“Almost done,” Masada said.
The strap suddenly let go, and Silver dropped. His suspenders caught on Masada’s knee brace, its edge poking out through her pants like a hook, and he locked his arms around her lower legs.
Masada yelled in pain.
“Joshua!” Silver’s blue suspenders strip pressed against his cheek, stretching under his chin. “You failed to save your son. Don’t fail again!”
“Don’t listen to him.” Masada twisted in pain. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Save me,” Silver yelled, “or she dies too!”
“Now,” Rabbi Josh said, “I’m pulling!”
Silver held on. Another minute, just one more minute, and the rabbi will pull us up.
“It’s not working,” Masada said. “You’ll fall over too.”
“Pull up,” the rabbi’s voice quivered. “Pull!”
She bent her knees and kicked hard, hitting the professor with her heels. Silver yelped and slipped down her shins. He pressed her shoes to his sternum, his face squeezed between her calves, his suspenders as tight as guitar strings, hooked on the brace. In that instant, when so little was keeping him from plunging to his death, Faddah’s face appeared, smiling at him.
Masada’s legs shook hard, and he heard her groan. At first he thought she wet herself, but the liquid soaking her pants was red. “Joshua!” Silver turned his head to make his voice heard. “Thou shall not kill!”
Elizabeth turned the ignition key, her foot pressing the pedal to the floor. The engine roared. She turned the steering wheel all the way, shifted gears, and the ambulance jerked forward. It made a wide turn in front of the gate, barely missing the whitecoated Arabs kneeling at gunpoint by the roadside, and raced back toward the camp.
She made the turn onto the main strip without slowing and sped up toward the mosque. Reaching the top of the hill, she drove the ambulance into the courtyard, up to the entrance. She got out and ran into the mosque. The explosive belt pressed down on her hips under the yellow robe. She shut the steel door and locked it, throwing the key far down the corridor, and ran to the prayer hall.
Hundreds of men were bowing, their foreheads to the carpeted floor. Father was in his chair, the book in his lap. She rushed to him.
Hajj Mahfizie looked up at his approaching daughter. His mouth opened.
“Father!” She took the book, tossed it, and sat in his lap, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh, Father!”
He tried to push her off.
The men began shouting, scrambling to their feet. A bottleneck formed at the single door.
Elizabeth rested her head in the small of his neck. She smiled as the baby moved inside her. Father quivered, and his gaping mouth emitted a moan.
A blinding light flashed.
Horrible pain tore through her body.
Rabbi Josh struggled to pull Masada up. “I’m bleeding badly,” she said. “It’s over.”
“No! Pull up!”
“It’s too late for me. Go find a young woman, have lots of kids.”
His hands tightened around her arms, struggling against the slush of congealing blood on his palms. “I can’t lose you!” Tears fell from his eyes onto her face.
“Joshua,” Silver shouted, “save us!”
Masada’s elbows slipped, and she was hanging by her hands again. The toe of her left shoe found a protrusion and hooked onto it, relieving some of the weight. Her right hand, pressed between Rabbi Josh’s chest and the rough stone, began to slip out. She glanced at the red roofs of Kibbutz Ben-Yair and the deep blue of the Dead Sea. A light breeze came from the water. “You were right. I love this place.”
Rabbi Josh tried to hold on, his own body leaning precariously over the low wall. Masada turned, barely hanging by her left hand, and reached down with her right hand. The professor moaned below. With the tips of her fingers she pulled up the pant leg, exposed the brace, and drew a dagger.
Rabbi Josh locked his hands on her left forearm. He felt his body inch forward, approaching the point where his own weight, together with the force of their bodies, would pull him over.
She looked up. In her green eyes he saw no fear, only determination and peace.
The rabbi held on to her. “I’d rather die with you!”
Masada smiled. “Don’t die for my sins.”
He understood.
“Shalom,” she said softly.
For a brief moment, Masada kept her balance on the tip of her shoe on the rock protrusion. She bent her legs, crouching, hooked her arm behind Silver’s neck, and while they were suspended in the air she sank her brother’s bone into his eye socket. Silver’s agonized scream tore the silent air, echoing from the rocky cliffs while Masada kicked the rock and sent both of them flying backwards in an arc.
An instant later, about a quarter of the way down, her backpack exploded, and a cylindrical object shot up above her. It was shiny, like silk, attached with wires to what was left of the backpack. Air rushed into it, unfurling it, and a blue-and-white canopy spread out.
With the parachute open, Rabbi Josh could not see them anymore. They hit the desert floor, and a cloud of white dust bloomed, gliding aside in the lazy breeze while the silky canopy descended, covering them like a shroud.
The military helicopter flew south, tracing the bleached shore of the Dead Sea. Rabbi Josh watched the large craft pass over his head and land among the mountaintop ruins. He stuffed Silver’s papers into the bag and ran over, bowing under the rotating blades.
Before he climbed in, the rabbi saw another helicopter, this one coming from the west, painted with a red Star of David on a white circle. It cleared the barren peaks and made a rapid descent to the desert floor.
Colonel Ness was sitting in the middle of the cavernous belly, his wheelchair anchored to the floor. A leggy young woman helped the rabbi into the helicopter, slid the door shut, and took Silver’s bag. Voices filtered through the partition hiding the cockpit. The helicopter took off.
Through the window, Rabbi Josh watched the sheer walls of Mount Masada while the helicopter descended to the bottom. He closed his eyes and recited a prayer for her.
As soon as they landed, a ramp lowered at the rear of the helicopter, letting in dust and engine fumes. The woman released the wheelchair and rolled Colonel Ness down the ramp. Rabbi Josh followed.
The military medics from the other helicopter had already pulled aside the parachute canopy and released the backpack straps from Masada’s back. She was lying face down. Silver lay next to her, his face turned to the morning sky, the bone dagger sticking out of his eye. They were both bleeding, the dark liquid too thick to penetrate the hard desert floor, instead pooling together in the narrow space between them.
The young woman picked up Silver’s gun from the ground, the silencer still attached. She stuffed it in her belt.
They watched the medics turn Masada over, strap an oxygen mask onto her face, and hook her up to an IV line. Her chest continued to rise and sink slowly.
Colonel Ness maneuvered his wheelchair among the rocks. He slipped off the wheelchair and sat on the ground next to Masada. While the medics unpacked additional equipment, he pulled up Masada’s pants leg, exposing the brace. He opened the knee cover and extracted a small memory stick, which he handed to his assistant. With a handkerchief he wiped Masada’s face around the oxygen mask. He combed her hair with his fingers with gentleness that touched Rabbi Josh more deeply than any demonstration of grief. Leaning forward, his hands on the ground beside her head, Colonel Ness kissed her forehead.
While the young woman wheeled Ness up the ramp, Rabbi Josh kissed Masada and prayed while holding her limp hand. “Blessed be He, who brings healing to the sick and infirm.”
The medics used aluminum rods to set her spine and limbs for transport. The rabbi climbed the loading ramp into Ness’s helicopter, tears flowing down his cheeks. The rotors sped up and the ramp began to rise. The medics crowded over Masada beside the other helicopter, and he caught
a last glimpse of her unconscious face. It was calm, almost happy.
As soon as the wheelchair was properly anchored to the floor, the helicopter took off. Sounds of talking and the crackling of radio transmission came from the enclosed cockpit. They flew around Mount Masada’s northern protrusion and landed in the circular driveway in front of the tourist center. The engine died down.
Ness’s assistant slid open the side door, and the blonde reporter climbed into the helicopter.
Tara dabbed her wet eyes with a crumpled paper tissue. “Horrible! So unnecessary!”
“The extra weight screwed it up.” Colonel Ness lifted his arms in the air. “It wasn’t meant to carry both of them. If she had only let go instead of holding him all the way down, the parachute would have slowed her enough to land safely.”
“Oscar should have told us,” Tara said, “that there was a parachute in the backpack. Does he work for you?”
“Every Israeli is a soldier.” The colonel handed the reporter a sheet of paper. “Masada’s exoneration. We found it in the wrong file. She was right. The conviction was voided when she was released from jail, just as she claimed in the immigration court.”
Tara took the document. “I’ll make sure they restore her citizenship.” She saw Silver’s bag. “I’ll need these documents for my special report. It’s beyond comprehension. Masada really did prevent another Holocaust!”
Colonel Ness glanced at his assistant, who spoke into a handheld device. Rabbi Josh saw a man climb into the helicopter and take the professor’s bag. His bald pate was surrounded by long, frizzy curls, which dangled over his shoulders.
“Ezekiel,” the colonel said, “make a set of photocopies for the lady.”
“Excellent stuff,” Tara said. “Explosive.”
Colonel Ness asked, “What do you hear from Washington?”
“Everybody’s got egg on their faces,” Tara said. “They’re coming up with ideas for pro-Israel legislation-a new trade pact, military cooperation, the works. I hear Senator Mitchum announced he’ll sponsor the U.S.-Israel Mutual Defense Act himself, with identical language to the one Mahoney submitted before he died. He said it would be a fitting counteract to the monstrous Palestinian plot against Israel, which proved the necessity of a mutual defense arrangement. He said it would constitute biblical justice.”
The colonel shook her hand. “Thank you for helping our just cause.”
Tara hugged Rabbi Josh. “If you ever come back to Arizona, give me a ring.”
“I’m staying here,” he said.
The reporter left, followed by the man with the frizzy hair.
“Take a seat.” Colonel Ness beckoned the rabbi. “We’ll give you a lift to Jerusalem.”
“Wait!” Ness’s assistant exchanged a few sentences in Hebrew on her handheld communications device. She leaned over the colonel and spoke in his ear.
Colonel Ness sighed. He looked at Rabbi Josh. “Masada stopped breathing.”
Rabbi Josh turned away, unable to look at them. He felt pressure building up inside his chest. He took a few steps, bumping into the partition that separated the cockpit from the fuselage. He had failed Masada, as he had failed Raul, and as he had failed Linda. He knew he should be crying, but there was only numbness, as if he had become empty and dry inside. And there was also a pungent smell that penetrated through the mist of his agony, infusing him with a sense of danger. He turned his head left and right, sniffing. In the calm air, with the helicopter blades still, the scent assailed him. “What’s this smell?”
“Smell?” The colonel’s assistant shrugged. “I don’t smell anything.”
Rabbi Josh found a handle on the cockpit partition and opened it. He was hit with a whiff. Citrus blossom!
The pilot on the left was short, his arms thick and white. But the other man was dark, with slicked-back black hair and mirrored sunglasses. “You!”
The man smiled.
Rabbi Josh turned. “This man is an Arab!”
Colonel Ness didn’t respond.
“He’s one of them!” Rabbi Josh sprang forward and snatched Silver’s gun from the young woman’s belt, aiming it at the cockpit. “He was at the mosque with Silver! He started the riot!”
There was a long silence.
Colonel Ness cleared his throat. “His name is Rafi. The professor knew him as Rajid. He’s on my team.”
“What team? Who are you people?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes!” Rabbi Josh threaded his finger over the trigger.
Colonel Ness passed his hand through his white hair. “In 1982 Israeli intelligence learned that a bright PLO activist in Jordan was planning to cross the Dead Sea with his teenage son and take hostages on Mount Masada. Our people analyzed his profile. They decided he could be made into a double agent, but with a twist.”
Rabbi Josh glanced at the cockpit, but the two men didn’t move.
“When he acted, I was ordered to eliminate the son and capture Abu Faddah alive. But he foiled our aerial attack by rigging up a sheet as a roof. Clever man. So we landed, and I radioed central command for new orders. Our psychological profilers had told us he wouldn’t use violence, and we settled to wait. Unfortunately Masada recognized her brother from the air and, being unaware of the secret plan, didn’t take well to the waiting game. She managed to grab my loudspeaker, made threats, things got out of hand, and her brother fell off the cliff. She attacked alone, I had to shoot her in the knee to save the bastard, and he repaid me by throwing a grenade.” The colonel rested his hands on the stumps of his legs. “So much for psychological profiling.”
“And you let him escape?”
“We had him picked up later by Bedouins on our payroll. After he recovered, we arranged transport to Italy and he adopted a fictional identity of a Jewish history professor. He chose the name Flavian Silver-funny, isn’t it? Faddah means silver in Arabic. And all along he thought he was working for his PLO brothers to destroy Israel, while in fact he was working for us.”
Rabbi Josh felt dizzy. “I don’t understand.”
“We helped him develop academically, produce reports on Jewish life in Europe, write about Nazi treatment of the Jews, and so on. We arranged for him to teach in different places and kept him on ice. It’s been a long run.” The colonel motioned at the dark man in the cockpit. “Rafi was twenty-one when he became Abu Faddah’s handler.”
“Twenty,” the man said with a lopsided grin.
The colonel nodded. “It’s not easy to run an agent who’s certain he’s working for your enemy, but we did it. A great success.”
“You call this a success?” Rabbi Josh groaned. “You almost destroyed Israel!”
“It went a bit out of hand.” Colonel Ness looked at the metal ceiling for a moment in contemplation. “We let him do what he wanted, execute his plan to bribe Mahoney on behalf of a fictitious Jewish organization, and cause a scandal.”
“A scandal?” The rabbi’s voice shook. “Do you realize what you’ve done.”
“We did nothing. Abu Faddah has done it all-planning and execution. In fact, we were going to tip Masada at the right time, help her expose him as a Palestinian agent and shift the blame to the Arabs. I mean, even he didn’t know he was working for us. And the cash we gave him was traceable to the Palestinians. It was perfect. We let him run with it because we knew we could shut him down any time we wanted.”
“But why would you want this scandal?”
“We wanted American Jews to experience a painful lesson, that even in America the gentiles are capable of violent anti-Semitism. We hoped it would cause thousands to make aliya and help bolster a Jewish majority in Israel. Then, before things got really bad, we would tip off Masada, and she would expose Silver as a Palestinian agent, thereby redirecting the public’s anger at the Arabs while rejuvenating Israel’s victim status. It was a simple, a fail-safe operation.”
“Obviously it wasn’t!”
Colonel Ness nodded. “We got mor
e than we bargained for. He was doing his own thing, coming up with more phases. But still, the end result is excellent. This whole affair will help Israel regain popularity. The world witnessed firsthand how the conniving Arabs attempted to destroy U.S.-Israel friendship, take over Israel, and exterminate us.”
“But it wasn’t the Arabs!”
“Their evil plan-”
“Their plan?” Rabbi Josh thought he would explode. “It’s your plan!”
“Oh, no.” The colonel made a dismissive gesture. “The whole plan, from the bribe to the extermination of the Jews in post-Israel Palestine, was hatched by Professor Silver, otherwise known as Abu Faddah. And it’s not even his original plan. Hajj Amin al-Husseini, the grand mufti of Jerusalem, went to Berlin in 1936 and met Hitler and Eichmann to plan for the Nazi occupation of Palestine. They were going to build a concentration camp near Nablus to exterminate the Jews of Palestine. Abu Faddah was inspired by those old Arab plans. Hate made him terribly creative.”
Rabbi Josh looked at the gun in his hand. “This can’t be happening. It can’t!”
“The mufti started a mosque in Hamburg,” Ness continued. “The same mosque where, sixty years later, eleven young Arabs prepared to fly planes into the World Trade Center.” The colonel’s finger drew a line in the air. “There is a thread connecting anti-Semitism, Fascism, Jihadism, and mass murder of innocent people. Our operation succeeded in exposing-”
“You call this a success?”
“Abu Faddah was sincere in his work-a brilliant professor, if you ask me. His ideas, his architectural designs and technical improvements, spiced up the whole picture. Tara will show all of it on TV. Hundreds of millions of viewers will see it.”
“They’ll see a fraud!”
“Why?” Colonel Ness seemed offended. “These were his ideas, and he executed his own plan, every part of it!”
The Masada Complex Page 43
