An olive-skinned waiter carrying a water pitcher said something in Hebrew, beckoning her to enter.
She asked in English, “Where’s the exit?”
“Where do you want to go?”
She recognized his accent. “Mnain il-khurug!”
His eyes lit at the sound of Arabic. “Khurug min Hotel?”
“Aiwah!”
He put down the pitcher and led her to a side door, down a short corridor to another door, which opened to the street.
“Shukran,” she said.
The waiter bowed with a smile.
She recalled the directions and turned right, telling herself to calm down. Traffic was sparse. Groups of Jews strolled, chattering with each other. She hoped Professor Silver had returned to the Ramban Hostel.
Colonel Ness rolled his wheelchair into the living room. “What a pleasant surprise! Sorry you had to wait.”
Masada closed the glass-inlaid door and sat down. “I want the document that cancelled my conviction.”
“Straight to business? How American.” He looked up at her, his eyes clear and bright. “It’s nice to see you again in the flesh after so many years.”
“Give me the document, and I’ll leave you alone. If you don’t, I’ll write about what really happened on Mount Masada, and then I’ll work to expose your Judah’s Fist scheme.”
“Why the threats?” Ness smiled, his teeth still white and straight. “I’m happy to help an old friend. And you can help us have a fair chance against the Fair Aid Act, no pan intended.”
“Too late for that.” Masada adjusted her aching leg. “Your problem isn’t the U.S. Senate. Israel is going down anyway. Look how you guys fight each other-secular against religious, left against right, peaceniks against settlers, poor against rich. And when they start killing each other, each camp will pair up with a foreign power, and one of them will finish you off.”
“You underestimate our resilience.” Ness maneuvered the wheelchair around the table, closer to her.
She pointed her thumb at the window. “Listen to the people-they don’t think the aid suspension is a big deal. They’re making fun of the United States. The public-”
“The public is an ass.”
“You can manage without U.S. aid.”
“It’s not the money.” Ness brushed his hair with his fingers. “If we lose in the Senate on Wednesday, it would legitimize hostile actions by other countries. Only America’s support stands between us and our enemies’ ability to choke us to death.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m understating.”
“Then you should have thought about it before bribing Senator Mahoney.”
“There she blows again!”
“It’s the truth, unlike what you’re peddling.”
“I offered you a trade, solid leads for a bit of your cooperation. But you blew me off, and now look at you.” Colonel Ness sighed. “Anyway, I’d like to talk more, but it’s Friday night, and my family is waiting.”
“At least you have a family.” Masada picked up the teacup then put it down. “Your failure cost me a brother, as well as my freedom, my knee, and, worst of all, my ability to trust anyone. Because of you, I never started a family, never had any-”
“We’ve all suffered.” Ness patted the blanket covering his stumps. “You allowed your loss to dominate the rest of your life. I chose to go on living and serving, and making more sacrifices when needed. That’s the Israeli way.”
“That’s the Israeli sickness. I built a new life, a good life. But you’re like a bad skin rash. You keep showing up. Again, you ruined my life.”
He smiled, the spider web creases deepening at the corners of his eyes. “I’m persistent.”
“Then you found your match. I have nothing to lose, unlike you.” She stood and pointed at the family photos on the piano. “Your Judah’s Fist scheme cost me my home, my car, my livelihood, my career, my freedom, and my good name. The only thing I have left is my ability to bring you down with me!”
“Please, sit down.” He gestured at the sofa. “Take the weight off your bad knee.”
“Which I have you to thank for!”
He exhaled, adjusting the blanket over his stumps. “It was my greatest fear, losing you. But then, I lost you anyway.”
“What you should fear is exposure of your failure to save those kids, of the masked-terrorist’s escape, of your lies about what really happened.”
Ness rolled his eyes. “Old news. And the official version came from above. Who was the chief of staff then? Rafael Eitan? Too bad he was killed a couple of years ago. Fell off a pier in a storm and drowned. Can you believe it? Like General Patton, a fearless warrior, countless battles, then dying in a foolish accident. Talk about food for conspiracy buffs.”
“You don’t scare me. I’ll publish the truth. People recognize the truth when they hear it.”
He rolled the wheelchair closer to her. “Who’s going to believe a convicted felon, deported for immigration fraud, who spews venom at the homeland that took her back? No one will take you seriously.”
“Your wife will take me seriously.”
Colonel Ness looked at her for a long moment. “That’s a line you mustn’t cross.”
“You leave me no choice.”
“My wife knows who you are. She won’t believe you.”
Masada reached for his earlobe, rubbing it between a finger and a thumb.
He closed his eyes, giving in to her touch.
“Your wife will believe me. She remembers you as a complete man.”
He pushed her hand away.
“Give me the document, and I’ll be gone from your life.”
“I can’t.” His voice was hardly audible. “Only if you help Israel. Take my trade. I have the documents here.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.
“Fine!” Masada walked to the door and opened it. “Mrs. Ness? Can I talk with you for a moment?”
He wheeled forward into the door. It slammed shut, its glass insert rattling.
They faced each other.
A knock came from the door. Through the opaque glass they could see Mrs. Ness’s shadow, the two grandkids by her apron. “Dov?”
“We’re almost done.”
Masada reached for the door handle.
“Leave her out of it.” Colonel Ness glanced at the black-framed photo on the piano. “She suffered enough.”
Up close, Masada realized it was not Dov Ness in the photo, but a young man in air force uniform who resembled him, but whose softer chin and kinder eyes had come from his mother.
Mrs. Ness opened the door. “Come, my dear.” She took Masada’s hand. “The food is getting cold.”
After the funeral, Rabbi Josh went to pray at the Wailing Wall. Professor Silver claimed exhaustion and returned to the Ramban Hostel in hope of a nice meal, only to find the cafeteria closed for the Sabbath. A ten-dollar bill convinced the clerk to unlock the kitchen, and Silver found a few slices of bread and a half-empty milk carton in the fridge. The bread was dry, the milk no longer fresh, but at the end of a day of fasting he savored every bite. It was a far cry from his childhood memories of the iftars-the evening feasts during the month of Ramadan, the joyous gatherings of family and friends, overflowing with food, conversation, and laughter.
His solitary iftar in the privacy of his room put him in a contrite mood. Silver kneeled, bowed toward Mecca, and recited an improvised-yet-sincere prayer to Allah. He was too jetlagged to wash and, without his suitcase, had no pajamas to wear. He got into bed in his underwear.
Closing his eyes made the blotch disappear. In the morning, the cabby would drive him to that kibbutz by the Dead Sea, where he would look for information on Faddah’s grave and the soldier who had killed him. She was in her late forties now, probably fat, bored, and completely off guard. He would lure her to join him on a sightseeing drive, push her off a cliff somewhere, and listen to her scream all the way down-a fitting punishmen
t. He would be back in the United States before her body was found.
A knock on the door tore him from his pleasant thoughts.
“Who’s there?”
“Room service,” a muffled voice answered.
The clerk must have realized he could earn a bigger tip with better food. “Hold on!” Silver wrapped himself in the sheet and turned the key.
The door was kicked in. It hit him in the face, jolting him backward. He tripped on the carpet and crashed into a night table, which collapsed on top of him.
After a long walk, Elizabeth found herself in a park bordering a residential neighborhood. Upon reflection, she realized the directions to the Ramban Hostel had been meant to take her from the main lobby exit, not from a side door. She retraced her steps to the Kings Hotel, found the main entrance, and made the right turn. Her feet hurt from the long walk, but she was determined to confront the professor.
She entered the Ramban Hostel and found the front desk manned by a kid playing an electronic game. She asked for Professor Silver’s room number.
The elevator wasn’t working. She took the stairs.
The place was dead quiet, as everybody was out for a Friday night meal with relatives or friends. On the second floor she paused. Upstairs, a heavy piece of furniture was knocked over, and someone shouted in pain. She waited, but there was no other sound from above.
Professor Silver groaned, his chest pressed by the night table. His forehead hurt where the door had hit him, and he could see nothing in the dark.
The door closed. The floorboards creaked.
He opened his mouth to yell for help, but he had no air to make a sound. He pushed the table off his chest, and it dropped to the floor with a thud. He sat up and tasted blood. With his forefinger he felt his teeth. All present. He’d bitten his tongue, and it hurt.
A hand grabbed his arm and lifted him. The air smelled of citrus blossom.
Finally he managed to speak. “Rajid?”
“Quiet!” He dropped Silver into a chair and turned on the lamp by the bed.
Silver had to focus the blotch on a point by Rajid’s ear in order to see his dark face. “Are you insane?”
Rajid unbuttoned his navy jacket, which he wore over a pink shirt, and pulled out a gun with a silencer.
“You can’t kill me. I’m indispensable to our national victory.”
“Arrogance is for the Israelis. You, on the other hand, have done your job.” Rajid wrapped his fist around the silencer, tightening it.
Silver could barely speak. “Let me explain!”
“You and me,” Rajid said, using the gun to point, “are Palestinian soldiers. Our lives belong to the fight against the Jews. The battle will be won when our colors fly over Jerusalem. Do you dispute this?”
Silver shook his head.
“What is to be done with a soldier who disobeys an order on the battlefield?”
“Immediate execution.” Silver wondered whether Ramallah had concluded he was dispensable. “But I did not disobey. How could I monitor Masada in Arizona? I am in Jerusalem because of your order!”
“The writer?” Rajid grinned. “You think I’m here because of her?”
“Why else?” Silver’s foggy gaze shifted between the pointed gun and Rajid’s dark face.
“Masada El-Tal is nothing. She can’t stop the American Senate. They will vote against Israel. It’s a done deal.”
The blood in his mouth had pooled behind his lower front teeth. Silver spat on the carpet. “Then why do you gallop through my door like a mindless colt? Have you no manners?”
Rajid loaded the gun in a quick, fluid motion and aimed it at Silver’s good eye. “You lied to me!”
“What are you talking about?”
“You gave me the documents of Phase One and Phase Two. But there is a Phase Three, correct?”
So that’s how he had earned Ramallah’s wrath! “I told you that I would share that information with the leadership in Ramallah. In person.”
Rajid sniffed the end of the barrel. “I love the smell of fresh powder.”
“Put the gun away.” Silver thought of his papers-the chronology, the technical details, the draft official decrees, the architectural drawings. “Exposure of such material would be ruinous, a public-relations disaster that would give the Jews instant victimhood. The Palestinian cause will be thrown back fifty years if my plans fell into the wrong hands.”
The handler leaped forward and swung the gun, missing Silver’s face by a hair. “You call me the wrong hands?”
“Temper. Temper. You will never rise through the ranks if you don’t listen.”
“Don’t patronize me!” Rajid pressed the gun to his forehead. “Your insubordination dishonors me! As Allah is my witness, I’ll kill you if you don’t give me those plans! Where are they? In your bag? In the safe downstairs?”
The door shook with a fast knocking. “Professor?”
“Yes, Elzirah,” Silver yelled before Rajid had time to silence him. “One moment!” He rose slowly, the gun boring into his forehead.
Rajid’s mouth opened to speak, but she knocked again. “Professor!”
“Coming!” Silver reached slowly for the doorknob.
“Colonel Ness was my lover in the army,” Masada said to Tara. She beckoned the bartender and pointed to her empty water glass. “He’s still in love with me, which is a weakness I’ll use against him.”
“But the guy hasn’t contacted you in so many years.” Tara emptied her beer bottle.
“He’s followed my career, read everything I wrote, and probably had my photo taken by his agents regularly. That’s why he chose Phoenix for his Judah’s Fist bribe operation-so he could entangle me, use my friends, insinuate himself into my life. I’m sure he regrets it now, after I managed to expose his scheme.”
Tara sipped water through a straw. “Question is, why hasn’t he tried to contact you before, show up at your door with flowers, serenade you under your window, beg your forgiveness?”
“I think he didn’t want to hurt his wife.”
“That’s a new one.” Tara laughed.
“They lost a son in the air force. She made me stay for dinner, served a traditional Friday night meal. It’s my first since I left the kibbutz. When I saw him bless the wine, cut the bread, feed his grandkids, it was so normal, warm. I felt such pity.”
Tara twisted her face. “You pity him?”
“No. I pity myself.”
The Wailing Wall was taller than Rabbi Josh had imagined. The limestone-paved plaza glowed with an artificial brightness that reminded him of a baseball field. But rather than Diamondbacks’ baseball caps, the hundreds of men milling about wore black hats. And instead of hot dogs, they carried prayer books.
The human current swept him forward, depositing him among the swaying black hats. He stood with the praying men, facing the giant stones, which were smooth from centuries of human touch. The cracks filled with crumpled papers.
He kissed the stones.
Burying Raul had given him a good idea what it would feel like to die a torturous death. The finality of it, the prospect of a life without ever seeing Raul’s smiling face again, never touching his smooth cheeks or smelling his hair after a bath, broke something inside Rabbi Josh-not his faith, but his love for God. It was gone, replaced with anger and disrespect, as if he had witnessed a beloved friend commit an ugly act that could not be explained away, that would forever taint everything else that had once been good and worthy in their relationship.
Looking up at the Wall, Rabbi Josh said, “I quit!”
The simple declaration unshackled him. God now knew that this clergyman had resigned, that their professional association had been terminated due to irreconcilable differences over what constituted acceptable behavior by He who held all the power. Truth was, Rabbi Josh would have denounced God altogether. But he couldn’t, because he depended on God for the arrival of the Messiah and the Resurrection-his only chance of seeing Raul again.
&n
bsp; Free of his divine employer, the rabbi turned away from the Wall. He was a regular Jew now, no longer a role model for his flock, no longer bound by a higher code of professional conduct. He was free to err and be petty, and to seek revenge like anyone else. Wait, big guy, come back and give me a kiss.
Elizabeth lifted her fist to knock again, but the door cracked and Professor Silver slipped out of his room, wrapped in a bed sheet. He shut the door and hurried down the hallway to the stairs. “Perfect timing,” he announced with exaggerated loudness. He descended one step at a time, feeling with his bare feet where it was safe to tread.
“Have you gone mad?”
He laughed, again too loudly, and led her through the modest lobby into an empty cafeteria. “Go on, yah aini, make us some coffee.” He pulled a chair and positioned it near the door, where he sat and watched the lobby.
Elizabeth made two cups of coffee and pulled another chair over, facing him.
“Shukran.”
“You better stick to English, or you’ll blow your cover.”
“You could make a good agent.” He leaned forward, gazing intently through the open door.
Elizabeth saw a man with dark hair cross the lobby and push the glass doors with both hands in a violent manner, leaving the hostel. “You know him?”
“No worry.” The professor watched the lobby, as if expecting the man to return.
“What happened to you?” She touched a bruise above his left eyebrow.
“It’s Ramadan.” He chuckled. “By the end of a day of fasting I walk into walls.”
“You had an argument with your handler?”
Silver gave her an appraising look. “You are astute. He, on the other hand, is not.”
“What did he want?”
“Thought he could find some documents in my room.” Silver removed his glasses and rubbed the thick lenses on the sheet. “The Jews would love to put their hands on him.”
“They’d love even more to put their hands on you.”
“They think I died in the desert.” He lit a cigarette and drew at length, blowing it toward the ceiling. “Even the mighty Israelis won’t superciliously contrive to catch a ghost.”
The Masada Complex Page 27