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  “Oh no, I couldn’t stay with your family.” The words came out more forcefully than Brad had intended. “Thank you,” he amended, more softly. “That’s very kind, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  Ali studied him for a moment, his dark eyes probing Brad’s. Finally he smiled and said, “The Arab in me says that ‘no’ is an unacceptable answer. Hospitality is a very sacred obligation in our land, you know. But the American in me says, ‘Sometimes it’s easier to work certain things out when you’re alone.’ But a dinner at the Khalidis’ every now and then. That’s a nonnegotiable item. Is that a deal?”

  “Deal,” Brad agreed, grateful for Ali’s understanding.

  “Tell you what,” the young Arab said, snapping his fingers. “I know a small hotel near the Jaffa Gate. It’s in a great location near the western entrance to the Old City. It would even be within walking distance of the university, no more than a couple of miles. It’s clean, has excellent food, and is very reasonable. We supply the little tourist shop in the lobby. If I take you there, I think they’ll give you a special rate. Our family has done the owner a few favors.”

  “That sounds great,” Brad said. He had worried somewhat about finding a suitable place, and this was an unexpected solution. He sipped his Seven-Up, his face sobering again.

  Ali Khalidi studied his seatmate closely. The gray eyes were tired and the otherwise pleasant face was lined with fatigue, but it was hard to tell how much was just traveler’s fatigue and how much had been there before the trip had begun. Ali had sensed the quick resentment when he had moved to take this seat, but now he was glad he had. The coolness had thawed quickly, and he felt a genuine warmth and openness beneath Brad’s reserve. And there was a quiet strength in this young American that he liked. He nodded to himself and decided to trust his instincts by moving one step further.

  “You said you were going to Israel to find some answers. What is it exactly that you’re looking for?” It was asked cautiously, as if to say, if you don’t want to answer that, it’s okay with me.

  A look that lay somewhere between frustration and self-anger shadowed Brad’s face. “If I even knew that much, I would at least know what direction to start looking. My folks kept asking me the same question. ‘What’s the matter, son? What is it you want? Why aren’t you happy?’ And then the girl everybody hopes you’ll get serious with starts in. ‘Brad,’ “ he mimicked, “ ‘what’s wrong? You’re just not the same anymore.’ ”

  “Is she pretty?” Ali asked gently.

  Brad reached for his wallet, turned past the picture of his parents and brothers and sisters to the snapshot of Karen, and passed it to Ali.

  Ali’s eyebrows lifted in surprise as he gave a low whistle. “Wow! She isn’t pretty. She’s beautiful!”

  “And rich too,” Brad added glumly. “Her father’s a big executive with Univac Corporation.” Suddenly he felt guilty for giving Ali the wrong impression. “Karen wasn’t the problem. She is really a super person and not pushy at all. We weren’t engaged or anything, and we both know things aren’t going to work out for us. I’m the problem. Suddenly I felt as though I was smothering.”

  “What a way to go!” Ali said fervently as he handed back the wallet. He touched his forehead with his finger. “You’re crazy, boy! We could get ten camels and a Land Rover for that woman at the marketplace. You’d be rich! I’d be rich!”

  Brad started to laugh in spite of himself. “Ain’t it the truth?” he drawled.

  Gradually their laughter subsided to quiet chuckles and finally to sober silence. After a long moment Ali spoke in a low voice. “In all seriousness, I do know a way you can find the answers to what you are seeking.”

  “Really?” Brad asked skeptically. “What?”

  “Does the word ‘Mormon’ mean anything to you?”

  Brad stared at his new companion, completely dumbfounded. He couldn’t have been more stunned if Ali had revealed himself as one of the Three Nephites. “What?” he nearly shouted at him.

  Brad’s reaction startled Ali, and for the first time he seemed thrown off balance. “Do you know anything about the Mormon church?” Ali asked hesitantly, his face serious.

  Brad tried to play it straight, but it was more than he could contain. Through a grin that was rapidly threatening to degenerate into outright gales of laughter, he said, “I know enough to know what the next question is. ‘Would I like to know more?’ Right?”

  Ali was perplexed. He hadn’t done this very often, but he’d never had a reaction quite like this. And then the light came on. “Are you a Mormon?”

  The look on Ali’s face didn’t help Brad’s self-control in the least, and his hoot of laughter brought another devastating look from the lady in front of them. “You got it!” Brad finally managed with a nod.

  “You’re kidding!” Ali said, disbelief still plainly written all over his face.

  “Nope. Elder Brad Kennison, Salt Lake City, Utah. Member in good standing for twenty-four years.”

  His face was a perfect study of bewilderment. “But you said you were from California.”

  “No, I said I lived in California. I was there for two years.”

  “You were there on a mission?”

  “Right!”

  “Can you believe that?” Ali asked of no one in particular, still obviously struggling to believe it himself. “I joined the Church in April, just four months ago. I hope to go on a mission too, but my bishop in Westwood said I could do a great work among my own people in the meantime. So I hurried and finished my degree and here I am on my way home.” Then suddenly Ali’s impish grin came stealing back. “I have a confession to make.”

  “Oh?”

  “Before I got on the plane, I decided I would pick out the person I thought would make the best Mormon and sit by him so I could eventually talk about the Church. I saw you getting on and decided you were the one. Not bad, huh?”

  “Well,” Brad said sheepishly, “I also have a confession to make. I wanted to be alone, so I put my camera bag in your seat. I had just barely moved it when you came and sat down. Some Mormon, huh?”

  “I know,” Ali smiled. “I watched you. At first I thought you might be saving it for someone. Then I saw you glaring at anyone who came close. You about scared me off then. But I finally decided that underneath all of that, there probably lived a very pleasant person. So I took my chances.”

  “So you set up a typical Mormon ambush?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Well, I must admit I’m glad you did.” Brad really meant it. This had turned out delightfully well.

  Suddenly Ali’s face lit up. “I just had a brilliant idea. Is anyone meeting you when the plane gets to Tel Aviv?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. I plan to surprise my family. We could take a cheroot—a taxi—to Jerusalem together. What do you think?”

  Brad looked into the shining eyes of his new friend for a long moment. “I think I am very glad that you thought I would make a good Mormon, Ali.”

  “Me too!” Ali said. “Now, I’ll shut up and let us both get some sleep. You look beat, and I am too.” With that, he reached up, grabbed pillows for both of them, and promptly closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  Three

  The Mercedes lurched to a halt, jerking Brad’s head up in startled surprise. He looked around wildly, trying to make his mind process the data his eyes were feeding it. Only when they focused on Ali, who had leaned forward and was speaking rapidly in Arabic to the driver, did he remember. He shook his head vigorously, then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. It felt as though the inside of his eyelids had been lined with number two sandpaper, but at least when he finished they stayed open. He peered at his watch in the dark. It was a little after ten-thirty. Ali was out of the taxi and headed for the doors before Brad could respond to his quick “Hold on and I’ll check things out.”

  Stifling a yawn, Brad watched Ali push through the glass doors and enter the brightly l
it lobby, then leaned over and rolled down the window. The night air was cooler than he expected, and filled with a hundred odors blended into one mixture that somehow smelled exactly as Brad thought Jerusalem should smell. He breathed deeply, reminding himself that this was Holy Land air, the air that Jesus had breathed, and Abraham and David and Peter. He felt a sudden stirring of excitement in spite of his weariness.

  His eyes were curious as he studied the building Ali had entered. Large, bright red letters of translucent plastic announced in Hebrew and English that this was the Jaffa Hotel. It was a small building, only three stories high, made of square blocks of a white-beige stone. Brad quickly counted the windows and estimated that there couldn’t be more than thirty-five or forty rooms. Good. He wasn’t after flocks of company.

  Through the lobby doors he could see Ali talking to a dark-haired girl behind the main desk. His new friend pointed in Brad’s direction, and the girl leaned over the counter and peered out at him. It was tempting to give a little wave, but he resisted and pulled back from the window. The girl shook her head sharply as she turned back to Ali, and kept shaking her head as he spoke. Ali became visibly more agitated, punctuating his sentences with articulate and eloquent gestures, his hands in near constant motion.

  Suddenly the girl slammed her hand angrily against the counter and nodded. Ali was instantly all smiles. He turned quickly and came out of the hotel.

  “Okay,” he said as he opened Brad’s door. “It’s all set.”

  Brad made no effort to hide his dubious look. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure,” Ali beamed. He spoke briefly in Arabic to the driver, who climbed out, moved to the back of the Mercedes, and opened the trunk.

  Brad got out of the taxi stiffly and joined them. Ali studiously avoided Brad’s questioning gaze as the driver swung his suitcase out and onto the ground.

  “Ali!” Brad finally exclaimed.

  The Arab’s face was full of innocence. “What?”

  “That hotel clerk didn’t seem overjoyed with the negotiations.”

  “Who, Miri?”

  “You know who I mean. Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Ali said in amazement, as though he’d just heard the word for the first time. “It’s no trouble. Miri is the daughter of the owner of the hotel. He’s not there right now. I’ll speak to him tomorrow afternoon. We’ll settle on the rate then.”

  “You mean—” Brad started. Suddenly he didn’t like this situation at all. “If she doesn’t feel good about this, then I’ll pay the full rate, or if that’s too much, I can find somewhere else to stay.”

  “Whoa!” Ali soothed. “As I told you, the owner is an old friend of my family. We have done him many favors. He has done us many in return. He has told me many times, ‘Ali, if you ever need a place for your friends or relatives to stay, you bring them to the Jaffa Hotel and I’ll make them a special deal.’ ”

  “Has he told his daughter that?” Brad asked, still unconvinced.

  “Miri?” Ali shrugged. “Miri is what we in America used to call a spitfire. She’s angry because—” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Ah! Who knows what makes a woman angry? Pay her no mind.”

  Brad’s protest was becoming noticeably weaker. He was too exhausted to pursue the objection further, and the thoughts of having to find another hotel at this hour were utterly depressing. “She’s not going to kick someone out of his room, is she?”

  That irrepressible grin flicked momentarily across Ali’s face and then was gone. “Just a recently widowed lady with nine children who’s pregnant with twins and due to deliver any moment. But in the Middle East you learn to be firm. It’s part of the inscrutable Arab image.”

  “All right, all right,” Brad laughed. “I give up.”

  “Good. Mr. Shadmi will meet us at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Everything will be fine.” Ali absolutely oozed self-confidence. He pointed up the street. “The Jaffa gate is just around that first corner. Five minutes and you can be in the heart of the Old City. I wish I could be with you tomorrow and show you my homeland.” He smiled and shrugged. “But my family—we will be celebrating my return all night and most of tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Brad replied. “I really appreciate all you’ve done.”

  “Including the ambush on the plane?”

  “Especially that.” Brad shook Ali’s hand warmly, then had a sudden thought. “How much is the taxi fare?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll—” Brad’s look stopped him short. “Okay, okay. Sorry for even suggesting it.” Ali spoke to the driver, who answered without hesitation. Ali turned back to Brad. “It’s thirty-five Israeli pounds or about nine dollars. Your share would be four-fifty.”

  Brad pulled out his wallet and counted out the amount plus a generous tip from the money he had exchanged at the airport. Brad ignored Ali’s strenuous protests and handed the money to the beaming driver.

  “Shukran, shukran,” the driver said, nodding again and again in a little bow.

  “That means thank you,” Ali explained.

  “How do I say ‘you’re welcome’?”

  “Ahlan wa salan.”

  “Ahlan wa salan,” Brad repeated. His pronunciation was atrocious, but it pleased the driver immensely.

  “Shukran,” he said again, showing his discolored teeth happily. “Wel-come. Wel-come.”

  Ali reached out and took Brad’s hand and shook it again. “Okay, my friend. We’ll see you at three o’clock tomorrow.”

  Brad gripped his hand firmly. “Thanks. For everything. I really mean that.”

  “You’re wel-come,” Ali said with a grin, pronouncing welcome in a perfect imitation of the driver. “See you tomorrow.”

  Brad gave a final wave as the taxi disappeared around the corner, then picked up his luggage and shouldered through the door and into the lobby. He walked to the counter, but no one was in sight. The hotel was small, neat, and quite modern. The walls were of a beautifully grained white marble; the floors gleamed like a mirror. One wall area had been made into a lounge with deep maroon carpeting. Chairs and couches in tastefully selected accent colors were scattered around three coffee tables, also made of marble. A huge panoramic black and white photograph of Jerusalem’s Old City filled the entire wall above the lounge. Brad recognized the Dome of the Rock, which dominated the picture.

  Behind him a small shop occupied one corner of the lobby. Its windows were filled with olivewood statuary, brass vases, and assorted Arabic-looking dresses. That must be the shop Ali’s family supplies, he thought. He turned back to the counter but was still alone. A light was on in the small office behind the desk area, but it also was empty. Here again the feeling of neatness and order prevailed. The keys were placed in their pigeonholes in precisely the same place in each case. A sign stuck to the window of the office announced in neat hand-lettered English:

  Holy Land Guide Service

  Individuals or Groups

  Reasonable Rates—Excellent Service

  Licensed Guides

  Inquire at Desk

  Growing a bit impatient, Brad picked up his suitcase and set it down again firmly, making a sharp click against the tile floor. A moment later the girl appeared from around the corner of the lobby and walked toward him.

  Brad looked at her in surprise. He hadn’t been able to see her very clearly from the taxi through the reflections of the glass, but his impression had been that of—what? Now that he thought about it, it was clear that he had formed his impressions on the basis of her angry reaction to Ali, and not on any clear visual image. She had been behind the counter, and he had seen her only in profile. But he had not expected this.

  She was not a classic beauty in the same sense as Karen, but here was a woman who would turn men’s heads wherever she passed. A white blouse of a soft silky material and a tailored navy blue skirt revealed the lithe, supple figure of a dancer, slim-waisted but full-figured, with long, perfectly sculpted legs.
Her skin, a glowing golden tan, was clear and flawless. She wore her jet-black hair cut short around her neck, but left it full and fluffed slightly around her face. The effect was to soften her features, which otherwise could have been a bit too angular. Her eyes were large and round and as dark as Ali’s, her nose straight and narrow. Brad guessed that her lips would normally be full and generous, though now they were compressed into a tight line. A delicate gold chain with a tiny diamond pendant hung at her throat.

  “You’re the American,” she said bluntly. There was not the slightest hint of cordiality in the luminous brown eyes.

  “Yes.” He rejected his initial impulse to try something light and charming. The climate behind the counter was certainly not conducive to witty chitchat.

  She pushed a card and pen at him. “Fill this out, please.” The last word seemed distasteful to her, as though she had bitten into a worm while eating an apple.

  He filled out the card in quick, bold strokes, pausing only to check his passport number. He pushed it back and felt a little satisfaction as he stared back at her, causing her to blush slightly. The tangle of thick black lashes masked what lay in her brown eyes as she lowered her gaze to study the card.

  “How long do you plan to stay, Mr. Kennison?” She spoke excellent English, her voice husky and rich, even in its coolness.

  “I’m not sure.” He decided to try a smile. “Until my money runs out. A couple of months at least.”

  She intercepted the smile before it cleared the counter and shattered it in midair. “We’ll do our best to take as little of your money as possible,” she snapped.

  Brad bit back an angry retort. “Look,” he said sharply, “I wasn’t aware that Ali—Mr. Khalidi was going to bargain in my behalf. I don’t want to create any problems.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem,” she said bitterly. “My father is always giving someone a handout.” She gave the stubbled face, the disheveled hair, and his rumpled clothes a slow once-over, obvious distaste in her eyes.

  “Now wait,” Brad said, really angry now. “I don’t—”

  But she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t fair. It isn’t your fault that my father is more concerned with other things than making this hotel a profitable business.”