Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

“Because it’s Allah’s judgment day! Because they stole our land! Slaughtered our sons! Poisoned our wells! Injected AIDS into our babies! Stuffed filth into our girls’ minds!” The preacher took a deep breath. “Allah’s sword is coming down!”

“ Allah hu Akbar! ”

Silver could have burst with pride. He, Abu Faddah, was the one chosen by Allah to bring down the Zionists!

“Yes!” The preacher shook a finger. “The Zionist dogs are running scared!”

“ Allah hu Akbar! ”

“Cut off,” the preacher shouted, passing a hand across his own throat. “Cut! Cut! Cut!”

“ Allah hu Akbar! ”

In the brief moment before the preacher spoke again, a voice shouted in Arabic, “The Jews attacked Al Aqsa! Help!”

The words hung in the air. Even the preacher was suspended in indecision.

“ El Yahood ,” the voice in the rear shrilled, “they set fire to the Dome of the Rock!”

Silver recognized the voice. Rajid!

“ Itbakh el-Yahood! ” The preacher waved his hands frantically. “ Itbakh el-Yahood! ”

The call to slaughter threw the worshippers into frenzy. They jumped to their feet and rushed to the exit. Silver struggled to stand up, suddenly faced with a forest of stomping feet. His legs were numb from crouching, and as soon as he managed to get up, someone bumped into him, and he stumbled. He opened his mouth to inhale, but the crowd pressed him forward, his face smothered by a wide back in a coarse galabiya.

The crowd yelled in a chorus, “ Itbakh El-Yahood! Itbakh El-Yahood! ”

Silver had no air. He pushed with his arms, fighting to breathe. He turned his head sideways, mouth gaping to fill his starved lungs, but the pressure surged from behind like a giant ocean wave, crushing him between heated bodies, his chest unable to expand for air. His throat was on fire.

“ Itbakh El-Yahood! Itbakh El-Yahood! ”

Slaughter the Jews. But I’m not a Jew! Silver’s knees buckled, his body held up by the pressure around it. Darkness descended. The noise abated, replaced by peaceful quietness.

Faddah’s face appeared.

He reached to caress the boy’s smooth cheek.

Elizabeth saw the long blade rise before her eyes. She tried to swallow, but her neck was bent backward by the hand gripping her hair. She wanted to touch her belly once more, to feel the baby’s frantic kicks, but the rope immobilized her arms. Her throat was about to be cut, and she wondered, would it hurt?

The blade kept rising, as if the butcher derived twisted pleasure from prolonging the moment. The steel suspended high above her eyes.

She stopped fighting.

Please, no pain!

He held the blade steady, ready to drop it and slice her throat.

She shut her eyes, her groans turning to quick breathing. She felt his hand tug harder on her hair as his other hand dropped the blade.

She expected terrible pain in her throat, but all she felt was a sudden release of the backward pull. Her head sprung forward. She opened her eyes, expecting to see blood sprout forth.

But there was no blood.

A chunk of dark hair dropped into her lap.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair again, tugged hard, slashed with the blade, and tossed it on the floor.

She was paralyzed, watching the hacked chunks of her thick hair drop like spent hay. Every time he chopped off a lock, he blew on her scalp, as if to make sure she felt it exposed. He clutched a heavy clump in the back of her head, chopped it, and long sheaves of hair flew in the air. The young men along the walls began to laugh.

Her eyes filled with tears. It was better than dying, she told herself. Yet the humiliation was greater than anything she had ever experienced. She closed her eyes and pushed back the tears, while he finished off what was left of her beautiful hair.

Masada arrived late at Oscar’s studio. He wore bathing shorts under the Hawaiian shirt. “I had a job this morning in Tel Aviv,” he explained. “My client suspected his wife was romancing her sailing instructor.”

“Good for her.” Tara raised a glass of lemonade.

“But she’s not.” Oscar showed them a photo of two women pulling up a purple sail on a white boat, stealing a kiss behind the canvas. “She’s doing a fellow student. I have a title for the movie: Cheating Wives on Choppy Waves. ”

They laughed, and Tara asked, “What’s the plan?”

Oscar placed a blue backpack on the table. “It looks innocent, but it’s the best portable video surveillance system for live transmission. This is the antenna.” He pointed to a short metal rod. “It also serves as the on/off switch.”

“What’s this?” Masada tugged at a tube attached to the right shoulder strap.

“Careful!” He showed her the glass end. “A miniature wide-angle lens. Let me show you.” He lifted the backpack and strapped it on Masada. “You want both shoulder straps and the hip belt to be buckled up tightly.” He tightened all three and pulled on the backpack sideways and up and down. “You have to remember to wear it like this, no loose movement, or the video quality will be bad. Keep it on your back at all times.”

“What’s in there? Rocks?”

“The batteries are heavy. They’re good for six hours, which is a lot considering the high power required for wireless video transmission.” Oscar helped her remove the backpack.

“You guys haven’t heard of lithium ion batteries? I thought Israeli technology was advanced.”

“It’s a sealed unit, ready to go.” He put it down carefully. “Don’t try to open the zipper or anything. When you get off the cable car at the top of the mountain, put it on like any backpack, tighten all straps, including the one across the hips, and push the antenna sideways to switch on the unit. That’s all.”

“We’ll be nearby,” Tara said, “receiving your video and sound.”

“I don’t like spying on friends.”

“Lenin isn’t your friend.”

“Stop calling him Lenin. His name is Levy.”

“Flavian.”

Masada had no patience for Tara’s word games. “Your point?”

“Remember the Roman general who broke down the rebellion and caused the zealots to die on Mount Masada? Flavius Silva . And Lenin’s name? Flavian Silver . Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Masada stood up to leave. “It’s Levy’s fault his parents named him Flavian as much as it’s my fault my parents named me after the site of a mass suicide.”

“Just be open to the possibility.” Tara patted the backpack. “Tease him hard, get some answers on video.”

“I’ll do it,” Masada said, “only to prove to you that he’s innocent.”

Rabbi Josh didn’t understand the Arabic words Silver’s companion was shouting from the rear, but their impact was dramatic. The preacher screamed, and the worshippers surged toward the exit with murderous fury. He tried to get through to Professor Silver, but the raging Arabs blocked the way, many waving fists in the air, chanting, “ Itbakh El-Yahood!” He caught sight of Silver’s white face, his black-rimmed glasses askew. A second later, the professor disappeared. A hand brushed against the rabbi’s kafiya, almost pulling it off his head. He grabbed it. If they got a good look at him, he’d be dead in less than a minute.

Someone was fighting against the current, pushing men aside, shouting in Arabic. It was Silver’s companion. His sunshades and kafiya were gone, and his black hair was no longer sleek. At lease he had the mind to hide his yarmulke! He kept shouting about the Al-Aqsa mosque. The rabbi wanted to yell, Liar! But opening his mouth would be akin to committing suicide.