Hostage

by Don Brown

  As you can see, the government is approving the emigration request for you and your entire immediate family, which includes your wife and your four children.

  Alexander stopped, wiping more tears.

  "Is this true?" Yael stared at the mysterious duo, her mouth agape. "These are not arrest papers? We are really going to Israel?"

  "Yes, Guspazhal Kweskin, it is true." The man on the right finally flashed a semblance of a smile. "I am Dimitry Popkov with the International Fellowship. You may call me Dima. This is my brother Sasha, also with the Fellowship."

  Sasha nodded his head.

  "You are Jewish?" Yael asked.

  "We are Christian," Sasha spoke up, now smiling himself, "but our Savior is Jewish, and our heart is with you."

  Alexander's eyes met Yael's. Tears were streaking down her face. "Praise be to the God of Abraham," she said softly as Alexander put his hands on her cheeks.

  "And to his Son, the resurrected Messiah," Dima added, also softly.

  "Yes," Yael said. "Who could argue with such a proposition at this hour?"

  "Perhaps you should finish reading the letter, Guspadyeen Kwes-kin," Dima said. "There is much work remaining to be done and little time in which to do it."

  Alexander smiled and nodded, his hands still trembling with excitement. For a moment he caught a glimpse, he thought, of the glory Moses must have felt when he read the Ten Commandments. A writing that could have come only from God. And with that fleeting thought, he went back to his solemn reading.

  Our offices will serve as liaison between the Belarusian and Israeli governments to arrange for the execution of all paperwork necessary for your emigration. Once all the paperwork is finalized in Israel, you must be prepared to leave immediately. Because of severe space limitations in Israel, your family will be limited to only one suitcase per person.

  By the generosity of an anonymous donor in America, you will be provided a cash allotment of two thousand ($2,000.00) U.S. dollars to help you start your new life in Israel. Please make arrangements to get your affairs in order and be prepared to travel on short notice, most likely within the next two weeks.

  Your liaison officers from the International Fellowship are Dima and Sasha Popkov. They will stand ready to assist you, round-the-clock if necessary, to facilitate your move to your new homeland. They will guide you through all remaining paperwork requirements, then facilitate your transportation to the airport in Minsk once the specific time for your departure is finalized.

  Please accept my congratulations on your selection, which was made in a very competitive environment from a large pool of applicants. May God's blessings be upon you as you begin your new life.

  You are the living fulfillment of HIS promise written by the prophet Ezekiel, who said, "For I will take you out of the nations; I will gather you from all the countries and bring you back into your own land" (Ezek.36:24).

  Shalom to you,

  Rabbi Dan Eckstein

  Director

  CHAPTER 20

  Charles E. Lindberg Field

  San Diego International Airport

  San Diego, California

  Despite his worries over Diane, Zack found a pittance of relief when he discovered that his "baby," that is, his silver Mercedes 320, the only material possession on earth for which he admittedly had a weakness, appeared unscratched when he found her sitting in section AA, row 3, in the long-term parking lot.

  He popped open the trunk, tossed in his bags, then pulled off his service dress blue jacket and laid it in the backseat.

  His Guess WaterPro wristwatch showed that it was now 8:45 PST.

  How would he spend the rest of the day? Technically, he was still on leave. But frankly, he really didn't feel like being on leave. Not with Diane's presence unaccounted for.

  Maybe he would just jump on the first flight back east to search for her. He could take a nonstop to Washington, land at Reagan National Airport, rent a car, and start driving down I-95, hoping to bump into her at a McDonald's or something.

  Use your head, Lieutenant. You can't help her with stupid thoughts.

  He cranked the engine, pressed a button to open the sunroof, and basked for a moment in the warm San Diego sunshine. He opened his eyes and, adjusting them to the light, looked in his rearview at himself.

  You are one grungy sight, Lieutenant, a pitiful-looking excuse for a naval officer.

  Oakdale Cemetery

  520 North 15th Street

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  It was a large, peaceful, and old cemetery, nestled in a grove of Spanish moss and magnolia trees, containing the remains of some of Wilmington's most prominent citizens, dating from the antebellum era to the twenty-first century.

  She read about this place last night in the hotel room. David Brin-kley, the famous broadcaster, was buried here. But the words in the brochure did not adequately describe its beauty.

  Diane took her place, standing under one of the big, shady Spanish mosses, maybe twenty yards or so from the tent erected by the funeral home for the family.

  As the priest made a few comments, Diane's eyes locked momentarily with those of Maggie's sister, a beautiful, green-eyed brunette, and a Carolina grad -- just like Zack -- who had earlier given a tear-filled eulogy about Maggie's relationship with her family and with the Lord.

  The priest, in black clerical robes, finished praying and made the sign of the cross over the casket.

  Shadows of clouds rolled over the green grass and gray tombstones. Wind and a sudden drop in temperature signaled that an early season thunderstorm was on the way.

  The distant booms of thunder, followed by lightning, made the crowd scatter quickly. Only the family members remained with the priest beneath the tent when the first big drops of cool rain started falling.

  Still, Diane could not bring herself to leave as the rain increased from a few drops to a downpour.

  Violent lightning bolts ripped across the sky, followed by booming thunderclaps. The deluge from the heavens turned the image of the family under the tent into a ghostly blur. One of the family members, a man with a black umbrella, jogged toward her, splashing water from the grass as he cut across the graves.

  "Won't you come under the tent with us?" He held the large black umbrella over her head. Now that he was closer, she could see he was Maggie Jefferies's father.

  "I came to pay my respects, but I wouldn't want to intrude on the family's privacy." Diane took solace in knowing that her tears were being masked by the rainwater streaming down her face.

  "You look familiar." The man flashed a puzzled look just as another lightning bolt split the heavens.

  "I'm Diane Colcernian." Diane looked away from him, worried that Mr. Jefferies would blame her for his daughter's death. "I feel responsible," she said, her voice breaking into a sob. "I'm so sorry."

  "She admired you, Lieutenant." Mr. Jefferies put his arm around her shoulders. "We all do. We don't blame you. Don't ever think that. It was her time; God called her home when he wanted her home."

  The raindrops fell more heavily now. The thunderclaps grew louder, increasing in frequency.

  "It's okay, Lieutenant. Please, come under the tent."

  She looked into his eyes, then through the rain at the other family members, their faces turned toward Diane and Mr. Jefferies.

  "I appreciate your kind words, Mr. Jefferies. Right now, you need to go back to your family. I'll be praying for you." She gave him a hug. "I've got to go."

  She stepped out from under the umbrella into the drenching rain, walking through the cemetery, away from Maggie Jefferies's freshly dug grave.

  Navy Trial Service Office

  Building 73

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Zack arrived just outside his office at the Navy Trial Command on 32nd Street. His office was on the far end of the L-shaped, one-story stucco building, and often he could sneak in without being noticed.

  He
inserted his security card into the door on the end of the building, and when he heard the electronic release of the lock, he pulled open the door.

  "Lieutenant Brewer." Zack heard the all-too-familiar voice and looked up to see his boss, Senior Trial Counsel Commander Bob Awe. He was totally gray, with intelligent eyes, a pleasant personality, an eccentric penchant for collecting art, and a bit more of a potbelly than would ordinarily be allowable for a naval officer. Awe stood in the passageway, smiling and holding his trademark coffee mug.

  So much for Zack's plans for an anonymous return.

  "I see our celebrity has returned." Awe beamed as if Zack were his personal protege. "We thought we might see you today, Zack." Awe extended a warm and welcoming handshake.

  "Well, sir," Zack said, "after witnessing that execution, I decided getting back to work would be the best possible therapy for me right now." Actually, the best therapy would be news that Diane is okay.

  "The captain instructed me" -- Awe released Zack's hand -- "if I saw you around here today, to send you directly to his office."

  "Is everything okay, sir?"

  "Yes." A big gulp of coffee. "I think the captain has some rather good news he would like to deliver."

  "May I ask what it is, sir?" Please say you've heard from her and she's all right.

  "Yes, of course you may ask. But I'm under orders not to say. The skipper wants to deliver this personally."

  "Does he want to see me now?"

  "As soon as I see you. Those are his orders." Another swig of coffee. "Why don't you drop your briefcase on your desk while I get a refill. Meet me in the skipper's office."

  Five minutes later, when Zack arrived at Captain Glen Rudy's office, Commander Bob Awe was already sitting in the captain's presence, armed with another fresh cup, this one filled to the brim, probably his fourth of the morning.

  "Welcome home, Commander," Captain Rudy said in a cheerful voice, then motioned Zack to sit in the big leather chair beside Commander Awe.

  "Coffee, Commander?" Rudy smiled at Zack.

  "Sir?" Why is he looking at me while he's speaking to Commander Awe?

  "Would you like coffee?"

  "No thank you, sir," Zack said.

  "Zack" -- Rudy leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his arms -- "you've done the navy proud, and you've made the JAG Corps look great."

  "Thank you, sir." Zack smiled. He knew the skipper meant well, but he was tired of being praised for merely doing his job. He just wanted to get back to work, get out of the limelight, and return to life as a normal naval officer.

  And he wanted Diane back. And if he ever got her back, if he ever looked again into those dazzling, incomparable green eyes, he would finally come out of the shell she always accused him of being in.

  "I'm sorry, Skipper." Zack looked up. Captain Rudy was speaking to him.

  Rudy looked at him with a curious expression. "You okay, Zack?"

  "My apologies, sir. I'm fine."

  "Anyway, what I was saying," Captain Rudy continued, "is that we've just received the promotion board's list for lieutenant commander. You've been deep-selected, Zack."

  Zack felt his eyes widen.

  "Congratulations."

  Zack fumbled for something to say.

  "Is my prosecutor experiencing a rare paralysis of that silver tongue of his?" Rudy chuckled.

  "But, sir, I didn't think I was in zone for selection for another year."

  "That's one of the beautiful things about deep selection, Commander. On the very rare occasion when the commander in chief of the United States armed forces personally weighs in and says he wants an officer promoted to the next highest rank, the selection board does not argue."

  Zack sat there for a second. He had prosecuted the most highly publicized court-martial in modern history, then been decorated personally by the president with a Meritorious Service Medal. So perhaps the deep selection shouldn't have come as a surprise. But for some reason, it did.

  "What about Lieutenant Colcernian, sir? Was she also deep selected?"

  Rudy shook his head, then sipped his coffee. "Lieutenant Colcernian will be in the zone next year, and I guarantee she'll get picked up, Zack." A hesitation. "Even if I have to go to Washington myself and hold up the board, which, given her record, will be wholly unnecessary."

  "I see," Zack said, then realized his tone may have conveyed his regret that Diane would not be promoted with him.

  Rudy continued, ignoring Zack's disappointed tone. "The secretary of the navy has given me the authority to frock you now. If you would stand and come to attention, please."

  Zack complied as Rudy rose, walked around his big desk, and stood face-to-face with him, then proceeded to unpin the silver "railroad tracks" rank of a navy lieutenant from Zack's right collar. Rudy handed the railroad tracks to Commander Awe, who was standing beside him, and said, "Commander Awe, I believe you have the oak leaf?"

  "I do, sir." Awe handed a dime-sized gold oak leaf to Rudy, who pinned it on Zack's right collar, then extended his right hand. "Congratulations, Lieutenant Commander Brewer."

  Oakdale Cemetery

  520 North 15th Street

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  Surely the driving rain was a direct answer from Allah, Ahmed Sadat thought. He sat in the cabin of his Aerostar, parked along a cart path in the middle of the suddenly deserted cemetery. From his vantage point in the driver's seat, he pointed his binoculars at the blurry image of Diane Colcernian traipsing alone through the graveyard. Oddly, she wasn't even running in the inclement weather.

  He thought he would have to wait until nightfall to make his move. But Allah -- praise be to him -- had provided this divine opportunity in the middle of the day!

  Now was the time. He must move with haste so as not to squander this, his God-given appointment with destiny. He felt for the nine-millimeter, pulled it out, quickly worked the action, then turned off the safety and stuck the gun back in his belt. He grabbed the empty wine bottle, threw open the front door, and ran out into the thunderstorm.

  More lightning bolts split open the sky, and thunderclaps rumbled as he fell in, now jogging, behind his very wet, unsuspecting target. The driving rain served not only as a veil of visibility but also as a sound buffer. As he closed in, it was obvious that she did not suspect his presence. Looking quickly over his shoulder, he determined that they were totally out of eyesight of the funeral party. Nothing now but driving streaks of rain, coming down even harder, giving him miraculous seclusion for what he was about to do.

  He hesitated for a moment, unnerved by the notion that he was about to attack a creature who was the object of his carnal desires. Her black skirt was soggy as she trampled across the sodden cemetery. Her red hair -- she had removed the black hat -- was deliciously drenched and stringy.

  Now was the time to move. Breaking into a sprint, his feet splashing water as he dodged three or four headstones, he closed in. Thunder again masked the sound of his charging feet. She turned, looking stunned that he was charging her like a raging bull. He raised the bottle and smashed it on her skull.

  CHAPTER 21

  Squadron briefing room

  Viper Squadron

  USS Harry S. Truman

  Central Mediterranean

  Still in his olive-drab flight suit, and feeling depleted after having just landed on the carrier from two hours of routine combat air patrol, Lieutenant Commander Mohammed "Mo" Quasay stepped into the squadron briefing room. He wasn't sure why the impromptu meeting had been scheduled by the carrier's air wing commander, but he did not have a good feeling about it. He worried that it might be related to the interception of the code word transmission.

  Already, word had gotten around the Truman about the interception of the Spanish boat. To make matters worse, according to the ship's scuttlebutt, two of the passengers were Arabic.

  This information sent the crew into a feeding frenzy, chewing on all kinds of imaginative rumors like a giant school of piranha
s feasting on a piece of steak floating in the river.

  Perhaps the command was falling victim to this witch-hunt paranoia. Perhaps they would question him because of his Islamic background. Or maybe they wanted to put him in the same room with Lieutenant Hosni Alhad. Or perhaps they had already interviewed Hosni. But if they had, surely he would not have given them anything, would he?

  Hosni was younger and more idealistic, and therefore, more rabid, more hard-core, and more committed to Islamic Glory than even he was. Surely Hosni would let them shoot him before he said anything.

  Mo walked into the empty classroom and took a seat at a desk. He placed a legal pad on the fold-down writing surface and waited. He breathed out an inaudible sigh of relief when several other squadron members walked in and sat down. Surely, if they were going to interrogate him, they would not do so in front of the whole squadron, would they?

  "They should have snatched the rag heads off the boat," one of his lieutenants whispered to another.

  "Snatch 'em off?" The command master chief grimaced. "With all due respect, sir, the skipper should have just blown that boat out of the water. You know they're up to no good."

  "Yeah, Master Chief, but how do you prove it?" a lieutenant junior grade asked.

  "This isn't a court of law," a full lieutenant said. "We're at war with these terrorists; 9/11 proved we've got to act first and ask questions later."

  Mo kept quiet, letting his men rattle on as they waited for the air wing commander. He caught Lieutenant Alhad's eyes as Alhad walked through the hatch and into the briefing room. Alhad looked worried too.

  "Attention on deck!"

  The squadron rose, snapping to attention as the ship's commanding officer, the air wing commander, and the senior intelligence officer strode into the room.