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  Ridge, I—”

  “Enough. We got off on the wrong foot, Dr. Roarke. Let me buy you a hat as a peace offering.”

  His face was so earnest that Alexana faltered. Suddenly he was like a little boy on a mission. She set her lips grimly as she entered the store behind him, steeling herself for the inevitable. She had five Indiana Jones hats at home, gifts from past suitors. Why had men always wanted to put her under a masculine cap? She was an archaeologist but still a woman.

  But as Alexana looked around the hat shop, past the leather and felt fedoras, she discovered that Ridge had headed straight to a more feminine section of the store. He held a beautifully crafted, tightly woven linen hat with a white taffeta ribbon around its crown. He looked at her, then back to the hat again. “I saw one like it in the window,” he said proudly.

  A shiver ran down her spine. Had he picked it for her?

  “It’s perfect, don’t you think?” he asked, placing it on her head before she could say a word. “I looked around, and it was as if it had your name on it.”

  ALSO BY LISA TAWN BERGREN

  ROMANCE NOVELS

  THE FULL CIRCLE SERIES

  Refuge

  Torchlight

  Pathways

  Treasure

  Chosen

  Firestorm

  CONTEMPORARY FICTION

  The Bridge

  HISTORICAL FICTION

  THE NORTHERN LIGHTS SERIES

  The Captain’s Bride

  Deep Harbor

  Midnight Sun

  NOVELLAS

  “Tarnished Silver” in Porch Swings & Picket Fences

  CHILDREN’S

  God Gave Us You

  God Gave Us Two (fall 2001)

  CHOSEN

  PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-77812-3

  Copyright © 1996, 2001 by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown

  Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.

  WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bergren, Lisa Tawn.

  Chosen / Lisa Bergren.—1st WaterBrook ed.

  p. cm. — (The full circle series; 5)

  1. Women archaeologists—Fiction. 2. Middle East—Fiction. 3. Terrorism—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3552.E71938 C48 2001

  813’.54—dc21

  00-067314

  v3.1

  To Bob and Pam:

  Friends, family, hosts to houseguests who never go home.

  Thanks for your hospitality,

  for going through this book to make sure I “got it right,”

  for making me meet Tim, and for all your love and support.

  You guys are the best!

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood,

  a holy nation, a people belonging to God,

  that you may declare the praises of him

  who called you out of darkness

  into his wonderful light.

  1 PETER 2:9

  PROLOGUE

  THE COAST OF ISRAEL

  LATE JANUARY

  Samuel Roarke Jr. gazed out at the Mediterranean, thinking about the incredibly preserved sunken ship he had seen an hour ago. In his mind’s eye, he could just begin to see what the ancient harbor must have looked like in its glory. He wished for the thousandth time that he could travel through time to stand beside Herod, observing his ways, his work, his wonders. Thirty years before Christ was born.

  Sam glanced back at his partner, forcing his mind back to the subject of the ship. “It’s gotta be Greek,” he said.

  Robert Hoekstra, head of the Center for Maritime Studies back in the States and current supervisor of Israel’s Caesarea Maritima dig, nodded in agreement. “It’s at least as old as the one they found off the coast of Athens. We need to fly in a consultant to advise us on how to pursue this part of the project. It’s a thousand years older than anything I’ve had hands-on experience with.”

  “Christina Alvarez?” Sam suggested. He and Robert had recently discussed the innovative dive site protection system that Christina had developed while excavating the American Civil War wrecks, then perfected during work on nautical archaeological sites in the Caribbean.

  Robert stood before him, rubbing his forehead, which was bronzed from weeks in the mild winter sun. “If she’ll agree to it. That lady’s got her fingers on more projects of economic importance than anyone else I know.”

  “It’s that treasure hunter husband she hooked up with.”

  “I need to find myself a treasure hunter wife,” Robert said, grinning down at his frayed, sun-bleached shorts.

  “That you do,” Sam said with a laugh. Then he grew more serious. “I think we can get her to come see this. If I know Christina, just the chance to check out a ship like this will bring her, at least on a consultant basis.”

  “Very good,” Robert said, stroking his gray beard. “Give her a call right away. We haven’t a day to lose.”

  JERUSALEM, LATE JANUARY

  Alexana Roarke walked up the wide, grand stairs and handed her briefcase to the Waksf guard. No matter how often she went through the procedure of passing the guards at the gate of the Temple Mount—referred to by Muslims as the Haram el Sharif—she was irritated by the amount of time they took. The guard smiled in recognition and quickly searched the case, waving off his companion who moved to body-search her.

  “Yes. She is too pretty to be carrying a bomb,” the second guard said in Arabic, misunderstanding the first guard’s wave. He smiled at Alexana in appreciation.

  Her smile in return was perfunctory at best. Yes, she hated this process more each time she endured it. Weaselly gua
rds who think they wield so much power …

  “But sometimes they send their prettiest to do the dirty work,” the second guard muttered as he scrutinized her, continuing his monologue as though he thought someone was listening. Warming to the power of his position, he pushed onward. “As I look at her more closely, I think she is not so pretty. Just blond. You always like the blondes.”

  “Be quiet, fool.” The first guard switched to English. “This is Dr. Alexana Roarke. She has been summoned to meet with Abdallah al Azeh.”

  His cohort’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

  She nodded at the first guard as he gave her permission to pass, then turned to the second. “I will be sure to inform Abdallah al Azeh that you do not like blondes,” she said in perfect Arabic. She did not stay to watch his response.

  Moving quickly, with purpose, she passed the El Aksa Mosque and the ornate, golden Dome of the Rock without looking twice; she had no time for sightseeing. Besides, the dramatic structures of Jerusalem had been part of her life for as long as she could remember.

  A group of tourists passed her, straining to hear their guide who led them from one location to another. She felt sorry for the people who buzzed through Jerusalem this way, passing in a mad frenzy from one holy site to another. How could one truly come to experience this wonderful, crazy, complicated city in one week? The Temple Mount, or the Haram, had been breathtaking to her the first thirty times she saw it after grad school. Covering an area equivalent to five football fields in size, the monstrous structure could be explored for weeks on end.

  But that was her archaeological head speaking. Still, there was so much to this place, the city Jesus had lived in and loved, the city she lived in and loved. Alexana drew in a deep breath of air, fresh from a light rain. It smelled like clean stones to her. She approached the offices on the northeastern corner of the Haram where al Azeh conducted business.

  She racked her brain as she had done since yesterday for the reason Abdallah al Azeh—head of the Waksf and Islamic Affairs—had summoned her to meet with him, then shrugged her questions away, drew a breath, and knocked on the official’s door.

  A male guard opened it and nodded her forward.

  Alexana stopped in shock at the inner office door. Standing to her left and right were two Mossad agents, easily identified by their trademark secret service aviator glasses. Sitting across the desk from Abdallah al Azeh was Abba Eban, head of the Israeli Antiquities Authority.

  Eban was seldom seen in or around the Haram. Convinced that the Jews only wanted to destroy the Haram to rebuild their biblical temple, many Muslims would consider Eban’s presence an act of treason by al Azeh. The mystery deepens, she thought.

  “Come in, come in,” Abdallah said, motioning to a plush, green chair beside Abba Eban. Both men politely stood. Abdallah watched Alexana sit and inquisitively study them.

  “You wonder why we both wish to meet with you.”

  A tiny smile edged her lips upward. “To say the least.”

  “Alexana,” Abba Eban said, smiling broadly. “Under the new peace accord, Abdallah has paved the way for an unprecedented dig.” He paused dramatically, letting the information sink in. “We are to have unlimited access to Solomon’s Stables.”

  Alexana drew in her breath sharply, struggling to maintain her composure. Not only was she sitting before the leaders of two longstanding enemy factions, men who heretofore would have been loath to be so near one another, but they both wanted to excavate. And the excavation was no ordinary dig. It was under the Temple Mount, the Haram, fiercely protected by Muslims for decades.

  “Due to your longstanding reputation, the work done by you and your family in the region, and your ability to remain neutral between Palestinian and Jew alike,” Abdallah said, “we have chosen you to be dig supervisor.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  JANUARY 25

  The desert was hot for a winter day. Ridge McIntyre wiped his brow as he pulled the Jeep off the highway and onto a road he found only by tracking his mileage and carefully following directions. It led deeper into the Negev Desert south of Jerusalem. The newest correspondent for CNN, Ridge had managed to land the prime news region of the Middle East in which to prove himself, and he was intent upon setting up his contacts. He had already established three key sources of inside information; if he could nail this fourth, he’d have a strong network set up to funnel him politically hot stories.

  He drove the Jeep up a steep hill, hoping that he was going in the right direction. Just over the crest he spied two men standing in the road with their arms crossed in front of them. As Ridge neared, they pulled their black and white Bedouin robes aside, displaying Uzis at the ready.

  Ridge sighed, wondering how many more times he would have to risk his life for a story in this region.

  The smaller man motioned with his head for Ridge to get out of the vehicle. Ridge started talking before his foot was out the door, his customary defense mechanism for dealing with stressful situations.

  “Ridge McIntyre. I’m here to see Khalil al Aitam.”

  “Shut up,” the taller man said. He turned Ridge toward the car, forced his arms to the sun-scorched roof, and frisked him. The other man searched the Jeep.

  Ridge submitted to the search without moving, ignoring his burning palms. “I’m a United States citizen,” he began in protest. “And a correspondent for CNN.”

  “Shut up,” the man repeated and stood away from Ridge.

  “Your American citizenship buys no love here,” the smaller guard said in practiced English. “Your connection to CNN is all that allows you to breathe your next breath.”

  Alexana Roarke smiled back at her handsome Palestinian host, lounging in his Bedouin robes amongst the traditional pile of brightly colored cushions. The tent around them was surprisingly cool and smelled of sweat, broiled lamb, and very strong tea and coffee. Beside her, a woman served the hot, sweet tea customary to the Middle East.

  “Thank you, Sarah,” Alexana said. The dark-eyed beauty smiled shyly with her eyes—her nose and mouth hidden by a light veil—then ducked out of the tent. Alexana turned toward Khalil. “When are you going to marry that girl?” she asked him calmly.

  “When I get tired of you saying no,” he said. A row of even, white teeth gleamed at her.

  Alexana snorted and shook her head. “I said no in third grade and in seventh and when we graduated and left Ramallah.” She reached out and took his hand.

  The man continued to smile, but hurt showed in his eyes. Alexana studied him carefully. Tall and muscular, at ease and relaxed in his robes, Khalil was a man who would be admired by women of any nationality.

  Spotting his serious expression, Alexana felt her smile fade. “Oh Khalil, come on. We have definitely taken different paths. A marriage between us would be disastrous.”

  “A good marriage can conquer any obstacles.”

  “If you begin from the same foundation. Our lifetime of friendship doesn’t count.” Alexana ignored the stubborn set of his chin. “We’ve covered this before. You’ve become a militant Muslim. A political fundamentalist leader—of Hamas, no less. I am and will always remain a devout Christian. Your life has become unavoidably entrenched in the ways of Middle Eastern men—how would it look for you to have a professional Westerner as a wife?”

  She lowered her voice, conscious that Sarah probably was listening outside. “I will not be parked in some tent, serving tea. I would be desperately unhappy, and you would be very dissatisfied.”

  Khalil rose and walked toward the curtains. His actions reminded Alexana of those exhibited by a king, and she struggled not to openly admire this childhood friend who had become very much a man. He pulled aside the animal skin that hung over the window and watched a Jeep approach along the sandy road leading to the tent. “So, my friend, what is it that you seek from me today?”

  Alexana closed her eyes and wished away the tension that had risen between them. “I’ll cut to the chase,” she said, phrasing her wo
rds carefully. “Word has it that Abdallah al Azeh and Islamic Affairs are going to let me lead a team under the Haram and excavate Solomon’s Stables.”

  “I have heard. Hamas will not allow it. Decline the invitation when it comes.”

  Alexana laughed aloud. “You’ve got to be kidding! This is the chance of a lifetime! Of my career!” Forcing herself to lower her voice, she rose and went to him, touching his shoulder. “Khalil.”

  He let the curtain fall as the vehicle pulled up outside the tent.

  Alexana’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. “This is the reason that you agreed to see me today? The reason for another marriage proposal? Because I am in danger?”

  Khalil turned to her and cradled her jaw in his strong hand. He looked lovingly into her eyes. “You would be safe as my wife.”

  Her brow furrowed, but she did not look away. “Even if I agree to lead the team under the Haram?”

  He dropped his hand and moved back to the curtain. “No. There are many who consider you a menace already. I’ve intervened to keep you off the hit lists as even a potential leader to the project.”

  “I cannot accept that!” She grimaced, unwilling to accept his words. “Hamas knows me, my family. I’ve grown up here! Never have I proven myself untrustworthy! I am considered a friend to Muslim and Jew alike.”

  “That is no longer possible.”

  “We will make the Haram’s foundation stronger. We will not harm the El Aksa Mosque.”

  “You don’t understand the ramifications!” Khalil said, uncharacteristically letting his voice rise. He dropped the curtain again and stared angrily back at the slim blonde in front of him.

  “I don’t understand?”

  A voice from outside the tent interrupted the intensity of the moment. “Hello? Ridge McIntyre, CNN. Anyone home?” The animal skin fell to one side as a tall, handsome man stepped into the tent. Squinting in the darkness after being in the bright desert light, he shifted his gaze from Alexana to her companion, then back again as she moved to collect her bag.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Ridge stammered, obviously noting the tension in the room. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was invited by Khalil al Aitam.”