Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

He glanced at his watch. 7:16 a.m. Masada should be approaching her house this very moment in a tired bliss after a night of lovemaking. He shuddered at the image of flames engulfing her lovely face.

Elizabeth’s Toyota turned into the parking lot. He got out of his Cadillac, put on the black beret, and adjusted his glasses. He expected her to be upset about the shattering of the Goodyear affair. The stick had to hurt, but the carrot he was about to offer her would be too sweet to resist.

Masada eased the clutch, and the Corvette moved closer to the Starbucks takeout window. An acid pit bore into her stomach. By sending that e-mail and old conviction to Rabbi Josh, Ness sent her a message. A threat. Shanty was only the beginning!

An engine roared nearby, and in the rearview mirror she saw the yellow motorbike enter the narrow drive, bypass the cars queuing behind her, and stop next to the Corvette. It was taller than the car, its yellow gas tank parallel to her passenger-side window. It carried the round emblem of BMW.

The passenger door opened, and a leggy woman in a blackleather suit got in. “Shalom,” she said, removing her helmet. The motorbike roared and moved off.

“You again.” Masada glanced at her. “Black boots and a BMW motorbike-like a Nazi storm trooper.”

“That’s why we bought yellow.”

“Hitler would have been pleased.”

The agent’s hand reached inside her black leather jacket, and Masada realized they had decided to eliminate her in the most simple and direct way: a bullet!

Elizabeth pulled down her left sleeve to hide the bandage on her wrist. She collected her briefcase and took a deep breath. She would not give them the pleasure of seeing her bowed in defeat.

“Good morning!” It was Father’s Jew friend. He followed her to the building. “You don’t look so well.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I worry about you.” He patted her arm. “You could be my daughter.”

Elizabeth swung around. “Don’t touch me!”

He examined her through the black-rimmed spectacles. “You lost the promotion, right?”

She turned and marched up the steps. From the top, she looked down at him. “I haven’t seen my father in decades, but I doubt he would break bread with a Jew.”

The professor took off his glasses. He hooked his finger and tapped on his left eye with the fingernail. “The last thing this eye ever saw was my son being murdered by an Israeli soldier. I am a Palestinian, and Allah is my God. Just like your father. And you.”

“But you have a Jewish name!”

“And you? McPherson? Good Irish stock?”

She laughed. “Touche.”

He walked up the steps, joining her at the staff entrance. “You’ve lived for your career, forgoing family, friends, children. And now, your career is over.”

She nodded.

“The Israelis made you a refugee and a wife to a cruel butcher, not your father, who had only tried to set you free from their occupation.”

“True.”

“The Israelis,” he said, “are your real enemies. Our enemies.”

Upstairs in her office, Elizabeth pulled the envelope from her bag. “You are ineligible for permanent resident status. I can’t change the rules.”

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eye. “You dream of going back, right? A hero’s arrival at the camp, everyone running out to greet you, a cheering crowd. Even Hajj Mahfizie.”

She could barely breathe. “How do you know my dream?”

“It’s every immigrant’s dream.” He sighed. “I dream of returning to Haifa, to my childhood home. I dream of hugging my parents and sisters, aunts and uncles, the old neighbors, introducing my wife and son to everyone, telling them of my important work in America, seeing the respect and adulation in their eyes. It’s my favorite dream.”

“Mine also. But it’s an impossible dream.”

“Impossible for me. My loved ones are all dead, and our homes gone. But your father is alive, waiting to hug you.” He joined her at the window. “He also dreams of your return.”

She shook her head.

The professor handed her a letter carrying the seal of the Palestinian president, dated a week before, awarding her the Hero of Palestine Medal, to be presented by a cabinet-level minister in a ceremony at the central square in the Kalandria refugee camp.

Elizabeth sat down, feeling weak. There was no doubt in her mind that Allah was rewarding her for sparing the baby’s life with an opportunity to fulfill an impossible dream.

Hero of Palestine .

She imagined showers of rice and flowers. “Tell me more about yourself.”

The professor removed his beret, revealing tufts of gray hair. “My family came from Damascus to Haifa in 1919. Business was booming, with the influx of industrious, educated European Jews. Many others came from Syria and Lebanon, also from Iraq and Egypt, even from Saudi Arabia. We lived under the British mandate, Arabs and Jews, doing business as if there was no tomorrow. But politics interfered, riots that killed Jews, retaliations that killed Arabs, and the British inciting us against each other to justify perpetuation their colonial grab on Palestine. The UN decided we should partition the land, but we were too proud to accept. So when Israel declared independence in forty-eight, our leaders told us to leave temporarily, until they finished killing all the Jews. My father locked the house, and we traveled to Nablus. But pride soon turned to humiliation, which continues still.”

Elizabeth nodded. “My family was from Acre. We never went back.”

“My father wanted to return to Damascus, but the Syrian regime didn’t want us. He died a few years later, poor and bitter. My mother followed him. I married a distant cousin, and we had a son, Faddah. I became known as Abu Faddah, a kind of nom de guerre . In sixty-seven, Nasser promised that Egypt, Syria, and Jordan would succeed where they had failed two decades earlier, but the Israelis won again. My wife was run over by a tank.”

“The Jews!” Elizabeth fumed. “They have no mercy!”

“Actually, it was a Jordanian tank.” He took a deep breath and exhaled with a whiff of cigarette odor. “They escaped from the Israelis at full speed, running over people and animals.”

Elizabeth covered her mouth.

He looked down, overcome with emotions. “I found Faddah alive in the ruins and took him to Amman. While getting a degree in history, I became involved with the PLO. My comrades raided the Jewish communities across the border, but I could not leave Faddah. The years passed, and slowly Haifa became a distant dream. One day, when Faddah turned fifteen, I realized I could not live like this any longer. So I devised a plan.”

“Weren’t you a Jordanian citizen?”

“I wish.” He sighed. “The Arab countries kept us on refugee status. Nasser, Sadat, Assad, Hussein-just as bad as the Zionists.”

“So you crossed the border to attack Jews?”

“I was never a man of violence. This was going to be my one chance to prove that a hostage operation can succeed. I spied on the target for months before taking action. It was going to be a media spectacle and a certain success.”

“Why?”

“Because I was going to make an offer the Israelis couldn’t refuse. We were going to live through and prevail.”

She watched his face sparkle with enthusiasm.

“I selected a location that symbolized the Jews’ historic sovereignty.”

“Jerusalem?”

He shook his finger. “Mount Masada-the last stronghold of the Jewish kingdom, two thousand years ago. The Israelis identify with the last siege. They glorify the zealots’ ultimate sacrifice. And back then, the Israelis would not negotiate for the release of terrorists. My plan was to demand something the Israelis could not refuse without appearing inhumane.”