Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

“ Iceland? ”

“They’ll give you a two-year work visa if you agree to teach English and attend criminal reformation treatment. They’re short on teachers in the indigenous areas.”

Masada got up. “I’m going back to Arizona.”

“Maybe you’re confused.” Elizabeth McPherson rose to her full shortness and brushed her hair aside. “You’re in the custody of the Immigration Service pursuant to an order requiring us to accompany you out of the United States. Since no other nation would take you, you have to accept Iceland, or you’ll be repatriated to your country of origin.”

“Screw Iceland.” Masada pounded the table. “And I’m not going to Israel!”

“Yes, you are. Forcibly, if necessary.”

The Harley Davidson was sprawled on the pavement in front of the Cadillac, shaking with the monotonous pak pak pak of its engine. The rider pulled his leg from under the heavy motorcycle, turned the engine off, and stood up. Despite the heat he was cocooned in black leather.

Silver removed the suitcase and carry-on bag from the back seat and walked two dozen steps ahead of the crash site, where he raised his hand at the passing cars.

The biker struggled to pick up his bike. He circled it a few times, examining the damage.

Silver shielded his eye from the glaring sun. A lull in traffic brought a temporary quiet, and the biker shouted, “Are you nuts?”

The light changed, and cars began streaming by again. Silver raised his hand, thumbs up.

The rider removed his helmet. “You almost killed me!”

“My sincere regrets, but I have a flight to catch.” He pulled out his wallet and handed the rider five hundred dollars. “This should suffice to mend the damage.”

The biker pocketed the money. “You shouldn’t be driving, old man.”

“You are correct.” Silver raised his hand at passing cars.

The Harley roared, and the biker advanced closer. “Nobody’s going to pick you up, Grandpa. Just hope someone calls the cops before you dry up.”

“I’ll give you two hundred to take me to the airport.”

The biker strapped Silver’s small bag behind the seat. The suitcase stayed by the roadside. He would buy new clothes in Jerusalem.

The rear seat was merely a padded patch, and the footrests required Silver to bend his legs uncomfortably.

The biker rolled back the accelerator, causing a terrible racket. Silver grabbed his hips and buried his face in the man’s back.

Within a minute, the Harley’s exhaust and the howl of cars and trucks rushing down the highway put Silver’s ears agony. The wind threatened to toss him into the middle of the road, to be smashed by hundreds of hot tires. He pressed his face to the black leather and held on for dear life as they swayed from side to side, every joint in the road rattling his bones.

Elizabeth McPherson watched the marshals leading the shackled Israeli writer from the JFK terminal to the waiting van, her lanky figure swaying. Jail in Phoenix would have been preferable, but the judge had eliminated that option. It was no wonder the writer was reluctant to go to Israel, where surely an abusive reception would await the woman who had so damaged the Jewish state.

Masada climbed into the Immigration Service van. She sat upright and stared forward, her cuffed hands in her lap. Elizabeth got in after her. They had a long drive to Newark airport, where they would board a Continental Airlines flight to Tel Aviv. Elizabeth was nervous about stepping off a plane in Israel after a lifetime away. She recalled soldiers in helmets and green fatigues knocking at the front door to take Father for yet another questioning. But she wasn’t a young girl anymore, but a senior American official delivering a prisoner. She had no reason to fear the Israelis.

Rabbi Josh passed through security and went to the Continental Airlines cargo office. The clerk gave him the shipping manifest pertaining to Raul’s coffin, which had already been loaded onto the plane to Newark, NJ, where it would be transferred to the Tel Aviv flight. He arrived at the gate as the last few passengers were boarding. The flight attendant pointed at the package. “It’s too long, sir.”

“Long? Your colleague told me it was too wide, so I sawed it in half.” Rabbi Josh raised the two half-moon pieces of the dais, which he had tied back-to-back.

“I’ll check it in for you.”

“Please. It’s my only carry-on.”

“Sorry.” Her voice was firm despite her youthful look.

“I have a connecting flight in Newark. To Israel. I’m afraid it’ll get lost.”

The flight attendant pointed to a frame of metal tubes propped up by the gate. “Every piece of carry-on luggage must fit into this.”

“My friend, Professor Silver, should already be on the plane. Between the two of us, we are entitled to some overhead space, right?”

She collected a boarding pass from the last passenger, who headed down the gangway to the plane.

“Look, it’s not heavy.” He lifted it up. “Even narrower than a normal bag. It’ll fit.”

“Sir, you’re holding up the flight. You have to check it in and board immediately, or we will leave without you.”

“You can’t! You have my dead son on board!”

Professor Silver stumbled off the Harley and fell. Someone helped him up. The biker dismounted, untied the bag, dropped it on the sidewalk, and collected his two hundred dollars.

The Continental ticketing area was completely obstructed by waiting passengers in cordoned-off queues. He begged a young woman to help him print a boarding pass on one of the automated machines and ran to the security-check area.

8:12 a.m.

He was late for his flight, which meant he would miss his connection in Newark. Allah, hold them back!

At security, the lines of unhappy passengers crisscrossed between ropes. He searched for a way around the lines, finding none. A trio of monitors, built into the wall, listed the flights. His flight was blinking. On Time.

The van sped onto the bridge to Staten Island. The driver cracked open his window. Masada took in the scent of saltwater, ignoring the pain in her cuffed wrists. She looked at the tip of Manhattan, where Wall Street glass towers reflected the sun. She thought of Israel-humidity, heat, relentless insects, Hebrew songs, fresh graves, and a scruffy blanket on a hard bunk bed.

They reached the highest part of the bridge, and the Statue of Liberty appeared in the blue water to the right. All five lanes were filled with moving cars, the outer lanes smack against concrete barriers.

Masada said to the driver, “Can I borrow your phone?”

McPherson’s earth-toned skin darkened. “Who do you want to call?”

“Professor Silver.”

“The one who wrote the book?” The lawyer sneered. “Fine. Give her the phone.”

Masada took the phone from the driver with both hands. She called the professor, reaching his answering machine again. It was after eight in the morning in Arizona. He should have been up already. Was he meeting a lawyer?

After the beep she left a message: “Canada won’t allow me in. They’re forcing me to go to Israel. We’re on our way to the Continental Airlines terminal in Newark. Tell the lawyer to immediate ask the judge for an urgent injunction against sending me to a place where I’ll be crucified for my writing.”