Wings of Refuge Read Online Free PDF Page A

about the many forms of torture used throughout history—from the infamous racks of the Spanish Inquisition to Chinese water torture—but slow suffocation by foul Middle Eastern cigarettes was a new one. If she didn’t get out of this tiny room soon, she might confess to anything just for a breath of fresh air.
    The Israeli agent was fumbling for his lighter when there was a knock on the door. The younger agent opened it, and a tall bearded man stepped into the blue haze.
    “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m Dr. Aaron Bazak from the Archaeological Institute. I’ve come for Mrs. MacLeod.” He looked like a dictionary illustration for “archaeologist” with his rumpled khaki shirt and shorts, dusty, flat-soled work boots, and deeply bronzed skin. He extended his hand to Shur, but the agent ignored it. The two men began to argue in rapid-fire Hebrew.
    Abby had felt intimidated by Agent Shur’s government badge and aura of officialdom, but the archaeologist never flinched. Maybe it helped that he stood well over six feet tall, topping Shur by at least five inches. And that he looked like a gracefully aging Olympic athlete compared to the paunchy, round-shouldered agent. Abby shrank into her chair, exhausted.
    Gradually, the argument resolved into the normal volume of speech. She didn’t realize that the archaeologist was addressing her in English until he touched her shoulder.
    “Mrs. MacLeod?”
    She nearly leaped from her seat.
    “Forgive me for startling you,” he said. “We may leave now.”
    “Really?” It seemed too good to be true. She stood and the room whirled. He gripped her around the waist to prevent her from toppling over. She felt very small beside him as he helped her through the door. The two agents followed them.
    “You will make certain that Mrs. MacLeod is available to us for further questioning, if necessary,” Shur said. It wasn’t a question but a command.
    The man from the Institute nodded. “Do you have any luggage?” he asked Abby.
    “Yes, I mean, no . . . I mean, they lost it. But I had a carry-on bag.” One of the policemen retrieved it, and the archaeologist slung it over his shoulder. Abby walked out of the terminal at last, a free woman.

CHAPTER 2
    TEL AVIV, ISRAEL—1999
    A bby stepped outside into the sunshine. The ordeal was over. She would go to her hotel, get a good night’s sleep, and start fresh in the morning. Hopefully she would stop trembling soon and be able to enjoy the rest of her trip. Israel! She was in Israel, about to participate in an archaeological dig! It was a dream come true.
    With the man from the Institute still supporting her, Abby stumbled across the parking lot and climbed into the passenger seat of his battered compact car. She had been warm in the tiny interrogation room, but the inside of his car was like a sauna, the seat like a bed of hot coals beneath her. The archaeologist started the car engine, adjusted the impotent air-conditioner, and they were soon hurtling through the traffic-packed streets of Tel Aviv.
    “Mrs. MacLeod, I am very sorry that you had such an . . . eh . . . how should I say . . . unfortunate introduction to our country.” The archaeologist had a deep, resonant voice and spoke with a thick accent—slightly nasal, with British vowels. “I promise we will do our best to make it up to you in the weeks ahead.”
    “Thank you. And please call me Abby.”
    “Of course. I hope we shall become friends . . . Abby.” He pronounced it Ah-bee .
    She took a good look at him for the first time and saw that he was in his midforties and distinguished-looking, with a dark brown beard and mustache and thick, graying brown hair that fell in curly disarray across his forehead. His eyes, under straight dark brows, were the color of Hershey bars. The muscles in his arms flexed as he wrestled the stick shift into gear, and she could easily imagine him tossing rocks and shifting crumbled pillars to uncover exotic ruins.
    “Could you please