Enemies in Embrace: Episode 10 – The Betrayal at Ramallah

 

 “The road to Jordan was long, winding through quiet valleys and rocky hills that felt like ancient land. The kind of land that didn’t care who you were or who you loved—it had seen too many lovers and too many wars to be moved by our little tragedy.”

By Julia M Cross

The baby in my arms shifted, his fingers curling around a strand of my hair, half-asleep. I pressed my lips to his head and stared at the road again. It was empty. Still. Too still. My mind tried to be logical. Maybe Yousef’s phone had died. Maybe he was stuck in a checkpoint. Maybe there was traffic. But my gut screamed something else. Something colder.

I whispered his name into the wind, as if the night could carry it to him: “Yousef.” No answer. Just the distant barking of stray dogs and the low hum of a power line overhead. My eyes blurred from watching the same street for too long. I stepped back inside, careful not to wake the other twin. Nadine was in the kitchen, drying a saucepan. She looked up.

“Any word?” she asked.

I shook my head.

She hesitated, then said softly, “You want me to call Tarek again?”

“I don’t know what I want,” I said, and then, almost like a whisper to myself, “I just want him back.”

She walked over and placed a hand on my shoulder. “He’s smart. And stubborn. That’s a good combination.”

I tried to smile, but it cracked. My chest was tight, my stomach twisting. I moved through the apartment like a ghost, checking the door, then the phone, then the children. I repeated this loop for hours. It was past 2 a.m. when the knock came.

Not loud. Just a single, heavy knock. Tarek leapt from the sofa, grabbing the baseball bat he kept behind the curtain. I froze.

Another knock. Measured. Almost... polite.

Tarek went to the peephole.

“It’s a priest,” he said, confused. “What the hell?”

“A priest?”

He opened the door slowly. A tall man in a black cassock stood there, silver crucifix around his neck. His eyes were sharp, too sharp for a holy man.

“Is Leah here?” he asked, his voice low.

Tarek turned to me. I stepped forward, unsure. “I’m Leah.”

He looked me over and nodded like he’d just confirmed something for himself.

“Your husband sent me.”

My heart thudded. “Where is he?”

“He’s safe,” the priest said. “But he’s in danger.”

“That makes no sense—”

“He found out someone was following him. Two men, possibly more. He sent me with this.”

The priest reached into his sleeve and handed me a small folded note. I unfolded it.

Leah, don’t go out. Don’t talk to anyone but this man. He’s Father Elias. He saved my brother’s life once. I trust him. I love you. I’ll send for you when it’s safe. –Y.

I read it twice, my hands trembling.

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“I can’t say,” Father Elias said. “The less you know, the better.”

I looked at Tarek, who looked as confused and tense as I felt.

“I can take you somewhere safer,” the priest said. “There’s a place outside Madaba. A monastery. Hidden, quiet. No phones. No visitors.”

“Madaba is in Jordan,” I said.

“Yes. We’ll leave before sunrise.”

“I can’t just leave.”

“You can,” he said calmly. “And you must. Because this is no longer about just you and your husband. It’s about what your union has come to represent.”

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer.

We left two hours later.

Tarek packed us a basket of food and pressed a wad of Jordanian dinars into my palm. “I’ll tell him where you’ve gone if he returns,” he said. “Stay alive.”

The road to Jordan was long, winding through quiet valleys and rocky hills that felt like ancient land. The kind of land that didn’t care who you were or who you loved. It had seen too many lovers and too many wars to be moved by our little tragedy.

Father Elias didn’t speak much. When he did, it was only to tell me where we were, or to ask if the children were hungry. I watched him as he drove, his jaw tight, his knuckles pale on the wheel. He wasn’t a priest in the way I imagined. There was something beneath the robes—an alertness, a sharpness. Like a soldier disguised in silk.

We crossed into Jordan using forged papers. He handed mine to the officer with the ease of someone who had done this many times. The officer barely glanced at them. We were waved through.

Hours later, we arrived at the monastery. It sat on a hill, hidden behind olive trees and crumbling stone walls. Inside, the air was thick with incense and candle smoke. Monks moved like shadows, saying nothing. The silence felt holy. Or maybe haunted.

They gave us a room near the back—a small cell with white sheets and an old wooden crucifix above the bed. The children napped. I sat at the window, staring at the sky. I didn’t cry. I didn’t have the strength. I just watched the light shift from gold to grey, wondering if Yousef was watching the same sky.

That evening, Father Elias returned to my door.

“He’s alive,” he said. “But they know he tried to leave. Someone betrayed him.”

“Who?”

He shook his head. “Does it matter?”

“Yes. Because whoever it was... they could come after us too.”

He sighed. “There’s more. They’ve taken him.”

My chest caved.

“Taken?”

“He went to a contact in East Jerusalem. He thought he could secure real passports. Someone tipped off the authorities. He’s being held in an unofficial prison outside Ramallah. Not a real jail. A black site.”

My mouth was dry. “What happens to people who go there?”

“They disappear.”

I gripped the window frame.

“I have to go to him.”

“You can’t.”

“He’s my husband.”

“That’s exactly why you can’t.”

I stared at him. “Then help me.”

He studied me for a long moment. Then nodded.

“We have one option. But it’s dangerous.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will,” he said softly.

That night, I wrote a letter. I didn’t know who would read it. Maybe the UN. Maybe an activist. Maybe no one. But I wrote it anyway.

I told the truth. About Fontainebleau. About fleeing. About the threats. About Yousef. About the price of love in a land that didn’t recognize it.

I gave it to Father Elias. He promised to get it to someone who could make noise.

“If they know the world is watching,” he said, “they might keep him alive.”

“Will they release him?”

“Only if we give them something more valuable in return.”

He didn’t say what that was.

I didn’t ask.

The next day passed slowly. I played with the children in the monastery garden, pretending the stones were castles and the weeds were dragons. I laughed for them. I sang for them. I lied for them.

Inside, I was splitting apart.

That night, I lay awake, my eyes on the ceiling, the crucifix above me like a question I couldn’t answer.

I whispered into the dark: “God, if you’re there, don’t give him back to me. Just keep him alive.”

A knock.

Soft.

Measured.

Again.

I rose.

Father Elias stood there. His face unreadable.

“We have a lead.”

“Where?”

“East Jerusalem.”

“I thought—”

He held up his hand. “No questions. Just pack. And pray.”

As I gathered the children’s things, I felt something rise in me. Not fear. Not grief.

Resolve.

The kind of resolve that only comes when love turns from passion to mission.

We would find him.

Or we would die trying.

And so, as the monastery bells echoed through the Jordan hills, we set off for the city that had birthed too many wars and not enough peace.

Toward the unknown.

 

From the romance series by Julia M Cross. Next episode releases Friday at 8 PM.