Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Read online

  Gerald N. Lund 4-in-1 Fiction eBook Bundle

  Gerald N. Lund

  © 2013 Gerald N. Lund.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  Table of Contents

  One In Thine Hand

  One In Thine Hand

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  The Alliance

  The Alliance

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Leverage Point

  Leverage Point

  Preface

  Characters in Leverage Point

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  The Freedom Factor

  The Freedom Factor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  One In Thine Hand

  One In Thine Hand

  © 1982, 1987 Gerald N. Lund

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Bookcraft, P. O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Bookcraft.

  BOOKCRAFT is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

  First printing paperbound edition, September 1987

  First printing redesigned paperbound edition, January 2000

  Visit us at deseretbook.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lund, Gerald N.

  One in thine hand.

  1. Title.

  ISBN 0-87747-894-5 (hardbound ed.) AACR2

  ISBN-10 0-87579-125-5 (paperbound ed.)

  ISBN-13 978-0-87579-125-8 (paperbound ed.)

  PS3562.U48505 813’.54 81-19418

  To Lynn, my traveling companion to Israel and other destinations, including the eternal ones

  One

  Heathrow Airport was like the streets of downtown Saigon at rush hour, masses of bodies jostling back and forth, people milling around aimlessly, always seeming to stop where they could most effectively snarl the traffic flow. And judging from the lines in front of the Trans-World Airlines ticket counter, the majority of this swarm of tourists had not heard there might be other airlines competing with TWA to transport people out of London.

  Brad Kennison ignored the crush of people and focused a burning glare in the center of the ample back of the lady ahead of him. She was pawing through her purse in search of her ticket, a bag easily large enough to carry half the files of the National Archives. The scowl darkened his even, tanned features and pulled his mouth, usually quick with an easy smile, into a tight line. He brushed his hand impatiently across his dark brown hair, then massaged the back of his neck.

  When they had opened this new ticket window, Brad had jumped quickly and bettered his place in the line by six positions. Now he was still waiting, thanks to this woman, and the man in front of her who had required the frustrated clerk to recite every possible flight time to every possible city in Europe. The man in the line next to him finished and moved away as Brad’s gray eyes smouldered. Originally that man had been four places behind him.

  Suddenly the lady with the huge purse gave a squeal of delight. “I knew it was in there,” she said triumphantly.

  “Thank heavens!” Brad muttered, more loudly than he had intended.

  The lady glanced back at him quickly, flustered and embarrassed.

  Hey, come on Kennison, he chided himself. The plane doesn’t leave for two hours yet. Why so uptight?

  He shrugged off the question, as though absentmindedly brushing away a fly. He had been home from Viet Nam for nearly four months now, and some time ago had come to terms with the fact that he was impatient, easily frustrated, and even irritable at times. He stared out the airport windows, shimmering and wavy in the early August sunshine, peeved as much at himself as at the delay. Maybe in Israel the restlessness that gnawed at him could be put a
side.

  Finally the lady in front moved hurriedly away, clutching her ticket in her hand. Brad pushed his camera bag across the polished tiles with his foot and stepped up to the counter. The ticket agent was a pert blonde with a dazzling smile. The smile warmed noticeably as she gave him a quick appraising look. After the bumbling, flustered lady, this tall, striking young American would be a welcome reprieve.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly, taking his ticket. “Tel Aviv, sir?” Her English accent warped the syllables in a delightful way, but he didn’t take notice.

  Brad nodded. He watched her process the ticket for a moment, then asked, “Is this going to be a crowded flight?”

  She laughed. “Not as much as TWA would like. It’s only about half full. Everybody seems to be going to America, not to the Middle East.”

  “Good,” he said, ignoring her cordiality. “I would prefer to be alone. Can you seat me where no one else will be by me?”

  The smile slowly faded. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kennison. But it’s open seating for passengers boarding the flight here in London. This flight originated in New York, and many passengers are continuing on to Greece and Israel. We don’t know which seats will be occupied.”

  The dark scowl returned. On the flight across the Atlantic, Brad had been stuck next to a couple from New York on their way to Italy. Sunglasses, Bermuda shorts, nonstop talk, and a furtive cigarette whenever the flight attendant wasn’t around to remind them they were sitting in nonsmoking seats—they hadn’t done much for his mood. In fact, they had pretty well destroyed the deep excitement and anticipation he had felt when he first boarded the plane in Salt Lake City. And he resented that loss, for planning this trip had provided the first real satisfaction he had found in the four months since his return from Viet Nam.

  “Can’t you do something?” he demanded.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry.” The clerk handed him his ticket and boarding pass, avoiding his eyes. “Gate fifty-six. They’ll board at two P.M.”

  Brad snatched the ticket, his frustration mounting. He yanked up his camera bag and spun away.

  As he did so, the ticket agent murmured under her breath, “Mister, just give them a look like that and you’ll have the whole row to yourself.”

  He whirled around and glared at her. She jerked up, obviously startled, and then instantly her face flamed scarlet. But she stood her ground and stared back at him.

  Gradually Brad felt his face relax into a grin. “Was it really that bad?” he asked.

  Her relief at his sudden change was so evident that his smile broadened even more, crinkling the lines around the corner of his eyes.

  “You were pretty grim,” she admitted. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. That was rude of me.”

  A flash of the old Brad Kennison flicked across his eyes, and he pulled a wry face at her. “To give a man his just due is not rudeness,” he said. “My mind was somewhere else. It is my rudeness that needs an apology.”

  That restored her smile completely. “It’s all right. Have a good flight.”

  “Thank you.” Brad shouldered his camera bag and turned away again.

  “Mr. Kennison?”

  He turned back in surprise. “Yes?”

  “There should be plenty of room on the plane. If you would like to sit alone, you could set your camera bag on the seat next to you until takeoff. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Thank you very much,” he said, smiling in genuine gratitude. “I’ll do that.”

  And then, as he strode down the concourse toward the departure gates, he did something he hadn’t done for over a year. He began to whistle softly.

  * * * * * *

  By the time his flight was announced—forty-five minutes late—the cheerful mood had evaporated, and frustration, like an old familiar jacket he had temporarily displaced, had embraced him again. He fought it at first, then finally surrendered, rationalizing that a good part of it was just fatigue. It was now nearly twenty hours since he had left Salt Lake City and almost thirty since he had had any sleep. His body had switched over to quarter speed. His eyes were bleary and burned from the cigarette smoke that had turned the air of the boarding area a thick blue-gray. His dark hair, thick but cut fairly short, now had a slightly tousled look. Black stubble was taking over his lower face, hiding the square set of his jaw. Normally he had an air of alertness and friendliness that quickly put people at ease. Now he just looked tired and rumpled. As he waited he had slouched into a chair between a cigarsmoking Frenchman and a large black man in an Arab headdress, and anyone seeing him now would have underestimated his height, which was slightly over six feet.

  In spite of his deep weariness, his mind kept alternating back and forth between the prospects of being in the Holy Land and the faint sense of guilt he felt at leaving. But why should I feel guilty at being different? he demanded of that part of his mind that kept nagging at him. You can’t expect to spend two years teaching the gospel sixty and seventy hours a week, be home only six weeks, and then be drafted for another two years into the army, and not come home different. The last thirteen months of duty had been in Viet Nam. He had left as a nineteen-year-old kid who rarely thought of anything more serious than whether to go waterskiing at Flaming Gorge or Lake Powell. He had come back with a great longing to embark on life, to do something with himself. And he couldn’t help it if Karen and he were not meant for each other as they had first thought. There had been no promises, no dateless waiting on her part, and she had sensed it was over almost as quickly as he had. And why enroll in school when he had no idea what area to pursue?

  The loudspeaker blurted out its usual unintelligible blast of noise, and the people around him began to stir themselves into action. Brad pushed aside the thoughts that dogged him and stood up. He stretched wearily, but the smoky-gray eyes were bright with anticipation. The next time he stepped off the plane—. He nodded almost happily as he moved toward the boarding area and into line. Maybe in Jerusalem.

  * * * * * *

  Brad moved inside the huge cabin of the Boeing 747, handed the flight attendant his boarding pass, and smiled briefly in response to her greeting. Moving quickly to an empty row, he eased into the window seat, and, feeling only slightly guilty, set his bag squarely in the middle of the aisle seat. He was exhausted, and if he could guard the two adjoining seats, there would be room to stretch out.

  Someone had left a New York Times in the seat pocket in front of him. It was dated August 8, 1973, which made it almost two days old now, but he glanced through it idly while the rest of the passengers boarded. It didn’t do much for his mood either. Watergate still dominated the headlines, as it had since April. John Dean’s testimony threatened to take the guilt right into the Oval Office, though President Nixon still flatly denied any knowledge of the growing scandal. The Arab oil embargo was in full swing, and three people had been hospitalized after a fight erupted in a New Jersey gas station when someone broke into the long line. Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton were rumored to be near separation because, as she had said, “Maybe we loved each other too much.”

  Brad crammed the paper back into the pocket with a sigh. It was the stuff of which American news was made, but since his return from Viet Nam he had little patience for it. He had come to love America with a passion that surprised him, and it didn’t help at all to watch what was happening to it.

  A moment later the big doors swung shut and were sealed, and the flight attendants launched into their “welcome - aboard - and - we’d - like - to - introduce - you - to - the-safety-features-of-this-aircraft” routine. Brad was grateful he had followed the counsel of the smiling ticket agent. The row was his unchallenged. Relieved, he reclaimed his camera bag and slid it under the seat in front of him, tightened his seat belt slightly, and leaned back, closing his eyes.

  When the flight attendant announced that the captain had turned off the “fasten seat belts” sign and they were free to move about the cabin, Brad yawned wearily and
pulled up the arm rest between the seats, suddenly anxious for sleep.

  But before a minute had passed, a deep voice at his side startled him. “Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?”

  Two

  The look on Brad’s face should have stopped anything up to and including an M-60 tank, but it went totally unnoticed by the young man who was already hoisting a small, incredibly battered case into the overhead bin. Brad stared at him, unable to believe that anyone could have misread the “No Trespassing” signs he left hanging like daggers in the air.

  The intruder was obviously an Arab. Brad had had numerous Arabic students in his classes at the University of Utah—Iranians, Saudis, Jordanians—and this young man was definitely one of them. He had dark, olivebrown skin, jet black hair with a slight wave to it, and eyes so deeply brown as to be almost black. He was short, probably two or three inches shorter than Brad, but lean and muscular, like a marathon runner. Tight Levis and a red pullover shirt emphasized his slim figure. His face was darkly handsome and was split by a broad smile and brilliant white teeth.

  Brad groaned inwardly at the sudden evaporation of his solitude. He decided it was worth one last attempt, so he gave the young man an icy look that should have frozen him rigid to the spot. It didn’t. The intruder tossed his windbreaker into the center seat, slid into the aisle seat, and stuck out his hand.

  “Hi! My name is Ali Mohammed Gamal Abdel Khalidi.” He grinned broadly. “If that seems a little heavy, just call me Ali. Not Alley, like most Americans say, but Ah-lee.” He pronounced each syllable slowly and distinctly.

  Dazed by the verbal barrage, Brad took the proferred hand and dutifully repeated, “Ah-lee.”

  If Ali noticed the lack of enthusiasm in Brad’s voice, he kept it well hidden. “Good!” he bubbled, pumping Brad’s hand vigorously. “And you’re…?”

  “Oh. Brad. Brad Kennison.”

  “Great! I’m glad to meet you, Brad.” Ali leaned back, his dark eyes suddenly sober. “I guess I shouldn’t be so sensitive.”

  Sensitive! Brad thought. Surely you jest. But he managed a polite look.

  “About my name, I mean. But I get so tired of having it mispronounced and made fun of. I’ve been called everything from Ali Babba to Alley Cat, including Alley Oop, Tin Pan Alley, and Little Nasser.”