The Messenger: Book One of the Messenger Series

By Janice Reneau Clendennen

Former fashion model Sarah Shaw is an advocate for victims of human trafficking. As a Christian who is also Jewish, she believes in the Messiah and has the ability to receive messages from HaShem (The Name).

While in Jerusalem to speak at a human trafficking conference, Sarah meets Israel’s prime minister, Natan Shafir, at an independence celebration. After he invites Sarah to give a presentation to a human rights committee at his office, she makes several attempts to schedule an appointment, thwarted each time by his staff. As she prepares to leave Israel, Sarah receives instructions from the Lord to personally deliver a warning to Prime Minister Shafir. When she finally succeeds in making an appointment with him, the resulting events plunge them both into an adventure that threatens their lives and the future of Israel. While fleeing from an unknown enemy with unlimited resources, Shafir and Sarah are rendered helpless and vulnerable. Their only hope lies in the God of Israel’s protection and provision as Shafir discovers the lengths HaShem will go for his beloved country.

In this gripping adventure set in modern-day Israel, a message from God sparks a conflict between the forces of good and evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Jul 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781489736321

Janice Reneau Clendennen

Janice Reneau Clendennen was born in Kansas, grew up in Oklahoma, and has lived in Texas for the past thirty-five years. She earned an associate’s degree in art from Central College and graduated from Bethany Nazarene College with a degree in English and fine arts. Janice lives with her husband in North Texas where she is an active leader and teacher in her church.

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Copyright © 2021 Janice Reneau Clendennen.

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Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-3630-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3631-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3632-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021911661

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 06/29/2021

CONTENTS

Characters

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Glossary

Acknowledgements

For Marlene.

Who has believed our message and to whom

has the arm of the LORD been revealed?

—Isaiah 53:1 (New International Version)

CHARACTERS

PROLOGUE

T he man reclined alone in a darkened room inside his home, a rambling chateau that nestled among the trees on the slope of the mountain straddling Berchtesgaden, Germany, and Salzburg, Austria. At sixty-seven years old, he was obese and homely. His bulging flesh hung in thick rolls beneath his waistline and upper arms. The stringy hair that clung to his scalp, once a nondescript shade somewhere between blond and brown, had with age turned into an equally nondescript gray color, neither silver nor white. His features were more simian than human: heavy forehead, oversized ears, wide nostrils, and protruding lips.

But the man who resided there did not concern himself with his own unattractiveness. Feeling sorry for himself was irrelevant and pointless. For this man was exceedingly wealthy. He was one of the richest men in the world, perhaps even the richest. He had stopped monitoring his wealth long ago, leaving that responsibility to his team of financial advisers and stockbrokers.

He had discovered, early in his childhood, that he lacked the appearance, charm, and personality to attract friends. This unfortunate curse followed him into his late teens and twenties. By the time he graduated from university, he bitterly resolved to reject his fellow man just as he himself had been rejected.

Being an outcast, however, was not without its advantages. In contrast to his appearance and disposition, nature had compensated by giving him a sharp, inquisitive mind and above-average intelligence. While his university mates socialized and went out for sports, he studied economics. If he could not be popular, he reasoned, at least he could be smarter than his peers—and richer. A trajectory for his life was formed. He would make enough money to buy the friendship and alliances that had been denied him in his youth. He devoted himself to his goal, and the result was that he was a millionaire before he reached the age of thirty. As he suspected, his money brought him friends for the first time in his life, and all doors seemed at last to stand open for him. Now his name was compulsory on society guest lists. Corporations in which he had a place on the board of directors thrived. His friendship and approval were sought by world leaders, entertainment personalities, intelligentsia, and the elite of society.

At the age of thirty-eight, he married a movie starlet. His hopes of a respectable life as a family man were dashed when before their first anniversary, his capricious wife deserted him for her costar in a movie in which he had invested millions for her sake. Bitterly, he acknowledged that not even money could make up for rejection and loneliness. Money could not buy affection or loyalty or even satisfactory companionship.

He could not pinpoint the exact moment he made the decision to use his money as a tool and a weapon against those who rejected him. Once the decision was made, however, he found the moments that gave him the most sublime pleasure were those in which he had orchestrated another’s misery. But after so many years, it was no longer enough to wield power through his wealth. Oh, it was still satisfying, but the thrill was gone. He craved a power even more effective than money by which to degrade and devastate his enemies.

As a man who wielded power and influence over others, he had, through dubious and sinister channels, discovered sources whose rule transcended even money and dominance. These sources worked for him and with him. Through them, he was privy to secrets unknown to most mankind.

As he sat enthroned on his oversized chair with his trunk-like legs propped up on an equally oversized ottoman, his gaze rested on the flames that flickered in the massive fireplace.

He sat trancelike, just as he had been instructed. As he continued to stare into the dancing flames, a rhythmic chant, sounding more like a dirge than a song, rumbled ominously from the old man’s throat. The more he chanted, the darker the room became, until the fire itself did little to relieve the inky, impenetrable shadows. His true friends had arrived at last, bringing with them a foul odor, like that of a dead and rotting animal or the sulfurous stench of eggs gone bad. Far from expressing fright or repulsion at the arrival of the entities, the rotund man exhaled slowly in satisfaction and anticipation, then grimaced in pleasure. A violent gust of wind that came into existence from out of nowhere, since neither door nor window stood open, forcefully extinguished the fire, plunging him into utter darkness. The man suddenly began to wheeze and chuckle maniacally as the words of instruction penetrated his brain.

Twenty-six hundred kilometers away, in Jerusalem, a younger man also sat alone in darkness, although it was a natural darkness created by the evening shadows at twilight. But this man also suffered from a darkness of spirit generated by guilt and remorse. This darkness was not welcome, and he was terrified by it.

He had not always felt as alone and desperate as he did now. He had grown up in the comfortable French Hill neighborhood in Jerusalem, a favorite among his set. He had warm memories of loving parents and siblings and an extended, close-knit network of aunts, uncles, and cousins. The days of his childhood were spent playing ball, studying the Torah in preparation for his bar mitzvah, and evolving as the ringleader among his friends, leading them into one adventure after another. He was blessed with a lively imagination, a quick wit, and a winsome smile, which more than made up for his small five-foot, six-inch frame.

When, at sixteen, he was offered a summer internship at one of his father’s business ventures in Greece, he welcomed the opportunity. He excelled there in those few months and was even offered a permanent position upon his completion of his education in Israel. However, his mandatory two years of service in Israel’s military took precedence over beginning a career. He served with distinction in the Israel Defense Forces, and after studying business administration at Hebrew University, he secured a position in the Israeli government through his connections with friends. He married his college sweetheart, and it seemed he held the world in the palm of his hand.

Then temptation entered his world and wound her seductive net around him. Before he could fully comprehend what had happened to him, the charmed life he lived became contaminated. Sin and its companion, compromise, followed their natural courses, and his circumstances further deteriorated. Even his closest friends and family could not guess the depth of the degradation to which he had sunk.

Lowering his head into his hands, he wept in sorrow, panic, and regret. Many would say he was in the prime of his life and that the future surely could not be as hopeless and despairing as he comprehended it to be. But he could no longer live with the guilt that wrapped itself around him like a sheet with the corners sewn shut to prevent his escape or relief. He felt suffocated by his own wretched state as he mourned for himself and for Israel. He was in far too deep now. Making amends for his crimes would mean dishonor and imprisonment, and yes, certain death. There was precious little that remained within his control. He gave one last shuddering sob, then lifted his head with a newfound determination. He would have to end it. All of it.

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CHAPTER 1

T he Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Hotel in Jerusalem buzzed with activity and anticipation. The beautiful room overflowed with ambassadors, dignitaries, celebrities, other guests and service staff, all waiting anxiously for the entrance of the prime minister, who had promised to arrive in time for the opening of the gala. The occasion was a ball given by the Foreign Ministry to commemorate the anniversary of the rebirth of Israel as a nation in 1947.

Flags bearing the Magen David hung at intervals around the walls. Long serving tables festooned with blue and white balloons with gold streamers lined the perimeters of the room. They were laden with appetizers both regional and international, miniature dessert bites, and fountains of beverages.

Despite the perpetually tense political situation and the constant threats of terrorist organizations, there was much gaiety among the attendees; for the moment, they were not thinking of the what-ifs or the fact that they were potential targets for an act of terrorism. No, they all had the same goal—to enjoy an evening of celebration and perhaps get to speak with the prime minister himself.

Sarah Shaw, an American, was among the guests, having been invited by a Foreign Ministry official. Several years before, she had shared an apartment in New York City with her friend Batya Davidman, who married Avner Feldman, Israel’s newly appointed ambassador to Greece. Upon learning that Sarah was in Jerusalem to speak at a conference on human trafficking, the Feldmans had quickly submitted her name to the invitations committee as their last-minute guest for the evening. It was so last-minute that Sarah had secretly hoped the invitation would have to be withdrawn. Whether Avner used his influence to persuade the committee or whether it was just providence, the invitation had been issued, and here she was.

When the Feldmans first informed her about the ball, Sarah had initially demurred, citing several reasons.

Formal dress occasions were simply not her cup of tea. She was quite adept at navigating social events, having attended many since her modeling days. She had the poise and the self-possession, and she had mastered the fine art of making appropriate conversation, but the truth was, small, intimate gatherings with close friends appealed to her far more. Years of getting all made up and decked out to be paraded out for other people had left her with a weariness of formal social occasions, even ones to which the prime minister of Israel would be attending.

Second, she had anticipated spending her few remaining days in Jerusalem visiting some of her favorite charities. She supported several ministries in Israel, and opportunities to visit and observe them in action were extremely rare. She would lose one whole day simply in preparation for an occasion like the anniversary gala, she argued. Her hair and nails would require touch-up attention, not to mention the hassle of shopping for an appropriate ball gown with matching pumps and evening bag, because she certainly had not brought those items to Israel with her.

Finally, she argued, by the time the conference was over, she would be ready for some downtime. Meeting new people and networking was a big part of her job; she thoroughly enjoyed it, and her outgoing personality made it easy. The conference was going extremely well, and her contributions respectfully received, but the schedule was quite grueling.

Her excuses carried little to no weight with her friends, however. Avner and Batya were persistent, wearing her down with their pleadings, until she realized that her refusal would result in some hurt feelings if she did not accept their invitation. It would also seem ungrateful after they had gone to so much trouble to get her approved and added to the guest list.

So, she finally agreed.

Sarah’s reservations about attending the celebration abated considerably when she discovered, to her delight and relief, that Ardo Kablan, a friend, human-trafficking lobbyist, and fellow conference speaker, was also invited to the fete. Both were former fashion models who had given up their modeling careers after becoming born-again Christians.

It was, in fact, Ardo’s horrifying tales of being kidnapped at the age of thirteen and forced into prostitution that prompted Sarah to take up the campaign to end sex trafficking. Sarah and Ardo were often invited to participate at the same conferences and forums, Ardo as a lobbyist, Sarah as an advocate, but they had been friends for years, going back to their modeling days.

Ardo’s invitation to the ball had originated from a former suitor who was now a diplomat at the British embassy in Jerusalem. He had assured her that some well-known people were on the guest list and that she was bound to know some of them. Ardo’s genuine pleasure at learning of her friend’s plans to attend the affair matched Sarah’s own.

In the final days of the conference, which were also the days leading up to the gala, Sarah found that she was beginning to anticipate the event. She would never have had a chance to attend such a prestigious celebration if not for the thoughtfulness of the Feldmans.

She even enjoyed the shopping trips, which she and Ardo tackled together in the evenings after the conference sessions ended. Two former fashion models on the loose in Mamilla Mall made for lively and jocular excursions as they strolled from store to store trying on dresses, shoes, and jewelry. As they relaxed by sipping strong Turkish coffee in an outdoor café and watching the lights come on in the Old City, they discussed their purchases, the conference, and the upcoming Foreign Ministry party. Neither woman knew what to expect other than what they had been told, which was that this was a relatively new event in Jerusalem, having been modeled after the Jerusalem Independence Day Balls given by the Diplomatic Corps in Washington, DC.

Now at the ball, Sarah was taking in her surroundings with a sense of pleasure and wonder. Arriving at the Waldorf by taxi, she found Ardo waiting for her in the hotel vestibule, as they had previously arranged. Passing through the security gauntlet had been intimidating for them both. Their invitations were proffered and carefully inspected. Then their names had been transmitted via walkie-talkie by a security officer and approved by an unseen entity before being allowed to pass into the room. Staking out a place near the ballroom entrance where they had a clear view of incoming guests, they joked that they would be wallflowers, there to quietly observe more than to participate in any of the festivities.

Sarah spotted her friends Avner and Batya Feldman mingling with the crowd, conversing with people they knew. The conversations around her were conducted in Hebrew. A Christian, but also Jewish, she wished she had more than a beginner’s understanding of Hebrew, which she had mostly abandoned after her bat mitzvah ceremony back in Philadelphia. She knew enough of the language to cope with standard greetings, ordering in restaurants, asking for directions—the usual necessary phrases—and of course, she was familiar with many of the traditional songs and prayers. She strongly suspected she would have to depend on Batya or Avner for interpreting conversation during the evening, but at the same time, she fervently hoped that some of the other guests had a decent command of English. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass herself or the Feldmans.

She gazed around the room, searching for familiar faces. She recognized an Israeli athlete who had distinguished herself in the last Olympic Games. There was a journalist-turned-author known for his conservative views and clever observations. The American ambassador to Israel chatted companionably with Israel’s former ambassador to the United States, while just a few feet away, a well-known Christian evangelist from New Zealand appeared to be deep in conversation with an Orthodox rabbi.

The noise of conversation suddenly diminished to a quiet murmur as the crowd started parting to either side. The prime minister had arrived with his security entourage and was walking along, shaking hands and greeting the people who were closest in proximity to him. While many tried to press forward to get a better look, Sarah remained where she was. She could, in fact, see him quite clearly from where she stood.

No cameras were allowed except for the official photographer’s, so she could not take pictures. But she studied him carefully, trying to memorize every detail. When she got back to her hotel room, she planned to write every single impression into her journal.

Natan Shafir was tall, easily six feet, perhaps an inch or two taller, Sarah judged. He was young, only forty-four when elected, the youngest prime minister in Israel’s history. His reddish-brown hair betrayed just a hint of gray at the temples. Lean and in good shape physically, he was wearing wire-framed eyeglasses that he had recently taken to wearing and which were the only other indication of his aging.

Upon taking office two years before, following a tight election plagued with numerous detractors, many expressed doubts in Prime Minister Shafir’s ability to lead Israel in such precarious times. Before his coalition government was fully formed, and under threat from nations far and near, he was tested in the first few months of his term by increased terror attacks and other forms of aggression. He had gone to the media and in no uncertain terms laid out his policy to the world: Israel would not sit back and allow herself to be victimized. He had ordered in more troops to the trouble areas and was quick to deal a crippling blow to a notorious terrorist organization. Although roundly criticized for taking such decisive action, no one complained—or even mentioned—that the terror attacks had diminished. The prime minister, however, knew that although the terrorist factions were keeping quiet now, they were only licking their wounds and their malicious attacks could erupt at any time.

Natan Shafir moved easily down the column of people, still shaking hands and exchanging a word or two with each person. Sarah watched, fascinated, wishing pictures were allowed. She tried to memorize what he was wearing. Navy blue suit, white shirt, and a blue and gold tie. He was close enough that she could perceive what appeared to be a tiny pin of the Israeli flag on his left lapel. At last, he came to the end of the press of people and paused, looking to one of his ever-present aides. The two columns of people began to disperse; the ones who had met him went on their way, while the people still wanting their moment with him began to form another circle around him.

He looks tired, Sarah observed quietly to Ardo, and a bit uncomfortable.

Mm-hmm, you got that right, Ardo agreed with a raised eyebrow. I’d be uncomfortable too with all those people crowding me. If I were him, I would be looking around for some hand sanitizer. Now, how many of those people have coughed or sneezed into their hands tonight? Or touched some filthy doorknob? His security people should think of stuff like that.

Sarah glanced at her friend with amusement. Ardo was a self-professed germophobe. While most women would never think of leaving their homes without tucking away a tube of lipstick or a compact of face powder into their purses, Ardo opted for packages of antiseptic wipes and small sanitizer bottles in hers. Not only did she avoid shaking hands or exchanging embraces with strangers, but touching such ordinary objects as grocery cart handles, microphones, door handles, and light switches particularly revolted her. Public restrooms topped the list of her fetishes. Any outing with Ardo invariably turned into a fanciful, danger-around-every-corner caper that only a comedic film director could dream up.

He looks lonely, too, Sarah continued. It hasn’t been that long since he lost his wife. Shafir’s wife of nearly twenty-five years had died following a devastating battle with cancer.

That’s right—I forgot about that. He does look kind of like a lost puppy, doesn’t he? Ardo remarked.

Sarah heard her name and looked around to see Avner and Batya Feldman approaching, their faces wreathed in smiles. Avner was tall and slender, with straight brown hair and a moustache, and his wife was a petite brunette with short, curly hair, and dimples.

Sarah, you made it! We thought maybe you changed your mind again! Batya exclaimed as she hugged Sarah. You look beautiful! Doesn’t she, Avner?

Always, Avner conceded genially, bending to kiss Sarah’s cheek.

Sarah introduced Ardo, who greeted them graciously but kept her hands clasped in front of her.

After a few minutes of conversation, Ardo excused herself and departed in search of the friend who had invited her.

Now, Batya clutched Sarah’s arm, come with us to talk to the prime minister.

Oh … no! Sarah protested in alarm. I didn’t come tonight to be a groupie. And why does he have to meet me? There’s far more interesting people here he can meet.

Nonsense. Why do you think we invited you? Now, come, Sarah, and meet Natan, Avner urged her firmly. He’s an old friend of mine. He might even recognize you—from your modeling days, I mean.

Sarah cringed inwardly. She hoped not. Up until about fifteen years before, she had been an extremely high-profile fashion model. She had been recognized, all right. Thousands of calendars and copies of Sports Illustrated had flown off the shelves or were downloaded because she was featured in them. It was not exactly the way she wished to be remembered, especially since those pictures were now embarrassing to her.

And how could it be, she thought, after all the years she had known the Feldmans, that neither of them ever mentioned that Avner and Prime Minister Shafir were personal acquaintances? Sarah had not even remotely considered such a possibility. Well, she reasoned, since she was here, and since the Feldmans knew Shafir personally, the prospect did not seem so intimidating.

All right, she consented. Why not?

She meekly followed Avner as Batya linked her arm through Sarah’s and propelled her through the maze of bodies until they stopped in front of a small knot of people. The prime minister appeared to be in conversation with one of his aides, while his security detail carefully watched every person who approached him.

Natan Shafir visibly relaxed when he saw Avner. Breaking into a sudden smile, he eagerly reached out his hand and grasped Avner’s and began conversing rapidly in Hebrew. After a few minutes of good-natured conversation, Avner stepped back and drew Sarah forward, effortlessly switching from Hebrew to English.

Prime Minister, may I introduce Sarah Shaw, a good friend of ours. Sarah has been in Jerusalem this week speaking at a human-trafficking conference. Advocacy and educating the masses is her latest career. Several years ago, she was a popular model in the US.

Sarah felt her face burn in consternation as the man, whose bold actions had defied rogue nations and jihadists, turned his eyes upon her. She did not hesitate, however, but took his outstretched hand and looked straight into his eyes, which she noted were a dark, smoky blue.

Miss … Shaw? Natan Shafir spoke first, nodding politely with a pleasant smile. Welcome to Israel. You were a model, Avner said?

A long time ago, Sarah answered firmly with a quick reproving glance in Avner’s direction. Some details about the past are best left in the past.

Avner, amused by her reaction to his obviously unwelcome revelation, only grinned.

Before Prime Minister Shafir could respond, Sarah continued gently, It is an honor to meet you, sir. Please allow me to offer my condolences to you on the loss of your wife. I know you must miss her terribly on occasions like this.

Shafir’s eyes widened slightly, and an expression of sorrow flickered there briefly. Then he smiled again. Yes, you are correct. I miss her very much tonight.

Another cluster of people stepped forward, waiting for their chance to converse with the prime minister, and as he glanced their way, Sarah took advantage of the distraction and stepped aside, not wishing to monopolize his time.

Avner and Batya remained with the group surrounding Natan Shafir, but Sarah slipped away, back to the spot where she had been standing with Ardo. Ardo had also returned, and at Sarah’s approach, quickly offered some hand sanitizer.

I saw that. Take some of this, Ardo ordered.

Ardo, I only shook hands with the prime minister! Sarah protested with a laugh.

He touched all those filthy hands and then he touched yours. Girl, you will be a walking disease machine if you don’t use some of this right this minute!

Sarah shook her head in mock disgust but accepted a dab of the clear, antiseptic-smelling gel and rubbed it into her palms.

There, are you satisfied? Did you find your friend?

Yes. He is there, over by the bar. She pointed to a handsome black man holding a champagne flute, deep in conversation with two women guests.

He looks very distinguished. And gorgeous. Are you sure you don’t want to rekindle your romance? Sarah teased.

No, I do not. He is a very charming and intelligent man, but he has not changed. He still likes his alcohol, which is why it could not work for us. His drinking brought back so many ugly memories for me, back to the days when I lived in such darkness.

Sarah nodded. She was fully aware of the extent to which Ardo still suffered from the cruelties she had experienced at the hands of wicked men before she was delivered from her captors. She placed a comforting hand on her friend’s arm.

That’s all behind you now. She spoke quietly but firmly. Those days are over.

Yes, thank you, Jesus! Ardo exclaimed fervently. And I know that one day, I will be completely whole again.

Members of the small band on the other side of the room began to tune their instruments. In a few minutes, all conversation ceased as the first majestic notes of HaTikvah, the Israeli national anthem, began. At its conclusion, the room erupted in cheers and enthusiastic applause. Then the lively band launched into their first number, an Israeli dance tune, and several couples began to dance, Avner and Batya among them.

It did not take long before both Ardo and Sarah were invited to dance. Sarah danced with Avner and a few other men. One was a United States diplomat, and two were older male actors, one from England and the other from Australia, who were in Israel filming a motion picture. Sarah knew them casually from her modeling days when they moved in the same social circles.

It’s a jolly good treat to see you again, Sarah, the Brit remarked. We hardly ever hear about you anymore. You just dropped out of sight.

I escaped the hot lights and all the glitz, she admitted cheerfully. I like my life so much better now.

She went on to describe her conversion to Christianity but was not surprised when her explanation failed to impress her partner. This man, along with his fellow actor, was much more interested in discussing the old days when she was one of them, a member of a set of beautiful people leading glamorous lives. Sarah knew both these men had gone from marriage to marriage and relationship to relationship but could never find happiness with any partner. Their careers had made them household names and rich. They had their choice of any woman they wanted, yet they were miserable.

If they only knew that the love, affirmation, and fulfillment they craved were just a prayer away, she thought sadly.

Sarah herself was single. Before she found new life in Christ, she too had suffered a series of disappointing relationships, none of which resulted in marriage. Once she became a believer, she surrendered all her romantic hopes and dreams to Jesus. She learned to be sustained by her relationship with Him alone. Her self-worth and self-esteem no longer depended on looks, fame, wealth or others’ expectations but rather who she was now in Christ. Redeemed from sin, guilt, and death. Delivered from shame. Set apart for the work of the Kingdom.

Almost immediately after her encounter with Jesus, she had sensed His call to help and rescue young girls who were victims of human trafficking. Hearing Ardo’s harrowing accounts was like a divine zap of lightning, a true revelation. Sarah knew instinctively she was supposed to take on this battle.

She had not jumped into the fray haphazardly, however. For two years she traveled and researched, meeting current and former victims of human trafficking, interviewing them, and recording their stories. She wrote a book about her findings, which had sold quite well. Following the sale of the book, she became much in demand as a speaker at high schools and college campuses, American Heritage Girls and other girl groups’ conventions, women’s clubs, and eventually conferences on human trafficking.

She had a voice, she admitted, because of her fame as a model, but her motivation was strictly Christ-driven. She was speaking up for those who could not speak up for themselves, determined to do all she could, with God’s help, to end the atrocities of human trafficking.

This determination, coupled with an exceptionally strong will, had, at times, placed her in the forefront of the battle. She had positioned herself outside sleazy bars and on crowded street corners and appealed to prostitutes. She had witnessed an actual slave market in Myanmar, and when she couldn’t persuade the authorities to stop the event with a raid, she brazenly attempted to purchase a few terrified children herself, intending to sweep them away to safety and freedom. She created her own nonprofit corporation dedicated to helping victims of human trafficking and traveled tirelessly, raising money to help build homes for women and children rescued from sex slavery. She had collaborated with politicians in a few countries to write legislation to prohibit and curtail the activities of the traffickers.

She traveled extensively, and when she was home in New York City, her nonprofit ministry was so demanding that there was really no time for a serious relationship. She dated occasionally, but only serious believers, who, like her, put a relationship with Christ above any other.

Like Ardo Kablan, but to a much lesser degree, she too had been subjected to hurtful and degrading behavior from past relationships. Naturally distrustful of the motives of potential suitors, she could never be sure if a man was interested in Sarah Shaw, former model, or Sarah Shaw, follower of Christ, activist, and advocate for victims of human trafficking.

So, she remained unattached yet content. Being single was neither a burden nor a sacrifice, in her opinion. She could focus her energy and resources on the ministry without guilt that she was neglecting a relationship or leaving a family at home to fend for themselves while she traveled.

The ball was now in full swing, and Sarah was enjoying the experience immensely, particularly the music of the excellent band, which played a mixture of Israeli traditional folk tunes for group dancing, as well as numbers for couples dancing. She loved the group dances, which evoked memories of the joyous celebrations she experienced as a child growing up in a Jewish community in Philadelphia. She even joined in on one or two of the dances, delighted and amazed that she remembered most of the steps and movements.

Furthermore, far from depending on the Feldmans for help with conversation in Hebrew, Sarah discovered that most Israelis in attendance, upon learning that she was from America, automatically switched to English. She expressed her gratitude for their thoughtfulness and privately determined to learn more than the basics of Hebrew before her next trip to Israel.

She was exchanging pleasantries with an Israeli actress when the woman glanced past her, then paused abruptly in mid-sentence. Curious, Sarah turned around and found herself face to face with Prime Minister Shafir.

Miss Shaw? He cleared his throat, then hesitated as he regarded the actress uncertainly. Sarah looked around just in time to see the woman murmur an apology, then back away with a smile. Sarah turned her attention back to the prime minister. He looked embarrassed, almost apologetic, as if he were presuming on her. Years of interaction with men of all nationalities, social status and personality types had made her somewhat of an expert at discerning their motives. Prime Minister Shafir, it was clear, felt he was intruding.

Forgive me for interrupting your conversation. That certainly was not my intention. I would have gladly waited my turn to speak with you.

Sarah grinned as the playful side of her personality bubbled to the surface. I wondered why Daya suddenly lost interest in our conversation. You obviously intimidated her enough to scare her away.

Perhaps so, he conceded with a slight smile and a twinkle in his blue eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time someone darted away at my approach. I never know whether to feel pleased or rebuffed.

Sarah could not help laughing. Well, you don’t scare me.

That is certainly a relief. I was hoping you would share a dance with me. Shall we?

With pleased anticipation, she accepted. He reached for her hand and led her out onto the dance floor. Okay, now I am glad I came, she thought. Where else would she get a chance to dance with the prime minister of Israel? In all her experiences and travels, this was her first meeting, not to mention a dance, with a head of state.

They danced the first few moments in silence. She figured either Shafir did not like to talk while dancing or he was waiting for her to speak first. As Sarah was about to comment on her enjoyment of the evening, she gradually became aware that the beautiful tune to which they danced was familiar. For some reason, she associated it with her distant past, which was strange because she was in Israel, not the United States.

I know this song, she finally said aloud as she followed the lead of her partner. I just can’t remember where I know it from. Not the most intelligent or provocative of statements, but at least it was something.

You are correct to be familiar with it. It was written by a famous composer from America. The piece is called ‘Jerusalem.’ Herb Alpert wrote it after a visit here in the 1960s.

That’s it! Sarah exclaimed. I’ve never heard any other arrangement but his. I didn’t recognize the song without those distinctive trumpets. This arrangement is at a much slower tempo, too.

You have a musical background, then.

Sarah smiled up at him. Me? No, not really. I grew up listening to this music. My father still has my grandparents’ collection of Herb Alpert’s LPs, which he listens to on their old stereo set. My parents were huge fans, I think, because the older generations in the family revered him so.

"My grandparents did, as well as Tirzah’s. My wife’s great-uncle met Mr. Alpert on a trip to California back in the 1970s. He was such a fan of Mr. Albert’s