Impatient to share the news, Elizabeth went to check David’s office again.
His secretary, a new girl with a nervous look, was back.
“Is David back?”
“No, I’m sorry.” The girl blinked. “He’s gone for the day.”
Elizabeth walked into David’s office and sifted through his cluttered desk, hoping to find his calendar. “Call his mobile for me.”
A moment later, David was on the line. “Good afternoon, Elizabeth.” His formal tone indicated his wife was nearby.
“Hi, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”
“What is the issue?”
“The issue is,” she chuckled, “I wanted to hear your voice.”
He hesitated. “Yes?”
“And to tell you that Dr. Gould found nothing wrong with me.”
“That’s good.”
She lowered her voice. “I have great news!”
“David?” His wife’s screechy voice sounded very close, then his daughter’s laughter. He said, “We have tickets to the ballet.” His pretentious wife was a devotee of the Phoenix Ballet, forcing David to accompany her to every performance. “Got to go.”
“I love you,” Elizabeth said.
“Same here.”
Rabbi Josh had picked up a pentagonal birthday cake, its sidewalls marked: R-A-U-L-5. The top was shaped like a dog snout. Candles pointed sideways like whiskers, intriguing Shanty to no end. She put her front paws on Raul’s chair, sniffing the cake. Raul put his arms around her and rolled to the floor. Shanty fell with him, barked, twisted her neck to face Raul, and licked his face from chin to forehead. He yelled, “Phew!” and exploded with laughter as they rolled farther, bumping into the leg of the table.
“Hey!” Rabbi Josh lifted the tray with the cake in one hand and Masada’s brownies in the other. “Let’s sing, birthday boy.”
They lit the candles and sang Happy Birthday in English and in Hebrew. Raul blew out the candles.
Rabbi Josh kissed his son, taking in the fresh smell of the boy’s shampooed hair. His mind made the inevitable connection, and he looked up at Linda’s photo on the wall, her smiling face framed by carrot-red ringlets. He kissed his son again. “May the Lord bless you with many wonderful years.”
Raul took his time smudging his name on the frosting, relishing the taste of each letter. He offered Shanty a crumb, which she licked off.
After consuming a slice of cake, Raul pointed to Masada’s brownies. “I want a piece of that too!”
“Let’s take a break,” Rabbi Josh said. “We’ll go outside, throw some ball, okay?”
“Masada El-Tal?” The caller’s voice was familiar.
“Who wants to know?”
“Ross Linder, WRGX Radio in New York. We just had Dick Drexel of Jab Magazine on the air. He said you’ve never spent time in an Israeli jail for manslaughter. Can you confirm?”
Masada grasped the edge of the kitchen counter. Linder had millions of listeners. “As a nineteen-year-old kid in the Israeli army, I spent a few months in confinement, but my conviction was later cancelled. The Israelis are trying to discredit me, that’s all.”
“You might have heard,” he added quickly, before she could hang up, “that Temple Emanuel in Manhattan lost two Chagall windows last night to vandals. Do you feel responsible?”
“No.” She hung up and called Drexel. “Don’t talk about me without my permission! Never!”
“Masada, darling, you’re absolutely right. But you must realize the value of this free publicity. I mean, we’re getting thousands of e-mails, new subscriptions-”
“You’re a greedy bastard.”
“I take offense,” Drexel whined. “I’m greedy for good writing, for real journalism, for opportunities to inform the public with all the news that’s fit to print.”
“Give me a break.” Masada started doing stretching exercises for her back, bending all the way forward until her forehead lined up with her knees.
“Our readers deserve to know who exactly bribed Senator Mahoney, you agree?”
“Dick!” Masada bent sideways, feeling the muscles of her lower back.
“You need to get on with it. Internet blogs and chat rooms are abuzz with rumors that you’re involved with Judah’s Fist, that you staged the whole thing to hurt Israel, or that you’re a sleeper agent for Israel, working for Mossad.”
She placed her left foot on a chair and bent forward, trying to touch her good knee with her forehead. “Who would believe such nonsense?”
“Ross Linder’s listeners, for example.”
Masada stood straight, pulling back her shoulders. “What do you want?”
“Get your investigation going, find someone else to occupy the hot seat.”
She switched legs, careful not to straighten her bad knee. “I don’t have much to go on. My source came upon the information by chance. He’s a bystander, terrified of getting snarled in a scandal. He’s got no more information.”
“Rubbish! Sources always know more than they realize. And what about that spy video Mahoney mentioned?”
“Bye, Dick.”
“Don’t you want to get back at them for releasing the jail story? They’re dragging your name through the muck!”
“First greed, now incitement. What’s next? Seduction?”
“If I thought I had a chance.”
“Not if you talk to Linder again.” She looked through the wall of glass at the patio, her mattress on the concrete floor. Tonight, after shelving her books and cleaning the house, she would sleep in her own bedroom. “And thanks for the brownies.”
“What brownies?”
“Chocolate, with the T, I, and R. Nice touch.”
“Hold on.”
A moment later he came back. “I wish I could take credit for it, but we don’t know anything about brownies.”
“Oh, God!” She hung up and called the rabbi’s house.
The phone rang once, twice, three times.
A machine picked up, prompting her to leave a message.
“It’s Masada. Don’t eat those brownies!”
She tried Rabbi Josh’s mobile. No answer. She grabbed the keys to the Corvette and ran.
Professor Silver watched Elizabeth’s Toyota enter McDonald’s parking lot. She emerged from the car legs first, breasts second, then the rest. She was plump in a pleasing, feminine manner that reminded him of the women in Nablus and Amman. He felt kinship toward her. Like him, she had tucked away her Palestinian identity and put on an effective facade to achieve her goals.
But he could not afford to be soft with her. A flurry of e-mails during the previous night, including electronic copies of Dr. Pablo’s test results, had produced a lifeline: Hadassah Hospital accepted him into the experimental treatment, provided he was approved by the Ministry of the Interior as an Oleh Hadash-a new Israeli citizen entitled to free health care coverage. They were expecting him for pre-op tests no later than 3:00 p.m. on Friday, August 15-ten days away!
Elizabeth picked up her usual order, collected napkins and a straw, and turned to leave.
“Hi there!”
Her face lost some color, but she came over and sat across from him.
“Here, my papers.” He produced a brown envelope. “The application form, my birth certificate-”
“I’m not your immigration lawyer.” Elizabeth sipped from her drink and stood up. “Take your chances like everybody else.”
“My tourist visa is long expired.” He remained sitting, counting on her good manners not to leave an old man in midsentence. “I have no chance without your help, Elzirah.”
“My name is Elizabeth McPherson!”
“A new name doesn’t change the person.” His eye stung, reminding him how essential it was to obtain this woman’s assistance. He blinked to moisten the eye, trying to ignore the blotch in the middle of his vision.
She leaned over the table. “I’m not going to jeopardize my career for you or for my estranged father. Now leave me al
one, or you’ll need a criminal lawyer too!”
“Please,” he forced himself to smile, “sit down for a minute.”
“I must wart you that under the law-”
“The law? What does the law say about a superior who sleeps with her married deputy every Wednesday night?”
Finally her arrogance collapsed, and redness descended on her face.
“Hire a lawyer?” He rattled the envelope. “Take your chances?”
She sat down. “Extortion is a crime.”
“Elzirah,” he said softly, “I offer you redemption, a chance to serve the Palestinian people.”
She took the envelope. “I can’t promise anything.”
Silver followed her outside. “I must travel abroad legally so I can return here without a problem and continue my work.”
Elizabeth unlocked her car. “These applications take months.”
He looked up at the full moon in the clear Arizona sky. The blotch created an eclipse. He closed his eyes, imagining he was already blind. “You have one week.”
She started the car. “There’s no way.”
“One week, or we both lose everything!”
At the rabbi’s house, Masada knocked on the door, expecting Shanty to greet her with barking. But there was only silence on the other side. She tried the handle. The door opened.
The tray of brownies was on the kitchen floor, empty, surrounded by crumbs, which she collected and wrapped in a paper towel. She tried his mobile again, and heard it ring in the other room, where he must have forgotten it. On the counter she found a veterinarian business card, called the number, and asked if Rabbi Josh Frank was there by any chance.
He got on the phone and told Masada that Shanty was sick.
When she arrived, Rabbi Josh was pacing the hallway while Raul played video games in the waiting room. Masada handed the crumbs to the nurse and explained her suspicion that it was laced with something.
They sat on a plastic bench. The walls were painted to look like blue water crested by foamy waves, seagulls diving toward a sailboat, beach toys scattered near a sand castle. Masada held his hand, but he pulled it away.
“Linda was on blood thinners for years,” he said, “but they stopped it a month before she was due to deliver. I should have known better.”
“What happened?”
“Normal delivery, no problems, but she kept bleeding. She nursed him once, and was gone.” He clicked a middle finger and a thumb. “Just like that. And I still don’t understand why God took her. I cannot reconcile myself to His decision!”
An hour later the vet appeared. “Your dog was poisoned.” He showed them a computer printout with a molecular diagram. “It’s a compound used to open sewage blockage. One piece of brownie would have given Shanty the worst diarrhea, but a whole tray was a shock to the system. We’ll keep her overnight, hydrate her as much as we can, and see how it goes.”
The vet left, and Rabbi Josh said, “Raul could have eaten those brownies.”
“It’s the Israelis,” she said.
“Then maybe you should drop it!”
Masada was quiet for a moment. “My readers deserve the truth.”
“Why? Would you tell a man standing at a cliff’s edge that his tests show a malignant tumor? Or that his wife has just filed for divorce? Would you yell Fire! in a crowded theater, even if fire is indeed raging nearby?”
“My job is to report the facts.”
“The facts about yet another corrupt senator? And what about the facts showing Israel’s vulnerability? The facts about millions of hostile Muslims seething to destroy Israel? The facts about Syria’s chemical weapons, enough to kill every living thing in Israel? The facts about Iran’s nuclear capability, a deadly menace to millions of Jews and Arabs?”
“My story was about a senator selling legislation.”
“Isn’t Israel’s need for a mutual defense arrangement with America irrelevant to this story?”
She shifted her weight to the left. “That’s not the point. Bribing a senator is wrong!”
“What so wrong with deterrence, so the Arabs think twice before attacking Israel?”
“His voters deserve to know he’s corrupt.”
“The public’s right to know about yet another political graft is more important than Israel’s survival?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You go and publish such a thing with complete disregard for what it would do to Israel and Jews, and to those who love you!” He pointed at the waiting area, where Raul was playing.
Almost in a whisper, she said, “I wish I could switch places with Shanty.”
“That’s a cliche you’d never put in writing!”
“I mean it.”
Rabbi Josh sighed and put his arms around her. “You must find these people. Finish what you started. There’s still time to prove Israel wasn’t behind this bribe.”
“But it was.”
“Then we’re not worse off. But if you discover it was someone else, then the Fair Aid Act would fail, and Israel would be spared a disaster.”
At her second-floor apartment on Twenty-fourth Street, Elizabeth McPherson put the last French fry on her tongue, savoring it. The Barber of Seville played softly in the background. She swung her legs onto the ottoman, leaning back, and enjoyed the cool sweetness of the strawberry shake. She tilted the cup and moved the straw with her lips, sucking the last drops. She had much to savor-her estranged father reaching out, a long-overdue promotion to the top floor, and a baby. Their baby. David would move in with her at first, and when his divorce was final, they would buy a house with a backyard. He would teach their son to throw ball on the grass under the kitchen window while she made dinner. All those years of hard work had rewarded her with professional success and financial security. Now happiness arrived, the American dream, sweeter than honey.
The phone rang. Was it David, stealing a moment from his wife? She picked up.
“Professor Levy Silver here.”
“How did you get this number?”
He chuckled. “I know what needs to be known. Have you looked at my documents?”
“No.”
“We don’t have much time.”
“We?”
“And get some rest,” he said, “so you have energy for Mr. Goodyear tomorrow night.”
She slammed the phone and ran to the sink, where she lost her dinner.
After washing her face, Elizabeth took the brown envelope and sat down. Integrity. Attention to detail. Strict application of the law. These three rules and long hours in the office had brought success. But Father’s friend knew her secret. Not that she regretted falling in love with David. How could she regret the best thing that had ever happened to her?
She turned the envelope upside down, and its content fell into her lap.
On top was an Italian passport, issued originally in November 1983 to Flavian Silver, with entry and exit stamps from Italy, England, and Canada, and a single entry to the United States two years ago. In the photo he looked younger behind the same thick, black-rimmed glasses, his goatee a bit darker. His driver’s license was from Canada. Several university diplomas, a PhD in European history from the University of Ottawa, a Best Teacher Award from the graduating class at the University of Toronto, and several citations of his articles in academic journals. There was a photocopy of a New York Times review of his book on the Evian Conference under the headline How the Nazis Tested World Tolerance as a Prelude to Mass-Extermination.
Elizabeth set the documents aside. He had stayed in the United States illegally. His application would have no chance, even with a job offer backing it up. The conclusion was a load off her chest-she couldn’t help him even if she wanted. He would have to accept that. She closed her eyes, enjoying the music.
Masada lowered the soft top and started the Corvette. With the sun gone behind the red horizon, the day’s scorching heat had lost its edge. But she was hot with rage. Colonel Ness had sent his agents with laced brownies to scare her in
to cooperating. He would get the opposite!
Engaging first gear, Masada gave the throbbing motor a rich squirt of gasoline and let go of the clutch. Cutting through the parking lot, she turned onto Seventh Street, merging into traffic. Northern Boulevard took her to the Squaw Peak Parkway, where she pressed the pedal to the floor, launching the Corvette at full power all the way to three-digit speed.
She let go, slowing down, tilting her head sideways, the warm wind ruffling her hair. The desert hills passed by, the brown rocks and dry air reminiscent of the Judean Desert of her youth.
There were no news vans or police cars in front of her house. Waiting for the garage door to rise, she closed her eyes, willing Shanty to recover. Ness had gone too far!
The boxes of books waited for her inside. Masada kicked off her shoes and began lining books on the shelves. She worked fast through four boxes.
Taking a break, she went to the kitchen and pressed a glass to the ice dispenser, which disgorged in a loud cacophony, filling the glass to the rim. In the quiet that followed, she heard noise outside. It resembled rapid castanets, and stopped after a moment.
Five boxes to go.
The water refreshed her, and she put the half-empty glass on the edge of a shelf already lined with books. Reaching into another box, she pulled one book after another, passing them from hand to hand and onto the shelf. With the last box, Masada arranged the books on the top shelf until the last book was back in place.
Panting, she broke up the boxes and piled the flattened cardboard together. As she picked up the boxes and turned, the edge swept across the shelf and toppled the glass to the floor.
In the silence following the shattered glass, she heard the knocking sound resume outside. Was something wrong with the AC system? Masada put down the flattened cardboard boxes and sidestepped the broken glass.
The Masada Complex Page 9