Faye Kellerman - Sanctuary

Rina turned on the radio, tuning in to Hebrew chatter. A talk show-just as stupid here as it was in the States. She switched to one of the many Arabic stations, hearing the modal octaves of native music. Traditional Arabic songs were a form of storytelling: They could go on for hours. About two minutes was enough for her. She changed the dial. This time she found contemporary rock music. Pearl Jam had made it to Jordan.

After riding for twenty minutes through long stretches of cultivated fields, the mountains hovering in the distance, Rina felt a cooler nip in the air. Ten minutes later, the hills began to close in, the roadway becoming a narrow strand cut through stone. Oncoming traffic was obscured by the numerous bends in the ascending roadway. But that didn’t stop the Israelis from leaning on the horn, freely passing vehicles going too slowly for their liking. What’s a head-on between friends?

The Israeli drivers were frustrating Rina. One minute she would have the Volvo in plain view; the next moment some obnoxious would-be racer would honk, then pass her at record speed. Fortunately, Milligan didn’t appear to be in a hurry.

As the road climbed higher, the mountainside became thick with green and the smell of pine. The last curves upward finally brought a bright wall of golden stone into view. Rocks arranged in Hebrew letters placed in the mountainside. B’ruchim Habayim leYerushalim-Welcome to Jerusalem!

Rina felt her heart race, her body tingle, imbued with spirituality. And as magically as the aura enveloped her every time she entered the holy city-her own personal aliya-so did it drain whenever she left-her personal yerida.

Yerida-going down. Israelis who emigrated from the Holy Land were called Yordim, because they had declined a level spiritually.

At this moment, Rina couldn’t fathom ever leaving. With the shining sun, rays gilding the city, she felt giddy. Everywhere her eye fell on native Jerusalem bedrock. Everything had been fashioned from the amber and rose limestone-the buildings, the sidewalks, even some of the streets. Dispersed among the palette of bronzes, pinks, and reds were the parks, allowing a tinge of greenery to seep through. Beautiful to Rina’s eye, even though she knew that she had entered the city through the older, industrial area. So caught up in being there, Rina had forgotten why she had come. When she brought herself back to earth, the Volvo had disappeared.

Angrily, Rina checked around for the 740. Milligan must have moved quickly even though Weizmann Boulevard was heavily congested. Rina tried to speed up but the artery was just too clogged. Attempting to pass a bus to gain a little visibility, she jerked her head over her shoulder to check for lane clearance. She suddenly spotted the Volvo. It had fallen behind her.

She slowed, ignoring the blares of the horns, allowing the 740 to chug ahead. Rina allowed herself a moment to stare at the panoply of people on the sidewalks. Lots and lots of Black Hats. The city kept getting more and more religious because the Religious were the ones reproducing at record-breaking rates. The men in their long, black coats, the women in long skirts and shaytels piloting their broods down the walkway. There were modern Israelis in tight jeans and denim jackets, Arabs in kafias and chadors, Coptic priests in flowing gowns and pointed hats, nuns in full habit. The pushcarts, the open-air stands flanking an ultra-modern high-rise kanyoneet-the mall.

Rina returned her eyes to the Volvo and not a moment too soon. The 740 hooked a right down HaNasi Ben Zvi-a multilaned boulevard that provided a good view of the Knesset. As the seat of the Israeli government, the Knesset was architecturally modeled after the Acropolis, the ancient seat of Greek government. Why Jews would deliberately copy Greek architecture was beyond Rina’s comprehension. For the past eighteen hundred years, the religion had assiduously celebrated Channukah-a festival commemorating the Jewish overthrow of enforced Hellenic rule.

HaNasi Ben Zvi was a psychological dividing line. East of the boulevard was the heavily populated area of Jerusalem-a nest of apartment buildings and businesses. West of the highway evoked memories of a different time, a quieter time-a few major government structures bleeding into broad stretches of rolling hillsides.

Rina felt her thoughts elsewhere when, abruptly, Milligan turned right onto a side street. The maneuver had been so fast and sharp that Rina missed the turnoff. Retracing her steps, Rina took the car onto a dirt lane. Up ahead, she spied the Volvo bouncing precariously along the road. The potholes were much harder on the 740 than on the Subaru.

The Volvo slowed, pulled over, and parked.

Rina braked and made a U-turn in the middle of the lane, not wanting to pass the Volvo. She took her rental off the road, away from Milligan’s line of vision. The Subaru handled remarkably well on the grass. She parked next to a tree, straining to keep an eye on the Volvo from her distant vantage point.

The Volvo sat. Rina sat.

Twenty minutes passed before an old blue Fiat subcompact came by, crawling along the pitted lane until it came to the Volvo. Then it pulled over and parked.

Two men got out-thin young men with lots of curly dark hair. One had a mustache. He knocked on the driver’s window of the Volvo and the door opened. Milligan got out of the car, a Chanel purse slung over her shoulder.

The men started talking to her. She appeared uninterested, but she did give a perfunctory nod as she rummaged through her purse. She took out a tube of lipstick, applying a sultry red heavily to thick, cupid-shaped lips.

The men spoke with a great deal of animation. Rina wanted to know what they were talking about. As if it had a life of its own, Rina’s hand slowly reached for the car door handle. Next thing she knew, she was outside, creeping and sneaking her way into a private conversation.

Heart racing in her chest, grateful for her flat shoes, she tiptoed from tree to tree until she nested behind a thick tree trunk within hearing distance. Milligan had finished with her lipstick. She dropped it into her purse, zipped the handbag shut, and curtailed Mr. Mustache’s speech.

“Ibri, I don’t care about your problems. I care about my investment. If your idea of heroism is gunning down a bus full of schoolchildren, you’re with the wrong people. Either you’re working for me or you’re not. Which is it?”

Ibri, Rina heard. The men were Arabs, ergo, natives, and that made her nervous. It ruined her advantage over Milligan.

Ibri folded his arms across his chest and took up a defensive posture. “I work for Mr. Donald.”

“Well, Mr. Donald works for me,” Milligan snapped back. “He is my underling, do you understand that?”

Ibri rocked on his feet and said nothing. The other thin man piped in. “We take you to Mr. Donald. He tell you problems.”

Milligan took a peek at her Movado. “I have a very important business meeting at the American Colonial Inn in Jerusalem. Can you get me to Donald and back in an hour?”

Ibri said, “I take you to Donald.”

“Yes, I understand, Ibri,” Milligan said through clenched teeth. “But you must get me back to Jerusalem in an hour.”

“No problem,” Ibri said. “We take my car. Gamal take the Volvo. We go now.”

Milligan turned her back to the men and went over to the blue Fiat. Ibri opened the passenger door for her, then went around to the driver’s seat. Gamal slipped inside the Volvo.

First the Volvo took off, followed by the Fiat, passing Rina’s Subaru hidden behind the tree. Rina sprinted to her car and gunned the motor. She caught a glimpse of the distant Fiat, turning onto Keren Kayemet. Rina hit the accelerator, catching up with the Fiat as it merged onto Melech George.