“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.
The man reached the spot where Silver had dropped, went down and reappeared carrying the professor above the crowd, the balding head slumped to one side, the eyes closed. He carried Silver easily on one shoulder, pushing against the tide toward the wall facing Mecca, where the preacher continued squealing from the pulpit.
Standing on his toes, Rabbi Josh saw a wide berth of empty floor between the pulpit and the crowd. He pushed through, parallel to the floating professor, his right shoulder serving as a wedge to separate bodies and make way.
The man carried Silver across the open area toward the back door, which the preacher had used to enter the mosque. He kicked it open, turned sideways to pass through, and his eyes focused on the rabbi, who was fighting through the last rows of crazed men. He smirked, exposing white teeth, and vanished through the door with his load. Rabbi Josh wondered whether the man had noticed him follow them and had incited the riot to shake him off.
Pushing through the last few Arabs, the rabbi ran forward. The carpeted floor gave way to smooth tiles, and his socks, infused with the ointment, lost traction and slipped from under him. He fell and rolled over twice, his hands still holding the kafiya to his head.
It took him a moment to recover. He got up on one knee, placed a foot flat on the tile, and stood up. With the preacher screeching violently on his right, he took small, geisha steps toward the door, expecting someone to grab his shoulder any second and shout, “Kill the Jews!”
He made it through the door into a narrow corridor and continued edging forward, resisting the urge to break into a run. The corridor turned left, then right. At the far end he saw light filtering through a doorway, where Levy’s cunning companion must have exited.
He quickened his steps, feeling the wall with one hand, and pushed the door, which flew open, letting him through. Bright daylight blinded him, and the ground dropped from under his feet. He stumbled down a few steps and fell.
Starting to rise, the rabbi lifted the hem of his kafiya and looked up, squinting against the sun. A crescent of Israeli policemen in riot gear surrounded him. Thank God, he thought, and opened his mouth to speak, but a policeman stepped forward, lifted his club, and landed it on the rabbi’s head.
Professor Silver wiped his face with the wet cloth Rajid handed to him. “I could have been killed!”
“Could have. Would have. Should have.” Rajid drove down a narrow street, away from the Old City. “I told you to stay in your room until tomorrow.”
“You are insane!” Silver held the wet cloth against his forehead. His black beret was gone, as well as his eyeglasses. “Our of your mind! Who knows how many were injured or arrested because of you. Why on earth-”
“You grew a tail. I had to snip him off.”
“Impossible!”
The handler’s eyes, exposed without his shades, remained cold. “Your rabbi from Arizona.”
“Joshua? In the mosque?” The professor clucked his tongue. “Allah’s mercy. They would have torn him to pieces, the foolish man.”
Rajid lowered the window, allowing in warm air, and lit a cigarette.
“Joshua, Joshua, Joshua.” Silver sighed, resting his head back, closing his eyes. He had noticed the rabbi’s prodding questions, but never expected him to play amateur sleuth.
“That’s why we’re concerned about your judgment. The debate is going on in Washington right now, and here you are, running around Jerusalem, placing it all in jeopardy.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
Rajid laughed. “He looks like that actor from Mr. amp; Mrs. Smith, but with a few days’ stubble, ponytail, and wrestler’s shoulders. How many of those did you see in the mosque?”
“Ah.”
“He was stunned to see you pray so devoutly to the wrong God.”
Silver smiled, remembering. “It was a real connection. Allah listened, reached down, and touched me. Allah calmed the fears in my heart.”
“I’m sure your rabbi was impressed.” Rajid snickered. He parked in front of the Ramban Hostel, pulled his yarmulke from his pocket, and put it on his head. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“No. I’m going upstairs. You are leaving.”
Rajid pulled a plastic strap from his breast pocket and made it into a loop. “These are called FlexiCuffs-cheap to make, easy to slap on, impossible to chew through.”
Silver reached for the door handle. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“My orders are to handcuff you, if necessary. Ramallah wants you in your room until the vote is over.”
“Tell them I learned my lesson.” Silver put his hand out. “Can I have these?”
Rajid gave him the plastic handcuffs. “Keep them as a reminder that I trusted you. Stay locked in your room until tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at the cafe at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Bring your papers.”
“A new day, a new paradigm.” Silver slipped the handcuffs into his pocket. “You must find the rabbi and deal with him.”
Rajid smirked. “I thought you were fond of him.”
“I am.” Silver sighed. “But he saw too much.”
“We’ll take care of him.”
Silver watched Rajid drive off and turned to climb up the steps. A long night was ahead, requiring all his faculties. The memorial service on Mount Masada would be his best chance to seek information about the woman soldier who had killed Faddah. Before luring Masada to a far side of the mountaintop, he would use her to make the other Jews more talkative. He needed a name, maybe even an address. Faddah’s killer would suffer,
as Faddah had suffered.
In the lobby, the front desk clerk played an electronic game that emitted tinny sounds and beeped repeatedly. Holding his hand out for his key, Silver glanced at the board. The keys to Masada’s and Rabbi Josh’s rooms hung from their respective hooks. He didn’t know where Masada had gone, but Rajid’s smirk had left Silver confident that the rabbi would never need his key again. Heading to the stairs, he muttered, “What can I do, kinderlakh? You two are so nosey.”
Elizabeth would not look up from the pile of hair on the floor. Father was carried out of the room, trailed by his followers. The rope was untied, and a broom was thrown at her feet.
Aunt Hamida appeared. “Poor child!”
Burying her face in her aunt’s black robe, she broke down. Hard, painful sobs shook her body.
When she calmed down, they swept the floor together, and Aunt Hamida unfurled a yellow robe. “Your father ordered that you put this on. Please don’t argue anymore.”
Elizabeth reminded herself of the responsibility she had to the baby. Bow, accept your punishment, act repentantly, and get out of here. She wore the yellow robe and tied a yellow scarf over her shorn scalp. She asked, “Did you try Bob Emises at the consulate again?”
“They hung up on me.” Aunt Hamida glanced over her shoulder and whispered, “I could sneak in a phone. You could call them.”
“It’s too late for that. I can’t be seen me like this.” The last thing she needed was a media-worthy scandal. She had to convince Father not to use the video clip. Then she would walk to the checkpoint, ask the Israelis to call a taxi for her, and return to Jerusalem. Many of the Orthodox Jewish women wore wigs. She would buy a nice one before contacting the consulate.
Leaving Oscar’s studio, Masada found the streets jammed with people in yellow. The afternoon breeze made walking pleasant. She joined the current of human traffic, eventually finding herself on Jaffa Street. She passed by a group arguing loudly and stopped to listen. A young woman accused the government of stupidity while an Orthodox man justified the bribe as a necessary attempt to secure Israel’s survival. Soon two of the debaters were yelling at each other, others were joining in, and policemen on horsebacks trotted by watchfully.
A whiff of grilled meat attracted her to a cart, where she bought a pita wrap with chopped lamb, fries, salad, and humus. She paced down the avenue, chewing mouthfuls of Israeli food she had not tasted in decades, absorbing the sounds and smells and sights of the huge gathering. Her knee wasn’t hurting, the head bruises had almost healed, and the staccato of Hebrew made her smile.
Near the Jaffa Gate, hundreds of youths danced in concentric circles to Israeli folk songs, which she recognized from her youth. A banner above the main stage read: Israel-Past, Present, and Future.
Across from the stage she saw a Microsoft banner hanging from a balcony. Motorola was strung between two telephone poles. A Smith Barney flag fluttered from a stoplight, now blinking yellow. Intel flew a mini blimp over the Old City. More banners strung along the avenue-Home Depot, Toys R Us, Starbucks, GMC, IBM, and GE. She understood the subliminal message sent via American TV channels to the senators in Washington: U.S. companies relied on Israel for their research and development, for their competitive edge, which tied American products and jobs to Israel’s fate.
The banners, however, did not end with subtleties:
America + Israel = Democracy + Freedom
One Mistake in a Long Friendship = Forgiveness
Guilty Unless Proven Innocent?
Israel = Bringing American Democracy to the Middle East
America + Israel = Golda Meir And there were contrarians as well:
America, who?
We’re fine. Aid yourself!
And Masada’s favorite, spray-painted on a wall:
How Would Senator Jesus Vote?
She jotted down the wording of the signs. Such authenticity would demonstrate the consequences of what Colonel Ness and Rabbi Josh had done.
“So?” A hand tapped her shoulder. “You still want Israel to be destroyed?”
She turned to see the man with the colorful skullcap who had asked her to speak at the rally.
Rabbi Josh was sure his head was split open, oozing gray brain matter onto the ground. Otherwise it wouldn’t hurt so badly. He parted his eyelids one at a time and saw the world sideways, like a TV standing on its side. The ground pressed against his left temple. He wasn’t at the mosque any longer, but he didn’t remember being moved. He touched the crown of his head, finding it was still covered with the kafiya.
The large cage was made of chicken wire and steel posts. Arab men crouched or stood in clumps of hushed conversations. A bearded man wearing a white knitted cap noticed he was awake and helped him to a sitting position. The rabbi winced, his head pounding. The man said something in Arabic.
An Israeli policeman tapped the bars with his club and pointed to one of the Arabs, who approached a small opening backward and stuck out his hands. He was cuffed and led away.
There was music nearby, blurred against the deep background hum of a huge crowd. Rabbi Josh realized the rally was taking place only a few streets away from here. He looked around, digesting his situation. He was locked up with a few hundred Arabs in a makeshift cage in the parking lot of a police station. Every few minutes, one of them was handcuffed and taken across the parking lot to another cage, whose walls were blocked off with gray tarp. At the current pace, he could be here for hours.
The events at the mosque replayed in his mind. Silver praying to Allah.
He wanted to believe the professor had merely visited the mosque for reconnaissance purposes. But Levy’s expression bore the fervor of a true believer experiencing that rare joy of spiritual unity with his creator. Rabbi Josh knew sincere faith when he saw it, and Silver’s faith in Allah, while utterly unbelievable, was sincere.
The implications were astounding. Professor Levy Silver was a Muslim! But was he an Arab? A Palestinian?
Rabbi Josh rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his mind. He reflected on Silver’s constant use of Yiddish phrases, his inaccurate yet endearing quotations of Jewish sages, his humor-Jewish humor. The professor had put on a masterful act of an elderly Jew, of good-natured resilience, spiced up with jokes and affection. Had he once been a Jew and converted to Islam out of misguided convictions? Or was he a born Arab who had assumed a Jewish identity for clandestine purposes?
Thinking objectively of the elderly man he had so fondly respected, the rabbi remembered Silver’s subtle accent and the softly tanned hue of his skin, both explained away by his Italian roots, yet now hinting at another, ominous possibility. The events of the recent past could be explained by a frightening hypothesis: Silver could be a Palestinian agent! His training, instructions, and money could have come from the Palestinians! It all fit together!
Rabbi Josh closed his eyes, trying to think clearly. Silver must have recruited Al into the imaginary Judah’s Fist organization, bribed Senator Mahoney with Arab money in exchange for sponsoring a pro-Israel act in the Senate, and leaked the information to Masada, whose deep resentment of Israel had conditioned her to write a scathing expose. The senator’s suicide fueled the anti-Israel fire, inciting a vote for the Fair Aid Act that was lethal for the U.S.-Israel friendship. Logically, at the conclusion of the plot, the professor needed to get rid of Al and Masada in order to eliminate any risk of exposure.
The plausibility of this scenario terrified Rabbi Josh. The sounds of the rally nearby proved how brilliantly the Palestinian scheme had worked.
Darkness was settling down on the city. Lights were turning on one by one, illuminating the parking lot. He must warn Masada before she left with Silver for the memorial service!
A policeman approached the lockup and pointed with his club at one of the Arabs. Rabbi Josh got up, wincing as his swollen feet pressed on the hard concrete, and rattled the chicken wire to attract the policeman’s attention. The Arab who was called stuck his hands out to be tied an
d grunted something in Arabic, likely telling the rabbi he had no reason to rush.
The policeman stepped closer, his club ready. Rabbi Josh cupped his mouth and whispered in English, “I’m an American.” He hoped the noise from the nearby rally prevented the Arabs behind from hearing him. “Let me out.”
“An American?” The policeman banged his club on the bars, making Rabbi Josh jump back. “Do you need my aid?”
Rabbi Josh turned. The whole group was standing, glaring at him. The Arab with the white knitted cap snatched the rabbi’s kafiya and yelled, “American!” Another Arab came forward and kicked him in the groin. The rest of them launched their bodies toward him, wailing in Arabic.
When the sun went down, Elizabeth heard the muezzin call for evening prayers. While the men gathered in the prayer hall, the women set long tables in the courtyard for the iftar. They carried bowls of rise and lamb stew, baskets of pita breads, and jugs of ice water. A smoky fire kept away the flies.
Aunt Hamida had gone to bring another dish, and Elizabeth stepped to the side of the courtyard, observing the commotion. The evening communal eating during Ramadan was familiar, even after so many years. Fasting from sunrise to sunset during the long, hot summer days was taxing, which probably contributed to Father’s impatience and the harsh punishment.
She realized no one was paying attention to her. With all the men in the mosque, who was going to stop her from running off?
She inched along the wall toward the exit from the courtyard, but paused. Now that her punishment had been meted, what was the point of running away? Tonight, after the iftar, she would demand a private audience with Father. Caressing her tummy, Elizabeth was determined that her child would have a grandfather.
The Masada Complex Page 37