I was aboard a jet from Vienna to Bucharest. Our plane had hit rough weather; it bumped and pitched as we flew towards Romania. It felt somewhat like riding in a roller coaster.

"Please keep you seat belts fastened," the intercom requested. "We have hit some turbulence. Dinner will be delayed."

I looked around at my fellow passengers. Many of them were uneasy, and some were also airsick. The man to my right, a distinguished-looking Englishman, appeared very uncomfortable. Beads of sweat were standing on his forehead, and his face was pale. I expected him to be sick any minute.

Quietly I prayed, commanding the plane to be loosed from the turbulence and binding the prince of the air. Immediately, the plane stopped pitching and there was a sudden calm. Soon the smell of cooking permeated the air, and stewardesses began the disciplined hustle and bustle of serving dinner.

The man to my right looked much more comfortable. As we waited for the stewardesses to bring us our steaks, he turned to me and said, "My name is Alec Porter. I'm a salesman with UniRoyal. who are you and what do you do?"

Porter had the looks and accent of an upper-class Englishman, but well-bred Englishmen don't make a habit of addressing strangers, much less interrogating them. I decided to be as unorthodox as he was.

"My name is Chris Panos and I smuggle Bibles into Communist countries," I said.

A spectacular array of emotions flickered across my neighbor's face. He looked distressed, annoyed, frightened and, underneath it all, strangely satisfied.

"My dear chap," said Porter, "please be careful. There has been a robbery of some very famous art pieces. Everyone going through customs is being much more thoroughly checked than usual."

"Don't worry about me. I'll be all right."

"Tell me one thing," he asked. "What is it I sense about you? There seems to be some sort of strange vibration in the air around you."

"That's God's power," I said. "My God has supernatural power, and He has given me the authority to use it."

"I am an agnostic," Porter told me. "I cannot say there is no God, but on the other hand, I cannot say there is one. But I must warn you again that if you are going to smuggle Bibles through the customs today, it will be very dangerous. I am a frequent traveler, and even I will be scrutinized thoroughly. Bibles bring a good price on the black market; the penalties are very severe if you're caught. Please be very careful."

As Alec Porter and I continued to talk, the subject returned to the "power" he had felt around me.

"About this power you have," he continued, "where did you get it?"

"It's not mine, it's God's. This is how I get through customs; not by being clever or sneaky, but by the power of God. If God led me to do it, I could wear a sign saying, 'I am a Bible smuggler,' and because of God's power, I would still get through customs without any trouble. I have gone through Communist customs many times, and God has always taken care of me. He'll take care of me again today. You watch."

Porter roared with laughter. "I wonder what I've gotten myself into now? This must be what a novel is like. I feel like a character in a book."

As we talked some more, the plane began its descent into Bucharest airport.

Our landing was perfect, but as we touched ground I noticed Porter was perspiring again. He looked very nervous.

"Don't worry about me," I told him. "God will protect me."

He shook his head in disbelief. "Are the Bibles on your person or in your luggage?" he asked.

"Both places." He shook his head again as we got off the aircraft.

When we arrived at customs, we found that every bag and suitcase was being checked and double-checked, just as Porter had warned me. Because of all the extra security, the line moved slowly. Finally, Porter's turn arrived.

"Hello, Mr. Porter," the customs agent said, smiling at him apologetically. Apologetic or not, it was the first time I had ever seen a Romanian customs agent smile. "Today we must check your bags also. I am very sorry." The agent checked Porter's bag just as thoroughly as he had checked everybody else's. Then he turned to me.

"Are you with Mr. Porter?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Move on through," he said. He marked my bags with a piece of chalk, and waved me on.

Porter was incredulous. "I can't believe it," he told me. "I simply can't believe it. Look around you. Every bag is being checked! Why, even mine was checked, and these customs agents know me well. Every bag was checked Mr. Panos, but yours. I am beginning to think that perhaps this God you serve might exist after all."

Porter and I walked together towards the lobby of the terminal. There he was met by a friend of his, a lovely dark-haired woman who promptly gave him a big wink and then just as promptly hugged him. From the hug, I deduced that Porter and this woman were on very friendly terms. Too friendly.

"I am glad to see you," Porter's friend told him. "It has been a long time." She grabbed him and smothered him with kisses. Next she wheeled around to me. "Who is your friend?" she asked Porter. He didn't have time to answer before she said. "Dahlink, I think he's cute!"

"This is my friend Chris Panos," Mr. Porter finally managed to tell her. "Chris, meet Madame Rozinko."

"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Panos." She looked into my eyes as though we had known each other well.

"Chris, where are you staying?" Porter asked in the temporary lull.

"At the Lido."

"What a coincidence!" he exclaimed. "So am I. Why don't you ride with us?"

"Yes, dahlink, come and ride with us," Madame Rozinko chimed in.

I was delighted to accept. My funds were low, and a few free rides would come in handy.

Madame Rozinko's car turned out to be a black Mercedes, complete with driver. She sat in front, and Porter and I climbed in the back. She and Porter kept up a constant stream of chatter all the way to the hotel. When we arrived we got out and went to the front desk. I knew the clerk, Mrs. Pappas, from a previous visit. She, too was of Greek extraction.

"Tikanis," she said, greeting me in Greek.

"Kala," I responded. Still speaking Greek, I asked her to give me a nice but very reasonable room.

"There is no room," she told me. "We don't have one available."

"You have to have one. The airlines made a reservation."

"We did not receive it," she said. "But don't worry. We'll work it out."

"Mr. Porter," she said in English, "I see you know my friend, Mr. Panos. Something has gone wrong with his reservation, and we have no room to give him. But there are two beds in your single room. Would you be willing to have him stay with you? There would be no extra charge, of course."

"All right," Porter said. "Put him in with me."

I said a quick prayer of thanks. God had taken the airline's mistake and turned it into a blessing.

The Lido is an old hotel, clean and luxurious by Communist standards. As soon as we entered our room, Porter turned on the radio. The music was much too loud for comfort. Then he crossed the room and stood by my side. "Speak very softly," Porter murmured in my ear. "All the rooms in this hotel are bugged." I could hardly believe it. On the airplane, Porter had felt as though he were in a novel. Now it was my turn. I felt as though I was in a spy story.

"Make yourself at home," Porter murmured as soon as we'd unpacked. "I must meet with the Romanian woman now, but how about meeting me at eight for dinner?"

"That will be fine."

That evening we dined together on a balcony overlooking a beautiful courtyard. During the afternoon, Mrs. Pappas had told me that she had lined up some people who needed Romanian Bibles. I rejoiced. It had been a productive day, and now Porter was treating me to a delicious dinner. Once again, God was providing for my material needs.

"You look very happy," Porter told me. "I suppose you ought to be. I still can't believe what I saw at customs today. What is the source of your power? Just what is the key that unlocks the door?"

"The key is Jesus of Nazareth. He died and rose again. Today He holds the place of all power in the universe. But most men are not interested in His power because they're busy trying to exert their own.

"But, if you want access to His power you must be born again. You'll know you've been born again when you begin to call on Jesus to spare you and give you His life--eternal life."

"I know you are right," he said. He looked close to tears. "Please pray for me." Before I could offer to pray the sinners' prayer with him, he looked at his watch and said "I must meet with Madame Rozinko again tonight. Please excuse me. I will see you later."

In the days that followed, neither of us mentioned the conversation we'd had over dinner. We breakfasted together nearly every morning, but avoided the topic of religion. He went about his business and I went about mine, which was distributing the Romanian gospels and New Testaments to the people lined up by Mrs. Pappas. Soon, I knew it was time to move on. That evening, Mr. Porter asked, "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"I will be leaving then, too. I will give you a lift to the airport. Did you dispose of those Bibles?"

"All of the Romanian Bibles are gone, but I still have the Russian ones, of course."

Mr. Porter's face turned red. "You start praying now and really talk to God, because Madame Rozinko says she is not sure what to expect at customs. The guards have redoubled their efforts. The lines are very long. Security is even tighter than it was before. Pray hard and be very, very careful. And let me tell you this in strict confidence. Madame Rozinko is a spy. She is a member of the KGB and she knows what's going on."

Suddenly I knew, without his having to tell me, that Porter too was a spy. Part of his job must have involved extracting information from Madame Rozinko. I had considered myself to be a spy for God all along, but I was mildly surprised to find God's spy getting mixed up with the world's.

The following morning, Madam rozinko picked us up to take us to the airport. I was uneasy. Porter and Madame Rozinko held a hurried conversation. Then Madame Rozinko looked at me. Her customary gaiety had disappeared. Now her mouth was hard and her eyes were grim.

"Who are you, what do you do, and who sent you?" she asked rapidly.

"Who are you, what do you do, and who sent you?" I retorted.

For a minute, it looked like she would explode with anger; then suddenly she smiled. Next, she threw back her head and laughed. It was a marvelous, infectious peal of mirth. Porter joined in. Soon the three of us were howling with laughter at the incongruous situation. Madame Rozinko laughed so hard that tears were streaming down her face. She asked no more questions.

As we neared the airport, Madame Rozinko handed me her card. "When you are in Bucharest again," she said, "please call on me. I want to get better acquainted with a man a bold as you are."

When we got to the terminal, the chauffeur pulled the car right up to the main entrance. After opening the doors for us, he took the luggage in ahead. Porter stiffened as our little group neared the customs lines.

"Get ready," he whispered to me. "Do your stuff." Again he was pale and breathing shallowly. He knew that if I were caught, he, too, would be in trouble. Just as the customs agents reached for my bags, Madame Rozinko intervened.

"Don't open those," she ordered. "I okay them personally." She grabbed a piece of chalk from the startled customs agent and marked a symbol on my suitcases. Then she scrawled the same mark on Porter's bags. I don't know whether she was aware of the contents of my bags or not.

We left Madame Rozinko at customs and moved off down the hall.

"That was incredible!" Porter said. "Look, here's my card. It has my private Telex number. If you are ever apprehended, arrested, or detained for questioning, send me an SOS. I have connections with British Intelligence. I will do my best to see that you're released. When you call, use this code name. He handed me a little red card. "It means 'love' in Romanian. I'll know who you are. You are the man who told me that God so loved the world."

Suddenly Porter's eyes filled with tears. His voice broke. He was openly weeping as he continued. "After what I saw just now, I have to believe in God. I know now that there is a God and that He is the One who got you through the customs. I would like to accept Jesus as my Savior."

Weeping unabashedly, Porter prayed his way to Christ. Still weeping, he headed for his plane, almost stumbling as he walked. Miraculously, none of the guards seemed to notice his strange behavior.

I never saw Alec Porter again. He boarded a flight to Vienna; I took an Aeroflot jet to Moscow. But several years later, back in America, I ran across a CIA executive and mentioned Porter's real name to him. The CIA man knew all about him. My suspicions had been correct. Alec Porter really was a spy. And who knows? By now, he too may be a spy for God