The Gates of Zion by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene Page A

her chin as she stared out at the lapping waves.
    Moshe felt a rush of shame at his anger. For this young woman, perhaps death would have been more merciful. What guilt and memories she must have to face each day of her life!
    “Look,” she said in a small voice, “the tide is out.” Then she looked at him timidly. “Isn’t it?”
    “Yes.” He smiled apologetically at her. “The tide is out.”
    “I thought so. All the shells along the sand. I read about tides and beaches once when I was a child. But I never sat on one.”
    Moshe knew she was trying hard to make up for her unpleasantness.
    “Sometimes bits and pieces of old wrecks wash up on shore.”
    “Like us, eh?” She smiled at him and raised her eyebrows as though the two of them shared a secret.
    “What is your name?”
    Her eyes clouded once again—perhaps with the pain of a memory?
    Moshe wondered—and sadness washed over her features. “I was …
    I am Rachel. Rachel.” She spoke the name as if it were foreign to her.
    “A beautiful name,” he said, thinking how well it fit her. “And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.”
    The young woman raised an eyebrow.
    “It’s from the Bible,” he finished lamely.
    “Oh.” She looked away again. “Then I will tell you now I have nothing in common with her.” She tucked the tattoo tighter against her.
    “Rachel,” Moshe began haltingly, wishing to comfort wounds as gaping as the crevices near the Dead Sea, “you are free now. No one here will hurt you.”
    Her eyes grew dull and sullen. “There is not enough of me left to hurt,” she said flatly. “I brought my prison with me.”
    Uncomfortable, Moshe cleared his throat. I certainly put my foot in this one . “It is cold, isn’t it?” He shivered as he glanced down at his undershirt and boxer shorts and black socks.
    “Where are we?” she asked. “Do you know?”
    “Tel Aviv is about two miles down the beach, unless I miss my guess.” He stood and stretched in the morning breeze.
    “You won’t get far like that,” she remarked wryly, scanning his lanky form.
    Moshe did not reply. He strained his eyes in the direction of the sunrise and stood motionless.
    Rachel shielded her eyes against the glare, as if checking to see what captured his attention so. “What is it?” she asked finally.
    “A patrol. Coming our way fast.”
    Rachel stood, looking about desperately for a hiding place. “Oh no!”
    she cried. “Not when we are so close!”
    “Sit down,” he commanded. “Just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. Act calm.” Moshe spotted his trousers, soaked and knotted, at the water’s edge. With seeming nonchalance, he walked across the damp sand to retrieve them. He heard the sound of an approaching army jeep before he saw it and glanced back at Rachel.
    She remained huddled on the sand as Moshe had instructed her.
    As the jeep roared across the sand, three hundred yards from them, Moshe waved his arms in an attempt to flag the soldiers down.
    “What are you doing?” Rachel called in alarm.
    “I said, let me handle this, will you?” Moshe said through gritted teeth. “Keep your mouth shut.”
    Two men manned the jeep―one driver and a passenger. The driver steered the vehicle so close to the water that a wall of salt spray shot up and drenched the passenger. As the passenger shouted obscenities, the driver wove to drier ground for a moment, then returned to the water and repeated the scene again and again. It took a while to divert them from their game, but once they spotted Moshe waving to them, they roared straight as an arrow to them, skidding to a halt right in front of Rachel.
    “Well, what ’ave we ’ere, blokes?” cried the driver as he set the hand brake and leaped out of the jeep in one smooth move.
    “It’s a mermaid.” The young officer hopped out and marched toward Rachel, who tucked her head down on her knees. Moshe knew