The Masada Complex (41 page)

“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.”

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?”