Interlude (3 page)

“Now tell me again—what's happening once you get to London?”

“Beirut airport is open at the moment, so I'm meeting a writer in London, catching a Middle East Airlines flight, and arriving in Beirut Monday night their time. Beirut time is ten or eleven hours ahead of California. We're shooting all day Tuesday and part of Wednesday. I fly out on MEA Wednesday afternoon, catch a return flight home and will be back Thursday night around 11:00
P.M
.”

“Those sound like pretty close connections.”

“It's all confirmed—all the way through. There's no problem, Betty. Just pray for me, and I'll pray that you get everything done on this end.”

Impulsively, Jon pulled her toward him and held her tightly against his chest. “Lord, take care of my precious Betty. You know she's my wife now, and I'm her husband, ‘til death do us part. I pray that You'll keep her safe until I get back. Make me a good husband to her, Lord—the best she could ever have. And while I'm gone, please bless her and keep her and make Your face shine upon her. In Jesus' name, Amen.”

“Amen . . .” Betty whispered, bracing herself for his actual departure.
No tears,
she commanded her eyes sternly. “Good-bye, Jon. I'll see you in four days.”

“Just four days!” he said brightly, kissing her once more and heading for the big 747. He turned once more, blew her another kiss, and he was gone.

Betty drove back to Pasadena, unable to focus her thoughts on anything but Jon and the brief time that they had enjoyed together since her last solo trip to the airport. Would it always be like this? Would home be only a stopover between jobs? Would he always return? Their times together had been the most wonderful times of her life. Would it always be like that? The sweetness of their intimacy filled Betty with a fleeting sense of joy as she tearfully steered her car across the light-spangled city.

Clearly, the love she and Jon shared was a given. It had been there all along, even amidst their worst doubts. Nevertheless, one contrary thought could be heard whispering in the farthest reaches of her mind. It was completely incompatible with her mood, yes. But a faint but familiar question still remained unanswered:
Will it last?

2

T
he first two days after Jon's departure were hectic, and in one sense Betty was glad he was gone. All their frenetic sightseeing had kept her from following up on some very necessary wedding preparations. For the most part she was able to put him out of her mind while she phoned, ran errands, and wrote a rather sobering succession of checks. The sight of the twinkling diamond on her left hand invariably reminded her of him, and she couldn't help but smile.

Tuesday night she collapsed in bed, exhausted.
Two days more and he'll be home,
she reminded herself as she drifted off to sleep.
I can't wait to see him.
Halfway through the night the telephone awoke her. She fumbled to turn on a light.
It must be Jon,
she reasoned.

“Hello?” Her voice was thick with sleep.

“Ma'am, this is George O'Ryan with the State Department in Washington, D.C. Is this Mrs. Jon Surrey-Dixon?” The crisp, businesslike voice on the other end of the line brought her closer to wakefulness.

“No, this is Elisabeth Casey, Jon's fiancée.”

“Elisabeth Casey. So you are you the fiancée, not the wife of Jon Surrey-Dixon, a freelance photographer who recently traveled to Lebanon?”

“Yes, I'm Jon's fiancée.” She drew a quick breath. “Is he all right?”

“Ms. Casey, I'm afraid I have some unpleasant news for you. We have a confirmed report out of Beirut that your fiancé was abducted by Islamic terrorists on his way into the city from the airport. Fortunately his colleagues were left behind—he was the only one taken.”

Silence. What could she possibly say?

“Ms. Casey, are you still on the line?”

“Yes, I'm here. What do I do? Who should I talk to?”

“Although it is not our policy to tell hostage family members what to do, I would strongly advise you not to talk to the media at this time. We hope to have this matter resolved quickly. I understand that your fiancé is a naturalized American—is that true?”

“No, he's not an American citizen. He has a green card, but he carries a New Zealand passport.”

“I see. I'll double-check that. Is there anything I can help you with, then?”

“Well, yes. What are you doing about Jon? Are you trying to get him out? We're getting married on Saturday.”

Why did her words about the wedding sound so shallow and foolish?

There was a brief pause. O'Ryan seemed to be processing unexpected information. “I see. Well, I'm sure you're aware that it is official U. S. policy not to negotiate with terrorists. We are doing all we can on behalf of all the hostages in Lebanon, and we are optimistic that this crisis will come to a swift conclusion.” The man sounded like he was reading from a script, and his platitudes couldn't have been less comforting.

By now Betty was wide awake. “Could you give me your name again, please? And your phone number?” She wrote down the information, and at his request gave him her address.

His answers had been so unsatisfactory that she repeated her question a third time. “Isn't there anything I can do?”

“Nothing, ma'am. The less you do, the better. The more attention you draw to the kidnapping, the more valuable your fiancé becomes to his abductors. Please contact me if you have any further questions.”

“Well, I'm going to have to tell my friends and family.” “I'm sure they'll hear about it through the usual sources. The news media are quick to report these things,” O'Ryan replied rather haughtily.

“Are you sure I can't do something? Talk to someone? Jon's not even an American citizen—maybe the people that took him think he is. Maybe they should be told that he's from . . .”

“Ms. Casey, as I said before, the less you do the better. We're professionals. Leave it with us.”

The conversation, such as it was, seemed to be over. “Thank you for calling,” Betty could hardly believe she was expressing gratitude for such devastating news.

“Yes, ma'am. We'll be in touch.”

She rested the phone in its cradle. Her diamond sparkled in the dim light. She stared at it blindly.

They'll get him out soon,
she tried to reassure herself.
He just didn't want to get my hopes up.
But despite her attempts at optimism, a heavy darkness seemed to be settling across her mind. Then an idea flashed.
CNN! Maybe they've got something on CNN!

She turned on the television just in time to see Jon's picture flicker morbidly on the screen. The quality of the black-and-white photograph was terrible, but she could clearly see that it was Jon. One eye was swollen shut. His upper lip appeared distorted. His eyes looked blank, as if he were dazed.

Nausea almost overwhelmed her. She began to shiver violently, her teeth chattering wildly. She tried to concentrate on the words coming out of the television.

“. . . Jon Surrey-Dixon, the latest victim of Islamic terrorist kidnappings, is thirty-five years old. Although he is a native New Zealander, he carries an American green card. . . .”

I wonder why CNN knew that and the state department didn't?
Despite Betty's shock, she couldn't help but notice the discrepancy in information.

“. . . His fiancée Elisabeth Casey is a writer, living in Pasadena, California. Surrey-Dixon and Casey were to have exchanged vows Saturday, a wedding that will clearly be postponed indefinitely. . . .”

They got that right, too.

“. . . We hope to have some comment from Elisabeth Casey in the next hour. . . . ”

Postponed indefinitely. Comment from Elisabeth Casey.
How do they know all this?
She felt watched. Frantic, she clicked off the television and opened the blinds, checking for intruders outside. The street was empty.

What do I say to them if they come here?
She was terrified. Did they have her phone number? The United States of America Department of State had “strongly advised” her not to talk to the media. Would she be breaking some kind of law if she did? Would she endanger Jon's life if she said anything at all?

Wild surges of fear ebbed and flowed inside her. The image of Jon's bruised face was indelibly imprinted on her mind. “God! Help me! What do I do?”

The phone rang again. This time it was CNN. How had they located her so quickly? She never thought to ask. “Ms. Casey . . . Sorry to bother you at such a terrible time. Tell me, how do you feel? What was your reaction to the news?”

Now the tears began. “I don't know what to say . . . I don't know what to say. Just pray for Jon, that's all I can say . . .”

The female journalist who called sounded far more compassionate than O'Ryan. “I'm so sorry about this tragedy, Ms. Casey,” she said. “We've been covering this hostage situation for years, and it just breaks my heart. If I can ever do anything to help you, please give me a call.”

The woman gave Betty both a work and a home number. It seemed like a generous gesture at the moment.

In less than an hour's time, Betty's plaintive words, “I don't know what to say. I don't know what to say . . .” were broadcast around the globe. Her voice was heard in dozens of countries. In bars and palaces. In airports and hotel lobbies. Her personal loss had instantly become a matter of common knowledge. Her private tears were public domain. Betty's love story was no longer her own.

The wedding was canceled. Jon Surrey-Dixon was a hostage. The world was watching.

Betty sat in her chair from 4:30 until 6:00
A.M
. unable to sleep, almost paralyzed with fear. There were no more calls until Jim Richards at Outreach Ministries International telephoned at 6:10.

“Betty, I just heard the news about Jon. It's on all the networks. Are you all right?”

“No . . .”

“Are you getting bombarded by the press?”

“No, at least not yet.”

“Look, I'm going to pick up Joyce and we're coming over there. I think you need a couple of friends right now. Is that okay with you?”

“Thanks, Jim. Yeah. Go ahead and come.” Her voice had no inflection.

Betty dislodged herself from the chair and made her way to the shower. She went through the motions of dressing herself, drying her hair, and putting on her makeup.
Waterproof mascara,
she instructed herself.
You've got enough black circles under your eyes already, and you know you're going to cry all day.

Oddly enough, however, she hadn't shed that many tears. Her feelings were muffled and dulled, except for an ache of acute weariness.

Not a half-hour after his call, Jim pushed Joyce Jiminez' wheelchair into Betty's living room. Joyce was a rheumatoid arthritis sufferer, who single-handedly managed Jim's international humanitarian organization in spite of her physical limitations. She was also a remarkably spiritual woman.

“Betty . . .” Joyce and Betty were close, dear friends. The minute Joyce's arms found their way around Betty's neck, the tears began. Joyce was weeping too.

“I hate to tell you this, Betty,” Jim interrupted. “But there are several network vans outside and a whole bunch of reporters. I think you'd better go out there and say something. You don't want to get on their bad side.”

“But Jim, when the man from the State Department called, he strongly advised me not to talk to the media.”

“That's pretty unrealistic, isn't it?”

Betty looked at Jim in surprise. It had never occurred to her to question orders from Washington, D.C.

“Well it really is pretty difficult, since they call and show up uninvited. I guess I ought to be able to say something. They're just doing their job.”

“Why don't you just say that you love Jon, you're hoping to see him soon, and then ask everyone to remember him in prayer?” Joyce recommended.

Betty considered Joyce's suggestion uncertainly.

Joyce's ideas always seemed so simple, almost too obvious. “I just don't want to make a mistake.”

“Why would that be a mistake? Even the kidnappers are supposed to be religious. How could anyone complain about you asking people to pray for Jon?”

“What do you think, Jim?”

“You know Joyce is always right.” Jim and Joyce had worked together for years, and behind his friendly banter was a sincere respect for the tiny Hispanic woman who had given so much of herself to their ministry.

“Betty,” Joyce's crippled hand reached for her friend's, “let's pray before you go out there.”

“You pray, Joyce. Right at the moment I feel like God's locked up in a cell with Jon. You'd better do the praying.”

The three of them held hands, and Joyce began, “Lord, we don't understand what You're doing in this. We don't know why You've allowed this to happen to Jon and to Betty. But we love You and trust You. Please, Lord, give Betty wisdom and strength as she speaks to those reporters out there. Let her represent You to them. And somehow, Heavenly Father, help her feel Your presence and give her peace. Give us all peace . . .”

The phone rang, and just as Betty answered it the doorbell chimed. Jim went to the door. “Here we go . . .” he murmured to himself.

“We'll be having a press conference in fifteen minutes,” Jim told the journalists outside. “It's a sunny day, so why don't you set up your cameras here,” he motioned toward Betty's small patio, “and that way she won't have a houseful of people she doesn't know . . .”

Betty had never thought about holding a “press conference.” And it certainly had never occurred to Betty that Jim might know how to manage one. Over the years he had been involved in several international incidents that had been covered by the world press. Whatever he had learned along the way was welcome information to Betty, who was totally ignorant in such matters.