While the JFK Terminal One loudspeakers announced the last call for the nonstop to Frankfurt, John hugged his wife, Mara Tadic. “Are you really sure you want to go?” he said. “Dozens of journalists have
been killed there.”
“No interpreters, as far as I know.”
His parting kiss slipped past her mouth and brushed her downy cheek.
Mara slid out of his embrace. “Don’t forget tuna for Leo!”
On the plane Mara sat next to a Baptist missionary on her way to join her husband in Tirana.
“You want to convert them?” Mara said. “Most Albanians are Muslim.”
“There are quite a few Christians among them. Are you trying to convert me into not converting people?”
“Touché.”
