The Masada Complex

“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.”