“But Rabbi, that’s what I’m telling you! Masada is Judah’s Fist!”
Masada used a computer in Drexel’s office to check her e-mails as the FBI had not returned her laptop or Blackberry. She had hundreds of e-mails from readers, mostly hateful. There was a recent one from the rabbi. Dear members of Temple Zion,
In a perfect world, I would wait until you found a new spiritual leader to step into my humble shoes. But obviously this isn’t a perfect world, and I’m leaving you to bury my son in Israel, where I shall remain. My only request is that you fight against the Fair Aid Act. Write, call, and send e-mails to your congressmen, the newspapers, and Internet blogs to protest against this attack on our Jewish state. Next year in Jerusalem.
Rabbi Joshua Frank.
Whatever doubts Masada had, his e-mail was as good as a confession. The bribe had been exposed, the senator had committed suicide, and Raul had died in her stead. Colonel Ness was pulling his failed agent back to the nest.
Following the rabbi into his house, Professor Silver was determined to bring the conversation back to Masada’s purported involvement with Al. Having failed to kill Masada, his next best option was to isolate her. Rabbi Josh’s infatuation with her had to be snuffed out to ensure that he wouldn’t try to interfere when Elizabeth threw the legal net over her.
“Here is a copy of the letter I sent on your behalf.” Rabbi Josh picked up a sheet from the kitchen counter and gave it to Silver.
“Thank you.” Silver folded the letter. “I’m sorry for upsetting you with my discovery of Masada’s involvement.”
The rabbi drank a glass of water, placed it on the counter and stared at it, as if he forgot Silver was there.
He sighed, “I wish I didn’t go to her house. Better I didn’t know.”
The rabbi looked up.
“I was worried sick about her that night.” Silver kept eye contact with the rabbi to bolster his credibility. “I had a premonition that Al was so meshugge that he would go to her house to try again. Masada is like a daughter to me.” He nodded sadly. “I’m a foolish old Yid.”
“Go on.”
“They were doing it. Like animals. Yelling and laughing.”
“Who?”
“She and Al.”
Rabbi Josh’s face paled.
“I just stood there, afraid to move, until they finished. Then Masada said to Al: Wait, big guy-”
“Big guy?”
“That’s what she said. Wait, big guy, come back and give me a kiss.”
The rabbi leaned on the counter.
“I was shocked and made a noise, like this.” Silver groaned. “And Al heard me. What could I do? He rushed to the door, and that bucket fell on his head. He must have forgotten it was there, or maybe she had planned to get rid of him by then. I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
Silver looked at him incredulously. “I didn’t believe it myself! Why would the police believe me?”
“True. It makes no sense. You must have misheard them.”
He shook his head sadly. “I understand it now. She seduced Al from the beginning, got him under her spell, used him to bribe Mahoney, and then she exposed it.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she hates Israel. First, her parents and little brother died-what happened to them, I don’t know, but she blames Israel. Then the Israelis put her in jail for something she didn’t do. The bribe was her revenge!”
“Where did she get the money?”
“Ah!” Silver had an answer prepared. “Is Israel short on enemies?”
“True.” Rabbi Josh redid the rubber band on his ponytail. “If that’s the case, why did Al try to hurt her-the snake, the poisoned brownies, the explosion?”
“Was she ever really hurt?” He chuckled. “It’s textbook diversion. Who would ever suspect the victim?”
The rabbi rubbed his cheeks with both hands. “And the temple shooting?”
Silver hesitated. Putting a spin on the event that killed the rabbi’s son required a delicate touch. “I believe Al was supposed to shoot over Masada’s head and run off, disappear into the desert, while the public, having witnessed the assassination attempt, would be even angrier with the Israelis. Think of the headlines: Writer Escapes Zionist Assassin’s Bullet! Think how her books would fly off the shelves.” He paused, sighing again. “Tragically, Hilda jumped on him and the headlines said: Writer’s Spurned Lover Misses, Shoots Boy Instead.”
The rabbi looked away. “That’s a tall house of cards built on something you thought you heard in the middle of the night.”
Silver adjusted his glasses. “I heard her clearly. Wait, big guy-”
“I heard it the first time.” Rabbi Josh led him to the door. “You should confront her. There must be another explanation.”
Elizabeth McPherson looked at the insignia of the Israeli army on the document. It sent a shiver down her spine, even now, decades after the Israelis no longer controlled her fate. The bottom of the page provided an English summary of Masada El-Tal’s conviction and sentencing for manslaughter.
Elizabeth stepped outside her office and told her secretary, “Get me a copy of the decision in the Schellong case. It’s a Seventh Circuit appeal by a Nazi guard in eighty-five or eighty-six.”
Back in her office, she reviewed the writer’s immigration file, which had come up from the basement archive earlier. It was all here: An applications for student visa in 1983, for permanent resident in 1985 and for naturalization in 1988. She checked the responses to the standard questions on the forms and sat back, satisfied. The professor would be pleased.
Professor Silver’s hands shook as he carried a bundle of mail into the house and dumped it on the dining room table. For the first time since his childhood, he was observing the fast of Ramadan, and the supermarket coupons whetted his appetite with photos of meats and desserts. He glanced at his watch. Another hour to sunset.
There was a letter from Hadassah, sent by Express Mail, asking him to bring all medical records to the pre-op checkup at the Michener Eye Center on Friday. He looked through the dining room at the framed photo on the living room wall. The blotch covered part of the Dome of the Rock, but when he shifted his head slightly, the blotch descended to hide what the Jews called The Wailing Wall at the bottom of the photo. “That’s better,” he said.
The phone rang. He went to the kitchen to pick it up.
“Let’s assume you’re right.” Masada’s voice was edgy. “But if Rabbi Josh is Ness’s agent, why did Sheen stay with you and not the rabbi?”
Silver tried to think of a reason. “What does an old Yid like me know about these things? Maybe they were ordered to stay away from each other?” He held his breath, waiting.
“It’s called compartmentalization.”
“No matter what you think of him,” Silver said, changing the focus of discussion, “the rabbi lost the most precious thing in his life. I know how it feels to lose your only son. It’s worse than dying.”
After a brief silence, she asked, “What happened to your son?”
“An accident.” He choked, thinking of Faddah. “A terrible, needless accident. I can’t talk about it.”
“I understand. I can’t talk about my family either. I’m too angry, even after so many years.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe one day we’ll compare notes.”
“I’d like that,” Silver lied. “You know how I feel about you.”
“The daughter you never had?” Masada laughed, but there was a quiver in her voice.
“You read me like an open book.”
Wednesday, August 13
It hurt as if a welder took a torch to her private parts. Cold sweat sprouted all over her body. Masada lowered herself to the floor, lying flat on the cold tiles.
When the pain eased and her breathing returned to normal, she got up and splashed water on her face.
Back in the study, she sat down and focused on creating an outline for her
next article. Readers deserved the whole truth. She would unmask Al Zonshine, Rabbi Josh, and Colonel Ness as the men behind Judah’s Fist. All the elements of a good story existed-an Israeli spymaster manipulating a misguided American rabbi, taking advantage of the rabbi’s Zionist idealism, only to see the operation blow up and fail.
The key was Sheen. Why did he stay with Silver? It occurred to her that she had not checked on the Canadian couple Sheen had used as reference. She called Temple Young Israel of Toronto. The membership coordinator told her Bernie Solomon was deceased and his wife was in a nursing home, location unknown.
Masada hung up. Another dead end.
“McPherson! Here you are!” Since promoting David over her head, the director had taken to calling her by last name only, a familiarity that unsettled Elizabeth with its tone of mockery.
Director Simpson led her to the lounging area in the corner of his office. “Coffee? Tea? Or me?” He laughed, patting her shoulder. “I like you, McPherson. You can take a joke.”
Elizabeth sat down and pushed her hair behind her ears, looking straight at him.
“I noticed you put in for a three-week vacation starting tomorrow. Everything in order?”
“My domain is always in order.” She glanced at his desk, piled with papers and magazines. “It’s my first trip home in many years.”
“Difficult times over there, missiles flying, people strapping on explosive belts, shooting at officials, lynching collaborators. It’s like a mini Iraq.”
“Media exaggerations.” She was getting annoyed.
“I’m concerned.” Director Simpson weaved his fingers together as if in prayer. “Why don’t you postpone until things calm down a bit?”
“I appreciate your concern, but my father is getting old.”
“One more thing.” The director got up and ambled to the window, where he watched the traffic below. “I hear you obtained a warrant against the writer who exposed Mahoney.”
Elizabeth had hoped he would not hear about it until after today’s hearing. “My department follows Homeland Security directives to investigate suspected crimes by any person previously processed for immigration status-”
“Spare me the legalese. This crime happened almost thirty years ago in another country. She’s no risk to anyone.”
“We suspect fraud in her immigration applications. We have a duty to investigate.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday.” He kept looking out the window, his back to her. “And I didn’t get to the eighth floor by being dumb.”
“There’s nothing inappropriate.”
“Of course there is.” He turned to face her. “Listen, McPherson. I know how these things work. Someone in Washington told you to pounce on her. Maybe they want to help the Israelis. I don’t want to know. But you’re playing with fire. El-Tal started an avalanche with her expose, and every politician in Washington is scrambling to criticize Israel. Don’t drag us into this mess!”
“We’re doing our job.”
“That woman,” his voice went up a notch, “has been harassed by the media, searched by the FBI, firebombed, shot at, and got sued for all she has. I won’t have my agency join this spectacle of lynching!”
“Under the regulations, we are required to investigate immigration crimes.”
“Again with the regulations? We’re a pawn in someone else’s game!”
“I’m happy to step back if you wish to take over.” She motioned at his cluttered desk. “Should I sent up the file?”
He frowned. “I don’t need to be personally involved. But I’m warning you formally that you’re pissing into the wind!”
It was hard not to laugh at how easy he was to manipulate. “I’ll make sure you don’t get wet, Simpson.”
Masada made a list. She would investigate Rabbi Josh’s college days, rabbinical education, close friends, visits to Israel, bank accounts, houseguests, and his writings. She would cast a wide net over every aspect of his life to find the link to his Israeli handlers. Her follow-up expose would tell the whole story, from the day he had been recruited as an Israeli agent, through his training, setting up the cell in Phoenix, selecting Senator Mahoney as a target, enlisting Al Zonshine, communicating with the mysterious Sheen, and executing the bribe operation, which only failed because Sheen forgot the incriminating memory stick in Professor Silver’s Cadillac. She would give the professor a fictitious name, of course, but her readers would learn everything that had happened. She would have to be methodical, trace all the evidence, and substantiate every allegation before publishing the story. Colonel Ness and Rabbi Josh Frank would go up in flames together.
She grabbed the car keys and her purse. Earlier she had called a Chevrolet dealer to arrange a trade-in of her as-yet-unencumbered Corvette for some cash and the cheapest set of used wheels they had on the lot. On the way to the garage, she stopped at the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge and noticed something sticking out from under it.
With the tip of her finger she pulled out Silver’s book. She didn’t remember taking it to the kitchen. Noticing a scent, she brought the book to her nose. The sweet, smoky smell reminded her of Silver’s house.
Masada paused. Was her mind playing tricks on her? She sniffed the book again. The smell was real. Why would Silver’s book be under the fridge and smelling like his house? She touched her head, feeling the lumps left by Al. Was she hallucinating?
“Miss El-Tal?” The voice came from the broken front door.
The man wore a waistcoat with orange letters: U.S. Immigration Service. He handed her a piece of paper. “Would you come with us, please?”
Professor Silver peered through his living room window at the mail truck. It stopped at each mailbox along the street. When it reached his, he ran out to meet it.
The mailman, in shorts and a baseball cap, leaned out with a bundle of envelopes and printed catalogues.
“I’m expecting an urgent letter.” Silver sifted through the bundle. “It’s not here.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” The mail truck inched forward.
“Can you check on it?” Silver placed his hand on the side mirror. “I’m leaving for overseas tomorrow morning. It’s very urgent.”
“First class mail?”
“From the U.S. government. Official business.”
“That would be first class, unless they sent it book rate.” He revved the engine. “Nothing I can do. Have a safe trip.”
They allowed Masada to meet with Chadwick in a small room at the federal courthouse downtown. The lawyer was sipping coffee from a Starbucks paper cup.
“They’re trying to shut me up,” she said. “The public won’t condone it.”
“The public?” Chadwick shook his head. “You drove an admired senator to suicide. The public feels no sympathy for you. Neither does my client.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it to her. It was a letter from Jab Corporation: Due to unethical, unsavory, and possibly criminal actions that you have engaged in, or failed to disclose heretofore, which constitute material breaches of the Publishing Contracts between us, said contracts are hereby terminated and declared null and void. You must repay all advances previously paid to you within ten (10) days.
Masada looked at Chadwick. “Is this a joke?”
“You need a new lawyer.”
“Aren’t you my lawyer?”
He adjusted his tie. “Jab is my primary client. You knew it.”
“Yes, but-”
“I have to withdraw. It’s a conflict of interests.” Before she could say anything, he added, “After today’s hearing, of course.”
In the courtroom, Masada followed Chadwick to the defense table. He pointed at a well-dressed, short woman at the other table. “Elizabeth McPherson, chief counsel for the immigration office in Phoenix. She’s very capable.”
They stood up when the judge came in.
Elizabeth McPherson said, “Your Honor, this emergency hearing is brought under the following regulation
s.” She opened a thick book and rattled off section numbers.
The judge, a diminutive man with white hair, said, “Go ahead.”
The woman glanced at Masada. “The government calls Miss El-Tal to the stand.”
“Objection!” Chadwick scrambled to his feet. “We received no pleadings or evidence. We don’t even know what this is about!”
The government’s lawyer opened another book. “Your Honor, the Department of Homeland Security, which now encompasses my agency, is tasked with investigating all immigration irregularities.”
Chadwick said, “This is an attempt to harass my client.”
“This is a limited inquiry,” McPherson said. “We only wish to clarify certain facts.”
“This court is not Lake Powell,” Judge Rashinski said. “I won’t allow a fishing expedition. Get to the point, or I’ll end this hearing with a decision sua sponta.”
Masada was led to the witness stand and took an oath.
The government lawyer approached the stand. She held no papers and looked straight at Masada. “Miss El-Tal, what is your nationality?”
“I am a U.S. citizen. Don’t you know that?”
“I’ll ask the questions.” The woman’s accent emerged with a harshly pronounced L. “How did you become a citizen?”
“I applied for it in the eighties after a couple of years as a permanent resident.”
“Thank you.” The lawyer smiled, but not kindly. Her front teeth, while white and lined-up perfectly, were slightly smudged with red lipstick. She handed papers to the court reporter and to Chadwick. “Copies of the government’s Exhibit Number One.”
The court reporter marked the document, showed it to the judge and handed it to Masada.
“Do you recognize this?”
“My application for citizenship.”
The Masada Complex Page 21
