Professor Silver had spent the night on the basement sofa, awake and despondent, drained of energy and hope. Elizabeth had failed him on both counts-Masada was going to be released in the morning, and he had no green card. He was doomed to blindness.
The irony didn’t escape him. For years he had labored to realize his vision of ruining Israel, and now, when his brilliance had finally brought the Zionist enemy to its knees, his own demise was imminent.
Blind!
From his perch on the sofa, through a thin cloud of smoke, the dark blotch showed against the opposite wall. He moved his gaze to the left and the blotch moved with it. Last week it was smaller, next week it would be larger, and soon his hands would grope for the walls on his way to the bathroom.
He wished he remembered how to pray. “Allah,” he begged, a tremor in his voice, “guide me, tell me what to do!” He went down on his knees. “Don’t begrudge me, Great One, for my absence from your mosque. How could I, when my duty required that I live as an infidel Jew all those years?” He bowed, bringing his forehead to the ground too fast, bumping the concrete floor. “Ay!”
He went upstairs to fetch ice. The early rays of the sun flooded the kitchen. His airline ticket was on the table. He sat down, feeling sick. All his efforts had gone to nothing.
The light was blinking on the answering machine. He pressed Play.
“It’s me.” Elizabeth McPherson’s voice was hushed. “It’s one in the morning. Where are you? I made some calls to the computer people in D.C., made a fool of myself, but got an electronic copy of your green card. I had it stamped and dated. I’ll drop it in your mailbox. And don’t worry about the writer-I’ll accompany her to Canada in the morning. Have a safe trip. See you at my award ceremony.”
He ran outside. A small envelope waited in his mailbox. He tore it open and found a small card. He kissed it, laughing with joy. “Allah hu Akbar!”
Glancing at his watch, Silver realized he had about an hour and a half to finish packing, get to the airport, and catch his flight. With renewed energy, he hurried down to the basement, opened the safe, and pulled out the large, padded envelope he had marked Phase Three. It contained a thick binder, the documents divided into sections with printed tabs:
Establish Arab Government over Israel Stage fake Jewish sabotage (i.e., “Reichstag burning”) Issue public-safety directives (cleaning security forces, government, academia) Enact racial-purity laws (for “protection of Jewish religious laws”) Segregate for ‘protection’ (Jews to ‘ghettos,’ Palestinians take over cities, homes) Censure media coverage of security, trials, etc. Set up Jewish fifth-column (kapos, informers, rabbis, ‘peacemakers’) Build COCA-(Concentration Camps, designed to withstand satellite surveillance) Construct facilities for human remains (disposition, recycling) Plan cleanup and media spin re supposed ‘migration’ of the Jews)
Silver packed the documents and his toiletries into a shoulder bag, stuffed all the cash into a money belt, which he tied under his shirt, and packed a suitcase with clothes for a week.
Somewhere over Ohio, Masada finished reading Silver’s book. She closed it and looked out through the window at the vast farmland below. Last night Elizabeth McPherson had called the lockup in the federal court to tell the marshals she would be picking up Masada to escort her to Canada, via New York. Tara went to Masada’s house and packed some clothes, personal items and Silver’s book.
McPherson asked, “Good book?”
Masada gave it to her. “Nazis used laws and regulations to destroy people. Sound familiar?”
The lawyer browsed the pages at random. “You think I’m a Nazi.”
“You’re just following orders, right?”
The Fasten Your Seatbelts sign blinked with a loud ping, as if someone was warning her not to start a fight.
The lawyer contemplated a page for a while. “His theory is simplistic.”
Masada looked at her.
“A domino theory-Hitler’s race laws made life miserable. German Jews tried to emigrate, but had nowhere to go. President Roosevelt convened the Evian Conference to set quotas for Jewish refugees, but no country granted any visas, basically giving the Nazis silent permission to kill the Jews.”
Despite her anger at the woman, Masada was impressed by her quick grasp of the book’s main thrust. “That’s right. The world’s indifference was a green light for the Final Solution.”
Elizabeth accepted a cup of coffee from the flight attendant, placing it on the fold-down tray. “Jews were not the only refugees ignored by the Western world.”
“But the professor is wrong. Had FDR known Hitler was going to kill the Jews, he would have opened America’s gates.”
“Look at this quote from the Peel Commission.” Elizabeth read from the book: “The British Parliament’s Peel Commission traveled to Palestine in 1936 and took testimony from Arab and Jewish leaders and from British officers and politicians. Especially chilling is the testimony of Winston Churchill: ‘A catastrophe of unprecedented ferocity is hanging over the Jews in Europe, from the white-bearded elder praying in the synagogues to the little children playing in the streets.’ See? Churchill predicted the Nazis’ slaughter of the Jews back in 1936-surely he told FDR.”
“I don’t believe that,” Masada said. “The Americans would have stopped the Holocaust if they knew.”
Elizabeth brought the coffee cup to her nose and smelled in circular motions. “They why didn’t they open their gates to Jewish survivors after the war, when everyone knew what the Nazis had done?”
“They did open their gates.” Masada noticed the woman’s accent turned more prominent, her manner of speaking sharpened. Was she Hispanic? “Where are you from?”
“They didn’t open their gates. They opened Palestine’s gates.” The lawyer put down her coffee. “They didn’t invite the Jews to settle in America or England or France. They sent them to settle in someone else’s land.”
Masada was surprised at her anger. “But Palestine was nobody’s land at the time. It was under a British mandate.”
“Nobody? What are we? Dogs?” Elizabeth’s voice rose, drawing glances from other passengers. “It was Arab land! Our land! That’s what they gave you-our land! Filasteen!”
Masada suddenly realized that McPherson had not been enforcing U.S. laws or following orders from Washington. She was an angry Palestinian, seeking revenge!
“Now you’re an Israeli refugee.” She sneered. “Isn’t that funny?”
Masada got up and forced her way to the aisle. Elizabeth tried to grab the cup of coffee from the tray, but yelped as the hot liquid spilled into her lap.
Professor Silver sped down Scottsdale Road. He had an hour until his flight’s departure at 8:08 a.m. It was tight, but he felt invincible. He would make the flight to Newark and, after a short layover, continue on to Tel Aviv, landing there around 1 p.m. local time. He would reach Hadassah Hospital by 3 p.m.
He pressed the gas pedal harder, flying through a red light at McCormick Ranch Road. The way ahead was lined with traffic lights, a welcoming string of green beads from Allah, who was removing all the obstacles from his way to Jerusalem. Filled with gratitude, he vowed to attend prayers, to kneel before Allah in the holy city of Jerusalem.
Traffic thickened as he approached downtown Scottsdale. He weaved right and left between a UPS truck and a white sedan, his head swiveling constantly to get a better view of his surroundings. At Fifth Avenue, he had to stop as three Mexican men in straw hats pushed an old pickup truck. They cleared the road, and the light turned red. Silver crawled forward, checked for cars, and sped through the intersection. Someone honked behind him, but he laughed it off. Allah was on his side.
Rabbi Josh handed over his suitcase but held on to the round piece of the temple dais. The Continental Airlines ticketing agent spoke into a handheld device, which crackled something in response. A second agent appeared at the counter. “Sir, you’ll have to check that in.”
“It’ll fit in the overhead,” he said.
She held her hands apart. “That’s the limit.”
“But I can’t lose it.”
“It won’t be lost.”
He took a step back. “Please make an exception. I’ll pay extra.”
“It’s too wide.” She looked at the round package. “Could you fold it in half?”
“I’ll do that.” Instead of proceeding to security and the departure gate, the rabbi took the elevator up to the parking garage and looked for the maintenance office. After some explanations, they lent him a wood saw.
He unwrapped the wooden piece and leaned it at a 45-degree angle against the wall, bottom side up. The dais had been constructed of planks, polished nicely on top, hammered onto a supporting beam underneath. He forced the handsaw between the two planks and began sawing the supporting beam. He worked fast, his hand moving the saw back and forth without rest. A scorching smell rose from the saw.
Masada’s stomach lifted with the sickening sense of free fall, broken by a sudden bump that lifted her body through the haze. Her arm stretched, her index finger hooked in an eye socket. Red liquid trickled down her arm. A roaring sound grew louder, then abated. The white mask, twisted in laughter, appeared above her. Al Zonshine’s foul odor assaulted her, and she tried to shield her head from his pounding.
The haze cleared.
Another bump, a roaring sound.
She opened her eyes and found a flight attendant shaking her shoulder. She was at the rear of the plane, away from the Palestinian lawyer. In the window, black tarmac moved backwards as the plane taxied. Dreary terminal buildings came into view. The pilot announced with little enthusiasm, “Welcome to JFK. Local time in New York just after ten in the morning.”
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.”
“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?”
“I prefer English.”
“No problemo. I’m bipolar. Are you carrying any weapons?”
“My pen,” Masada said.
“Right on.” He laughed. “How long since you left Israel?”
“Before you were born.”
“Happy birthday.” He handed Masada her travel papers and boarding pass. “Welcome home.”
“I’ll take those,” Elizabeth said, reaching over.
“Ah!” He moved it out of her reach. “To each her own.” When Masada collected the documents, he noticed the handcuffs.
“What’s this?”
“She’s in custody,” Elizabeth said.
“Was in custody. Everyone must have complete freedom of movement here, in case we have an emergency. That’s the rule.”
“Whose rule?”
“Off with the cuffs, Chief.”
Masada held forth her cuffed wrists. “I’m expecting a court order from Phoenix any moment, stopping my deportation.”
“I’ll watch for it,” he said. “You have plenty of time until boarding.” He put an open hand before Elizabeth. “The keys, please.”
Her face burning, Elizabeth handed the keys and watched him release the handcuffs. “My government will hold you responsible if she escapes.”
“I’ll notify our prime minister immediately.” He removed the cuffs from Masada’s wrists and beckon her through into the secure gate area. A dozen men and women congregated around her. The front of their yellow T-shirts was printed with Fair Aid in blue letters covered by a black X. The back said: Take Your Aid and Shove It!
They would soon discover who she was, Elizabeth thought. “I need her alive,” she said and tried to follow into the enclosed area.
Ron stopped her with his hand. “She’s fine.”
Masada bent down to let an elderly woman hug her. Others began arguing. The circle around her widened, more circles formed, people talking to each other, pointing at her.
Elizabeth asked, “Do they know who she is?”
“We know. The question is, who are you?” He browsed her passport.
“But why aren’t they angry at her?”
“What for?” He looked up. “You want us to kill the messenger because we don’t like the news?” His fingers danced on the computer keyboard. “She’s a brave woman.” He punched a few more keys and looked at his computer screen. “Aha!” He hit another key. “Aha! Aha! Aha!”
Elizabeth craned her head, trying to see the screen. “What’s all the Aha?”
“Elizabeth McPherson. Has a nice ring to it. Catchy.”
“If you don’t mind.” She glanced at her watch. “I have important phone calls to make.”
“You’re not a frequent traveler,” he commented, putting aside her passport.
“My position doesn’t leave much time for travel.”
“Neither does mine.”
“Are we done?” She extended her hand for the passport.
“Almost.” He motioned at a young woman in uniform. “Shiri will take care of you over there.” He pointed to a curtain in the corner, where a sign in English, Hebrew, and Arabic read: BODY SEARCH