The Masada Complex (40 page)

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.”

“
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.”