Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

Other passengers boarded the bus. Rabbi Josh and Professor Silver sat in the back. The flight crew clustered in the middle. The bus moved with a jolt, the doors remaining open for a few more seconds, circulating the heat. She held on to the pole.

Raul. Israel. Srulie .

“This place is a sauna.” McPherson wiped her forehead, combing back moist hair. “I can see why you didn’t want to return.”

Masada showed her back to the lawyer. A trickle ran down the inside of her thigh. She hoped it was only sweat. She had revealed to no one what Al had done. She couldn’t, or it would hit the news and no one would ever look at her without imagining that animal on top of her.

The bus sped up, bumping along on the concrete road, passing huge hangars and parked jetliners. A recorded female voice gave instructions in several languages about passport and visa inspections, as well as customs declarations. The message concluded with, “Shalom, and enjoy your stay in Israel.”

“Some joy,” Masada muttered, holding on as the bus turned around a plaza and lined up with a glass-and-stone building. She took a deep breath and stepped off the bus. A large clock on the face of the building indicated it was 1:47 p.m. Israel time. She shouldered her bag and pulled out her travel papers. She had to snap out of it, stop wallowing in self pity. Otherwise she would never recover all she had lost over this disastrous short period. She forced her mind to focus on planning. First, find a connection between Colonel Ness and Rabbi Josh and link them to Judah’s Fist. Second, unearth a copy of the document that had cancelled her conviction back in 1983, so she could recover her U.S. citizenship. Third, find out if the Arab who had killed Srulie was still alive and, if so, track him down and shove Srulie’s bone into the murderer’s eye-this time, all the way in!

Professor Silver lingered on the stone stairs leading up to the terminal. The sign above the entrance read Ben Gurion International Airport. Elizabeth lingered while the passengers entered the terminal.

“Why did you bring her here?” He kept his back to the glass doors. “You failed me!”

“A court is not a restaurant. You don’t order from a menu. No other country agreed to take her. What about my award ceremony?”

He wanted to lie about an unexpected cancellation, but feared she would lose her temper and cause their exposure. “Do not leave your hotel until I contact. Remember, both our lives are at stake!”

“You’re exaggerating.” She chuckled. “No one will touch a senior American official.”

“Don’t be so sure.” He climbed the steps, and the glass doors opened before him.

Hundreds of passengers queued up at the passport-control counters. Masada joined a line. The cavernous hall, lit by countless fluorescent bulbs, was tiled in cream marble and decorated with huge pictures-a tractor plowing a field, a hiker mounting the crest of a hill, folk dancers circling a campfire, shoppers in a bustling market, and a tank trailing a dusty wake. The opposite wall was lined with dozens of flags representing the nations that recognized Israel. Masada flexed her right leg. At last, her scraped kneecap had begun to heal. Or was she too numb to feel the pain?

Another group entered the hall with yellow shirts and naive clatter. Masada could not understand. Didn’t they realize Israel was about to lose American support? Didn’t they realize every inch of this country was within range of Arab missiles and rockets? Many stood in line with kids or babies bundled up in blankets. She wanted to yell at them, What are you doing?

As she reached the passport counter, Elizabeth McPherson appeared at her side. Masada placed her travel papers on the counter.

The attendant, a young woman in a pressed uniform, turned to her computer. “Born in Israel?”

“Yes.”

The woman typed some more. “Can I see your Israeli passport?”

“I flushed it down the toilet many years ago.”

A flitting smile crossed the young woman’s face. “Welcome home, Miss El-Tal.” She stamped a form and handed it to Masada with a diminutive Israeli flag glued to a long drinking straw. “Please go to the right for processing.”

“Hold on!” The lawyer unfolded a sheet of paper. “I am Elizabeth McPherson, Chief Legal Counsel, Southwest Region.”

“Yes?”

“Someone must sign a receipt before I release her from custody.”

The Israeli attendant landed her stamp on the receipt. “Here you go.”

“Don’t let her in,” Masada said. “She’s a Palestinian.”

“Welcome to Israel.” The attendant stamped Elizabeth’s passport. “Have a safe visit, Miss McPherson.” As the lawyer passed through, the attendant winked at Masada.

While she searched for a place to dump the little flag, Masada’s way was blocked by two elderly women holding bouquets of flowers. They pulled her toward a large door marked: Olim Hadashim. She declined the flowers and explained she was not a new immigrant. “Doesn’t matter,” one of them chirped, “after so long abroad you’re considered a newcomer.”

Masada paused before the double doors. The plaque above read: The Masada Lounge.

“Look!” Professor Silver approached, waving his tiny flag with one hand, holding Rabbi Josh’s sleeve with the other. “What a perfect name!”

“Right,” Masada said. “Perfect name for a training center: How to hole up on a mountaintop and commit mass suicide. ”

“That’s what you want!” Rabbi Josh pointed at her with his little flag. “As Isaiah said, Your haters and destroyers shall come from within you. The blood on your hands isn’t dry yet, and you mock out ancestors?”

“ Kinderlakh!” Professor Silver put his arms around them. “Let’s not spoil this occasion with petty squabbling. It’s not every day that three passionate Jews from Arizona make aliyah together, right?”

“Miss McPherson?” A young man in a crew cut and a sleeveless khaki jacket approached her with an outstretched hand. “I’m from the U.S. Consulate. Name’s Bob. Bob Emises.”

They shook hands, and he took her bags. She followed him through the crowd to the curb outside, where a black Chevy Tahoe waited. The driver, who looked like Bob’s football teammate, opened the door for her.

The vehicle left the airport, following the signs for Jerusalem. The AC was blowing hard, and soon Elizabeth, whose shirt was wet with sweat, was shivering. The driver glanced back and adjusted the vents.

“Thank you.” She put a hand on her belly. There was a purpose to her visit, a future to prepare for and celebrate.

“We booked a room for you at the Kings Hotel,” Bob said. “It’s central and safe.” He reached back and handed her a business card. “Call me if you need anything.”

The wide highway was choked with late-model cars. The rolling hills sprouted clusters of homes with red roofs and whitewashed industrial buildings. Elizabeth filled with anger. The Jews were pests, multiplying and consuming the stolen land.

“Beautiful country,” Bob commented, “isn’t it?”

She noticed mustard-yellow graffiti on a concrete embankment: AID + U.S. = AIDS

On the way to Jerusalem, Professor Silver sat between the two sulking Jews in the middle row of an absorption ministry van. Masada fanned herself with a magazine. The rabbi murmured verses from Psalms. Each of them had received a new immigrant package, including identification papers, a sum of Israeli money, health-care insurance card, and a voucher for an extended stay at the Ramban Hostel in Jerusalem.