James BeauSeigneur - In His Image James

"Well, please relay my regards back to the Ambassador. Tell him I appreciate his graciousness, especially considering the circumstances of the interview."

"Thank you, I will," she answered. "Ambassador Hansen would also like to know if you would be at all interested in discussing the possibility of accepting a position as his press secretary and chief speech writer. The position has just come open and the Ambassador feels that you would be an excellent choice to fill it."

Decker was surprised by the offer. Was this opportunity knocking? Perhaps another case of being in the right place at the right time? He was uncomfortable with what was going on at NewsWorld. If he took the job as head of the New York office, he would have to live with Asher's ire about his higher salary. But should he really turn down that much money? On the other hand, it made sense to look at another offer. Then he remembered the expression on Christopher's face when he talked about the U.N. Decker hadn't quite realized it yet, but since the deaths of Elizabeth and the girls, Christopher was quickly becoming his family.

"Sure," he said. "I'd be interested. I'd be glad to consider it."

"Good," she responded. "When could you come to New York to discuss it further?"

"I can be there tomorrow afternoon, if that's okay with Ambassador Hansen."

"That would be fine. We'll arrange for your airline ticket and I'll have someone call you back within the hour to confirm the time."

Decker hung up the phone and immediately went to work updating his resume.

In New York Jackie Hansen sat at her father's desk with the door closed. In a moment she would instruct her secretary to make the arrangements for Decker's flight. Right now she needed privacy to make another call. "This is Jackie Hansen," she said into the receiver. "I need to speak to the Director."

"Yes?" she heard after a moment.

"He said yes," Jackie Hansen said, without explanation. "He'll be here tomorrow for the interview."

"Excellent! You've done very well," Alice Bernley said, and then hung up the phone and smiled at Robert Milner. The look on her face left no doubt that the plan had been successful.

"I guess we can tell Bragford to call off the people at NewsWorld" Milner said. "I think this is a better arrangement anyway. We'll be in a much better position to direct the boy's future with Mr. Hawthorne working for Ambassador Hansen than if he had accepted the job at the magazine."

"Assuming that Jackie is able to ensure that her father offers him the job," Bernley said, "how can we be sure Mr. Hawthorne will accept the offer?"

"When NewsWorld abruptly withdraws its offer of a promotion and a raise, Hawthorne will have to consider it a professional insult. He'll be looking for some way to preserve his honor. Ambassador Hansen's offer will provide him that opportunity," Milner answered.

Dark Awakening

Three weeks later – Tel Aviv

A small electric space heater blew a warm breeze across Tom Donafin's face as sounds began to fill his ears with the reality that surrounded him. Still more asleep than awake, his mind wandered aimlessly between dream and consciousness. Finally he committed himself to wakefulness and opened his eyes, but was suddenly struck with intense pain as tiny bits of glass scraped across the inside of his eyelids. Instantly his eyes closed again as he winced and moaned and rolled in pain.

Tom lay still, trying to relax his eyes as he sorted through his memories. The last thing he recalled was the missile that killed Nigel and destroyed the car. He did not recall being knocked unconscious, nor did he have any idea where he was now. He listened for voices or some distinguishable sound but heard none.

"Hello," he said finally to anyone who might be nearby.

No one answered.

"Hello," he called out louder.

"So, you're awake," a man's voice answered in a not altogether friendly tone.

"Where am I?" Tom asked.

"You're in the apartment of Dr. Rhoda Felsberg on Ramat Aviz in occupied Tel Aviv." The man spoke quickly and his voice gave the clear impression that Tom was an unwelcome guest.

"How did I get here?"

"You were brought here nearly a month ago by my sister's rabbi who found you on the street."

"A month ago?! Have I been unconscious the whole time?"

"Pretty much."

"What do you mean, 'occupied Tel Aviv?"

"Just that," the man responded, not offering any more information.

"Occupied by whom?" Tom probed, becoming a little exasperated at the man's apparent unwillingness to provide substantive answers.

"The Russians," the man answered.

Tom didn't know whether to take the man seriously. He began to wonder if he had awakened in a psychiatric ward and the man he was talking to was a patient.

"You said I was brought here by your sister's rabbi. Is your sister the Dr. Felsberg you mentioned?"

"You got it," he answered.

"And she has been taking care of me?"

"Yep."

Tom desperately wanted to know what was going on and what had happened to him but he wanted to talk to someone who would give him reliable, complete answers. "Well, can I talk to her?" he urged.

For a moment there was silence. "Yeah, I guess so."

Tom heard the man dial the telephone.

"Hey, Rhoda," the man said. "He's awake and he wants to talk to you."

"I'll be right there!" Tom heard the woman answer.

A moment later Dr. Rhoda Felsberg arrived and went directly to Tom's side and began to check his vital signs. "Is he cognizant?" she asked, a little out of breath from running up the three flights of stairs from her office on the first floor. Like her brother, she had a New Jersey accent.

"Hi, there," Tom said, with a half grin in answer to her question.

"Oh," she said, a little surprised. "How do you feel?"

"Well, I have a terrible headache and when I opened my eyes it felt like somebody was dragging razor blades over them."

"I thought I got all the glass out," Rhoda Felsberg said, followed by an indiscriminate sound that Tom interpreted as a negative assessment of his condition. "When you opened your eyes, did you see anything?"

The full meaning of her question was apparent at once. "I don't think so," he said haltingly. "Am I… blind?"

"We can't say yet," she answered. Her voice had no emotion but seemed somehow reassuring. "I need you to open them again slowly and let me look inside. Then we'll go from there."

Tom felt her sit down on the bed beside him. Wincing, he opened his eyes, hoping desperately to see something. He didn't. He felt Dr. Felsberg's hands on his face as she examined him. They were strong but soft and, despite all else that was going on, he noticed the faint sweet fragrance of her perfume as she leaned down close to him and peered into his eyes with her ophthalmoscope.

"Can you see the light in my hand?"

"I can see a light spot."

"Good, at least that's a start," she said. "Your pupils both seem to be working properly. But I'm afraid there must still be a few tiny particles of glass." Tom felt her put some eye drops in his eyes, which brought quick relief from the pain. "I'm going to bandage your eyes to keep them closed until we can get you to an ophthalmologist."

"Will I be able to see again?"

"It's too soon to say for sure," she answered, as she helped him to a sitting position and began to bandage his eyes. "You should be glad just to be alive. I removed several pieces of glass from each eye when you were first brought here. You're actually very fortunate. If the glass had gone much deeper into your eyes, the vitreous fluid would have escaped and your eyeballs would have simply collapsed."

Tom had no idea what vitreous fluids were, but the thought of his eyeballs collapsing was quite alarming, and at least in this regard he did, indeed, consider himself fortunate.