by Lela Gilbert
More footage followed, this time of an African village. Mud huts and outside cooking fires provided the backdrop for Simms, who held a sweet-faced toddler in his arms—a child with a clubfoot. Simms’ charismatic smile was turned, full force, toward the camera. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful face than this one?”
Does he mean his face or the kid’s?
After fifteen more minutes of hard-sell fund appeals, Betty saw the broadcast to its conclusion and, with a sigh of relief, switched to CNN.
There was no news about the hostages.
Betty walked around the hotel lobby, bought a news magazine, ate in the coffee shop, browsed in the gift shop, and went back to her room. She was supposed to be picked up at nine the next morning by someone from Ricky Simms Ministries.
She couldn’t help but wonder what his ministry people would be like. Would they be like him? The fund-raising program she’d just watched was both exploitative and expensively produced. At least they’ve managed to come up with some money. Maybe they’ll send a little of it our way.
Somehow the hours crawled by, and Betty slept at last, dreaming of Jon.
She woke up early the next morning—too early—ordered room service coffee and turned the television on. Once she’d assured herself that there were no hostage developments, she began clicking through the television dial.
Uh-oh. There he is, asking for money again. I guess he doesn’t do sermons.
This time Ricky Simms was surrounded by pathetic-looking Yugoslavian children. Although they weren’t covered in flies, they were dressed in tattered clothing. And several of them were obviously unhealthy. Ricky Simms himself soon materialized on the screen, with a forceful demand to “write that check now—while it’s on your heart.”
The camera cut back to a hospital scene. A bald youngster languished in a bed, suffering from a blood disease. Simms prayed soberly for the youngster, holding him by the hand. Once the prayer was over, the camera zoomed in for a well-lit closeup of the now-smiling preacher. He spoke in hushed tones about the tragedy that had “robbed these boys and girls of their childhood.” An evocative musical track faded in behind him, making his words all the more gripping. Betty was touched by the broadcast, in spite of her herself.
In a way, she thought, he’s doing a good work. He’s making it possible for people to see the needs of children and to help out. Sure, he’s manipulative, but if it helps kids, so what.
An hour later, Betty was surprised when she was picked up in a late-model Mercedes sedan. A perfectly groomed young man greeted her warmly. “Welcome to Texas, Elisabeth. We’re so glad you were able to come and see us.”
She settled herself in the front seat of the car, noting a cellular phone at the driver’s right hand and enjoying the luxury. “Nice car,” she couldn’t help but comment.
“We want our guests to be comfortable. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been through a lot. We’re going to take good care of you here in Dallas.”
Betty was amazed at the Ricky Simms Ministries’ headquarters. The building had obviously been designed by a highly skilled architect, and its interior decorator had been no less professional. It wasn’t just lavish, it was elegantly tasteful.
Ricky Simms’ honey-blonde secretary welcomed Betty enthusiastically and led her to an inner sanctum that smelled of leather and fresh ground coffee. “Please be comfortable,” the woman said with a rich Southern drawl. “You are so welcome.”
Betty surveyed her surroundings and mentally contrasted them with OMI’s unimpressive offices which seemed quite shabby by comparison. Well, if I came looking for money, I came to the right place.
Her meeting with Ricky Simms entailed her informing him about the OMI Milk-for-Lebanon endeavor and his informing her about what he would do to help.
“I’ll interview you on camera. We’ll devote an entire broadcast to your project, and once our expenses are covered, we’ll send you a check. I’ll bet we can raise more than half a million dollars for this one. I think we’ve got some old footage from ’82 of the kids in Beirut, and I’ll bet our production people can put together a powerful broadcast. We’re real happy to help you, Dear. Thanks for giving us the opportunity.”
It’s nice these things can be done on a handshake in Christian circles, Betty reflected quite ingenuously to her self after the meeting.
After a lavish lunch with several of Simms’ assistants, Betty was taken to the television studio, right on the headquarters premises. She was ushered into a well-appointed makeup room.
It’s nicer than ABC-TV in Hollywood. Isn’t that something!
She walked past several vacant sets on her way to the interview. One of them caught her eye—it had been used on the Yugoslavia appeal she’d seen earlier that day. It was carefully decorated to look like a pastor’s study, which Betty had assumed was Simms’ actual study.
The set being used for her interview was a cozy looking living room furnished with English antiques and beautifully upholstered chairs. She and Simms were placed on either side of a crackling, artificial fireplace. An oil painting depicting a British manor house hung over the mantle, and two small coat-of-arms prints decorated the wall. Simms had changed his clothes and was wearing a tweed sports coat with an equestrian print tie. He really was a handsome man.
“Now we’re just going to have a little chat, Elisabeth, and you just say whatever you want. We’ll edit it afterward, so don’t be concerned about making mistakes or anything like that.” Betty nodded.
With that, several bright lights were turned on, a voice said “Lebanon Children’s Relief, number 248, we’re rolling,” and the interview began. Simms managed to move Betty to tears a number of times, not a particularly challenging feat, by the way. He expertly led her back to the day of the kidnapping. To that first, horrible phone call. To the canceled wedding and the shattered dreams. He seemed to know instinctively how to bring up the most painful elements of the tragedy. Because the cameras were rolling, Betty felt she had to try to talk about them. Fortunately, Simms was kind enough to provide her with tissues.
I should have worn waterproof mascara, Betty chided herself, noticing several black smudges.
Finally, he turned to the camera and said, “Yes, friends, this is a heartbreaking story. But you’ve only seen part of the picture. There are some children in Lebanon who don’t have enough to eat and have no milk to drink. Wouldn’t you like to help them and help Elisabeth Casey too? Just take a look at these faces . . .”
“Cut!” barked the director. The interview was over.
“We’ve tentatively scheduled to air it next week. We’ll be in touch, Elisabeth.”
As the Mercedes smoothly transported her to the airport, a disturbing thought caught up with her. Jon’s chained up in a hole somewhere, and I’m riding around in a Mercedes with a car phone and leather seats. There’s something wrong with this picture.
By 8:00 P.M. Betty was safely in her own haven, putting away her toiletries and washing the makeup off her face in the bathroom sink. She had checked the answering machine the moment she walked through the door.
There were no messages.
David Jacobsen couldn’t have been more compassionate. “I know what my family went through while I was a hostage, and it isn’t easy. You’ve got to believe—in Jon, in yourself, and in God. And you’ve got to get lots of exercise. Are you jogging or walking?”
“Well, I’ve logged a lot of miles walking back and forth to the answering machine . . .”
“No, no. That’s not good enough.” Jacobsen laughed affably. “You’ve got to move—fast. Get your blood circulating, endorphins flowing. But what about this fund-raising business? What are you trying to do?”
Betty explained about Hezbollah. And dry milk. And “bridges of peace.” He listened politely. “Well I’m all for helping the people of Beirut. That’s what took me over there in the first place. I’m not sure how much good it’ll do, but let me give you a name and number to call.”
Jacobsen thumbed through an address book. “Okay, here it is. Do you know who Arthur Nichols is?”
“He’s one of those super wealthy guys back east, isn’t he?”
“Yes, and he’s also a philanthropist.”
“Oh, that’s right. He had something to do with settling Russian Jews in Israel, didn’t he?”
“Right. He’s invested millions of dollars in humanitarian projects, sometimes to the benefit of the U.S. Government. He’s well connected in Washington and knows the score. Why don’t you contact his office. He told me once, right after my release, to call him if there was anything he could do for the other hostages.”
“He could afford to do anything he wants.”
“That’s true, but Nichols is very picky about what he does. And he doesn’t like his name to be thrown around, so be careful. Tell him I told you to call because of what he said to me. And good luck!”
Betty stared at the phone number for a long time, butterflies running sorties around her insides. God, I hate this! She took a deep breath and picked up the phone. She groaned, hung it up, and took a walk around the office, glancing at the clock. It was 10:00 A.M.
There’s no point in calling him now. It’s lunchtime in New York.
Just then Jim Richards walked past her. “Any luck with Jacobsen?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve got a call to make.”
“To whom?”
“Ever heard of Arthur Nichols?”
“What?” Jim’s eyes widened. “You’re calling Arthur Nichols?”
“You know, Jim, come to think of it, you’re the president of OMI, and you probably should be the one calling. You’d be a lot more likely to . . .”
“Nice try, Betty! I may be president of OMI, but your fiancé’s a hostage, and that’s what he’ll respond to.”
Betty closed her eyes, shook her head, and blinked back the tears. “Sometimes that part almost gets forgotten, doesn’t it?”
She walked back into her office, picked up the phone, and dialed the New York number.
After several attempts failed to reach him, a secretary finally said, “Mr. Nichols will be with you in a moment.”
God, help me, Betty nervously prayed.
“Arthur Nichols here.” The voice was smoky, almost grating, with a pronounced East Coast accent.
He sounds like the Godfather.
“Mr. Nichols, my name is Elisabeth Casey. My fiancé is a hostage in Beirut. David Jacobsen suggested I call. “
“Yes. The New Zealander. I’ve been following the story.”
“Yes, that’s right. Jon Surrey-Dixon. Mr. Nichols, I work for a humanitarian organization that is trying to put together a large shipment of dry milk to Beirut. We’re hoping that by making a humanitarian gesture to the Hezbollah faction, it may pave the way for some positive actions on their part, and . . .”
“You think they’ll let some hostages go if you give them milk?”
The whole idea suddenly sounded pretty ridiculous to Betty. Her palms became sweaty.
“Well, not exactly. Recently Sheik Fadlallah has been talking about a humanitarian solution to the hostage crisis, and we felt that a gesture such as this might be a step in the right direction.”
“I see. So you want me to underwrite the shipment?”
“Not entirely. There’s another potential donor as well,” Betty said, not wanting to sound greedy and remembering Ricky Simms’ estimated $500,000 in donations. “But any help you can give us would be appreciated.”
“So do you think a cargo ship full of milk would be a significant gesture?”
Betty caught her breath. “Of course it would. It would be wonderful.”
Nichols was silent for a moment or two, as if he were mulling over a decision. “I’m going to put you in touch with one of my assistants.”
Betty didn’t want to let him go without a more substantial promise. “Did you feel you could provide a cargo ship of milk, or were you just estimating an amount?”
Nichols said, “I’ll do what I can. My associates and I need to do some research into procuring the milk . . .”
“We’ve found the milk in Switzerland, and we’re in touch with a shipping company in Cyprus. The milk will go to Hezbollah’s charitable foundation.”
“So you just want a check from me.”
“We need funding Mr. Nichols . . .”
“As far as I can see, Miss Casey, I can fund this project. I’ll put you in touch with my assistant. His name is Ben Shapiro. Give me your number, and I’ll have Ben call you.”
Betty hung up the phone and ran to Jim’s office. “Jim!” She closed the door so no one could hear. “Arthur Nichols said,” she pulled out her pad and read his statement, word for word, “‘As far as I can see, I can fund this project.’ He mentioned filling a whole cargo ship, Jim! If Ricky Simms comes through with his half a million dollars, too, this will be a bigger shipment than we could possibly have imagined!”
Jim smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Well, good! But let’s keep moving forward with the other plans. We still don’t know how to get word to Sheik Fadlallah, and we’ve got to get the milk from Switzerland to Cyprus. Good work, Betty! Maybe you’re not such a bad fund raiser after all.”
The milk project was taking all of Betty’s attention by now. She had officially become the project coordinator, since everyone else was responsible for OMI’s normal operations, and that was fine with her. Organizing an international milk shipment was a lot more fun than writing a Ugandan Orphanage Report, especially since her heart was more involved in the outcome of the shipment. And she was finding each success exhilarating, which helped take her mind off her ongoing heartache. Even the smallest victory provided a respite from the otherwise disheartening battle.
About a week after talking to Arthur Nichols, Betty was watching television, absently flipping through all channels, as had become her habit. Suddenly she saw herself on the tube, talking to Ricky Simms. Good grief, I forgot all about being on his show. Why am I crying?
She watched the interview with a growing sense of alarm. I look like a blubbering idiot! Simms’ editors had done a masterful job of cutting out every intelligent word she had spoken, leaving only such things as, “I never dreamed anything like this could happen to me,” and “I don’t want to live the rest of my life without him.”
I’ll die if Jon ever sees this.
Of course Ricky Simms had asked her just the right questions to prompt her tearful responses, but those questions were nowhere to be heard. All that remained was a series of sniffing, sobbing sentences coming from an emotional wreck who looked very much like Betty. It appeared, for all the world, that she had parked herself in Ricky Simms’ tasteful living room, pulled out a tissue, and begun to pour out her troubles to him uninvited— smudged mascara and all. She was mortified.
Mercifully, Simms’ segue to the Lebanese children footage soon removed Betty from the screen. At that point, her phone rang. It was Joyce. “Betty, you poor thing! I’ve never seen you so upset. Why haven’t you let your friends see all that pain?”
“Oh, Joyce, I’m so embarrassed. The interview was nothing like that! Some editor cut out all the questions and answers, all the positive comments—everything. All they left was the emotional part. I can’t believe it—I look like a total neurotic!”
“Is your television still on? Look at what he’s doing now.”
At that moment, the televangelist was imploring listeners to send donations to help the children of Lebanon. He referred to the hostage problems only indirectly. His focus was on “reaching out to the Middle East’s innocent victims of man’s inhumanity to man.”
Joyce was amazed by the tragic footage he was showing, as well as by his unabashed pleas for money. “Boy, what a tear-jerker. He’s got to be tugging a few purse strings with that broadcast, Betty.”
“Well, he said he expected half a million dollars. But did you notice he didn’t mention OMI or the milk project, Joyce?”
“Oh, it
’s okay. He probably just didn’t want to confuse the donors. They’re used to giving to him, not to us, so he’s just representing us to them.”
Betty hung up the phone and turned off the television. She felt extremely foolish, and in a sense violated. The sight of women crying on Christian television was nothing new to her or anyone else, but she’d never aspired to be one of them. Yet there she was, baring her soul to who-knows-how-many million people.
Oh God! This is getting more and more absurd. First I’m in love and planning a wedding. Then Jon is kidnapped. Now I’m cowriting songs, crying on television, passing information to the CIA, and begging for money from billionaires. More and more people are getting involved, but Jon seems farther away than ever.
Something in her silent prayer reminded her of the Scripture her father had read to her at Christmas. Was it Psalm 18 or 118? She thumbed through her Bible.
There it is. Psalm 118.
It was the eighth and ninth verses that she was looking for. She wasn’t quite sure why, but the words quieted her unrest and made her growing sense of mistrust just a little less acute.
“It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man. It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in princes.”
Good advice, Lord. I don’t have too much trouble trusting you right now. But I’m starting to have my doubts about a few other people I could mention.
The telephone woke Betty at 7:00 A.M. the next morning. It was Mike Brody in Virginia.
“How’s my California girl?”
“Oh, I’m fine, Mike. Trying to stay busy. How are you?”
“I’m doing all right too. Look, I wanted to ask you some questions about Jon, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Ask me anything you want.”
