Chapter One

For the hundredth time Samantha Pinkman pondered how she had gotten into this mess. She was strapped in a plane on her way to Tel Aviv.

Sam did not want to be here.

She wanted to be at the Louvre, visiting the galleries and museums, spending evenings strolling along the Seine. She yearned to spend the summer surrounded by culture as she improved her photographic skills and career, not slumped in an overcrowded El Al airplane.

Exhausted after hours spent trying to convince her father to change his mind and which failed miserably, Sam watched her fellow passengers' antics with mixed feelings. She wished she could claim her camera from the hold above. The scene begged to be photographed.

Although the flight was filled to capacity, the ultra-orthodox Jewish men had wasted no time before moving to the rear of the plane and beginning their incantations, swaying backward and forward on the soles of their feet, chanting in unison. Dressed in coal-black coats to their knees, heads covered with matching hats, their long beards and drooping curls made them look like some fashion relic of the 1960's. They reminded Sam of the Diamond Exchange merchants in New York and she found herself watching them with fascination. Their constant hum as they prayed set her nerves on edge and the aroma of percolating coffee along with the oily odor of sardines served up at meal time, permeated the whole plane, making Sam’s stomach twist in rebellion.

For the umpteenth time, Sam punched a fist into her flight pillow and tried to sleep. With the continuous praying combined with incessant chatter from the passenger next to her, she resigned herself to a sleepless flight.

"Visiting relatives, dear?”

Sam twisted in her seat and sighed heavily as she looked at the elderly woman sitting next to her. Dressed in a nylon puce pink trouser suit, and with blue rinsed hair, the woman was a fashion nightmare nearly as grating as her Queens accent, the sound gravelly as if she was afflicted by nasal congestion. A whiff of her cheap perfume made Sam nauseous. She rubbed her temples. The acidic aroma of the perfume combined with the abrasive tones was giving her a headache.

"Spending the summer at an ulpan to learn Hebrew?" the woman asked referring to the language school for foreign students.

Sam shook her head trying to shut out the chatter.

"Volunteering on a kibbutz for the summer? Wait until you see those adorable Israeli soldiers.” The woman sighed theatrically. "If only I was your age again."

She couldn’t ignore the chatty woman. "Archeology dig," Sam mumbled.

"How marvelous. You lucky, lucky girl. What I wouldn’t have given to do that when I was young.”

"You can go in my place if you like,” Sam offered with a wry grin. Embarrassed at the sudden prick of tears, she turned away.

“So you’ve decided to come to Israel?”

“It wasn’t my decision. I should be going to Paris.”

The woman clucked sympathetically. “What happened?”

“My father won and my chance to photograph with the best in the field in Paris lost.”

A soft touch on her arm made Sam glance up. She caught the sympathetic affection from the stranger. The woman’s worn face and kind gray eyes that crinkled at the corners, looked at her with genuine concern.

The promise of tears finally spilled over and sniffing loudly, Sam dashed the back of her hand over her eyes.

“Oh dear, have I started the flood gates? I’m sorry.”

Her mouth trembled and she bit down hard on her bottom lip, struggling for composure. The drinks cart was a welcome diversion. She accepted a plastic glass of brandy on ice from the hostess and took a gulp, choking on the taunting burn as it slid down her throat. “He said it was the only way.”

“Why not tell me? Sometimes it helps to talk to a stranger.”

Sam eyed the woman. Would unburdening herself of the whole sorry saga ease the ache in her heart?

“Paris was my dream. I’d worked so hard for it, but Dad had other ideas. It wasn’t exactly my fault the job I’d had with Eric went wrong.” She blushed furiously. “Eric was married.” She sought the woman’s compassionate gaze. “How was I to know the job had strings attached? I arrived for a photo shoot. I mean, I’m not that type. The man was a letch. Said he’d teach me technique. It wasn’t the technique I had in mind.” Sam heard her own voice above the drone of the engines. She was babbling, unable to stop the words flowing. “My father hit the roof.”

“He sounds over protective.”

“One little mistake and I ended up being shipped off.” Sam looked at the passing clouds through small window. “He’s got some idiotic idea I need to discover my Jewish roots,” she muttered. “I’m an adult for heaven sake, but he treats me like a kid at times.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” Sam sighed wistfully. “He wanted was to get me out of America as fast as possible. Finding our history is his dream. He thinks it should be mine, too.”

“And it’s not?”

“I’m interested, but not right now. I have a career, or I did have until he interfered. I try to be independent, but the Pinkman name always gets in the way.

“Pinkman, as in department stores?”

Sam nodded. “I want to make my own name. Samantha Pinkman, Photographer.”

“It’s a good dream. A woman needs independence,” her neighbor nodded sagely.

“Tell that to my father.”

“Did you try to change his mind?”

A wry chuckle escaped Sam. “You bet.” Sam remembered her father’s stony expression. The man had gone beet-red and his shirt collar tightened so much she thought it would strangle him. “He wouldn’t budge an inch. All he said was that my antics with that stupid photographer were an embarrassment. I tried to make him realize he wasn’t letting me grow up and solve my own problems, to manage my own life.” She tossed her hands up in despair. “And so here I am…strapped to a seat, thirty thousand feet up, winging my way to the Promised Land.” Sam rolled her eyes. “I suppose it’s not his fault,” she said grudgingly. “I love him, and I’m all he’s got. My mother died when I was five.”

“You poor thing,” the woman cooed

Sam wished her father could understand as easily as this woman. She touched the woman’s hand. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Oh shush,” she admonished kindly. “Fathers can be overbearing with daughters. They want to protect and nurture their little girls.”

“That’s just it. I’m no longer little. I have a life.”

“Next time, you need to choose more wisely.

Sam let out a heavy sigh. “I will.” Silently, she vowed to be very careful who would trust in future.

The woman nodded her head knowingly. “My dear, I have advice for you. You may not want it.”

“Oh, but I do,” Sam edged forward, eager to hear the motherly woman.

“A woman understands a woman.” She tapped an arthritic finger on her nose. “You need independence, to show your strength of character and spirit, only that way will your father learn to accept his little girl has finally grown up. Go ahead and pursue your photographic career, carve out a niche for yourself. You may have not have wanted to come to Israel, but why not use the time here to your advantage and show him what you’re made of.”

Sitting back in her seat, Sam mulled over the woman’s sound advice. For Sam, sleep proved elusive as her mind whirred with the possibilities of photographic shots, and the sepias she could produce of the orthodox men in their bygone garb. “A black and white show,” she contemplated, visualizing the angles, textures and locations.

Resting against the small window, Sam spied the world below, the endless miles of ocean. She felt a burst of excitement as she thought of what she would see, remembering vivid memories of land and bazaars, the colors of the dry baked earth she’d read about in the National Geographic. Perhaps the kindly woman whom fate had seated next to her was right. She should look on this land and its people as an adventure.

The monotone ring of the bell from the in-flight sound system jostled Sam awake. "This is your pilot. We are flying over Tel Aviv and will be landing in a few minutes at Ben Gurion Airport."

Everyone around her craned their necks to gaze out the tiny windows at the view below and burst into spontaneous applause as the wheels bumped on the tarmac and the plane landed. A canned recording of Hava Nagila came over the loudspeaker system.

Sam started at their behavior. “You’d think landing a plane was some sort of miracle,” she muttered.

“To many it's exotic, flamboyant even,” the woman next to her advised. “But to those returning home, or arriving to the Promised Land, it is the way they show their delight at arriving safely. They had survived.”

The flight was over. The over processed food had done nothing for her mood. She was tired and jet-lagged, but as she glanced at the woman next to her, giving her a grateful smile, Sam realized that listening to her fountain of sensible advice, was more important than anything.

Sam had already decided to take the advice of the elderly woman; it was what she needed to turn this negative experience into a positive one.

As the plane came to a halt her fellow passengers excitedly yanked open overhead bins and collected their belongings before descending steps to board the bus that would ferry them to the terminal gate. Sam hung back, staring down at the throng charging towards the bus. With grim humor she thought it resembled something from a tropical island, its sides all but non-existent.

Stepping through the plane’s exit, a blast of heat from the notoriously hot desert winds, the hamsin phenomenon, sent her staggering back into the cabin. The blistering heat shattered any soupcon of cool and patience she had left.

“If it’s roasting in April, what will it be like by June?”

Sam blew at a strand of hair that fell over her face. Even her breath was hot. The hair she’d had so carefully straightened started curling, sticking to her damp, sweaty forehead.

A woman with a walkie-talkie told Sam to hurry, giving her a slight shove. Trapped by the crowd, she was carried along, like a wave into the vehicle, but with standing room only, it was like being in a sardine in a can and the smell wasn’t a lot better either. The stench of sweating bodies turned her stomach and she had to force down the urge to be sick.

The bus lurched and Sam pitched forward against another passenger. She braced herself, and after two of the longest minutes she’d ever endured, the jolting ride came to an end at a terminal gate. Everyone was shepherded into the building to stand in line, while girls wearing military uniforms examined their passports.

Sam held hers out to a female soldier. The woman’s long auburn hair, although tied back was the only feminine trace amidst the severe drab khaki uniform.

"Business or pleasure?" she asked courteously.

Sam blinked at the soldier who couldn’t be more than twenty years old. "Pleasure, I hope,” she answered wistfully, though she wasn’t at all sure.

The soldier flicked through the document, typed into a computer and stamped the passport. “Welcome to the Land of Israel.”

Sam followed the others into a hall lined with luggage carousel belts. Everyone crowded around, manhandling trolleys. Wielding her way through the crowd, she swung her leather bags onto the trolley and headed towards the exit.

A customs inspector directed her to another line, indicating she lift her bags onto the rack. Fighting exhaustion she snapped open the catches. Sam glanced around. The same was happening to most of the passengers and it made her realize the seriousness of the country’s security. The hair on the back of her neck rose and the surrounding noise was drowned out by the thudding of her own heartbeat as fear caught her in its grip.

She wondered if she could capture this same sense of life on film. Did she want to? Perhaps she should stick to something less threatening - produce a book about cactus. This country was an incongruous mixture of nature versus man. It would require a complete mental shift, away from the glamour and architecture of Paris, to the stark reality of life. A desert world with an intricate mix of life and death. Could she rise to the challenge?

Waiting in line, Sam looked around the terminal. A conglomeration of Israeli, Arab, soldiers, orthodox, monks in flowing robes and Christian clergy hustled on their way. Tourists bedecked with cameras jostled for position, eyes wide as they spied automatic weapons waved airily as if they were nothing but a toy water pistol. The young soldiers looked as if life was for relaxing, but Sam knew this land was on alert. Excited, she realized she wanted to capture the sense of life on film for all to see. The possibilities were endless.

At the next table people were fighting with a customs officer about a cellular phone. Loud voices in strange languages rose all around her, a mumbo-jumbo of sound. It reminded her of a United Nations tour she had taken as a schoolgirl; a melting pot of colors and nationalities.

With a cursory wave of the hand, the inspector motioned Sam to the end of the hall. Resolutely, she strode forward. “Okay, I'm here. Let’s get out and show the old man I’m my own woman,” she resolved.

Glass doors opened and once more the heat hit her in waves. Her knees buckled and she gripped the handlebars of the trolley, thankful for its strength. Rolling heat coiled up from the blacken asphalt and she fanned away a fly which stuck to her damp skin. Diesel fumes spitting from the waiting taxi and buses assaulted her nostrils. It was a heady mixture. Overheated sweaty bodies, the putrid aroma of tobacco and gasoline. Everywhere, people were shouting, rushing, arguing. It was a mad house of frantic activity and she was right in the middle of it, for better or worse.

Sam glanced in every direction. Where to now?

People lined a barricade, manned by uniformed police, eagerly awaiting friends and relatives. There was no limousine or anyone to meet her. A sudden bout of fear coiled in her gut. Where was she to go? Sam hesitated, unsure where to turn.

Behind the waiting hordes, a row of taxis waited by the curb. Sam jolted as a passing soldier, the muzzle of his machine gun digging her cruelly in the hip. It was as if she’d stepped into a war zone. The whole scene was intimidating, although she was no novice at world travel.

"Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" The raucous shout of taxi drivers hawking fares added to the cacophony.

With concentrated effort, Sam pushed her trolley through the crowds and the barricades towards the taxi rank, but the jerky movement of the trolley over the uneven pavement loosened her bag, knocking it to the ground, snapping open the catches. A rainbow of expensive delicate lace and silk lingerie decorated the pavement.

Drained by the brutal heat, Sam stared at the case; sure she had closed it properly. “Obviously not,” she groaned aloud.

She stooped to pick it all up, while the amused snickers from the crowd of onlookers added to her discomfort.

A man stooped to help.

Flustered, Sam looked up into coal black eyes, soft with compassion.

He handed her a flimsy pink bra and panties held between his forefinger and thumb, his rueful expression only adding to her embarrassment.

Sam didn’t think it was possible for her color to get higher, but a scorching blush seared her already hot cheeks. Mortified, she snatched the underwear from his tanned hand and tossed it into the bag. She slammed the bag shut, clicking the lock forcefully; making sure it wasn’t about to embarrass her again and escaped as quickly as she could into the blessed anonymity of the crowd

Josh Ben-Sion watched the flustered traveler disappear. An amused grin lit his usually serious face before he turned back to scan the last of the disembarking passengers. He shook his head and paid attention to the last stragglers coming through the airport barrier. He’d scrutinized every traveler who’d come through the gate. Had he missed Sam Pinkman?

Mentally he replayed his boss, Professor Shapira’s description. Red hair, twenty-one years old, and American. It was scant, but so far not one man had fit even this miniscule description. The man had probably missed the flight.

“What a waste of an afternoon,” Josh muttered. Annoyed and more than a little frustrated he turned to the waiting taxis to catch a ride to Jerusalem and elbowed his way through the crowds to the sherut, the group taxi service. A loud argument accompanied by wild hand gestures, caught his attention. He shrugged sympathetically. Street arguments were commonplace. The hotter the weather, the more it fueled tempers. Two ultra orthodox men were shaking heads at the driver, their long curled sideburns dancing. The driver pointed to the front seat where a woman with her head covered was already settled, her nose buried in a prayer book.

Casually, Josh noted the lady with the silk underwear in the middle of the argument. Shouting in English, her mossy green eyes blazed as she gestured to the back seat of the vehicle. With her mint colored dress and flaming hair Josh thought it gave her a striking resemblance to a sea nymph. He ducked his head in amusement, listening to her complaints.

"What is your problem? Don't you want a fare to Jerusalem?” The woman’s hands flexed and un-flexed with frustration. She brushed tangled curls from her face, fanning her hand for any semblance of cool air. “Five minutes in this country and my hair reverts to unmanageable,” she scowled in the direction of the vehicle’s empty seat. "What is wrong with this place?

Transfixed, Josh watched her.

“You,” she pointed to the driver, “and those lunatic men are the final straw. I’m tired. All I want is to be clean again. A bath, a shower, a swimming pool, a trip to Alaska.”

Josh could see no one was listening to her complaints. He strode forward and came to a halt between her and the two orthodox men. He pointed to them and spoke. "They can't sit next to you," he said gently.

“And why not? Do I smell or something?”

The two orthodox men moved as far away from her as they could. “Do they think I have the plague?”

"It's their custom not to sit next to a woman. They might accidentally touch you or brush against you, and that could lead to, well, to lewd thoughts. I realize it must sound ridiculous to someone who doesn’t understand. While some are not observant like the ultra orthodox, we are mostly still raised in a traditional home where everyone's views are respected,” he said with a serious undertone. "If more people listened to each other, we wouldn't suffer from so much hatred and intolerance."

"Well that's fine. So they get the ride and I'm stuck here."

He shook his dark head at her. "I can sit in between. Act as a buffer."

"I see,” her lips pursed. “So you won't have any lewd thoughts?”

Josh’s brows arched at the challenge in her voice. He looked down at her wrinkled linen dress which clung to her body. Some challenge!  "Never mind. Get in. Your bags?” He pointed to the brown leather luggage stacked on the trolley.

She nodded.

Josh slung the bags into the trunk. Acting as a buffer, Josh edged in between her and the others. Their quarters were cramped and he struggled to get comfortable, twisting his long legs in the narrow space. The car lurched into motion, taking the sharp curves at speed, flinging the woman across him. Her dress rode up her thighs and she brusquely shifted back into the corner.

This was going to be harder than he thought. He was starkly aware as the woman’s legs rubbed against his and when he gasped she gave him a curious glance beneath those long hooded lashes of hers.

Josh swallowed hard. He was in hell. He was in heaven. As the woman’s sleek bare legs chafed against his own, his thoughts went awry. He struggled to keep them in check and his eyes away from the hem of her skirt which rode higher and higher with every twist the vehicle took along the winding road. He could smell the faint aroma of her exotic perfume and it sent his senses reeling. The woman was intoxicating.

No one spoke, except the driver who hummed a mournful folk song – badly. He shouted over his shoulder at the woman. “Your first trip here, miss?"

"Mm," she muttered beneath her breath.

Unperturbed, the driver continued speaking. "Welcome to the Promised Land."

Seemingly disinterested at first, Josh noticed she brightened as the miles unfolded. She leaned forward to the driver. “How far is it?”

“About forty-five minutes, give or take a good or bad road,” he chortled, and increased speed, throwing her back against her seat. Like him, she was squashed. Trying to ignore the woman’s body pushed tightly against his, Josh’s gaze returned to the passing scenery. Israel was a contradiction. Orange trees, armed soldiers, and water sprinklers made up the passing landscape, it was greener than most realized. People expected a desert, not the lush greenery and orchards of the country's center.

“Is it always like this?” Her singsong voice interrupted his meandering. He turned to face her.

“These colors are so bright, intense even,” she enthused. Her green eyes glinted. It was the first time Josh had seen her interested in her surroundings.

“It offers such infinite possibilities for differing photos. I just wish I had kept my camera, instead of storing it with the luggage.” Her voice drifted off and she gazed out the window. She was in her own world. Josh couldn’t help but wonder what that exactly was.

 As the driver shifted gears to begin the long ascent to Jerusalem, everyone lurched forward. They sped past forests and the occasional burned out tanks.

"Can't they haul away the rubbish?” she whispered.

Josh heard the sharp reproach in her voice. Mangled metal lay in a heap alongside the road. His jaw clenched and he shook his head sadly. He pointed to one of the burned out trucks. "These vehicles are our memorial to those who died trying to break the siege of Jerusalem during the War of Independence,” he said more sharply than he intended.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to be insulting. It was a simple mistake. I didn’t know a pile of metal was a memorial. It isn’t as if it looks like a traditional sculpture or anything. More like that dreadful exhibition last month at the Museum of Modern Art," she muttered under her breath. "Who knew a pile of old metal was supposed to be a woman?”

“Simple mistake,” he snorted. “Everybody in this country knows someone who experienced the siege, or died trying to break it.”

The woman gulped visibly and flushed.

“You have a lot to learn about this country.”

“Too true,” she muttered. She refocused on the abandoned tanks. “Maybe I could set up a photograph with a couple of soldiers sprawled across it. Israel is famous for its women soldiers isn’t it?”

Josh nodded.

“What a contrast to my life. Women who are treated as equals, instead of mollycoddled by fathers.” She chuckled under her breath. A broad smile lit her face. “I could send my father a picture of myself in uniform, toting a rifle over my shoulder. Now that would make a great photograph to send to him.”

As if in a world of her own, the woman at his side settled in her seat. Josh struggled to ignore the sea green nymph in such close contact. Sour sweat trickled down his back as they were jostled every which way as the vehicle sped over winding roads.

A light groan escaped her lips. Josh gave the woman a sideways glance.

Reaching past her, Josh slid the small side window open. A cool breeze wafted in the gap and within minutes her eyes drifted closed, while Josh struggled to come up with a suitable excuse for his boss.

The city came into view. He nudged her. "We're near the city. It's high in the hills, much cooler than on the coast. Tell the driver where you want to be dropped off and he'll take you there," he instructed

She fumbled through her purse and handed a folded square of paper to the driver.

The city unfolded as the driver navigated evening rush hour traffic. Josh pointed pointing out the Knesset and Israel Museum as they headed towards the city center. He caught a glimpse of a windmill and the walls of the Old City behind it. The setting sun lit the walls with a surreal golden light as if the entire structure had been crafted by gold. He smiled as he saw her wide-eyed response to the beauty. Gone was the annoyance and frustration he’d seen written on her face, as she was enchanted, like all visitors to the city.

“For the rest of my life, I’ll remember this. Paris is nothing compared to this.” She shot a hand out, pointing toward the rooftops. “Look,” she chuckled. She was pointing to the sight of television antennas sticking above the ramparts.

Josh nodded. “It’s an incredible sight,” he agreed. “A juxtaposition of old and new!”

“This would be great for photographing, maybe even good enough for a book,” she enthused.

The driver turned down a large avenue and pulled up in front of an apartment building.

Sliding off the sticky vinyl seat, Josh was surprised when she followed him. He tried to ignore her. Some hope. He was sure those flashing green eyes were going to haunt him. He handed a fistful of bills to the driver, making the man grin widely while the woman struggled with her bags as she stepped towards the building.

He wondered whom she knew in the building, but shrugged off the thought. He had more important things on his mind. Like how to explain to his boss about not finding the American. He followed the woman into the building entrance.

"Are you following me?” She shot him a dark look.

"Of course not.” He lifted one bag while she struggled with the others into an elevator, trying to ignore her grateful smile. She pushed the fourth floor button.

Josh frowned at the coincidence.

The ride took several seconds. The doors slid open and an elderly, bald man with bright blue eyes stood waiting. A broad grin lit his face. "My dear, Miss Pinkman, how delightful to see you.” He leaned forward and lightly kissed her reddened cheeks. “I see young Ben-Sion had no difficulty finding you.”

The bag fell out of Josh's hands, landing on the floor with a thud. He stared in horror at the rumpled, tired redhead. "Sam Pinkman?" he croaked.

"Samantha. Sam will do fine," she replied, fumbling in her purse. She handed him a crisp ten-dollar bill. "Can you carry the bags in please?"

Hope you enjoyed reading the excerpt of Woman of Valor.  Want to read more?

Go to:  www.trebleheartbooks.com to purchase in book, or download format.

Are you in NZ or Australia?  You can puchase a signed copy direct from me. Email me at:  neiljane@ihug.co.nz

Happy Reading.

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