“Silence!” Father closed his book and pointed a trembling finger at her. “You speak of women? You are no woman. Barren as a field of rocks.” He spat on the floor.
She stepped closer. “You’re wrong.”
Father waved a bony hand. “A woman bears children, not political fantasies.”
Her hand rested on her midriff. “I can do both.”
His eyes fell from her face to where her womb pulsated with life.
“I am doing both, Father.”
He made a croaking sound. His eyes blinked a few times.
She waited, letting him digest the news. “Your first grandchild.”
He didn’t exactly open his arms to her, but she didn’t expect him to show affection in front of the others.
Imam Abdul asked, “Is your husband an infidel?”
She did not respond.
The bearded man asked, “When is the baby coming?”
“Five, maybe four months.” Elizabeth knew she must leave the more difficult facts for a private discussion with her father. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my hotel now. I’m tired and hungry.”
Father whispered something to the Imam, who asked, “Hajj Mahfizie wants to know why your husband did not ask for his permission?”
Anger swelled again inside her, but she controlled it. “I will explain to my father after the award ceremony.”
“What’s his name?” Imam Abdul glared at her. “Surely your husband has a name?”
They were pushing her into a corner. “This is a family matter.”
“But we only ask for his name,” the bearded man joined in. “He must have a name.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. This baby will have a wonderful life, including a grandfather.”
“And your husband?”
“There’s no husband!”
For a moment, she thought Father took it well. In fact, a wisp of a smile touched his lips, but then it progressed to a twitch that turned his mouth into an ugly grimace. He rose, supporting himself on the table, and uttered a groan so loud it caused the others to grab his elbows. And while his mouth was wide open, sucking air, she noticed Father was missing most of his teeth and thought of taking him to Phoenix, where her dentist could fit him with a full set of dentures.
“Why today? Why now?” Rajid groaned in frustration. “Couldn’t you wait until tomorrow? Don’t you see what’s going on?” He pointed in the direction of the Jaffa Gate, where loudspeakers played Israeli music to the gathering crowd.
“The month of Ramadan is over tomorrow.” Silver spoke Arabic, keeping his voice low from the tourists and shopkeepers nearby. “I must pray today. It’s a call I can’t ignore.”
“But you can ignore orders?” Rajid kept looking over his shoulder, scanning the market alley. “Do you realize how precarious our achievement is at this moment? The fate of Palestine is hanging in the balance!”
“You forget I made it happen. And I am losing my-”
“Your eyesight. I know.” Rajid pulled him to the side of the alley, his mouth at Silver’s ear. “We’ll help you with that when things settle down.”
“Only Allah can help me.”
“Then pray to him in private.” Rajid’s arm encircled his shoulders, pushing him.
Silver wouldn’t move. “I must pray!”
“You must return to the hostel immediately and stay in your room until the vote is over!”
“Allah hu Akbar,” chimed a muezzin from a nearby mosque, as if taking a stand in their argument.
Silver grabbed two checkered kafiyas from a pile, paid the astonished merchant the quoted price without haggling, and tied one around his head. “You can join me.” He handed the other kafiya to Rajid. “Or you can tell our superiors in Ramallah that Abu Faddah obeys Allah’s command above theirs.”
Rajid must have heard the finality in Silver’s tone. He covered his head with the kafiya, its hem low over his sunshades, and followed him toward the Arab Quarter. “If they find out about this, they’ll cut off my head.”
Professor Silver patted Rajid’s arm. “Then you’ll be a martyr.”
Rabbi Josh watched them descend into the Old City. He wondered why the professor would meet in secret with the citrus-smelling, Orthodox driver who had argued with him so bitterly. Were they on some kind of a reconnaissance mission for the End of Days group?
He snatched a kafiya, dropped a hundred-shekel bill, and ran after them.
Silver’s companion glanced back occasionally, forcing Rabbi Josh to slow down. Every time they turned a corner, he rushed forward to catch up.
They descended deeper into the Arab Quarter, where shops gave way to crowded dwellings, the sweet aromas replaced by a bitter mix of dust and cooking fires. Turning another corner, Rabbi Josh saw a wider street, where the slanted rays of the sun touched the stone pavers. He held the kafiya to his head, reached the end of the street, and glanced in both directions. They were gone.
Several Arab men entered a courtyard and removed their shoes. Adjusting his kafiya to make sure it covered his hair, the rabbi followed them. Pulling off his shoes brought relief to his blisters. They entered a large hall and sat on their heels in rows. He did the same, keeping his kafiya low over his face, stealing glances in futile attempts to find Silver.
The prayer hall accommodated many rows of men. A voice chanted a Koran verse in Arabic, and they repeated, bowing until their foreheads touched the carpet, and sitting up, showing the palms of their hands. He wanted to leave, but his way was blocked by rows of additional worshippers. Fear seeped into him.
Down the line to the left, near the side wall, he noticed a small man who remained bowed. A gray goatee stuck out under the kafiya.
The rows bowed again, and Rabbi Josh did the same.
As they sat back up, he leaned slightly forward and saw the man’s head rise slowly from the floor, the palms of his hands showing, his bespectacled eyes turning up to the ceiling, his kafiya edging back, exposing his face. It was Professor Silver, and he was crying while his lips pronounced, “Allah hu Akbar.”
Elizabeth waited in the cell. She refused to sit on the floor. Soon Father’s anger would subside. Surely he craved a grandchild as much as she delighted in becoming a mother.
The door flew open and men grabbed her. A chair was brought in, and they forced her to sit. A fist clenched her hair and pushed her head down, her chin pressed into her chest. A rope circled her upper body and arms, binding her to the back of the chair.
“You’re hurting me!” She tried to shake off the hand clenching her hair.
The grip tightened, shoving her head down.
“Release me!”
Men filled the room, lining the walls. They stared at her darkly, saying nothing.
“I’m warning you! I’ll report this to the-”
Father was carried into the room on his chair, placed in front of her. His creased, sunken cheeks were covered in gray stubble, and his eyes were buried in a book.
“Father!” Elizabeth fought to control her voice. “It’s gone far enough!”
He didn’t look up.
“Father!”
Someone entered the room behind her. She tried to turn, but a rough hand pushed her head down. “What are you doing?” She struggled to loosen the rope, which did not budge. “This is criminal kidnapping! I’m no longer consenting to being held here-you’ll be arrested and prosecuted by the authorities!”
Her father looked up. His eyes, once a glistening brown, were pale now, his eyelids drooping.
“Father, I came here to make peace!”
He leaned forward in the chair and slapped her across the face. His lips, folded in between his toothless gums, made sucking noises. He took a few quick breaths and slapped her again.
A youth in a green headband held a piece of paper in front of her. Another pointed a video camera at her face.
She read aloud: “I am Elzirah Mahfizie, known in America as Elizabeth McPherson. I confess my
betrayal of the Palestinian people. I profess my faith in Allah and his prophet Mohammad. I curse the American Satan.” She stopped and shook her head. “I can’t. As a senior government official-”
Father tried to slap her, but his hand fell in his lap, powerless. His disciples shifted about, restless, ready to pounce if she caused Hajj Mahfizie further aggravation.
She forced herself to think logically. Who would take this video seriously when it was obvious she was under duress, tied up, beaten, threatened? She read aloud: “I curse the American Satan and its president and its criminal officials, as well as the Zionist Satan and its criminal army. May Allah’s sword come down on their heads. My life belongs to Allah and his prophet Mohammad.”
She looked up, meeting Father’s eyes. He looked at someone behind her. Glancing back, Elizabeth saw the glint of a blade.
“Hey! What are you doing?” The whole thing was unreal. “Father! Please!”
The man behind her put his big hand on top of her head, sank his fingers into her hair, and yanked backward.
“No!” Elizabeth fought to keep her head forward, keep Father’s face in sight. “This can’t be happening! It’s a terrible mistake! I beg you-”
A long knife appeared from the right.
“No! Call Abu Faddah! He’s my contact! Please!”
The Hajj lifted his hand, and the knife stopped and retreated out of sight. The hand let go of her hair.
“He’s at a hotel.” Elizabeth gulped, searching her mind frantically. “The Ramban Hostel in Jerusalem. He’ll tell you what I’ve done. Hero of Palestine. He’ll tell you about the award ceremony. Wednesday! You’ll be proud!”
The room was still. Father’s forehead creased.
“The Ramban Hostel. Ask for Levy Silver.” She immediately realized she had just sealed her own fate. “It’s only a cover!”
Her father’s face twisted, and he motioned with his hand.
She screamed, “No!”
The man grabbed her hair and pulled hard, tilting her head back. The long blade appeared from the right, held above her face. He forced her head all the way back, until she saw her executioner’s nostrils flaring, his mouth slightly open.
Her neck was exposed to the blade.
The baby in her belly kicked harder than ever before.
Masada took a cab to Oscar’s photography studio. Traffic came to a standstill along a wide avenue lit up with strings of blue, white, and yellow lights. The driver tuned the radio to a broadcast from Washington, where Senator Mitchum opened the debate on the Fair Aid Act by declaring, “Let us take a moment of silence in honor of Senator Mahoney, my mentor and friend in this great institution, a victim of foreign intrigue and corruption.”
A reporter described the Senate floor as full to capacity, including the rotunda.
Mitchum resumed his opening remarks by informing the senators that they must keep their speeches to a minimum so that a vote could take place no later than 10:30 p.m. Masada calculated; that would be 5:30 a.m. tomorrow, Israel time.
“It is imperative,” Mitchum declared, “to set an example. A foreign government-even a close friend as the State of Israel-that attempts to corrupt the American republic will be punished!”
The radio report cut to the rally in Jerusalem, where hundreds of thousands of Israelis were gathering to protest the American vote. Looking out the cab window, Masada saw dozens of buses adorned with yellow banners. She had never expected her article to set in motion such a chain of events, but Mahoney’s bullet to the head had triggered a political tsunami that had destroyed her own life and was now washing over Israel.
Masada asked the driver, “Can you go around this jam?”
“No problem.” He looked over his shoulder, turned the steering wheel all the way, and jumped the median, driving over the flower beds and down the other side, speeding up in the opposite direction.
The mosque in the Arab Quarter of the Old City had no splendor or eminence, but the familiar prayers transferred Professor Silver back to his childhood in Haifa, reviving bittersweet memories he had pushed out of his mind while living as a pretend Jew. Yet despite those years of alienation, Allah was accepting him back into the circle of faith.
Allah saw his sincere repentance.
Allah would save his eyesight.
The preacher mounted the pulpit near the front wall and bowed toward Mecca. “The Zionist dogs are barking,” the preacher yelled into a microphone, “they’re scared!”
The worshippers yelled “Allah hu Akbar!”
“And why are they ganging up, painted in cowardly yellow? Why?”
“Allah hu Akbar!”
The preacher tapped the microphone, producing sounds like gunfire. “The Zionists are foaming at the mouth!”
Silver joined everyone, “Allah hu Akbar!”
“Why is the Great Satan cutting off the Little Satan?”
They responded with laughter.
“Why are they losing their beloved money?”
The crowd shouted, “Allah hu Akbar!”
“Because it’s Allah’s judgment day! Because they stole our land! Slaughtered our sons! Poisoned our wells! Injected AIDS into our babies! Stuffed filth into our girls’ minds!” The preacher took a deep breath. “Allah’s sword is coming down!”
“Allah hu Akbar!”
Silver could have burst with pride. He, Abu Faddah, was the one chosen by Allah to bring down the Zionists!
“Yes!” The preacher shook a finger. “The Zionist dogs are running scared!”
“Allah hu Akbar!”
“Cut off,” the preacher shouted, passing a hand across his own throat. “Cut! Cut! Cut!”
“Allah hu Akbar!”
In the brief moment before the preacher spoke again, a voice shouted in Arabic, “The Jews attacked Al Aqsa! Help!”
The words hung in the air. Even the preacher was suspended in indecision.
“El Yahood,” the voice in the rear shrilled, “they set fire to the Dome of the Rock!”
Silver recognized the voice. Rajid!
“Itbakh el-Yahood!” The preacher waved his hands frantically. “Itbakh el-Yahood!”
The call to slaughter threw the worshippers into frenzy. They jumped to their feet and rushed to the exit. Silver struggled to stand up, suddenly faced with a forest of stomping feet. His legs were numb from crouching, and as soon as he managed to get up, someone bumped into him, and he stumbled. He opened his mouth to inhale, but the crowd pressed him forward, his face smothered by a wide back in a coarse galabiya.
The crowd yelled in a chorus, “Itbakh El-Yahood! Itbakh El-Yahood!”
Silver had no air. He pushed with his arms, fighting to breathe. He turned his head sideways, mouth gaping to fill his starved lungs, but the pressure surged from behind like a giant ocean wave, crushing him between heated bodies, his chest unable to expand for air. His throat was on fire.
“Itbakh El-Yahood! Itbakh El-Yahood!”
Slaughter the Jews. But I’m not a Jew! Silver’s knees buckled, his body held up by the pressure around it. Darkness descended. The noise abated, replaced by peaceful quietness.
Faddah’s face appeared.
He reached to caress the boy’s smooth cheek.
Elizabeth saw the long blade rise before her eyes. She tried to swallow, but her neck was bent backward by the hand gripping her hair. She wanted to touch her belly once more, to feel the baby’s frantic kicks, but the rope immobilized her arms. Her throat was about to be cut, and she wondered, would it hurt?
The blade kept rising, as if the butcher derived twisted pleasure from prolonging the moment. The steel suspended high above her eyes.
She stopped fighting.
Please, no pain!
He held the blade steady, ready to drop it and slice her throat.
She shut her eyes, her groans turning to quick breathing. She felt his hand tug harder on her hair as his other hand dropped the blade.
She expected terrible pain in her throat, but
all she felt was a sudden release of the backward pull. Her head sprung forward. She opened her eyes, expecting to see blood sprout forth.
But there was no blood.
A chunk of dark hair dropped into her lap.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair again, tugged hard, slashed with the blade, and tossed it on the floor.
She was paralyzed, watching the hacked chunks of her thick hair drop like spent hay. Every time he chopped off a lock, he blew on her scalp, as if to make sure she felt it exposed. He clutched a heavy clump in the back of her head, chopped it, and long sheaves of hair flew in the air. The young men along the walls began to laugh.
Her eyes filled with tears. It was better than dying, she told herself. Yet the humiliation was greater than anything she had ever experienced. She closed her eyes and pushed back the tears, while he finished off what was left of her beautiful hair.
Masada arrived late at Oscar’s studio. He wore bathing shorts under the Hawaiian shirt. “I had a job this morning in Tel Aviv,” he explained. “My client suspected his wife was romancing her sailing instructor.”
“Good for her.” Tara raised a glass of lemonade.
“But she’s not.” Oscar showed them a photo of two women pulling up a purple sail on a white boat, stealing a kiss behind the canvas. “She’s doing a fellow student. I have a title for the movie: Cheating Wives on Choppy Waves.”
They laughed, and Tara asked, “What’s the plan?”
Oscar placed a blue backpack on the table. “It looks innocent, but it’s the best portable video surveillance system for live transmission. This is the antenna.” He pointed to a short metal rod. “It also serves as the on/off switch.”
“What’s this?” Masada tugged at a tube attached to the right shoulder strap.
“Careful!” He showed her the glass end. “A miniature wide-angle lens. Let me show you.” He lifted the backpack and strapped it on Masada. “You want both shoulder straps and the hip belt to be buckled up tightly.” He tightened all three and pulled on the backpack sideways and up and down. “You have to remember to wear it like this, no loose movement, or the video quality will be bad. Keep it on your back at all times.”
The Masada Complex Page 36
