Despite the comforts of first-class travel, Professor Silver had slept little during the long flight over the Atlantic Ocean and Europe. He was unable to relax after a whirlwind week ending with the mad rush across Newark Airport to catch the flight to Israel, which had already boarded to capacity when the two of them arrived at the secure gate area. He sat back in the wide chair, stretching his legs, and watched through the window as the plane began its descent over the Mediterranean.
The Tel Aviv coast appeared in the window, hotels lining the golden beach, the vast metropolis stretching as far as he could see. The plane tilted its wings in a wide turn over the suburbs, a mix of apartment buildings, private homes, and green parks, interconnected by wide highways flowing with cars. It looked like Los Angeles.
After a smooth landing at Ben Gurion Airport, the pilot announced that, due to the need to unload special cargo, the plane would park away from the main terminal. He asked the passengers to remain seated, but they paid no attention, swarming into the aisles, heaving bags, and chattering in Hebrew.
The professor unbuckled his seatbelt and forced a smile onto his face. “Home sweet home.”
The rabbi shut his eyes and recited: “Blessed be He, Master of the Universe, for giving us life and sustenance to bring us here.”
“Amen.” Silver rubbed his hands together to hide the tremor. He needn’t worry. The Israelis had conducted security checks back in Newark. His papers had not drawn any attention.
The plane shuddered to a stop.
The rabbi got up and squeezed into the crowded aisle. He lowered a large package from the overhead compartment. “Come, Levy.”
Silver hugged his travel bag to his chest and glanced out through the window. The plane had parked away from the main terminal. A white car arrived, and four armed men in blue uniforms came out.
They were expecting him!
One of the uniformed men looked up, meeting his gaze. Silver retreated from the window, barely able to breathe. Idiot!No one fools the Israelis!
The door of the plane opened with a whish of released pressure. Rabbi Josh, who was blocking the aisle, said, “Let’s go.”
Standing with difficulty, Silver would have fallen back into the chair had the rabbi not caught his arm and ushered him into the aisle and toward the sun-lit doorway. He tried to think, but the noise was too loud. Had the Israelis watched him all those years? Had they lurked in the shadows as he conspired against them? Had their spies mused at his plans while luring him to Israel with tales of revolutionary eye treatment? He could see it now. They would use him to manipulate the world’s sympathy, just as he had tried to do to them. There was probably a camera ready to capture his arrest at the foot of the stairs. We got Abu Faddah! They would reveal his secret plans to the world and make a spectacle out of him-a public trial, a monkey in a glass cage, like that German who had failed to finish the job.
Outside the plane, the sun was blinding and the air as hot as in Phoenix, only humid and suffused with jet-fuel vapors. One hand on the railing, the other on Rabbi Josh’s arm, Silver descended the metal staircase like a sheep to slaughter. His view was blocked by the other passengers, who were singing in English-accented Hebrew. The air reverberated with the roar of a plane taking off nearby.
His last moments of freedom.
He stepped off the staircase and onto the solid land of his youth.
Palestine!
Forcing his head up, he detached from the rabbi and pushed through the crowd, showing himself to the Israeli policemen. He would not bow to them, even in captivity!
They ignored him.
A dozen steps to the side, Silver looked back, expecting them to follow.
Nothing.
He chuckled at his self-induced panic. He had tricked them after all!
Shaking his face with his hand, he took in the view. Beyond the airport’s fences, fields stretched afar, their green turning to hazy blue as they faded into the distant hills. “Praise Allah,” he whispered, “and Mohammed his prophet.” He dropped to his knees, leaning forward, laying his open hands on the hot tarmac. “Filasteen!”
His lips touched the asphalt, and Faddah’s lovable face came to him with all the sweetness and hope of their last day together, crossing the Dead Sea, climbing Mount Masada. “I’m back, Faddah,” he whispered, fighting off tears. “I’ll avenge you, my son.” He kissed the ground again, dust clinging to his moist lips, and rested his forehead on the ground.
Loud singing drew his attention. He turned to see more Jews in yellow shirts emerging from the door of the plane and descending the staircase, singing at the top of their voices, “We bring peace upon you.” They repeated the line, clapping rhythmically. He smiled, wiping his tears. The Jews had no idea they were lying prone in front of a speeding train-the train that he had set in motion!
Two blue-and-white buses arrived, and passengers boarded them for the short ride to the terminal while more emerged from the plane. He shut his eyes, weary of seeing joyous Jews around the blotch.
Without words, he thanked Allah again for clearing all the barriers from his path. Soon, he would meet the team at the Michener Eye Center at Hadassah Hospital, and on Sunday morning they would save his eyesight. And by Wednesday afternoon, Washington time, Phase One of his plan would be realized by the Senate’s vote, tearing the Jewish leech off America’s veins. He would return to the United States to begin the political campaign for the apartheidization of Israel and the imposition of international sanctions. He might relocate from Phoenix to New York to be near the center of diplomatic activity at the United Nations. Elzirah could become the legal director for the campaign-a reputable American lawyer who would lend credibility to their efforts and draft necessary petitions and resolutions. That thought reminded him that he must reach Elizabeth through her office to let her know about the “unexpected postponement” of her award ceremony. Otherwise she would be travelling to Israel in the next few days, complicating matters.
For a moment, he worried that Rajid was looking for him in Arizona. But if Rajid ever complained of searching for him in vain, Silver would respond: “I was in Canada, monitoring Masada per your command!” He laughed. Everything was working out for the faithful. He congratulated himself on the decision to observe Ramadan. Allah hu Akbar!
Up above, where the mobile staircase connected to the plane, a lull in the stream of yellow-shirted, singing Jews caused Silver to look up. He blinked a few times to moisten his eye. The doorway remained empty for a long moment until a tall figure appeared. He felt sudden pressure in his chest. He shielded his eye from the sun and looked again.
Masada?
She stepped onto the small landing at the top of the staircase. Her gaze dropped, she saw him, and her lips mouthed, Levy?
Rabbi Josh filled his chest with Israel’s air and recited from memory, “And God shall bring them to the domain of His Holiness.He shall drive off the gentiles. And settle Israel in their tents.”
There was great joy around him, fellow Jewish men and women singing, their voices strong, defiant of America and its shifting political winds. Masada’s expose had been a blessing in disguise. The wave of anti-Semitic attacks was causing thousands of American Jews to move to Israel. Rabbi Josh sighed. If only he had not waited, foolishly believing his son was safer in Arizona than in the land of his ancestors.
The first two buses departed for the terminal, and new ones arrived to pick up more passengers. He searched the faces around him. “Levy?” The rabbi stood on his toes. “Levy Silver!” He picked up the tied-up wood sections of the dais and approached the police officers leaning against their vehicle. “Did you see a little man in a black beret?”
One of them pointed, and the rabbi saw Silver sitting on the ground. He walked over and kneeled by the professor. “What’s wrong?”
A shadow fell over them. A familiar voice demanded, “What are you doing here?”
Rabbi Josh looked up, stunned. “Were you on our plane?”
Masada ignored him, her green eyes burning in her pale face as she leaned over the professor. “You lied to me!”
The rabbi felt drawn to her like a compass arm forced by a magnet. But he remembered Silver’s story, how she had lured Al Zonshine. Come, big guy.
Masada pointed a finger in Professor Silver’s face. “You promised to hire a lawyer-the best lawyer in Phoenix! Where is he?”
“Yes. I know.” Silver opened his arms helplessly. “But I thought you’d be free. The judge said they must release you in the morning, right?”
“Answer me!” She shook Levy’s shoulder.
“Leave him alone,” Rabbi Josh said. “Can’t you see he’s not feeling well?”
“Do you know what you’ve done?” She thrust her bruised wrists in the professor’s face. “I’m back in this hellhole because of you!”
“But I didn’t know,” Silver pleaded. “I thought you’d be released.”
“You promised a lawyer, and I get this?” Masada kicked the ground, her face twisting in pain. “Damn you!”
Unable to restrain himself, Rabbi Josh shouted, “Enough! Enough! Enough!”
Masada’s ears rang from the shouting. She had never heard Rabbi Josh raise his voice, let alone shout at her. After twelve hours of seething, being stuck in the rear of the packed plane, with her hopes for a lawyer dashed, she could no longer contain her rage. Without a second thought, she raised her hand and slapped the rabbi across the face.
“Oy,” Silver said.
She stepped back, shocked at what she’d done.
The rabbi touched his cheek. “Haven’t you sinned enough already?”
She didn’t answer.
“Pray for forgiveness,” he said. “That’s why God brought you here, to his holy land.”
“It’s not me who should repent,” Masada said. “You’re not fooling me Agent Frank!”
He continued to look at her with innocent eyes. “Yes, I also have to repent. I do repent. Every moment that I’m awake. But you, after all you’ve done, have you no remorse at all?”
“Kinderlakh, please!” Levy Silver reached up, and they helped him to his feet. “Joshua, Masada, I beg you like I would beg my own children. This isn’t a place for fighting.” He closed his eyes and recited, “Go, depart from your birthplace, from your father’s home, and travel to the land that I will show you.”
“Give me a break,” Masada said. “Enough with the quotes!”
Silver looked up at her. “Didn’t I plead with you to stay in Phoenix and show them how my girl fights back? Didn’t I tell you to ignore the self-interested TV reporter? I assumed you’d be at your house by now. I was going to phone you as soon as we landed to discuss the lawyer. We have to make a choice and move forward!”
Masada tried to read his eyes through the thick glasses. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re going to Israel?”
“I didn’t want you to worry. I have an appointment at Hadassah.”
“You’re going to the hospital?” Masada felt the blood drain from her face. There it was again-her bad luck infecting the people she loved. “What’s wrong with you?”
“A minor problem.” He gestured at a hydraulic crane, raising a platform to meet the plane cargo hold. “Let us pay our respects.”
What are you afraid of? Elizabeth tried to calm her nerves. She looked away from the uniformed Israelis, using her hate like a lever to lift her spirit. The body search in Newark had shaken her to the core. How dare they? She had already drafted a scathing complaint to Continental Airlines about this blatant ethnic profiling in clear violation of U.S. civil rights laws.
She saw the rabbi look up as the coffin descended from the plane. He wore a skullcap, his light-brown ponytail held with a rubber band. Elizabeth circled the group to get a better look at him. His strong, handsome face was struck by grief. Professor Silver, standing next to him, looked much more like a Jewish rabbi than this athletic hunk.
An airport hand in orange coveralls pried open the coffin. The rabbi kneeled, resting his elbows on the lid, and spoke quietly, saying words no one could hear.
The coffin was closed, and the rabbi stepped back, wiping his eyes.
A small book appeared in Silver’s hand. He opened it and recited, “My voice, to the Lord I shall call; to God, my plea shall reach; and he will hear me; on the day of my agony, Master, my hand is extended to you, my soul seeks comfort.”
The rabbi stood next to him, swaying back and forth, his lips repeating the words.
“I shall remember the Lord,” the professor chanted, “my sighs, I shall not cease, my breath is faint.”
Elizabeth was impressed with his proficiency in the Jews’ scriptures. Had she not conversed with him in Arabic about his daring plans, she would never doubt he was a Jew. As if to test her ability to suspend disbelief, Silver raised his bespectacled face at the sky and pled, “Forever will you neglect us, Lord?” He paused, taking a deep breath. “When, Father, will you be pleased again with your children?”
Thinking of her own father, Elizabeth felt her pocket, which held the folded page of her scribbled notes for the acceptance speech on Wednesday. It had taken many years, but in a few days her father would finally be pleased with her again. She had redeemed herself.
A black station wagon backed up to the platform and two bearded Jews loaded the coffin. They shook hands with the handsome rabbi. Elizabeth came closer to listen. “Five o’clock at Sanhedriah Cemetery,” one of them said. “The taxi driver will know where it is. Don’t be late. We have to finish before the Sabbath begins at sunset.”
The rabbi handed them an odd-shaped package, which they placed in the car next to the coffin.
“Be gentle with our boy,” Professor Silver said. “His name is Raul. Five years old.”
Elizabeth was amazed with his composure, so different from the panicked old man who had appeared at her apartment in the middle of the night after his sidekick had killed the boy.
“Raul?” One of the bearded man examined the bundle of papers in his hand. “Does he have a Hebrew name?”
“Yes,” the rabbi said, “his Hebrew name is Israel.”
Elizabeth heard a groan and saw Masada turn and rush to the waiting bus.
Raul. Israel. Srulie. Masada clung to a pole in the front of the bus. There were seats in the back, too far for her to reach without collapsing. Raul. Srulie.
Other passengers boarded the bus. Rabbi Josh and Professor Silver sat in the back. The flight crew clustered in the middle. The bus moved with a jolt, the doors remaining open for a few more seconds, circulating the heat. She held on to the pole.
Raul. Israel. Srulie.
“This place is a sauna.” McPherson wiped her forehead, combing back moist hair. “I can see why you didn’t want to return.”
Masada showed her back to the lawyer. A trickle ran down the inside of her thigh. She hoped it was only sweat. She had revealed to no one what Al had done. She couldn’t, or it would hit the news and no one would ever look at her without imagining that animal on top of her.
The bus sped up, bumping along on the concrete road, passing huge hangars and parked jetliners. A recorded female voice gave instructions in several languages about passport and visa inspections, as well as customs declarations. The message concluded with, “Shalom, and enjoy your stay in Israel.”
“Some joy,” Masada muttered, holding on as the bus turned around a plaza and lined up with a glass-and-stone building. She took a deep breath and stepped off the bus. A large clock on the face of the building indicated it was 1:47 p.m. Israel time. She shouldered her bag and pulled out her travel papers. She had to snap out of it, stop wallowing in self pity. Otherwise she would never recover all she had lost over this disastrous short period. She forced her mind to focus on planning. First, find a connection between Colonel Ness and Rabbi Josh and link them to Judah’s Fist. Second, unearth a copy of the document that had cancelled her conviction back in 1983, so she could recover her U.S. citizenship. Third, find out if the Arab who had killed Srulie was still alive and, if so, track him down and shove Srulie’s bone into the murderer’s eye-this time, all the way in!
Professor Silver lingered on the stone stairs leading up to the terminal. The sign above the entrance read Ben Gurion International Airport. Elizabeth lingered while the passengers entered the terminal.
“Why did you bring her here?” He kept his back to the glass doors. “You failed me!”
“A court is not a restaurant. You don’t order from a menu. No other country agreed to take her. What about my award ceremony?”
He wanted to lie about an unexpected cancellation, but feared she would lose her temper and cause their exposure. “Do not leave your hotel until I contact. Remember, both our lives are at stake!”
“You’re exaggerating.” She chuckled. “No one will touch a senior American official.”
“Don’t be so sure.” He climbed the steps, and the glass doors opened before him.
Hundreds of passengers queued up at the passport-control counters. Masada joined a line. The cavernous hall, lit by countless fluorescent bulbs, was tiled in cream marble and decorated with huge pictures-a tractor plowing a field, a hiker mounting the crest of a hill, folk dancers circling a campfire, shoppers in a bustling market, and a tank trailing a dusty wake. The opposite wall was lined with dozens of flags representing the nations that recognized Israel. Masada flexed her right leg. At last, her scraped kneecap had begun to heal. Or was she too numb to feel the pain?
Another group entered the hall with yellow shirts and naive clatter. Masada could not understand. Didn’t they realize Israel was about to lose American support? Didn’t they realize every inch of this country was within range of Arab missiles and rockets? Many stood in line with kids or babies bundled up in blankets. She wanted to yell at them, What are you doing?
As she reached the passport counter, Elizabeth McPherson appeared at her side. Masada placed her travel papers on the counter.
The attendant, a young woman in a pressed uniform, turned to her computer. “Born in Israel?”
“Yes.”
The woman typed some more. “Can I see your Israeli passport?”
“I flushed it down the toilet many years ago.”
A flitting smile crossed the young woman’s face. “Welcome home, Miss El-Tal.” She stamped a form and handed it to Masada with a diminutive Israeli flag glued to a long drinking straw. “Please go to the right for processing.”
“Hold on!” The lawyer unfolded a sheet of paper. “I am Elizabeth McPherson, Chief Legal Counsel, Southwest Region.”
“Yes?”
“Someone must sign a receipt before I release her from custody.”
The Israeli attendant landed her stamp on the receipt. “Here you go.”
“Don’t let her in,” Masada said. “She’s a Palestinian.”
“Welcome to Israel.” The attendant stamped Elizabeth’s passport. “Have a safe visit, Miss McPherson.” As the lawyer passed through, the attendant winked at Masada.
While she searched for a place to dump the little flag, Masada’s way was blocked by two elderly women holding bouquets of flowers. They pulled her toward a large door marked: Olim Hadashim. She declined the flowers and explained she was not a new immigrant. “Doesn’t matter,” one of them chirped, “after so long abroad you’re considered a newcomer.”
Masada paused before the double doors. The plaque above read: The Masada Lounge.
“Look!” Professor Silver approached, waving his tiny flag with one hand, holding Rabbi Josh’s sleeve with the other. “What a perfect name!”
“Right,” Masada said. “Perfect name for a training center: How to hole up on a mountaintop and commit mass suicide.”
“That’s what you want!” Rabbi Josh pointed at her with his little flag. “As Isaiah said, Your haters and destroyers shall come from within you. The blood on your hands isn’t dry yet, and you mock out ancestors?”
“Kinderlakh!” Professor Silver put his arms around them. “Let’s not spoil this occasion with petty squabbling. It’s not every day that three passionate Jews from Arizona make aliyah together, right?”
“Miss McPherson?” A young man in a crew cut and a sleeveless khaki jacket approached her with an outstretched hand. “I’m from the U.S. Consulate. Name’s Bob. Bob Emises.”
They shook hands, and he took her bags. She followed him through the crowd to the curb outside, where a black Chevy Tahoe waited. The driver, who looked like Bob’s football teammate, opened the door for her.
The vehicle left the airport, following the signs for Jerusalem. The AC was blowing hard, and soon Elizabeth, whose shirt was wet with sweat, was shivering. The driver glanced back and adjusted the vents.
“Thank you.” She put a hand on her belly. There was a purpose to her visit, a future to prepare for and celebrate.
“We booked a room for you at the Kings Hotel,” Bob said. “It’s central and safe.” He reached back and handed her a business card. “Call me if you need anything.”
The wide highway was choked with late-model cars. The rolling hills sprouted clusters of homes with red roofs and whitewashed industrial buildings. Elizabeth filled with anger. The Jews were pests, multiplying and consuming the stolen land.
“Beautiful country,” Bob commented, “isn’t it?”
She noticed mustard-yellow graffiti on a concrete embankment: AID + U.S. = AIDS
On the way to Jerusalem, Professor Silver sat between the two sulking Jews in the middle row of an absorption ministry van. Masada fanned herself with a magazine. The rabbi murmured verses from Psalms. Each of them had received a new immigrant package, including identification papers, a sum of Israeli money, health-care insurance card, and a voucher for an extended stay at the Ramban Hostel in Jerusalem.
As they approached the Judean Mountains, the slopes were blanketed with new homes, many of them on small plots half dug into the hillside, exposing the white limestone. “Just like God’s covenant with Abraham,” the rabbi said. “I will turn you into a great nation, bless you aplenty.”
Silver picked up the quote: “And multiply your seed like the stars in the sky and the sand on the shore, and your seed shall inherit your enemy’s gates.”
Masada elbowed him. “Don’t you have something from Rabbi Hillel?”
“Of course,” Silver boasted, “being with my dear friends, seeing our beautiful homeland flourish, I finally understand what Hillel meant. Who is wealthy? A man who’s satisfied with his lot. Right?”
“Wrong,” Rabbi Josh said. “Rabbi Ben Zomah said it, not Hillel.”
Silver noticed Masada exchange a glance with the rabbi, an acknowledgment of jest that was broken off immediately. He reminded himself to fuel their acrimony and suspicions. He asked Masada, “Have you called your family already? Or friends?”
She was quiet for a moment. “My parents and little brother are dead. I don’t have friends here.”
He patted her shoulder. She had never told him what had happened to her family or why she had left Israel with such bitterness, and he hoped she would elaborate now. But Masada looked out the window in silence.
The van stopped at the entrance to Hadassah Hospital. Silver stepped out with his bag. Masada offered to go in with him, but he declined, explaining that it was only a checkup ahead of Sunday’s procedure. He gestured at Rabbi Josh, who sat in the van with the open book of Psalms. “He intimated to me that you shouldn’t attend the funeral.” Seeing the hurt on her face, he added, “Maybe it’s better this way.”
She got back in the van, and he waved good-bye.
He found the Michener Eye Center on the eighth floor. Dr. Asaf was a small man with quick manners. He tested Silver’s eye with various optical instruments. “Professor,” he announced, “we are good to go.”
Silver smelled coffee. He wished the sun had set already. “What should I expect on Sunday?”
Dr. Asaf held his hand in front of Silver’s face. “Within your field of vision, the palm of my hand is eclipsed, correct?”
“Yes. It’s like a hole in my vision that looks like a black ball with hairy edges.”
“Surrounded by a whitish glow?”
“The blotch,” Silver said. “That’s what I call it.”
The Israeli doctor opened a wooden box and took out a model eye in a transparent socket. “The muscles and nerves controlling your directional and focus functions are fine, and so is the connection to the brain. In fact, for a single eye that has carried the load for so long, it’s in remarkably good shape. Nothing is wrong with your eye, except this little area right here,” he pointed, “in the rear, where the macula is degenerating.”
“Very quickly.”
“But not for long,” Dr. Asaf said with a smile. “The microscopic bleeding interferes with the optical nerve.” His finger traced it. “We will inject genetically altered stem cells to the affected macula with a very thin needle through the wall of the eye.” He turned the plastic model to show Silver. “There will be some discomfort after the operation.”
“Pain doesn’t scare me.”
Dr. Asaf put the model back in the box. “We have not treated anyone who had lost the other eye, but it should make no difference. Out of seventy-three patients so far, everyone has shown improvement. The new cells rejuvenate the area, causing cessation of degeneration and marked shrinkage in the eclipsed field of vision.”
“A miracle.” Silver looked around the room, imagining it without the blotch.
“See you Sunday morning.” Dr. Asaf showed him to the door. “No eating or drinking after midnight. And bring in your favorite music. Our patients report it helps them relax.”
Silver shook his hand. “I relax by thinking.”
Elizabeth pushed open the window, revealing a view she had only seen in photos-the Dome of the Rock, glistening in the afternoon sun, the walls of the Old City, thick and mighty. The air was tinted with pine scent and engine fumes from the traffic below.
The windowsill left a film of black soot on her hands. After washing in the bathroom, Elizabeth brushed her hair and applied fresh lipstick. She sat on the bed and flipped through tourist brochures. It was Friday afternoon. What would she do until Wednesday morning? And how would the professor reach her-he didn’t know where she was staying.
She remembered the card Bob Emises had given her and called the number.
He answered instantly. “Miss McPherson?”
“Could you help me track down someone?”
“Sure.”
“Professor Flavian Silver. He’s about seventy years old, a new Israeli citizen, arrived today on my flight.”
“Got it. I’ll call you back.” He hung up.
A taxicab stood in the circular driveway by the main lobby of Hadassah Hospital. Professor Silver got in the back seat. “Ramban Hostel, please.”
The cabby drove fast with his right hand, the left stuck out the window with a burning cigarette. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Where are you from?”
“Arizona.”
“Hot!” The driver changed gears. His frizzy gray hair danced over his shoulders, and his bald spot glistened with beads of sweat. “I’m Ezekiel.” He drew from his cigarette and held it out the window. “Twenty-five years in the army. Sergeant major, Maintenance Corps.” He tapped the steering wheel. “I do this to get out of the house. Wife drives me crazy. You married?”
“Not anymore.”
“You’re lucky.” They were going downhill very fast. The driver pointed with his cigarette. “That’s Herzl’s grave.”
“A great man.” Silver covered his mouth and spat.
“Want to visit him?” Ezekiel hit the brakes, swerving to the middle lane.
“Another time.” Silver patted his watch. “It’s late.”
“He’s not going anywhere, right?” He accelerated, forcing his way back into traffic. “You like retirement? I love it. Two years, one month, and three weeks.”
“Where did you serve?”
“Where didn’t I serve?” The driver drew a wide circle in the air with the cigarette. “Tell me, is America going crazy?” He grabbed a yellow flyer from the seat beside him and passed it to Silver. “Take a look.”
One side of the yellow sheet was printed in Hebrew, the other in English:
Other than the U.S., Israel has the highest number of:
High-technology companies on NASDAQ!
Academic graduate degrees!
Books published annually!
Venture capital funds!
Startup companies!
And Israel leads the world (incl. U.S.) with:
Highest percentage of scientists of any country!
More museums per person than any other country!
Highest gain in number of trees planted every year!
More new medical patents a year than any other country!
The highest percentage of immigrants of any country in the world!
The best solar energy, irrigation, and medical imaging technologies!
United States of America: Aid Yourself! Israel Doesn’t Need You Anymore!
“Fantastic!” Silver held up the yellow flyer. “Can I keep it?”
“Take more.” Ezekiel pulled a fistful from a box on the floor. “I have plenty.”
“Brilliant.” He was amused. Their bragging, even if justified, was like the last flare up of a dying candle. None of these achievements had gained them a shred of popularity in the world. On the contrary, their self-congratulating aggressiveness was fueling resentment and disgust. The Jews were becoming delusional, just like the zealots who had assumed the Romans couldn’t capture Mount Masada. Like a modern-day Flavius Silva, Abu Faddah had returned to give them a lesson to last another two millennia. “Very impressive,” he added. “We’re ahead of everybody else.”
“So why does America think she can scare us with aid suspension?” The driver flipped his cigarette out the window. “We had a Jewish kingdom here, which stretched from Syria to Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and all the way to Egypt, while America was run by redskins who chased buffalo.”
“Speaking of history,” Silver said, taking advantage of the turn in the conversation, “I’m looking for a distant cousin. She was a big hero in the army.”
“In the Israeli army everybody thinks they’re heroes.”
“She saved some hostages.” Silver couched his words carefully.
“In eighty-two.”
Ezekiel twisted the steering wheel to pass a car and cut off another, which began honking. “Where? Lebanon?”
“On Mount Masada. Does it ring a bell?”
“I need bells to ring? I would remember a hostage situation on Mount Masada in eighty-two, or at any other time. Never happened.”
“Are you certain?”
The cabby lowered the volume on the radio. “Are you meshugge? Mount Masada is our national inspiration. The world would stop rotating if Jews were taken hostage on Mount Masada. You think I’d forget such a catastrophe?”
“Maybe my relatives exaggerated. Did anything happen on Mount Masada in eighty-two?”
“It was a busy year. The Lebanon War started.” He used his mobile phone to call a friend. They exchanged a few quick sentences in Hebrew. “My buddy says that the only event on Mount Masada that year was an accident that killed a few kids.” He pressed the phone to his ear. “August nineteen?” He glanced at his watch. “Hey, this coming Tuesday is the anniversary!”
Silver recognized the date. They had climbed the mountain on August 18, 1982. The woman soldier murdered Faddah at dawn on the 19th. “What kind of an accident?”
“They were playing with an old hand grenade.” The cabby shook his head. “Terrible.”
Silver understood. The survivors had been instructed by the military to keep the truth secret, to adhere instead to the official version of a tragic accident. But if he could find those survivors, they may know the whereabouts of the woman soldier. “How sad. Were they from the same school?”
The driver nodded. “A kibbutz nearby.”
“Ah.” He wondered if that’s where the Israelis had buried Faddah. “Perhaps I should visit the kibbutz. Someone could still remember my relative.”
“It’s an hour’s drive, maybe a little more. The lowest human settlement in the world, measured by sea level. The lowest in the world!”
“How interesting.”
“I can take you tomorrow. You wake up early? Seven okay? Better we go before the heat builds up.”
In her room at the Ramban Hostel, Masada lay on the bed, two pillows under her head and a rolled-up blanket under her right knee. She placed the telephone on her stomach and began her search for Colonel Dov Ness.
She called every plausible agency-the Veterans Affairs office at the Ministry of Defense, the Personnel Command at the IDF, the Organization of Bereaved Families, the Disabled Veterans Agency, and the IDF’s Pensioners Command. But none of them had ever heard of Ness.
“He was my commander in the army,” Masada told a secretary at the Payroll Department in the Ministry of Defense. “He must exist somewhere!”
After a long silence, the secretary asked, “Have you tried finding him in the phone book?”
Elizabeth had finished unpacking when the phone rang. It was Bob Emises. “Flavian Silver is staying at the Ramban Hostel. Do you need a ride?”
“No, thanks.” She wrote down the address and telephone number.
The front desk clerk at the Ramban Hostel answered the phone in Hebrew, but switched to accented English. Professor Silver had just left for a funeral and would return in approximately two hours. Elizabeth asked for directions from the Kings Hotel.
“When you leave your hotel,” he explained, “turn right and keep going for five minutes. You can’t miss us. Good Sabbath.”
“And to you,” she said.
A colorful tourist magazine on the night table advertised day tours to the Old City, Israel Museum, art galleries, and archeological sites. Overnight trips went to Tel Aviv, Haifa, Nazareth, and the Dead Sea. After the ceremony, she could travel to those places, get to know her homeland in a way she had not been able to as a child.
Rabbi Josh watched the men in black coats and black hats pushing the gurney up the gravel path to the open hole in the ground. The dug-up soil formed a mound next to the grave. It was the soil of the Promised Land, the sacred soil in which Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were buried, in which Jews were buried without a coffin, lying in wait for the Messiah to arrive and resurrect the righteous.
A prayer shawl covered Raul, showing the outline of his small body. Rabbi Josh wanted to pick him up and cuddle him, talk him back to life.
One of the black-garbed men jumped into the grave and pulled one end of the gurney down into the hole. With practiced motions, he slid the white-shrouded body from under the prayer shawl into the grave, laying Raul flat on the bottom, while the other man pulled out the gurney.
Rabbi Josh kneeled by the open grave. He removed the plastic wrapping from the two blood-stained flags that had once stood together by the Ark of the Torah at Temple Zion, symbolizing American Jews’ joint loyalty to the two nations. The U.S. and Israeli flags were still attached to each other with Raul’s congealed blood as the rabbi reached down into the grave and placed them on his son’s shrouded chest. He imagined Raul’s face under the cloth of the shroud.
One of the Orthodox men shoved an open prayer book into his hand, tapping the page.
Rabbi Josh looked around for the wood sections he had cut from the temple dais. They weren’t there.
He left the graveside and walked through the tombstones to the bottom of the hill, where the station wagon was parked. He opened the back door, lifted the package, and groaned under the weight. It had not become heavier, but he had weakened with grief, little food, and a long journey without sleep.
Someone came to help him, but the rabbi shook his head. This was his burden to bear. He bowed, shifting the wood pieces onto his shoulders.
Bent over, he made his way up the hill, placing each foot ahead of the other in the narrow spaces between the tombstones. His back ached. The wood rubbed his skin raw over his shoulder blades. Sweat dripped down his face.
He lowered the wood sections into the grave, placing them upright by Raul’s legs, and recalled his son playing on the temple dais as an infant during sermons, crawling to the Ark and banging on it with his little hands, or tugging on his father’s pants while he read from the Torah. He wiped his eyes and recited the verses of Psalms, forcing from his mouth these words of praise for God and His justice while feeling nothing but anger at His cruelty.
Professor Silver stood by the rabbi’s elbow and repeated the words, sniffling.
Before he recited the Kaddish, Rabbi Josh looked around, searching for Masada. He didn’t blame her for Raul’s death, which was God’s doing. But did she blame herself? Probably, and this was the time for her to beg Raul’s forgiveness, as mourners traditionally did, speaking directly to the deceased by the graveside, bringing closure.
Disappointed that Masada wasn’t there, he kneeled at the grave alone. “I’m sorry,” he said, his vision misted. “I beg your forgiveness, my son.”
Masada found sixteen entries for Ness in the phone book. One was D. Ness at 60 Ibn Ezra Street in Rehavia, not far from the Ramban Hostel. She grabbed her bag and left.
It was a small, one-story house. A young woman with curly dark hair answered the door, two little boys holding on to her skirt.
An older woman in a plastic apron appeared. “Welcome!”
“I’m looking for Colonel Dov Ness.”
“Of course. My husband will be back shortly. Please come in.”
Masada sat at the edge of a cloth sofa. Her mouth watered at the smell coming from the kitchen-something sweet, like the honeyed carrots served at the kibbutz on Friday nights.
Mrs. Ness brought tea. She stopped the boys as they ran past. “Have you said Shalom to our guest?”
They wriggled free and sprinted out of the living room.
Masada sipped from the teacup. “How many do you have?”
“My daughter has these two and a baby girl. We are blessed.” Mrs. Ness smiled, and her gaze rested on a photo of a young Colonel Ness on the upright piano against the wall.
The boys dashed into the living room, circled their grandmother, and scurried off before she could catch them. “Little devils,” she laughed.
A grandfather clock chimed once. It was 6:30 p.m. The Sabbath was about to begin. Masada put down the teacup. “Perhaps I should come back another time.”
“No, please.” Mrs. Ness pushed off a lock of white hair that fell over her forehead, a slight gesture that offered a glimpse of her former beauty. “It’s no bother at all. Dov loves visits from his former soldiers. He misses the old days.”
Masada bit her lips, wondering how many other hearts Ness had broken in the old days. “How did you know that I served with him?”
“It must be painful for you, dear, to return to Israel after so many years. A lot has changed since you left.”
Masada put down the tea cup, which rattled in her shaking hand.
“Dov shouldn’t be long.” The colonel’s wife sighed. “At least on Fridays the funerals are short.”
Funerals?
“And don’t mind the boys. I took away their water guns.”
Once the grave was filled, and Rabbi Josh recited the Kaddish, Professor Silver joined the others in two parallel lines. The black hats pointed at the setting sun and hurried Rabbi Josh up. He removed his shoes and walked between the lines. Everyone said out loud, “God shall comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” The rabbi nodded, his hands clasped together at his chest. For a moment, Silver was flooded with grief. The boy should not have died. First Faddah, and now Raul. Two boys. Two beautiful lives. Lost forever.
What have I done?
Enough!
It was an accident!
Allah’s hand!
Rabbi Josh sat on a low stool, and Silver stood next to him, nodding as each of the strangers paused to offer condolences. His attention was drawn to a tall young woman pushing a wheelchair up the path to Raul’s grave. A wreath rested on the crippled man’s lap: From the State of Israel with sympathy.
Silver was impressed with the Israeli absorption ministry. They were clever to send an elderly amputee as a not-too-subtle hint that others had sacrificed no less to establish and defend the state. Clever Jews.
A blonde woman came over and spoke with the legless man and his companion. Silver couldn’t see her face. He strolled down the path, passing the group, and recognized Tara, the TV reporter from Arizona. A sense of alarm washed over him. Why was she in Jerusalem? And so quickly! Was she helping Masada’s investigation?
“Levy,” Rabbi Josh beckoned him closer. “Any idea why Masada didn’t come?”
“I’m disappointed too,” Silver lied. “The least she could do. Show some remorse. I’m going to have words with her.”
The rabbi unzipped his guitar case and put one knee down on the soil by the grave. At first, it was difficult to hear the words, but Silver recognized the tune of Leha Doddi. “Go forth,” the rabbi sang, “bride’s groom, receive your betrothed; Let us welcome her, the Sabbath.” His voice broke, and he let the strings of his old guitar sing for him.
Surprised at his own pain, Silver wiped tears. He hoped the boy could hear his father from above, welcoming the Sabbath together for the last time. He prayed that Allah in His compassion had not yet relegated Raul to hell, where all the Jews were destined.
The reporter had finished her discussion with the crippled man and noticed Silver. “Hi, Lenin,” she said, waving.
He nodded and turned away, realizing with a sinking heart that his attempts to divert Masada’s investigation toward Rabbi Josh might not succeed. Tara’s mind was not clouded by grief and passion. She was dangerous.
The sun had set, and in Elizabeth’s window the Old City glowed with lights, surrounded by the softly illuminated ancient walls. A cool breeze came in, reminding her to take a jacket.
Downstairs, the lobby was packed with Jews in their best clothes. Being shorter than most, she could not see the exit and found herself in the dining room, where families were taking their seats around tables with white linen and silver utensils. She stood, frozen in place, unsure what to do.
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 punishment. 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.
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.”
“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.