Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

A trim man in uniform appeared in the door. The flight attendant motioned at the rabbi. “He’s refusing to check in this package.”

“Rabbi Frank.” The pilot extended his hand. “I’m Captain Kosinski. Saw your photo on the news the other day. My condolences.”

The rabbi shook his hand.

“I wish the circumstances were different. We don’t have first class on this flight, but I called ahead to Newark, and they’ll upgrade you on the flight to Israel.”

“Thank you.” Rabbi Josh struggled to contain an urge to cry. He knew he was being unreasonable, but handing over the blood-soaked pieces of wood to be stowed in the belly of the plane was unbearable. “It’s part of him. If it got lost-”

“Understood.” The pilot turned to the flight attendant. “Let it in.”

“But, Captain, we’re completely full.”

“We’re also late. Make it happen.”

“Hey, man! What ya doin’?” The porter looked at Professor Silver, who dropped into the empty wheelchair he was pushing.

“I need a ride.” Silver put his bag on his lap. He handed the man his boarding pass and a hundred-dollar bill. “Another hundred if we make it to the gate on time.”

“Coming through!” The porter shoved the chair and sped around the lines, waving over a uniformed man, who sent Silver’s bag through the X-ray machine and made a cursory pass over him with a handheld metal detector.

The wheelchair had no springs, and the mad rush through the airport jolted Silver’s joints, already sore from the Harley ride. The unusual narrowness of the chair required the young porter to use his own weight to counterbalance the wheelchair during high-speed turns.

The waiting area by Gate C-14, all the way at the end, was deserted, the door shut. Checking through the glass wall, Silver saw the plane still attached to the gangway.

The porter tapped the closed door. “You just missed it.”

Silver got out of the chair, stuffed another hundred-dollar bill in the guy’s hand, and snatched the man’s security ID card from the neck string, waving it in front of the card sensor. The door unlocked, and he ran down the enclosed gangway.

Rabbi Josh looked up from the book of Psalms and saw Professor Silver drop into the next seat. He was struggling to catch his breath. The rabbi flagged down a flight attendant and asked for water.

The professor’s hands shook as he dipped his fingers in the ice water and patted his face. “Almost missed the flight.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t ask. I ruined another Cadillac.”

“God is watching over you.”

“He must be. The plane waited for me.”

“I was God’s delaying instrument.”

Silver glanced out the small window as the plane began to retreat from the terminal. He patted the rabbi’s knee. “Thank you, my dear friend.”

“The Master of the Universe works in strange ways.”

“He does!” Silver laughed “That’s for sure.”

Elizabeth McPherson followed behind Masada and the female U.S. marshal. Passengers stepped aside, gawking at the writer, whose photo headlined every news service with reports of her immigration fraud and dramatic consent to a voluntary deportation. There were speculations about her destination, and no reporter had yet been able to uncover details about her mysterious manslaughter conviction in Israel decades ago. Elizabeth was pleased with the attention. Let them see the conniving Jew, the Israeli felon, the immigration fraudster. Everyone had a reason to hate her now.

Masada glanced back, her green eyes creased with a smile that contrasted with her pallor. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Counselor. You’re going to lose your job when I publish an article about your abuse of government power for ethnic retaliation.”

“Who’s going to believe you?” Her eyes lingered on the handcuffs, the crumpled clothes, and the small bag that hung from the gaunt shoulder. Elizabeth pointed forward, where a section of the terminal was barricaded off. “Your fellow Israelis will shut you up for good.”

Masada’s eyes followed the direction Elizabeth was pointing.

“They’ll probably make a big bonfire for you and everything you’ve written.”

Plexiglas walls surrounded a large area abutting the gate, where the next flight would depart for Tel Aviv in a couple of hours. A sparse crowd of waiting passengers already waited inside the enclosed area, many wearing yellow T-shirts.

Elizabeth approached the security counter with Masada.

“Shalom!” The Israeli attendant could not be older than twenty-five. His head was buzzed, and a strap across his white shirt held a short-barrel Uzi.

She handed him their boarding passes, her own American passport, and Masada’s temporary travel papers, which replaced her confiscated U.S. passport. “I’m Elizabeth McPherson, chief counsel at the Immigration Service in Phoenix. She’s my prisoner.”

“I’m Chief Ron.” He examined the papers and looked at Masada. “You speak Hebrew?”

“I prefer English.”

“ No problemo . I’m bipolar. Are you carrying any weapons?”

“My pen,” Masada said.

“Right on.” He laughed. “How long since you left Israel?”

“Before you were born.”

“Happy birthday.” He handed Masada her travel papers and boarding pass. “Welcome home.”

“I’ll take those,” Elizabeth said, reaching over.

“Ah!” He moved it out of her reach. “To each her own.” When Masada collected the documents, he noticed the handcuffs.

“What’s this?”

“She’s in custody,” Elizabeth said.

“ Was in custody. Everyone must have complete freedom of movement here, in case we have an emergency. That’s the rule.”

“Whose rule?”

“Off with the cuffs, Chief.”

Masada held forth her cuffed wrists. “I’m expecting a court order from Phoenix any moment, stopping my deportation.”

“I’ll watch for it,” he said. “You have plenty of time until boarding.” He put an open hand before Elizabeth. “The keys, please.”

Her face burning, Elizabeth handed the keys and watched him release the handcuffs. “My government will hold you responsible if she escapes.”

“I’ll notify our prime minister immediately.” He removed the cuffs from Masada’s wrists and beckon her through into the secure gate area. A dozen men and women congregated around her. The front of their yellow T-shirts was printed with Fair Aid in blue letters covered by a black X. The back said: Take Your Aid and Shove It!

They would soon discover who she was, Elizabeth thought. “I need her alive,” she said and tried to follow into the enclosed area.

Ron stopped her with his hand. “She’s fine.”

Masada bent down to let an elderly woman hug her. Others began arguing. The circle around her widened, more circles formed, people talking to each other, pointing at her.

Elizabeth asked, “Do they know who she is?”

“We know. The question is, who are you?” He browsed her passport.

“But why aren’t they angry at her?”

“What for?” He looked up. “You want us to kill the messenger because we don’t like the news?” His fingers danced on the computer keyboard. “She’s a brave woman.” He punched a few more keys and looked at his computer screen. “Aha!” He hit another key. “Aha! Aha! Aha!”

Elizabeth craned her head, trying to see the screen. “What’s all the Aha ?”