out the necessary paperwork. After completing the forms, he returned to the parking lot and checked his watch. It was another six and a half hours to the capital of Jordan, home to over four million people. Daud placed his right hand on the driver’s-side door handle.

  “Ibrahim Abadi?” a male voice called out in Israeli-accented Arabic.

  Daud turned around. Three male and one female Israeli border patrol officers approached him.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Come with us,” one of the men said.

  The green-clad Israeli officers escorted Daud back to the terminal and led him through a security door to a holding room that contained only four plastic chairs. No one spoke to him until they were in the room. Daud suspected he’d been singled out as an object lesson for training purposes.

  “Stand against the wall with your hands to your sides,” a male officer said in broken Arabic.

  Daud submitted to the search that revealed nothing except his passport, the exit permit stamped on the Egyptian side of the border, and a wallet containing a single credit card and driver’s license. The officer in charge, a man in his thirties with “M. Abelman” embossed on a plastic name tag, opened the other compartments of the wallet and carefully examined it.

  “Nothing else?” he asked Daud.

  “No, except a cell phone that’s in my vehicle. Why am I being questioned?”

  “Tell us about your activities since you arrived in Egypt, Mr. Abadi,” the officer responded. “Begin with your entry from Jordan.”

  As part of the mission, Daud had a prepared response that meshed with his alias as Rasheed Sayyid and included details an interrogator could verify without uncovering the real reason Daud had traveled to Sharm el-Sheikh. Nothing like that existed for Ibrahim Abadi.

  “I spent four days in the Sharm el-Sheikh area, and I’m on my way back to Amman.” Daud stopped.

  “Where did you stay?”

  Daud gave the name of the Suef fishing resort since it was the only place where the registration would match the name on his new passport. Abelman motioned to the young woman, who immediately left the room. Daud knew that in a few minutes he would be asked where else he’d stayed in Sharm el-Sheikh.

  “Does the name Rasheed Sayyid mean anything to you?” the officer asked.

  Daud’s eyes widened. He now knew what had happened. His photo hadn’t stayed on the Egyptian side of the border. Anyone suspected of a crime in Egypt wouldn’t be welcome in Israel either. He paused before answering. The officer turned to one of the other guards, who handed him the wanted poster. Seeing it up close, Daud recognized it as an image taken when he’d subdued the security guard at the restaurant. The officer continued.

  “I don’t want to upset our Egyptian neighbors by letting you avoid prosecution for crimes committed by Rasheed Sayyid in Sharm el-Sheikh. You’re going to have to convince me why I shouldn’t turn you over to them.”

  Daud glanced around at the other personnel in the room. The young men were attempting to look relaxed and nonchalant, but he could sense their tension. The officer was also on edge.

  “Who on duty today has the highest level Israeli security clearance?” Daud asked in Hebrew.

  “That would be me,” Abelman responded in the same language with a surprised expression on his face.

  “I’m going to give you a phone number for a government office in Tel Aviv,” Daud continued. “Someone there will tell you what to do with me but will want to limit the number of people who know about it.”

  “What kind of government office?” Abelman asked.

  “Make the call and you’ll find out,” Daud replied.

  The young soldiers glanced at each other and stared at Daud. Abelman turned to the young man who’d searched Daud.

  “He was clean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Abelman hesitated.

  “Would you feel better if I were in restraints?” Daud asked, holding out his hands. “If so, put on a set of handcuffs.”

  “Do it,” the officer in charge said.

  The young man who’d frisked Daud gingerly secured handcuffs on Daud’s wrists.

  The door opened and the young woman returned. “Mr. Abadi only stayed at the resort for one night.”

  An hour later and as the result of communication with Aaron Levy, Daud’s old boss with the Shin Bet, the senior border patrol officer escorted Daud back to the BMW.

  “Thank you,” Daud said, extending his hand to the border patrol officer.

  “You’re welcome,” Abelman replied and then offered Daud a folded copy of the wanted poster. “Would you like a souvenir?”

  “No, I’d rather not have to explain it when I cross the Jordanian border.”

  * * *

  Hana woke up to the sound of Sadie mumbling something in her sleep. Lying still, she tried to discern if it was the sound of a nightmare emerging from the trauma of the girl’s past.

  “No, Katelin,” Sadie said distinctly. “That’s my seat.”

  Hana relaxed. Sorting through conflicts common to eight-year-old girls was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. The muttering ceased, and Sadie’s breathing became steady. Hana slipped out of bed and went into the living room, where the most prominent sound was Leon snoring in his cage in the kitchen. The dog might moan and groan in his sleep, but he lived a carefree life, and Hana didn’t worry about his emotional health.

  Hana curled up on the sofa with her legs beneath her and opened her Bible. The time she’d spent singing over Sadie before the girl fell asleep was fresh in her mind, and she wrote down some of the words and phrases that had bubbled up from her spirit during the spontaneous worship and intercession. She also wrote the prayer she’d taught her young guest at the dinner table. At the bottom of the page she wrote Sadie’s full name and the date. She then went back to the top and reread what she’d written. Revelation and insight have multiple layers for those willing to search for new facets of truth. A particular phrase about Sadie encountering God’s jealous love caught Hana’s attention. She closed her eyes to rest there for a while.

  “Hana.”

  The tiny voice interrupted Hana’s thoughts and caused her to jump. Sadie had quietly crept into the living room.

  “I’m thirsty and I want some juice, but I don’t want to wake up Leon by going into the kitchen.”

  Hana’s thumping heart slowed. “Wait here,” she said.

  Hana poured a small cup of juice. Leon opened a single eye when she closed the door of the refriger
ator but didn’t react to her presence. She took the cup to Sadie, who was sitting on the couch looking at Hana’s prayer journal.

  “You write in three languages?” Sadie asked, turning the pages. “English, Hebrew, and what’s this one?”

  Hana resisted the urge to grab the private journal from Sadie’s hands. Even Daud knew not to peek at the pages. If Hana wrote something she wanted him to read, she showed him where to start and stop.

  “Arabic too. And yes, it depends on who and what I’m thinking and praying about.”

  “God knows how to speak and read all languages,” Sadie said. “A boy in my class says God only speaks and reads Hebrew because that’s the language of the Torah. I think he’s wrong, and I’m going to tell him about you.”

  “Do you think that will change his mind?”

  “No.” Sadie sniffed. “But he should know how smart and close to God you are. I always get goose bumps when you sing and pray.”

  “Goose bumps?”

  “I feel tingly,” Sadie said, rubbing her arms. “It happened last night when you thought I was asleep.”

  Hana nodded. “I get it. And you were asleep.”

  “Really? Then why do I remember you kissing me on the forehead?”

  “Okay, you fooled me.”

  “That’s not why I faked sleep. I didn’t want you to stop if you thought the song wasn’t making me sleepy. It worked. I was so relaxed.”

  Sadie glanced down at Hana’s most recent entry written in Arabic.

  “Can you tell me what this says? Arabic writing is so pretty. It looks like lines swimming across the paper.”

  “Let me read it out loud. Then I’ll tell you what part of it says.”

  “Why not all of it? Is it about me?”

  “Be glad I’m not sending you straight back to bed.”

  Sadie nestled in close and listened as Hana read the prayers and declarations. When she finished, Sadie sighed.

  “I heard my name, but you pronounced it differently,” she said.

  “That’s right. And I wrote it in Arabic letters at the bottom of the page.”

  Sadie carefully studied the forms and shapes that made up her name. “I want to learn how to do that,” she said. “Will you teach me?”

  “Yes, but not at three fifteen in the morning. You need to get back in bed and sleep.”

  “What about you?”

  “I won’t be long.”

  Sadie hugged Hana and returned to the bedroom. Hana flipped to an earlier entry in the prayer journal where she’d written prayers in English for Ben and Sadie asking God to bring the right person into their lives, not to replace Gloria, but to fulfill her own unique role. Hana wrote Laura’s name in the margin with a big question mark beside it, then repeated the prayer. When she finished, her phone, which she’d placed on an end table beside the sofa, buzzed twice to signal a text message. It wasn’t unusual for Hana to receive a message in the middle of the night from her family in Israel since it was morning in the Middle East. She didn’t recognize the phone number of the sender. Opening the text, she gasped and raised her hand to her mouth.

  Just boarded a flight to New York. Will see you this evening. All is well. I carry you always in the center of my heart. Daud.

  Tears of relief and gratitude gushed from Hana’s eyes at the release of pent-up worry and fear. When her eyes cleared, she read the text over and over so she could savor every word. She decided it was worth recording in her journal with the date and time of receipt. When she finished, she prepared to return to bed. Suddenly, she realized that she hadn’t responded to Daud’s text.

  Hallelujah and much love forever and ever. I can’t wait to see you and hold you in my arms. Hana.

  She found Sadie asleep. Hana didn’t bother to close her eyes. Instead, she liberated her imagination to think about Daud’s return. Sometimes it was better to be excited than rested.

  Hana heard Sadie stirring around 6:00 a.m. The girl rolled over, and her eyes blinked open. She stretched her arms above her head. Hana turned on her side so she faced her.

  “I’m so happy,” Sadie said.

  “Why?”

  “I sleep the best at your house than anyplace else. I love my room, but it’s so refreshing here.”

  Hana smiled at Sadie’s description. “I’m glad it makes you feel that way. What do you want for breakfast?”

  “Surprise me.”

  Sadie flopped onto her back and splayed out her arms on top of the cream-colored duvet.

  “Would you like it served in bed?” Hana asked.

  Sadie came fully awake at the question and stared at Hana. “Are you serious?”

  “No. Let’s fix it together.”

  “Okay, I guess so. Can I take Leon outside?”

  “Yes.”

  Leon circled Sadie excitedly in the kitchen while she tried to attach his leash. When she opened the door, he dragged her into the yard. Hana watched from the window. Once he was on the grass, the dog settled down. He trotted to the edge of the yard and continued a couple of feet into a wild, wooded area. Sadie brought him back into the house where he loudly lapped up water before eating his breakfast. Hana poured Sadie a glass of orange juice and a cup of black coffee for herself. Sadie scratched Leon’s ears.

  “If you ask my daddy, do you think he’ll buy me a puppy for my birthday?”

  A dog had been on Sadie’s wish list for Hanukkah and her birthday as long as Hana had known her.

  “What does he say when you ask him?”

  “To stop asking.”

  “Then I don’t think I can help. Would you like a Middle Eastern breakfast?”

  “I don’t want any of those little fish,” Sadie replied. “I tried them once with my grammy and I didn’t like them.”

  “Sardines.”

  “Yeah. Do you have any of the granola you make yourself? I like that with milk and cut-up pieces of banana on top.”

  Hana had purchased the ingredients to fix shakshuka, a North African–style poached egg and tomato dish that was popular in Israel for breakfast, but she could save the ingredients and prepare it for Daud, who loved it.

  “Okay.”

  They sat at a table at the end of the living/dining room nearest the kitchen. The granola included rolled oats, multiple kinds of chopped nuts, coconut flakes, apricots, raisins, dried pineapple, and diced dried dates as a sweetener. Dates were Hana’s childhood candy. She ate her granola mixed with plain organic yogurt.

  “I never went back to sleep after we got up in the night,” Hana said.

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  “No, excited.” Hana smiled. “Daud texted me. He’s going to be home this evening.”

  “Yay! I wish I could see him.”

  Sadie liked to squeeze Daud’s arms and feel his muscles. He’d grown up with a brother and no sisters, so relating to a little girl was new territory for him.

  “We’ll do that soon. I have a surprise for him.”

  Hana told Sadie about the Land Rover. The girl’s eyes widened. “That is a big gift. And it’s not his birthday?”

  “Not for a couple of months.”

  Sadie ate thoughtfully for a few moments. “If you buy him a car, he should buy you something big too.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  Sadie touched the diamond ring on Hana’s left hand. “You already have a nice ring.”

  She pointed to Leon, who was munching on a large bowl of dry food. “And you have a dog.”

  Sadie continued to eat. “I know!” she exclaimed. “And it’s something I bet you want! Do you want to guess?”

  Hana had no idea what might be in Sadie’s head. “No, tell me, please.”

  Sadie leaned closer across the table. “Daud should buy you a house of your own. You can make it all pretty with the things you especially like.”

  A home of her own was a desire so deep in the shadows of possibility that Hana hadn’t let herself glance in that direction. Sadie’s words brought it abruptly
into the open.

  “Where did that idea come from?” she managed.

  “Maybe it’s like what you write in your book when you wake up in the night,” Sadie replied matter-of-factly as she took another bite of granola with a thick slice of banana on top. “If you write it down, make sure you do it in English and say that it was my idea.”

  Chapter 11

  Rahal Abaza was used to getting his way and succeeding in everything he attempted. Mustafa’s death was a failure. During the past three years, Rahal, Khalil, Mustafa, and a small cadre of followers had helped arm Shiite guerrilla fighters in Yemen and murdered two Koreans who came to Qatar under the pretext of being foreign workers but who were secretly working for a Christian organization seeking to convert Muslims. Most recently they’d torched the home of a Sunni professor living in Kuwait who promoted interfaith reconciliation within Islam. The professor’s teenage daughter died in the fire.

  The plan to kill Artem Kolisnyk was an ambitious objective. The Ukrainian scientist had defrauded them of over a million dollars after furnishing hundreds of pages of worthless documents supposedly regarding short-range missile technology. Rahal had hoped to sell the information for a profit to Iran and give it for free to Hezbollah, the Shiite terrorist organization in Lebanon. He’d been humiliated when he learned Kolisnyk had omitted key technical data.

  A sandstorm was moving across the desert north of Doha. Rahal and Khalil were sitting together on an outside terrace beneath a large umbrella that shielded them from the late-afternoon sun. Khalil was on the phone with the lawyer in Sharm el-Sheikh. He mostly listened. When the call ended, Khalil turned to Rahal, who could see a tear in his assistant’s right eye.

  “The lawyer says the Egyptians buried Mustafa in a pauper’s grave with no marker.”

  The two men sat in silence for several moments.

  “But his name is honored and glorious,” Rahal said.

  Khalil wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. “Kolisnyk didn’t kill Mustafa. The report filed by the Egyptian police says a foreign agent named Rasheed Sayyid killed Mustafa and kidnapped Kolisnyk and his wife. The Egyptians believe the agent was working for the Americans or Israelis. He took the Kolisnyks to the marina in Sharm el-Sheikh where there was a gun battle. The police don’t know whether Kolisnyk and his wife survived or not. They were last seen near a large private yacht registered to a Frenchman. The yacht left the marina during the fight. The Egyptians don’t know who was on it, but they did not find any bodies at the scene.”