Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

Traffic thickened as he approached downtown Scottsdale. He weaved right and left between a UPS truck and a white sedan, his head swiveling constantly to get a better view of his surroundings. At Fifth Avenue, he had to stop as three Mexican men in straw hats pushed an old pickup truck. They cleared the road, and the light turned red. Silver crawled forward, checked for cars, and sped through the intersection. Someone honked behind him, but he laughed it off. Allah was on his side.

Rabbi Josh handed over his suitcase but held on to the round piece of the temple dais. The Continental Airlines ticketing agent spoke into a handheld device, which crackled something in response. A second agent appeared at the counter. “Sir, you’ll have to check that in.”

“It’ll fit in the overhead,” he said.

She held her hands apart. “That’s the limit.”

“But I can’t lose it.”

“It won’t be lost.”

He took a step back. “Please make an exception. I’ll pay extra.”

“It’s too wide.” She looked at the round package. “Could you fold it in half?”

“I’ll do that.” Instead of proceeding to security and the departure gate, the rabbi took the elevator up to the parking garage and looked for the maintenance office. After some explanations, they lent him a wood saw.

He unwrapped the wooden piece and leaned it at a 45-degree angle against the wall, bottom side up. The dais had been constructed of planks, polished nicely on top, hammered onto a supporting beam underneath. He forced the handsaw between the two planks and began sawing the supporting beam. He worked fast, his hand moving the saw back and forth without rest. A scorching smell rose from the saw.

Masada’s stomach lifted with the sickening sense of free fall, broken by a sudden bump that lifted her body through the haze. Her arm stretched, her index finger hooked in an eye socket. Red liquid trickled down her arm. A roaring sound grew louder, then abated. The white mask, twisted in laughter, appeared above her. Al Zonshine’s foul odor assaulted her, and she tried to shield her head from his pounding.

The haze cleared.

Another bump, a roaring sound.

She opened her eyes and found a flight attendant shaking her shoulder. She was at the rear of the plane, away from the Palestinian lawyer. In the window, black tarmac moved backwards as the plane taxied. Dreary terminal buildings came into view. The pilot announced with little enthusiasm, “Welcome to JFK. Local time in New York just after ten in the morning.”

It was 7:13 a.m., and Professor Silver was driving fast despite the blotch. What imbecile would stand in the middle of Scottsdale Road? There were other cars, of course, and he turned his head from side to side, constantly scanning the six-lane road.

He saw the highway overpass in the distance, traffic flowing at a good pace. He pressed the pedal down all the way, and the Cadillac responded with a surge of speed.

7:16 a.m.

The highway was approaching too fast, and he stood on the brake pedal to slow down. The on-ramp required a sharp right turn. As soon as he saw an opening in traffic, he hit the gas pedal, turning the steering wheel all the way. A sign on the side of the road carried the image of a plane. He pressed down with his foot. This was it, the last stretch!

In mid-turn, a motorcycle exhaust roared, rattling the windows, and he registered something moving in from the left. He tried to stop. A rider in a black suit appeared before the hood of the car. Silver yelled, and his hands spun the steering wheel to the left. The tires wailed in high pitch as the Cadillac lost traction, rammed the concrete barrier on the left, and slid sideways across the on-ramp into a light pole, which embedded in the passenger-side door, shattering the window.

Masada ignored the passengers’ stares and whispers as she followed Elizabeth McPherson off the plane at JFK. It was midmorning in New York, and they had a three-hour layover until the flight to Toronto. Two burly female U.S. marshals accompanied them through the crowded terminal. Masada asked to use the restroom. The marshals and the lawyer waited outside.

The woman in the mirror barely resembled her-pale, with bruises on her forehead and stains on her creased blouse. She washed her hands and face, fixed her hair, and straightened her clothes. The flight to Canada would be short, the vengeful Palestinian lawyer would be out of her life, and a good pharmacy would have everything she needed to clean up. A hot shower and a night in a quiet hotel, and she would feel a lot better.

A young woman with a knapsack entered the ladies’ room. Masada borrowed her mobile phone and called Professor Silver. He didn’t answer despite the early hour in Arizona. She left a message: “Levy, where are you? Maybe you’re already meeting my new lawyer. Listen, I’m in New York, and you wouldn’t believe what I just found out. Elizabeth McPherson is a Palestinian! You should have heard the hate she was spitting out! Tell the lawyer to file a motion to disqualify her for using her government position for a personal vendetta, ethnic discrimination, something like that. The judge should wipe clean the record of yesterday’s hearing and schedule a new hearing, start from scratch. Okay? I’ll call you back from Toronto.”

They led her through the main terminal, down long flights of stairs and past several secure doors, to a corridor of windowless offices.

A man in a gray suit was waiting. “I’m Randy Beardsley, airport liaison for the Immigration Service.”

The shook hands and sat down around a small table.

“Bad news,” he said. “Canada won’t allow you in.”

Masada folded her arms on her chest. “Does Canada also have a bitter Palestinian in charge of immigration?”

He looked from one to another, unsure what she meant. “My job is to help move deportees along and minimize your time here. It’s better for everybody, you understand?”

“What I understand,” Masada said, pointing at the lawyer, “is this woman’s warped grudge against my former country somehow got me here. I’m a journalist-”

“I know who you are, and I’m sorry for your situation.” Beardsley looked at his papers. “However, the Canadians heard you lied about your criminal record and declined your entry. I checked alternatives destinations, starting with English-speaking countries. England, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, even Singapore, all said no. I contacted my counterparts in Holland, Belgium, France, Spain, Italy, Greece, Sweden, Norway, Finland, and Denmark. No luck.”

Masada took a deep breath. “This whole thing is a diversion. I didn’t lie or cheat, and the judge will reverse the ruling in the next few days.”

“Unfortunately your recent notoriety as an enemy of Israel makes things harder. I mean, the Europeans especially don’t want to give anyone more reasons to accuse them of anti-Semitism.”

“Excuse me?”

“Many Jewish people equate anti-Israel positions with anti-Semitism. It’s only natural.” He shrugged. “You’ve caused the U.S. Senate to launch the worst anti-Israel campaign in history, on top of a huge tide of hostility on the streets. Giving you a refuge would appear hostile toward Israel.” He looked again at his list. “I tried some of the Eastern European countries, but they’re all in no mood for new immigrants. I didn’t try third-world and Islamic countries for obvious reasons. The good news, though, is that I was able to get a positive response from Iceland, with a minor condition.”