Promised Land

by Robert Whitlow

  She then shifted to her desire for a home. Daud could be either methodical or decisive, which presented a challenge. They’d had minor disagreements but not yet faced a major life decision. The move to America from Israel was dictated by circumstances beyond their control. The possibility that Daud might not go along with her desire for a new house caused a knot to form in Hana’s stomach. She quickly turned to a familiar verse in Proverbs and softly read it out loud: “‘By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established.’”

  Bowing her head, she prayed that Daud would have both wisdom and understanding. She then turned to Psalm 127 and read it in a slightly louder voice: “‘Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the guards stand watch in vain.’”

  Her eyes closed, Hana raised her head upward as if hoping an extra few inches would propel her prayers toward heaven.

  “That’s a good prayer,” said a male voice, causing Hana to jump.

  Daud stood directly behind the sofa.

  “Now you can pray that my heart won’t fall out of my chest,” Hana answered. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to listen to you read and pray scriptures about a house. I think wisdom and understanding are important for both of us, not just me.”

  Hana realized she’d made the mistake of applying the truth to someone else while ignoring its relevance for her. “Should I start over?”

  “No, no, but as I listened I thought there was something that goes along with the wisdom and understanding both of us need.”

  “What?”

  “Faith,” Daud said, putting his right hand on her shoulder. “Faith makes wisdom and understanding practical. Otherwise they’re just ideas in our heads.”

  Hana reached up and placed her hand on top of Daud’s. “Okay,” she said, closing her eyes. “We ask the Lord to build our house with wisdom and understanding and faith.”

  “Amen,” Daud said. He returned to the bedroom.

  Once alone, Hana quickly wrote what they’d prayed in her journal.

  * * *

  The following morning Daud talked again with Jakob. Their discussions about the Russian internet had triggered an idea unrelated to Vladimir Ivanov.

  “Would you be interested in researching something for me in Russia?” Daud asked.

  “How could I turn you down after the help you’ve already given me? What’s it about?” Jakob quickly responded.

  “The background of a Ukrainian scientist named Artem Kolisnyk. He’s an expert in missile technology.”

  “Whoa,” Jakob answered. “This sounds like something for the CIA or the Mossad to check out.”

  “They’re not available.”

  “And I’m a poor substitute. Why are you interested in him?”

  Daud had to be careful. He didn’t want to breach governmental security protocols surrounding the Sharm el-Sheikh mission. He remembered a few general facts from the briefing dossier.

  “He’s in his midfifties and lived for a while in Kharkiv.”

  “Along with a million and a half other people.”

  “And worked for several years at Khartron Corporation, a company that sold military equipment and technology on the black market to anyone who would pay for it,” Daud added.

  “A rogue scientist,” Jakob responded. “Guys like that are much more dangerous than an ordinary terrorist with a bomb strapped around his chest because their knowledge could kill thousands of people.”

  “It’s his past history I’m interested in, especially anybody he’s made mad and why. I don’t care about his current status.”

  “Have you already researched Kolisnyk on Russian websites?”

  “No, I don’t want anyone to track anything back to me.”

  “How does that not create a problem for me?” Jakob asked.

  “If you don’t want to do it, I’ll understand and—”

  “No, no. I get why you need a buffer between you and anything on the internet. As a Russian American sitting in his basement surfing the internet, I’m not likely to attract attention.”

  “You don’t have a basement at your apartment.”

  “It’s a figure of speech. That’s helpful background on the Ukrainian. Let me go back to my original question. Why are you interested in this guy? You’re not going to build a rocket in the woods next to your house, are you?”

  “No. And I’d rather leave the why out of it.”

  * * *

  Before they met Ben and Laura for dinner, Daud was going to join Hana to view the new house. Just as he was walking out the door, his phone vibrated. Jakob. He answered as he slipped behind the steering wheel of the Land Rover.

  “Did you receive my email?” Jakob asked.

  “I saw it in my queue but haven’t read it,” Daud answered as he started the Land Rover’s engine.

  “You were right,” Jakob said. “Artem Kolisnyk is as much entrepreneur as he is scientist. He’s been peddling his services for years through this Khartron outfit. Most of the items they sold were Russian, but they included a mix of Chinese equipment as well. I’m sure they bribed the Ukrainian authorities so they could stay in business. Kolisnyk provided knowledge and expertise. I had to dig, but I found links to dissatisfied customers who called him out by name as a crook. It was like reading an online rant by someone who buys an electric motor that looks good on the outside but doesn’t work when hooked up to a machine.”

  “Anything specific?”

  “Sometimes the plans he supplied didn’t enable the customers to do what he promised, which made them mad. He blamed them for not following directions.”

  The picture became clearer for Daud. “If Kolisnyk and his group didn’t deliver what was ordered, how did they get paid?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t a total train wreck. They often provided valuable information and material but not always up to the expectations of their customers. The purchasers weren’t necessarily sophisticated; they just had money and wanted guns and rockets. And they were deceptive themselves. The deals required them to sign an agreement that they were acquiring the technology for commercial, not military, purposes, although I doubt anyone took the restrictions seriously.”

  Daud himself had used the promise of sophisticated computer software to lure and trap criminals and terrorists. It was a commonly used strategy because the bait was so enticing.

  “Khartron is defunct,” Jakob continued. “My guess is the negative results and feedback drove Kolisnyk and his buddies out of business and into your world. Am I right?”

  Daud ignored the question. “What about the identity of anyone who might be very mad at him?”

  “I didn’t get into any of that yet.”

  “Would you do that?”

  “I can try,” Jakob responded.

  * * *

  Hana and the real estate agent were standing in the yellow nursery room attached to the master bedroom when they heard the door knocker.

  “That must be your husband,” the agent said.

  “Please wait up here,” Hana said. “I want to see the expression on his face when he walks through the house for the first time.”

  The young woman nodded. “Watch his body language. That can be more revealing than a person’s words.”

  Hana was confident that she could discern Daud’s thoughts without needing words to do so.

  “And please don’t think we’re being rude if we speak Arabic,” Hana added. “My husband understands English, but we usually communicate in Arabic, especially about important matters.”

  “No problem,” the woman said with a wave of her hand. “My husband is from the mountains of north Georgia, and my parents in Boston think he speaks a different language from the rest of us.”

  Downstairs, Hana stopped for a moment to run her fingers through her hair before flinging open the front door.

  “Welcome home!” she said, using an Arabic word for “home” that s
ignified a fancy dwelling where a wealthy family lived.

  “And where are these rich people?” Daud asked, glancing around.

  Hana grabbed his hand and quickly kissed him on the lips. “They just kissed,” she answered. “The real estate agent is upstairs. I’m going to give you a tour of the first floor myself.”

  Hana tried to speak extra slowly. She didn’t want her enthusiasm to elicit a counterbalancing negative reaction from Daud.

  “Why are you talking like that?” Daud asked after she explained the superiority of engineered stone to natural granite.

  “What do you mean? I’m just trying to make myself clear.”

  “You’re dragging out your words. It sounds odd.”

  “I never criticize the way you talk,” Hana said.

  Daud stopped walking. “Is there something wrong with the way I talk that you’ve not told me? Most people think my Egyptian accent sounds classy.”

  “Is that what they told you in Beirut?” Hana said. “Everyone knows the Lebanese accent is the most beautiful.”

  “Excuse me,” a female voice interrupted them.

  It was the real estate agent. “I really enjoyed listening to you talk in Arabic,” she continued. “It sounds like such a passionate language.”

  “It can be,” Hana answered in English, eyeing Daud. “I was about to show my husband the sunroom.”

  After the testy exchange in the kitchen, it was impossible for Hana to discern much from Daud’s body language. His obvious stiffness could be a result of their linguistic spat, not his opinion of the house. She tried to relax as they climbed the stairs to the second level. They went into the master bedroom, followed by the big reveal of the adjacent yellow bedroom.

  “This would make one of the cutest nurseries in Atlanta,” the agent gushed. “I wish my baby could have greeted the morning every day from a room like this one.”

  Hana held her breath as Daud slowly glanced around and then peered out the dormer window. He returned to her side but didn’t look at her.

  “It’s very nice,” he said to the agent. “A good-size room and close to the main bedroom.”

  Hana felt tears suddenly fill her eyes. She leaned over and squeezed Daud’s hand. He responded slightly before releasing her hand.

  “And there’s room for a family to grow,” the agent announced as she stepped into the hallway. “The other bedroom is large enough that two children could share it. It has an adjacent bath with double sinks. The layout is perfect for boys or girls who are close in age.”

  After they finished viewing the inside of the house, they went downstairs and into the backyard. The agent was a plant enthusiast and effortlessly rattled off the names of the bushes and trees.

  “Where are the date palms?” Daud asked when the young woman paused to catch her breath.

  “Date palms?” she asked with a puzzled look on her face.

  “He’s joking,” Hana cut in. “There is so much variety with the plants that almost nothing is missing.”

  “Right,” the young woman said. “I’m not used to Middle Eastern humor.”

  A light breeze caused a few strands of Hana’s black hair to brush across her face before she pushed them back.

  The agent spoke. “I believe I already know the answer, but what did you think of the house?” she asked.

  Hana restrained herself in deference to Daud. “Go ahead,” she said.

  Ignoring the agent, Daud looked at Hana. “I understand why you like it so much,” he said.

  Hana appreciated being understood, but she wanted more encouragement on the ultimate issue. “But do you like it enough to make an offer?”

  Daud hesitated.

  “It’s a hot property,” the agent cut in. “The woman in our office who represents the seller is a go-getter who will have a sold sign in the yard before you know it. Are you preapproved for a loan of up to ninety percent of the asking price?”

  Hana had taken that step without letting Daud know. “Yes,” she said. “And we can pay a ten percent down payment.”

  Daud cut his eyes toward Hana and raised his eyebrows but didn’t speak.

  “Let’s do this,” the agent said, patting the laptop computer she carried in an over-the-shoulder satchel. “I know you like to negotiate, but you’ll risk losing the house if you do. In my opinion, you should submit an offer for the asking price so we can close the deal before a bidding war begins.”

  “How do you know we like to negotiate?” Daud asked before Hana could respond.

  “I mean, this isn’t like those Arab markets you see on TV,” the agent started, then awkwardly paused. “You know, where people bargain over the price of shoes, oranges, tomatoes.”

  Daud looked at Hana. “When was the last time you saw your mother bargain for a pair of shoes?”

  “We’ll get back to you as soon as possible,” Hana said to the agent. “We’ve not had a chance to talk it over. Remember, this was Daud’s first chance to see the house.”

  “Okay,” the agent said, shaking her head. “But it would be a crying shame if you miss out on this property.”

  “That’s why they sell tissues,” Daud answered. “To wipe away tears.”

  The agent gave Hana a horrified look.

  “We’ll talk,” Hana replied, pressing her lips together. “Thanks again for meeting us on short notice.”

  Chapter 25

  Hana followed Daud down the driveway to his vehicle and sat in the passenger seat.

  “What’s the address for the restaurant?” Daud asked, taking his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll enter it so I won’t have to worry about following you.”

  “That real estate agent thinks I’m married to a tyrant who doesn’t care if his wife cries or not,” Hana said. “She probably believes you like it when I cry.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then why did you say that about buying tissues?”

  “She came across as a racist trying to pressure us into making an offer to buy the house without having a chance to talk privately.”

  “Yeah,” Hana sighed. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you in the kitchen about your accent. You sound like an Egyptian aristocrat. I’ve always enjoyed listening to you.”

  “I should have let it go.”

  “That makes me feel better,” Hana said, giving him a hopeful look. “Are you ready to talk about the house?”

  “Let’s eat dinner first.”

  * * *

  It was after 9:00 p.m. when Daud and Hana left the restaurant and waved good-bye to Ben and Laura. Daud reached out and took Hana’s hand as they walked to their cars.

  “You were quiet during the meal,” Hana said, her face illuminated by a security light on a high pole. “What were you thinking about?”

  “I was thinking about our first dinner in Jerusalem and how excited I was,” Daud replied. “I didn’t have any questions for Ben and Laura.”

  “Did I ask too many?” Hana glanced up anxiously.

  “I bet you didn’t ask half the questions you wanted to.”

  “You already know me too well,” she said. “But what about Ben and Laura? Do you see them together in a marriage?”

  “They seemed to get along fine.”

  Hana released Daud’s hand and leaned against her car. “Did you see the way Laura cut her eyes toward Ben when I asked where Sadie will go to school after the sixth grade? Laura was making sure he answered the way she wanted him to.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not a bad thing that they’re talking about it now so they can agree rather than disagree later. And remember—”

  “It’s none of my business,” Hana replied. “I felt you nudge me with your foot under the table.”

  “It was a friendly nudge.”

  “Actually, I found myself liking Laura more than I thought I would. She has a good sense of humor and loves to cook, both of which will be great for Sadie, and the story about her sister who married a man with two children shows that she has some exper
ience with stepparent issues. She’s close to her family. That’s a positive sign. And her job schedule is flexible, so she can be there for Sadie when Ben can’t.”

  “You know who she reminded me of?” Daud asked.

  “Who?”

  Daud pointed his finger at Hana’s nose. “You.”

  He could see Hana start to protest.

  “Not in every way,” Daud continued. “But there were similarities. You’re both passionate people in a way that’s not so obvious at first, but you can feel it bubbling beneath the surface. And when Laura talked about Sadie’s needs, it made me believe she already loves her. This relationship is not just about her and Ben.”

  “It sounds to me like you were thinking about more than our first dinner date in Jerusalem.”

  “A little bit.” Daud smiled.

  “Let’s go home,” she said with a yawn. “We still need to talk about the new house.”

  Daud didn’t reply. Hana unlocked the door of her car and prepared to get in. She stopped and turned around.

  “Do you want me to dye my hair blond so I’ll be even more like Laura?” she asked.

  “No!”

  Although local residents complained about aggressive drivers, Daud found navigating the well-marked streets of Atlanta easier than anyplace he’d driven in the Middle East. He never had to worry about motorcyclists zipping between cars when traffic slowed or multiple vehicles disregarding lane lines like a herd of irritable goats. It was easy to keep up with Hana. When they arrived at home, Hana yawned three times in quick succession.

  “This has been an emotional day,” she said. “We’ll talk about the house in the morning. Our baby is telling me to go to bed and sleep.”

  “I’m going to read for a while.”

  Hana yawned a final time. Daud kissed her before she plodded off to the bedroom. A few minutes later when he peeked into the bedroom she was sound asleep, her hair splayed across her pillow. Even in the faint light, her dark hair glistened. Daud crept forward and held a few strands in his fingers. There was no way she could ever change that color.