“Can I speak with your handler regarding my award ceremony?”
Another exhalation of smoke clouded his face. “Be patient.”
She opened a window, letting in the night air. “Don’t toy with me.”
“Relax, Elzirah.” The professor tightened the sheet around his shoulders and joined her at the window. “Our brothers will contact you before Wednesday to arrange for your travel to the camp. You’re the guest of honor, remember?” He drew once more and tossed the burning cigarette out the window.
“By attending the funeral,” Masada argued, “Ness revealed he was connected with Rabbi Josh!” She beckoned the bartender. “I need something stronger than water.”
“Me too.” Tara gave him a professional smile.
He returned her smile. “Friday night we can only serve wine or beer. Kosher beer.”
“Surprise us.” Masada swiveled on the barstool toward Tara. “Now I understand why Rabbi Josh told Silver to tell me not to attend the funeral. But he didn’t know you’d be there and see Ness.” She grabbed a bar napkin and scribbled: Find additional connections between Ness amp; Rabbi Josh. Family? School? Mutual friends? Find local past for rabbi. Schooled in Israel? Volunteered in IDF? Developed / maintained friendships? Find rabbi’s rewards. Israeli gov. pension? Apartment? Car?
Masada bit the tip of the pencil. “What else? We must find out everything about him.”
“He’s got charisma,” Tara said. “Very attractive man.”
“Rabbi Josh?”
“The rabbi’s more than attractive, he’s a knockout.” Tara gulped her beer. “I was talking about the colonel. He’s a tad old, but he’s got serious appeal. He radiates strength.”
“He was my first love.” Masada sipped from her beer, which was better than she had expected. “He talked about divorcing his wife to marry me. I was too young to even think in terms of marriage, but I was crazy about him. He was a brilliant officer, the youngest colonel in IDF history, a sure bet for the top. Even in bed he was incredible. But I went from love to loathing in one night.”
Tara gulped from her beer. “Everyone ends up loathing their first lover. I mean, go to any big NASCAR racetrack just before they open the gates and watch who gets in first-it’s always the jerks. I should have bit off my first boyfriend’s balls. At most they would have convicted me of animal cruelty. I’d be rehabilitated convict by now.”
“Like me?”
“Exactly!” Tara laughed and punched her on the arm. “But there’re few good ones also, like your hunky rabbi-yummy!”
“Ness must have hired him years ago. Perhaps he studied in Israel while training to become a rabbi. Imagine a young, idealistic, innocent rabbinical student, completely susceptible to the Israeli heroism credo.”
“Great sentence.” Tara scribbled it down. “I love it!”
“We need to prove that Rabbi Josh was recruited to be a sleeper agent in Arizona.”
“That’s speculation.”
Masada thought for a moment. “He’s the key to the whole thing. My theory is that Rabbi Josh had learned from Al Zonshine about Mahoney’s dark secret of betrayal at Hanoi Hilton. The rabbi reported it to Ness, who realized the extortion potential. They must have been disappointed that Mahoney failed to win the U.S. presidency.”
“Imagine that!”
“Ness had the rabbi recruit Al to the imaginary Judah’s Fist, some kind of contemporary Jewish zealots saving the Chosen People, and sent him to Mahoney with the money for sponsoring the Mutual Defense Act for Israel.”
“Why did they need to pay him if they had that secret over his head?”
“Exposing the Hanoi secret was the stick. The pile of cash was the carrot. You need both to achieve something of this magnitude. I mean, Mahoney was risking everything. The cash balanced the risk.”
“Makes sense.” Tara’s blonde hair cascaded over her face as she took notes in her pad.
“Mahoney passed the Mutual Defense Act in his committee and got ready to push it through the Senate. But then I got that memory chip, and the whole thing fell apart.” Masada finished her beer and wiped her lips.
“And Sheen?”
“Another sleeper agent. Definitely not a professional.” Masada scribbled on the napkin: Sheen-Donor? Did Sheen give $$$ to rabbi, who then gave it to Zonshine?
Tara’s eyes narrowed. “If Sheen wasn’t a pro, then what is he?”
“A Jewish businessman, maybe, whom Ness convinced to donate the money.”
“But who would give away so much money?”
“To Israel?” Masada laughed. “Do you know how much money American Jews give to Israel every year? Hundreds of millions! And this donation must have been irresistible-secret, dramatic, a pivotal move to bind the United States to Israel in all matters of defense. Can you imagine the incredible boost of self-importance for such a donor? He probably insisted on delivering the cash personally. What an adventure!”
“That explains why Sheen forgot the memory stick in the car. An amateur, filled with eager pride and nervous as hell.” Tara browsed her own notes. “But what’s the evidence that Ness actually knew Rabbi Josh? Maybe he came to the funeral out of guilt about the boy’s death.”
“No evidence,” Masada admitted. She was feeling hot and slightly dizzy. “But logically, Ness had to have a senior agent in Phoenix, someone local who’s a fanatic Zionist and in a position to dominate Al. Who except Rabbi Josh fits this bill?”
Tara had no response.
“What exactly did Ness tell you at the funeral?” Masada picked up the beer glass and held it against her forehead.
“He told me the bribe was paid by Israel’s enemies to cause a crisis with the United States. He asked me to be fair in my reporting. And he invited me to fly with him tomorrow.”
“Fly?”
“Thank you, honey,” Tara said to the bartender, who put two more beers in front of them. “He said it’s an experience I won’t get standing on the ground.”
“You notice the sexual innuendo?”
Tara contorted her face. “He said I could bring a friend.”
“Forget it!” Masada slipped off the barstool, took a step toward the exit, and stumbled. The room turned dark. She heard Tara yell, and someone caught her before she hit the floor.
Rabbi Josh found a bench in the rear of the plaza. He sat down, facing the Wailing Wall, cradling his chin in his hand, and reflected on what Masada had done to him.
The night air had cooled down, clearing his mind.
Big guy. A kiss.
Levy Silver had heard them together, beautiful Masada with Al Zonshine. Hard to believe? Yes! Painful to imagine? Very! But it was a fact, and it needed an explanation. Had her hatred for Israel overcome her revulsion of Al? Had she seduced Al as part of her scheme to hurt Israel? Had she staged Al’s attacks on her in order to deflect suspicion? Including the shooting that had ended Raul’s life?
The memory of the dead boy in his arms darkened the world with pain, but the rabbi forced his mind to focus. Masada must have planned for Al to shoot at her and miss in order to bolster her credibility as a victim. The rabbi knew he should hate her, but he could not overcome an irrational affection for her, rooted in his gut-felt certainty that she was in essence a good soul. Was physical attraction sabotaging his clarity of judgment?
“What should I do?”
His loud question drew no reaction from the Orthodox men around him, as if it were every Jew’s prerogative to speak up here, with no one listening but God. Rabbi Josh shut his eyes, wishing a message would come through telling him what to do about Masada.
A book had been left on the bench beside him. The Complete Bible. He weighed the holy book in his hand. It was all here-past, present, and future-everything a Jew needed in order to live a righteous life. Shouldn’t God’s answer to this particular Jew’s quagmire be there too?
Rabbi Josh held the Bible upright in both hands, his thumbs ready to open it at random. He took a silent vow: Whatever
appeared on the page would be God’s order. If God spoke of forgiveness, he would forgive. If God spoke of forgetting, he would forget. But if God spoke of revenge, he would punish Masada to the bitter end.
The rabbi’s thumbs parted the pages and his eyes sought the first verse at the top of the page. He recited aloud: “Hear thy Lord, you, who are anxious for his word.”
Cold fear clasped his throat. The book was speaking to him! His thumbs had opened the holy book on this page, where God spoke to you, who are anxious for his word.
He checked the top of the page. Isaiah 66, verse 5.
Unable to resist, Rabbi Josh continued to read: Your brothers, haters, defilers of my name, who challenge you, saying, ‘Let your God show his power to help you,’ they shall be shamed; a roaring noise bursts from my temple, the roar of God, taking revenge of his enemies.
Saturday, August 16
When Professor Silver went downstairs at 7 a.m., Ezekiel’s beige taxicab was waiting at the curb. The cabby had brought an extra cup of coffee for his passenger, but the sun was already up, and Silver could not drink it. Instead he held the rim of the plastic cup near his nose and enjoyed the aroma. Observing the daily fast during the month of Ramadan had given him renewed pride in his faith and endowed him with a sense of invincibility. Allah was on his side.
They drove through the quiet streets of central Jerusalem. Bus service didn’t run during the Sabbath, and the sidewalks were filled with religious Jews marching to their various synagogues, prayer shawls draped over their shoulders.
“You slept well?” Ezekiel turned the radio to soft Hebrew music.
“Blessed be the Lord.”
“The room nice? Bed comfortable?”
“Can’t complain.” Talking irritated the bruise inside Silver’s mouth. He hoped it would not start bleeding again.
The roads were coal-black with fresh asphalt, cut into the hillside crudely, as if there was no time to worry about aesthetics. New apartment buildings and homes passed by. They drove through a valley and climbed a crest along the Judean Mountains’ watershed, where they crossed the road to Ramallah. Silver tried to read the road signs, shifting his focus left and right to confuse the blotch. While the car stopped at a red light, he was able to decipher a sign pointing right: Hebrew University-Mount Scopus Campus. Large buildings of white stone covered the hillside.
The greenery of western Jerusalem gave way to the arid rocks of the West Bank. The descent was rapid, the road skirting massive clusters of red roofs, part of the Jews’ effort to encircle Jerusalem. Silver smiled. Man plans, and Allah laughs.
Ezekiel asked, “Enjoying the ride?”
“Beautiful,” Silver exclaimed. “We’re settling the Promised Land, as the prophets predicted.”
“The prophets predicted a lot of things. Have you read Ezekiel lately?” The driver laughed, his ringlets dancing around his bald pate.
Silver didn’t respond, his attention drawn to a clump of tents on a flat piece of desert. Camels grazed on yellow weeds. A woman in a head-to-toe garment tended a small fire while boys in jeans chased a scrawny goat.
“Bedouins,” Ezekiel explained, “the last free people on earth.”
It was true, Silver thought. Despite their primitive ways, a family of Bedouins had managed to save him. One day, when Palestine was united under Arab rule, he would find his Bedouins and reward their long-ago charity.
Farther down toward the Jordan Valley, they stopped at an Israeli checkpoint. A concrete wall stretched in both directions, dissecting the land. Two soldiers approached the car, guns at the ready. Silver grabbed the door handle, faking calmness.
Ezekiel lowered his window. “Shalom!”
The soldiers glanced inside and waved them through.
The landscape resembled the Arizona desert, the road cutting through pale-brown rocks as it continued its descent. “Hold your breath,” Ezekiel joked, pointing to a blue billboard at the side of the downhill road: Sea Level
For the first time since the TIR Prize ceremony, Masada slept through the night, uninterrupted by the gravity-defying nightmares. Morning sun flooded the room through the east-facing window, and she cringed at the memory of fainting in the bar the previous night. She had not drunk alcohol in years, let alone two tall beers on an empty stomach after almost three sleepless nights. Tara, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the booze. She revived Masada, enlisted a couple of guys to carry her to the car, and got her to bed at the Ramban Hostel.
When Masada eased her legs off the bed, the pain she expected didn’t come. In the bathroom, her forehead seemed almost clear of Al’s beating.
Voices filtered in through the door, adults and children babbling in French as they headed to Sabbath morning services. She wondered how Ness had managed to get an air force plane and a pilot to entertain Tara on the holy Sabbath. He must have labeled it national emergency. It occurred to Masada that nothing would spoil his plans worse than her presence.
She had just enough time to shower, strap on the brace, put on clothes, and run downstairs with her hair still wet.
Tara was waiting in the lobby, chatting up the acne face at the front desk. She flashed a big smile at Masada, mimicked with her hand a plane taking off, and declared, “To the colonel and beyond!”
“How do you manage to look like this so early?”
“Good genes and lots of base.” Tara leaned over the counter, closer to the wide-eyed youth. “How about two bottles of water, sweetie?”
He dropped his handheld electronic game and rushed off.
Masada left her room key on the counter. “I’m going to ruin your date.”
“It’s not a date.” Tara laughed. “Merely sightseeing.”
“The only sightseeing you’ll get from Ness is a twisted view of innocent little Israel, so vulnerable without America’s weapons. He’ll skip the nuclear missiles and army installations and the social Grand Canyon separating rich from poor, secular from religious-”
“Chill out, girl! It’s Saturday!” Tara grabbed the water bottles, winked at the young man, and pushed Masada to the door. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”
Starting her rented car, Tara tilted her head at the hostel entrance. “How’s the hunky rabbi doing?”
“I don’t care how he’s doing.” Masada drank some water. “I care what he’s done.”
Rabbi Josh pressed his back against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, listening in case Masada returned. What was she up to now? Ingratiating herself with the TV reporter to conjure up the next media attack on Israel? Whatever it was, he had to expose her, and stop her.
He draped the prayer shawl around his shoulders and stepped into the lobby. The front desk clerk was standing at the glass doors watching the departing women. Rabbi Josh noticed Masada’s room key on the counter and snatched it. Before the clerk turned, the rabbi tiptoed to the staircase and headed up, the stolen key in his hand.
“It is with pride and gratitude,” Elizabeth announced, “that I accept this award from the honorable minister.” She marked the spot in her notes to insert the dignitary’s name and full title before the ceremony. “I thank Allah for the opportunity to serve the Palestinian cause. My success in America grew from my modest roots here. First and foremost, I am a Palestinian woman. Celebrating with you today constitutes an affirmation of my commitment to Palestine.”
She lowered the pages of her draft speech and bowed at the certain applause. She looked through the open window at the Jerusalem skyline, which for this rehearsal represented the audience at Kalandria.
“Today I set aside painful memories.” She paused, thinking of the crude midwife who had investigated her repeat miscarriages with thick, probing fingers. “The foundations of my character and success were laid here, at this refugee camp.” She glanced sideways to where Father would stand on the dais, his eyes surely moistened. “I feel-”
An explosion shook the building.
Elizabeth ran to the window and looked for smoke. From her
childhood in the West Bank she knew the sound of a bomb. Nine stories below, a small car with flashing lights raced up the street. A moment later, a fire engine passed, its siren wailing. The Jews’ peaceful Sabbath was no more.
She resumed her speech, more loudly to overcome the noise. “I feel redeemed by this award. Allah had a purpose in sending me to America so that one day I could help Palestine. Father,” she turned, “I now know that you served as Allah’s hand in fulfilling my destiny.”
Father would hug and kiss her, their reconciliation complete. She marked the spot on the page with a little heart.
“I live far away, but my heart belongs here.” She pressed a fist to her chest. “My career is in America, but my future is here with you.” She touched her abdomen then removed her hand quickly. Remember not to do it on the stage!
Elizabeth inhaled deeply, releasing the air in small bits, surveying the imagined audience from left to right. “To help our national dream come true, I decided to establish the Palestinian Women’s League, dedicated to equal rights and opportunities for all Palestinian women, irrespective of age or marital status, to offer job training and family counseling.” She raised her hand, expecting some grumbling-Kalandria was dominated by the Islamists, as she had learned from news reports. “I respect tradition, but the success of our national enterprise requires that we utilize every human resource in our collective possession.” She combed her hair back with calculated femininity. “How can we neglect half of our national creativity? Half of our industrial force? Half of our intellectual power?” She left the question hanging in the air for a moment. “We can’t! We mustn’t! No more!”
The sound of the explosion made Rabbi Josh stumble. He murmured a short prayer for the victims as he imagined blood and gore and wails of grief. Now he was part of it, not just in words, but in physical reality. As an Israeli citizen, he was a target, not only of Arab terrorism, but of Masada’s anti-Israel scheme. He cringed, recalling how she had manipulated him, pretending to be the victim of Israeli agents. Soon the world would learn the truth, and Americans’ anger at Israel would dissipate.
The Masada Complex Page 28
