Chosen (2 page)

“Come in, come in,” Abdallah said, motioning to a plush, green chair beside Abba Eban. Both men politely stood. Abdallah watched Alexana sit and inquisitively study them.

“You wonder why we both wish to meet with you.”

A tiny smile edged her lips upward. “To say the least.”

“Alexana,” Abba Eban said, smiling broadly. “Under the new peace accord, Abdallah has paved the way for an unprecedented dig.” He paused dramatically, letting the information sink in. “We are to have unlimited access to Solomon’s Stables.”

Alexana drew in her breath sharply, struggling to maintain her composure. Not only was she sitting before the leaders of two longstanding enemy factions, men who heretofore would have been loath
to be so near one another, but they both wanted to excavate. And the excavation was no ordinary dig. It was under the Temple Mount, the Haram, fiercely protected by Muslims for decades.

“Due to your longstanding reputation, the work done by you and your family in the region, and your ability to remain neutral between Palestinian and Jew alike,” Abdallah said, “we have chosen you to be dig supervisor.”

T
he desert was hot for a winter day. Ridge McIntyre wiped his brow as he pulled the Jeep off the highway and onto a road he found only by tracking his mileage and carefully following directions. It led deeper into the Negev Desert south of Jerusalem. The newest correspondent for CNN, Ridge had managed to land the prime news region of the Middle East in which to prove himself, and he was intent upon setting up his contacts. He had already established three key sources of inside information; if he could nail this fourth, he’d have a strong network set up to funnel him politically hot stories.

He drove the Jeep up a steep hill, hoping that he was going in the right direction. Just over the crest he spied two men standing in the road with their arms crossed in front of them. As Ridge neared, they pulled their black and white Bedouin robes aside, displaying Uzis at the ready.

Ridge sighed, wondering how many more times he would have to risk his life for a story in this region.

The smaller man motioned with his head for Ridge to get out of the vehicle. Ridge started talking before his foot was out the door, his customary defense mechanism for dealing with stressful situations.

“Ridge McIntyre. I’m here to see Khalil al Aitam.”

“Shut up,” the taller man said. He turned Ridge toward the car,
forced his arms to the sun-scorched roof, and frisked him. The other man searched the Jeep.

Ridge submitted to the search without moving, ignoring his burning palms. “I’m a United States citizen,” he began in protest. “And a correspondent for CNN.”

“Shut up,” the man repeated and stood away from Ridge.

“Your American citizenship buys no love here,” the smaller guard said in practiced English. “Your connection to CNN is all that allows you to breathe your next breath.”

Alexana Roarke smiled back at her handsome Palestinian host, lounging in his Bedouin robes amongst the traditional pile of brightly colored cushions. The tent around them was surprisingly cool and smelled of sweat, broiled lamb, and very strong tea and coffee. Beside her, a woman served the hot, sweet tea customary to the Middle East.

“Thank you, Sarah,” Alexana said. The dark-eyed beauty smiled shyly with her eyes—her nose and mouth hidden by a light veil—then ducked out of the tent. Alexana turned toward Khalil. “When are you going to marry that girl?” she asked him calmly.

“When I get tired of you saying no,” he said. A row of even, white teeth gleamed at her.

Alexana snorted and shook her head. “I said no in third grade and in seventh
and
when we graduated and left Ramallah.” She reached out and took his hand.

The man continued to smile, but hurt showed in his eyes. Alexana studied him carefully. Tall and muscular, at ease and relaxed in his robes, Khalil was a man who would be admired by women of any nationality.

Spotting his serious expression, Alexana felt her smile fade. “Oh Khalil, come on. We have definitely taken different paths. A marriage between us would be disastrous.”

“A good marriage can conquer any obstacles.”

“If you begin from the same foundation. Our lifetime of friendship doesn’t count.” Alexana ignored the stubborn set of his chin. “We’ve covered this before. You’ve become a militant Muslim. A political fundamentalist leader—of Hamas, no less. I am and will always remain a devout Christian. Your life has become unavoidably entrenched in the ways of Middle Eastern men—how would it look for you to have a professional Westerner as a wife?”

She lowered her voice, conscious that Sarah probably was listening outside. “I will not be parked in some tent, serving tea. I would be desperately unhappy, and you would be very dissatisfied.”

Khalil rose and walked toward the curtains. His actions reminded Alexana of those exhibited by a king, and she struggled not to openly admire this childhood friend who had become very much a man. He pulled aside the animal skin that hung over the window and watched a Jeep approach along the sandy road leading to the tent. “So, my
friend,
what is it that you seek from me today?”

Alexana closed her eyes and wished away the tension that had risen between them. “I’ll cut to the chase,” she said, phrasing her words carefully. “Word has it that Abdallah al Azeh and Islamic Affairs are going to let me lead a team under the Haram and excavate Solomon’s Stables.”

“I have heard. Hamas will not allow it. Decline the invitation when it comes.”

Alexana laughed aloud. “You’ve got to be kidding! This is the chance of a lifetime! Of my career!” Forcing herself to lower her
voice, she rose and went to him, touching his shoulder. “Khalil.”

He let the curtain fall as the vehicle pulled up outside the tent.

Alexana’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. “This is the reason that you agreed to see me today? The reason for another marriage proposal? Because I am in danger?”

Khalil turned to her and cradled her jaw in his strong hand. He looked lovingly into her eyes. “You would be safe as my wife.”

Her brow furrowed, but she did not look away. “Even if I agree to lead the team under the Haram?”

He dropped his hand and moved back to the curtain. “No. There are many who consider you a menace already. I’ve intervened to keep you off the hit lists as even a
potential
leader to the project.”

“I cannot accept that!” She grimaced, unwilling to accept his words. “Hamas knows me, my family. I’ve grown up here! Never have I proven myself untrustworthy! I am considered a friend to Muslim and Jew alike.”

“That is no longer possible.”

“We will make the Haram’s foundation
stronger.
We will not harm the El Aksa Mosque.”

“You don’t understand the ramifications!” Khalil said, uncharacteristically letting his voice rise. He dropped the curtain again and stared angrily back at the slim blonde in front of him.

“
I
don’t understand?”

A voice from outside the tent interrupted the intensity of the moment. “Hello? Ridge McIntyre, CNN. Anyone home?” The animal skin fell to one side as a tall, handsome man stepped into the tent. Squinting in the darkness after being in the bright desert light, he shifted his gaze from Alexana to her companion, then back again as she moved to collect her bag.

“I-I’m sorry,” Ridge stammered, obviously noting the tension in the room. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was invited by Khalil al Aitam.”

“You didn’t interrupt.” Alexana studied him intently for a moment, then brushed past. She quickly shoved away a moment of admiration for a journalist who could actually ferret out Khalil. “I was just leaving.” The last thing she needed was to deal with Khalil and another hotshot American reporter.

Khalil reached out and grabbed her arm. “We are not finished here, Alexana.”

She looked defiantly up at him. “Oh, yes we are.” She shook off his hand and ducked out of the tent.

Ridge stood back, watching the interchange and wondering what the story was.
I bet it’s a good one,
he mused silently. A beautiful American and the leader of Hamas. He admired women with gumption, like the one who had just left. “Women,” Ridge said amicably, shrugging, as Khalil scowled back at him.

“Your visit is ill-timed, Mr. McIntyre,” Khalil said.

“So it seems. If you’d rather I return another time—”

“No, no,” his host said, waving off his dark thoughts. “I will see her later. You are here. What is it that you seek?”

Alexana sped past the two guards in her old BMW, feeling exasperated and suddenly tired. Was it wise to accept the position without Khalil’s protection? She pushed away all thoughts of doubt. Archaeology was in her blood; her great-grandfather had studied Israeli biblical sites in 1905; her grandmother was on one of the first teams to excavate the Temple Mount in 1928; her father had excavated the site where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found in the 1940s. Alexana saw no other path, felt no other passion.

Still, she had hoped to secure Khalil’s nod of approval, which would have guaranteed noninterference from Hamas and assured her own personal safety. Samuel Roarke would not like the danger surrounding this assignment, and Sam Jr., her brother, would be impossible. Alexana sighed. “Dear God, I just know there’s something fantastic down there beneath the Temple Mount,” she prayed aloud. “Please clear the path. Help me show the world the places where you walked.”

She checked herself. One-sided conversations with God had become habit long ago. “Do I only want to please you?” she asked. “Okay, okay, I admit it. There is glory in it for me. Help me to keep my priorities straight and give me wisdom in choosing my path, Father.” Oh, how she wanted this! How could God not give it to her?

“I want it for you. I do.
And
for me. Help me to do the right thing, not just act on my own greed. Use me if you choose to do so.”

The miles sped by, and Alexana sighed repeatedly as her car climbed the streets of Beit Jala, a Palestinian village on the road to Jerusalem. Reaching behind her seat, she grabbed a bright, red-and-white-checked kaffiyeh—the traditional Palestinian headdress—and threw it over her dashboard in a halfhearted attempt to appease potential rock-throwers on the walls and rooftops that lined the road. In years past, she had replaced many windshields damaged by the guerrilla tactics of protesters who assumed she was a Jew; today she passed the rows of simple limestone houses without incident. Either the kaffiyeh protected her, or the Palestinian boys did not bother to lob a stone.

The next neighborhood, a Jewish settlement, consisted of more limestone houses, surrounded by hundreds of hastily constructed modular units. Alexana shook her head. The “town” had been placed
on land allegedly purchased from an elderly Palestinian. Before the PLO or Hamas could act, hundreds of Israeli settlers had moved in. Over three hundred acres had been usurped by vigilant Israelites, dedicated to taking back their homeland by pushing out the other natives, the Palestinians. It was a never-ending, circular battle.

As she neared the Old City, Alexana decided she needed some fresh air and her brother’s company. After parking outside Damascus Gate, she made her way toward the western, Christian quarter of the city, walking the quarter-mile to her apartment. There was no direct access to her home other than by foot.

Suddenly she could not wait to see her brother. Sam would certainly have a new joke to tell her, and working alongside him at Caesarea Maritima would feel more like play than work. It would be like a vacation compared to the heavy days she had been through recently.

Alexana smiled and nodded her way through the quiet afternoon streets, brightening at the prospect. She purposefully looked away from the Temple Mount as she passed it, pushing away thoughts about the caverns underneath, unexplored.

Turning her mind instead to the afternoon ahead of her, Alexana smiled. It would be good to return to Caesarea, good to get in the water again.

Twenty feet under the Mediterranean is just where I want to be.

R
idge exited a second highway and headed toward the ancient harbor of Caesarea Maritima. The week had continued to run in the eighties, unseasonably hot. He rolled down his window as the road crested and the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean opened up before him.

The sea was bluer than the Pacific and greener than the Atlantic, a beautiful combination. If there had been palm trees swaying along the coast it would have resembled an island paradise; instead, the harbor created its own mystique marked by grassy, sandy banks and quietly lapping water. The smell of salt filled Ridge’s nostrils.
Yes. I like this assignment.

He neared the ancient site of Caesarea Maritima and pulled to a stop in the parking lot. A quarter-mile off were the crumbling remains—surprisingly intact in places—of a Herodian aqueduct that had once carried fresh water from the mountains and valleys to the coastal residence of the Roman governor. Inside the city walls were the remains of an amphitheater and numerous buildings. Above, a restored Crusader castle was now used as a restaurant for tourists.

Ridge briefly looked over the sites before heading toward the harbor. He had done his homework. Through the Internet, he had seen drawings of what Caesarea once looked like: Herod had accomplished
an amazing feat by constructing the first artificial harbor on the coast of what was then Judea. Built of massive blocks and constructed through the use of slave labor, it had become one of the most prosperous harbors of its time. Entire buildings had stood on the artificial walls, welcoming seafarers from all over the known world.

Most of what remained of the harbor two thousand years later was under water, leading to this excavation led by Goldfried and Hoekstra, and reportedly cosupervised by the man he sought, Dr. Roarke. Ridge spotted people alongshore: Some were working under several white tents that flapped in the breeze; others were walking between them and beached rafts. The group was a flurry of activity as he neared. One segment carried artifacts from the rafts to giant sieves, then to a large work tent. Another headed back out in rafts powered by small motors to what Ridge supposed was the dive site.