Fare Forward (32 page)

They reach for him and unbuckle the seatbelt, moving quickly, not giving him time to react. I force myself to process the surreal nature of what is happening. We had just been flying thirty thousand feet over this country talking about the future and fate and—

"STOP!" I yell. I grab onto his arm in a tug of war over my grandfather's delicate frame.

He turns to the men in dark glasses and finally speaks. "What about my granddaughter? We are traveling together."

"She will continue with the other passengers. We have made arrangements for her. She will be escorted to a safe location," one of the men responds as he eyes me cautiously, as if he is identifying me from a photograph, confirming. The men speak rapidly into their cell phones.

"She is the most important thing in the world to me," he looks at me as he says the words slowly.

"No, Papa—please." I try to get a grip on my emotions, calm down, believe what they are telling me, put his needs first. "Don't worry about me. Please."

His
safety is the only thing that matters at this moment.

"I don't want to leave you," he says.

It is clear that there is no choice, the situation is bigger and more dangerous than either one of us can imagine.

"I will see you in Israel, just like they said." I try to convince myself.

Reluctantly he accepts my answer.

"Dr. Vogel, come with us. Now. Please hurry. There is no time to delay."

He turns and walks toward the open door of the plane, assisted by an agent on either side of him. I am in shock, I cannot believe what has just occurred. I am unable to gather my thoughts, process what all of it means. And then, I hear his voice once again. "Wait, please. I have to tell her something."

I stand up in the aisle of the plane as he returns to me. He takes my face in his hands and holds it firmly, pressing my cheeks as he looks deeply into my eyes. And when he is sure he has my attention, he says the words he had said the day I stood in his library at the beach. The day before school started when he gave me the amulet.

"Remember this, you're never alone. We'll be with you. Always."

I watch as he is led away and know how right he is.

F
OR THIS LANDING, the view out of the window is very different.

The unplanned detour to Istanbul has delayed our arrival into Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion International Airport by several hours. Given everything that has happened, I am relieved to see the coastline of Israel appear as the easternmost edge of the Mediterranean meets its shores. It is sunset, and I see the miraculous view, a golden glow cast over the land. The sense of homecoming and the magical sight has calmed me somewhat. But all I want to do is get off the plane and try to figure out what to do next. The vacant seat next to me has been filled by a stone-faced security agent. He stares straight ahead at the wall either too bored to or under orders not to converse with me.

"Excuse me." I try to get his attention. "Tell me what's going to happen when we land?"

"You find out shortly," he answers without even turning his head to look at me.

"Where are you taking me?"

No response.

I steel myself for whatever is ahead as I try to quiet the range of thoughts in my mind. I lean against the window and feel my forehead on the cool plexiglass. The skyline of Tel Aviv comes into view, a city whose amazing growth has been fueled by the brain power of so many who reside in this small country. We fly over white beaches and houses and roads as the jet banks for its final approach.

I feel the buzz of his cell phone as it vibrates on the arm rest between us. He picks it up and listens, nods, and answers a few questions in Hebrew. Then he looks over at me and exhales. "You are architecture student, yes?" He seems annoyed, as if he was told to engage me in conversation.

"Pardon?" He's talking to me now?

"You study architecture, in New York. Our new airport is very beautiful." He is clearly uncomfortable with small talk.

I blink at him in disbelief. "Where is my grandfather,
why
is this happening?"

He turns away as if he has not heard my question. Clearly, he is going to be of no help at all. "When we land, turn on cell phone. You will have message."

With a sudden jolt and screech of wheels, the plane hits the ground, and I hear the familiar cheering from passengers, applauding our arrival. I hold my phone in my palm and wait for the moment when I can turn the power on. Immediately after I do, the phone starts to vibrate.

I have several messages waiting.

The first is from Maggie, the second from Emily, and the third one from my grandfather. He has left a phone number for me to call upon landing and my fingers cannot dial fast enough. I need to hear his voice on the other end. Finally, I get my wish.

"Gabriella." He tries to greet me calmly as if we have not just experienced the most frightening of circumstances together.

"Where
are
you, are you okay?" I try to keep my voice low although every instinct in me wants to scream out with frustration and fear.

"Yes, fine. I promise you. I am completely fine." His voice shakes slightly. "Quite grateful actually to the international intelligence community. I cannot tell you where I am right now, but please know that we will be together soon. I am comfortable and—safe."

I can tell that he is frightened; I can hear it in his voice.

"I've been so worried about you. Papa, I haven't spoken to you about this but I've had the sense for a while now that something might happen. I should never have allowed you to—"

"Rubbish, sweetheart, nothing will happen. You need to take care of yourself now, and I will see you very soon. Everything is fine."

I don't believe him. "What about the conference? Will you be able to present your paper?"

"Gabriella, I have been told not to speak specifically over the phone even though this is a secure line."

"But—"

"Please, you must not worry about anything, remember what I promised you."

I have a thousand questions that need answers but I realize he is no longer on the phone. The next voice I hear belongs to someone else. "Ms. Vogel." It's English but covered with a heavy Israeli accent. "I want to apologize to you for this change in plans."

"Who are you, why—" I stop mid sentence as I realize that I am being handed a small device, similar to a cell phone, by the grim-faced passenger who has sat next to me for the last two hours. I am stunned.

"You can be in secure contact with your grandfather with this device," the man on the phone says, as if he knows the exact timing of what has just been placed in my hand. "Please play the message that has been left for you."

For the first time, my eyes meet those of the man to my right, and he points to a small green button on the phone. "Here, press and put on."

I take the headphones he hands me and place them in my ears. The message begins. My grandfather's face appears on the screen. I realize that the recording must have been made moments before the phone call and sent electronically to the device I hold. I look carefully at his face and scan it for any signs of distress. There are none. He seems calm—almost peaceful—as if he was sitting with me in his library at the beach.

"Gabriella, I want you to know that I am completely fine. I am very sorry to have put you through this ordeal. I was advised not to travel by commercial airliner several weeks ago, but I thought if I changed our itinerary you might become alarmed. Clearly, I underestimated the situation and apologize to you for this unexpected event. But all is well. As a precautionary measure, you will be taken to a secure house in Jerusalem where you will be well taken care of. Some new information has been revealed, and it has caused me to—
reconsider
—certain basic assumptions. About my work."

It was a scripted act, and I could see right through it.

I knew he was upset. The screen goes dark and the device shuts itself off. I am left staring at a black screen, stunned by what he has said about his work. I had been so completely focused on the message from him that I didn't notice that everyone has disembarked from the plane, and I am sitting quite alone with my personal security detail to my right, watching and waiting for me.

"Are you ready, Ms. Vogel?" He looks out the window, satisfied that what he seeks is there. "I take you to Jerusalem, as you were told in message."

"Yes." I am too exhausted to protest or question anything further. I get up and walk to the door of the plane with him and down the stairs, into the private car that waits on the runway, my grandfather's ominous words swirling in my head.

W
E ARE SPEEDING, flying through the Judean Hills on our ascent up to Jerusalem. The familiar road switches back and forth, and I know we are not very far away. I feel completely exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I try to sleep during the forty-five-minute drive from the airport. My watch says that it's nine o'clock, and I know it's been more than twenty-four hours since we left New York City. There are very few cars on the road, and I am too tired to even worry about where I'm being taken. My only concern at this point seems to be getting some sleep to gather my strength. I know I will need it to deal with everything that waits and that there is no choice other than to trust what my grandfather has told me. That all is well and that I will see him soon.

But I don't believe him.

I am half asleep as the car arrives at a large private home on a hill overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem. When I emerge, I am struck by the feeling I recognize very well, the familiarity of this place. I have seen it before. The wind greets me as I step shakily out of the car and onto the ground. It feels crazy but I
recognize
where I am—everything about it. The limestone walls, the flat roof, and the beautiful black iron gates that I'm sure, lead to a garden of olive trees and roses.

I feel two warm arms around my shoulders as a heavy-set woman silently escorts me up the steps and into the house. She leads me into a large bedroom where she respectfully helps me undress and get ready for sleep.

I lie down in the bed and inhale the delicious lavender scent of the soft white sheets. They feel so cool and refreshing against my weary body. I can't think or question anything anymore. All I want is to move into the world of stillness, cradled by the heavenly down comforter that seems to float all around me.

When I open my eyes, I'm not sure where I am.

Slowly, the memory of the last two days comes back to me. All of it. The state of my grandfather's library in Gloucester, the flight, and the unexpected landing in Turkey. Especially everything my grandfather had said to me—about the possibility of not coming back.

I sit up in the bed and look around the room for the first time. Sweeping views of the Old City of Jerusalem fill the glass wall across from the bed. The power of the sunlight on the golden city is stunning, and I determine that I am near the Mount of Olives as I recognize many landmarks that I know so well. The space is a brilliant combination of contemporary and ancient construction. A curved glass wall wraps around the front of the room and large steel beams hold the cantilevered floor out three stories above the ground below. Typical everywhere in the city, the floors are made almost completely out of ancient building materials, elements that connect every building to the ancient origins of the city. A perfect juxtaposition of old and new—Jerusalem limestone, marble, and slate. The walls are smooth and pure-white plaster in contrast to the uneven surface of the stone. Other than the few remarkable paintings, everything in the room is white. The furniture, the large feathered bed, the magnificent flowers, and the filmy curtains that frame the wall of glass. Hardly the dark remote bunker I had formulated in my mind when told I was being taken to a
secure
location.

And then, there is the music of the city—the sounds of faith and belief: minarets that call worshippers to the mosque to pray and voices that rise in the many markets where negotiating is an art, the continuation of thousands of years of history. The location of the sun in the sky indicates that it must be late morning. I know it's been almost two days since I've left New York, yet it feels like a lifetime.

I find my clothes pressed and hung in the large armoire near my suitcase and choose to dress modestly—a skirt, cashmere sweater, and scarf bought expressly for the trip. I pick up the phone I've been given to communicate with my grandfather, open the door to the bedroom, and emerge into a large hallway filled with art and sculpture. I start down the staircase and stop to look through a large arched window at the view of the city and magnificent garden below. When I arrive at the main level of the home I am overtaken by the incredible familiarity of this place; I have felt it since I arrived. Drawn by a force that I can't explain, I find glass doors that lead outside. I step out into the sunlight and walk into the garden. As I stand in the middle of the space, I see the ancient olive trees and roses blowing in the cool breeze all around me. The earth is ripe. It smells like rosemary, lavender, honey, and memories—layered memories of the centuries that have gone by. I close my eyes and then it hits me, the powerful force of the instant, unmistakeable recognition.

I
know
where I am.

It is the house I have seen in my dreams. Everything is here—the trees, the roses, the stone, and the old wall at the edge of the property. All of it. More than anything else, I feel my grandmother's presence. I know she has stood in this very place. They've all been here, seen the same sky, felt the breeze, and breathed the same air. I lean forward to put my hands down on the low wall and feel its roughness under my fingers, a perfect vantage point to overlook the Old City below. I stand for a moment and close my eyes as I try to understand why I am here, and then, the silence is broken.

"Gabriella." It's my grandfather's voice.

I turn around and realize that he's been watching me for a few moments, his face is shining with pure joy and love. He is calm, peaceful,
safe.