The Masada Complex

by Avraham Azrieli

  Masada dreaded the moment he would learn that Shanty was gone.

  “Dad said it’s because I really want to meet her, but she’s dead. So I can’t meet her in life. That’s why.”

  Masada had not planned to spend the night at the rabbi’s house. He must have found her asleep when he returned home last night. She caressed Raul’s red curls, quickly pulling back. “Your dad is a wise man.”

  Rabbi Josh found them sitting in Raul’s bed, each holding one end of the newspaper. Raul was saying, “But why is the man laughing?”

  “I don’t know,” Masada said. “It’s probably an old photo.”

  “Maybe he’s just pretending. Like I sometimes laugh, but inside I’m sad?”

  “That can happen,” she agreed. “Drink some more juice.”

  “Okay.” Raul let go of his side of the newspaper, reached for a glass next to the bed, and saw his father. “Dad!” He stood on the bed and jumped into the rabbi’s arms.

  Masada got up and shook her right leg to release the pants over the knee brace. “Good morning.”

  Rabbi Josh looked up from her body, feeling his face flush. She could not have missed his lingering eyes.

  Raul tugged on his father’s finger. “You didn’t wash your hands this morning, Dad.”

  “I did some work in the yard.” He dreaded telling the boy that he had buried Shanty.

  “Masada had a bad dream.” Raul jumped up and down on the bed. “I had to wake her up because she was noisy.” He stuck out his lips and cooed repeatedly until they both laughed.

  She shouldered her bag. “See you later, boys.”

  “Bye!” Raul ran over and hugged her tightly. “I love you.”

  She fluffed his hair and glanced at Rabbi Josh. “Be good,” she said.

  The rabbi followed her outside. “Nightmares getting worse?”

  “Variations on a familiar theme.” She shrugged. “It starts the same, but-”

  “Different ending?”

  “It’s the falling down thing, like being in Levy’s flying Cadillac, but it’s another place.”

  Rabbi Josh was surprised. “I expected something connected to Senator Mahoney’s suicide. Usually the most stressful or shocking event pierces through the psychic walls. You really should see someone.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “It’s not a question of willpower. This condition could trigger a mental breakdown.”

  “I don’t have money for therapy right now.” She picked up her bag.

  “That’s an excuse.”

  “Welcome to the life of a freelance writer. Plenty of fame-or infamy-but no cash. I’m tight until the next advance.”

  He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “This came through my e-mail last night.”

  It was a copy of her manslaughter conviction by the Israeli military court. “Ancient news,” she said. “I’m going to expose the Israelis.”

  “Expose the truth, even if it’s not what you expect?”

  “You doubt my integrity?”

  “It’s hard to admit a mistake.”

  “The facts will support my accusations. My next article will be titled: How Israel Doomed Itself.”

  “Clever, but wrong.” Rabbi Josh looked at his muddy fingernails. “I have to find a way to tell him.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a while,” she said. “My bad luck is contagious.”

  “I don’t believe in luck. I believe in God, who lets us make choices and face the consequences.” He gave her a hard look. “I also believe that, deep inside, you still love Israel.”

  “I miss the Israel of my childhood. But that Israel is long gone.”

  He watched her go to the door. “Don’t forget Friday night.”

  When the sound of the Corvette disappeared, he sighed and went to tell Raul that Shanty had gone to dogs’ heaven.

  Professor Silver parked the Cadillac under an expansive mesquite tree, lowered the windows, and turned off the engine. He glanced at the empty parking lot of the immigration service building, unfolded the letter from Hadassah Hospital, and read it again. He had to be in Jerusalem no later than Friday, August 15-eight days away. Assuming Masada would die in the explosion this morning, he only needed two more things to happen: a green card issued by the U.S. government, enabling him to return from Israel and commence Phase Two, and recognition as a new citizen from the Israelis, so that the treatment would be free. The irony was that if either of these two enemy governments realized his true identity, blindness would be the least of his problems.

  Watching the parking lot through the front windshield, Silver wondered what had resulted from his brief conversation with Mrs. Goodyear yesterday. He had to make Elizabeth comprehend the calamity that would befall her if she continued to rebuff him.

  He sighed bitterly. The brothers in Ramallah would rather let him go blind than risk losing the fruits of his brilliant work. He had achieved the impossible-turning the tide of American public opinion against Israel without shooting a single bullet or detonating a single bomb. Rajid had provided technical support-arranging for the house, car, and living expenses, the information about the old secret Al Zonshine held over Senator Mahoney, the bribe money, and even the suggestion of Masada as the media conduit-a credible Jewish critic of Israel. In fact, Masada could be useful during Phase Two, as well. But Ramallah had left him no choice but to eliminate her.

  He glanced at his watch. 7:16 a.m. Masada should be approaching her house this very moment in a tired bliss after a night of lovemaking. He shuddered at the image of flames engulfing her lovely face.

  Elizabeth’s Toyota turned into the parking lot. He got out of his Cadillac, put on the black beret, and adjusted his glasses. He expected her to be upset about the shattering of the Goodyear affair. The stick had to hurt, but the carrot he was about to offer her would be too sweet to resist.

  Masada eased the clutch, and the Corvette moved closer to the Starbucks takeout window. An acid pit bore into her stomach. By sending that e-mail and old conviction to Rabbi Josh, Ness sent her a message. A threat. Shanty was only the beginning!

  An engine roared nearby, and in the rearview mirror she saw the yellow motorbike enter the narrow drive, bypass the cars queuing behind her, and stop next to the Corvette. It was taller than the car, its yellow gas tank parallel to her passenger-side window. It carried the round emblem of BMW.

  The passenger door opened, and a leggy woman in a blackleather suit got in. “Shalom,” she said, removing her helmet. The motorbike roared and moved off.

  “You again.” Masada glanced at her. “Black boots and a BMW motorbike-like a Nazi storm trooper.”

  “That’s why we bought yellow.”

  “Hitler would have been pleased.”

  The agent’s hand reached inside her black leather jacket, and Masada realized they had decided to eliminate her in the most simple and direct way: a bullet!

  Elizabeth pulled down her left sleeve to hide the bandage on her wrist. She collected her briefcase and took a deep breath. She would not give them the pleasure of seeing her bowed in defeat.

  “Good morning!” It was Father’s Jew friend. He followed her to the building. “You don’t look so well.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I worry about you.” He patted her arm. “You could be my daughter.”

  Elizabeth swung around. “Don’t touch me!”

  He examined her through the black-rimmed spectacles. “You lost the promotion, right?”

  She turned and marched up the steps. From the top, she looked down at him. “I haven’t seen my father in decades, but I doubt he would break bread with a Jew.”

  The professor took off his glasses. He hooked his finger and tapped on his left eye with the fingernail. “The last thing this eye ever saw was my son being murdered by an Israeli soldier. I am a Palestinian, and Allah is my God. Just like your father. And you.”

  “But you have a Jewish name!”
>
  “And you? McPherson? Good Irish stock?”

  She laughed. “Touche.”

  He walked up the steps, joining her at the staff entrance. “You’ve lived for your career, forgoing family, friends, children. And now, your career is over.”

  She nodded.

  “The Israelis made you a refugee and a wife to a cruel butcher, not your father, who had only tried to set you free from their occupation.”

  “True.”

  “The Israelis,” he said, “are your real enemies. Our enemies.”

  Upstairs in her office, Elizabeth pulled the envelope from her bag. “You are ineligible for permanent resident status. I can’t change the rules.”

  He removed his glasses and rubbed his eye. “You dream of going back, right? A hero’s arrival at the camp, everyone running out to greet you, a cheering crowd. Even Hajj Mahfizie.”

  She could barely breathe. “How do you know my dream?”

  “It’s every immigrant’s dream.” He sighed. “I dream of returning to Haifa, to my childhood home. I dream of hugging my parents and sisters, aunts and uncles, the old neighbors, introducing my wife and son to everyone, telling them of my important work in America, seeing the respect and adulation in their eyes. It’s my favorite dream.”

  “Mine also. But it’s an impossible dream.”

  “Impossible for me. My loved ones are all dead, and our homes gone. But your father is alive, waiting to hug you.” He joined her at the window. “He also dreams of your return.”

  She shook her head.

  The professor handed her a letter carrying the seal of the Palestinian president, dated a week before, awarding her the Hero of Palestine Medal, to be presented by a cabinet-level minister in a ceremony at the central square in the Kalandria refugee camp.

  Elizabeth sat down, feeling weak. There was no doubt in her mind that Allah was rewarding her for sparing the baby’s life with an opportunity to fulfill an impossible dream.

  Hero of Palestine.

  She imagined showers of rice and flowers. “Tell me more about yourself.”

  The professor removed his beret, revealing tufts of gray hair. “My family came from Damascus to Haifa in 1919. Business was booming, with the influx of industrious, educated European Jews. Many others came from Syria and Lebanon, also from Iraq and Egypt, even from Saudi Arabia. We lived under the British mandate, Arabs and Jews, doing business as if there was no tomorrow. But politics interfered, riots that killed Jews, retaliations that killed Arabs, and the British inciting us against each other to justify perpetuation their colonial grab on Palestine. The UN decided we should partition the land, but we were too proud to accept. So when Israel declared independence in forty-eight, our leaders told us to leave temporarily, until they finished killing all the Jews. My father locked the house, and we traveled to Nablus. But pride soon turned to humiliation, which continues still.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “My family was from Acre. We never went back.”

  “My father wanted to return to Damascus, but the Syrian regime didn’t want us. He died a few years later, poor and bitter. My mother followed him. I married a distant cousin, and we had a son, Faddah. I became known as Abu Faddah, a kind of nom de guerre. In sixty-seven, Nasser promised that Egypt, Syria, and Jordan would succeed where they had failed two decades earlier, but the Israelis won again. My wife was run over by a tank.”

  “The Jews!” Elizabeth fumed. “They have no mercy!”

  “Actually, it was a Jordanian tank.” He took a deep breath and exhaled with a whiff of cigarette odor. “They escaped from the Israelis at full speed, running over people and animals.”

  Elizabeth covered her mouth.

  He looked down, overcome with emotions. “I found Faddah alive in the ruins and took him to Amman. While getting a degree in history, I became involved with the PLO. My comrades raided the Jewish communities across the border, but I could not leave Faddah. The years passed, and slowly Haifa became a distant dream. One day, when Faddah turned fifteen, I realized I could not live like this any longer. So I devised a plan.”

  “Weren’t you a Jordanian citizen?”

  “I wish.” He sighed. “The Arab countries kept us on refugee status. Nasser, Sadat, Assad, Hussein-just as bad as the Zionists.”

  “So you crossed the border to attack Jews?”

  “I was never a man of violence. This was going to be my one chance to prove that a hostage operation can succeed. I spied on the target for months before taking action. It was going to be a media spectacle and a certain success.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was going to make an offer the Israelis couldn’t refuse. We were going to live through and prevail.”

  She watched his face sparkle with enthusiasm.

  “I selected a location that symbolized the Jews’ historic sovereignty.”

  “Jerusalem?”

  He shook his finger. “Mount Masada-the last stronghold of the Jewish kingdom, two thousand years ago. The Israelis identify with the last siege. They glorify the zealots’ ultimate sacrifice. And back then, the Israelis would not negotiate for the release of terrorists. My plan was to demand something the Israelis could not refuse without appearing inhumane.”

  His excitement was contagious, and Elizabeth leaned forward, eager to hear.

  “I had observed that every month, when the moon was full, a handful of teenagers from a nearby kibbutz climbed the mountain to camp on the summit until sunrise. So one evening Faddah and I crossed in the shallow part of the Dead Sea and climbed Mount Masada. We waited for them in the ancient fort and herded them to one of the rooms-part of the perimeter wall at the cliff’s edge. A few girls and boys. We tied them up and sent a girl to the kibbutz with a note that we would release the hostages if we were allowed to return to our family home in Haifa. I still had the front-door key!”

  Elizabeth was biting her fingernails.

  “But Allah intervened.” He shook his head. “Our note must have reached someone very discreet, who called the Israeli army. No media. A helicopter came, we started negotiations, but one of the Israeli hostages attacked Faddah, and I accidentally pushed him off the cliff. That ruined everything. The Israelis won again.”

  “Do you know his name, the boy who fell?”

  “No.” He looked at his hands. “I didn’t even see his face very well.”

  “So they attacked?”

  “From the most unexpected place. They sent a soldier up the cliff.”

  The pencil snapped in Elizabeth’s hand. “What?”

  “That cliff goes straight up, higher than a hundred-story building, nothing to hold on to, sheer drop. I didn’t bother to block off that side. But I should have, because one must always expect the Israelis to do the unexpected!”

  “They sent a man up that cliff?”

  “There you go,” he chortled. “You expect a man, but the Israelis? They sent a woman.”

  “But how?”

  “My poor Faddah. He wasn’t a fighter. I rushed to help him, but I was too late.”

  Elizabeth swallowed as sickness rose in her throat.

  “That evil soldier threw Faddah to his death.” Silver’s voice broke. “What kind of a monster kills a boy in such a manner? What fear he must have suffered, dropping through the air, knowing the horrible end that awaited him. Allah’s mercy!” The professor covered his face.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Elizabeth said, trying to comfort him. “She killed him.”

  “One day I’ll find that soldier and push her over a cliff!” His face was red, his fist clenched. “Damn her!”

  Instead of a gun, Ness’s agent drew a handheld computer. Masada advanced to the Starbucks order window. “Tall latte and a blueberry scone,” she said. “And a cup of ice water.”

  The screen lit up, and Colonel Ness appeared, his face against a gray background. “You look tired,” he said, his voice eerily close.

  “No more sentimental vistas?”

  “How was the night
with the rabbi?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “He is a good man. I hope he makes you happy.”

  Masada paid, took the cardboard tray with two cups and a paper bag, and placed all of it on the floor by the agent’s boots. The woman held up the device, the screen facing Masada. There was a camera lens on the top frame, not larger than a penny.

  Ness asked, “Did he show you my e-mail?”

  Masada maneuvered the Corvette out of the narrow driveway and stopped at Scottsdale Road, waiting for a break in traffic. “Get out, or I’ll pour ice water on your gadget.”

  “Please don’t,” he said. “We had to fill out a hundred forms to explain what happened to the ten-thousand-dollar helmet you destroyed.”

  She took advantage of a narrow gap and sent the Corvette roaring in a tight, screeching turn, heading north. The motorbike appeared in the rearview mirror.

  “We’re running out of time,” Ness said. “Every anti-Semite in Washington is jumping on the Fair Aid bandwagon. More than seventy synagogues have been desecrated across America-broken windows, swastikas, a firebomb in Chicago.”

  “You should have thought about it beforehand.”

  “We didn’t bribe Mahoney!”

  Masada accelerated with full throttle, weaving between cars. “You think you’re the center of the world, don’t you? You Israelis are so arrogant.”

  “And what are you? A sabra doesn’t shed her thorns by changing her passport.”

  “There are half a million former Israelis in Los Angeles alone,” Masada said. “Israel is losing its people more quickly than it gains new immigrants.”

  “I’d love to discuss demographics with you another time, perhaps face-to-face. But right now I have an excellent tip for you. Our sources in the FBI tell us that the money they found at Mahoney’s ranch was traced to a branch of Chase Manhattan Bank in New York City. The account belonged to a subsidiary of a construction company in Riyadh, which is managed by a Palestinian engineer from Ramallah.”

  “How convenient.” Masada turned onto McDonald Drive and headed west. “Any leads about snakes or cookies?”