A wail tore Elizabeth from a deep sleep. A second later, it repeated, amplified, bouncing off the walls. “Allah Hu Akbar.” She groped in the darkness and felt the concrete floor and the bunched-up blanket under her head. Her bladder threatened to explode.
The muezzin repeated his dawn call to prayers.
Sitting up, back against the wall, she rubbed her eyes. Dim light outlined the door. She shifted, pain shooting through her shoulder. “Hello!”
There was no response. She pounded the door. “Let me out!”
The baby jolted in her lower abdomen. She stood, leaning against the wall. “You’re a hungry little guy, aren’t you? Mommy’s hungry too.”
Reflecting on what had happened, Elizabeth realized Father had to punish her for defying him in front of his followers. His honor had required it. But this morning he would release her, and she would dress more appropriately for the award ceremony.
She heard footsteps outside.
Silver woke up before 4:00 a.m., unable to sleep. Today his plan was going to become a reality. The Jews’ lifeline to America would be snipped. It was a dramatic paradigm shift, brought about by his personal genius and determination.
The front desk clerk allowed him to use the office to call a law firm in Phoenix, arranging an agreement to represent Masada. The lawyer promised to confirm the agreement by fax later.
He left the Ramban Hostel before dawn and found an open cafe. Freshly baked rolls, goat cheese, and real coffee, all of which he consumed with relish before the inception of another day of fasting. He sat in the corner and listened to the customers’ conversations. Some of the Jews thought the American senators would never suspend military aid to Israel-why would they hurt their own defense industry? Others joked that the Americans would come back begging for Israel’s forgiveness when they realized China was ready to fill the role of Israel’s defense trading partner. The woman at the coffee machine, while changing filters, argued that the Israeli government should resign to appease the Americans. Her boss, pulling a tray of rolls out of the oven, said it was all an FBI sting operation directed by the American president who is a secret Muslim.
A patron in a dark suit and a tie, who picked up a cup of black coffee, jokingly asked the proprietor for a dishwashing job. “If they pass this thing, I’ll have to shut down my company.”
By the time Silver left the cafe an hour later, he wanted to dance on the sidewalk. Raising his hand against the brightening sky, he looked straight at his palm, seeing a black circle surrounded by a hairy belt. Had the blotch grown overnight? He must remember to put in the drops as soon as he reached his room!
“Professor!” The call came from a car that stopped at the curb, Rajid at the wheel. He was wearing a black skullcap like an Orthodox Jew. “Come, I’ll give you a ride.” He flashed his shark-like smile.
Inside the car, the smell of citrus blossom made Silver gag.
“My apologies for the other night,” Rajid said. “I was out of line.” He reached under his seat and pulled out the gun, the barrel extended by a silencer, and dropped it in Silver’s lap. “Keep it for your protection.”
The professor raised the gun, examining it.
Rajid’s hand left the steering wheel and pushed the gun out of sight. “The Israeli police don’t appreciate guns in the hands of Palestinians.”
“Then how do you get through the Israeli checkpoints and the separation wall? Aren’t you afraid?”
The handler laughed. “I have enough sets of ID papers to pass a soccer team from Ramallah to Tel Aviv and back. The Israelis’ underestimate our capabilities. They don’t realize that we’ve been watching them and learning!”
They drove in silence for a few minutes.
“So,” Rajid said, “the Jews fixed your eye?”
“It’s a process.” To change the subject, Silver told him about the ceremony he’d promised Elizabeth. “We’ll tell her the event had to be cancelled for security reasons.”
“Where is she?”
“At the Kings Hotel. We can have a ceremony in her room. You’ll thank her on behalf of Palestine and give her a medal.”
Rajid waved his hand dismissively. “Forget her. She’s already done what we needed.”
“She could be useful in Phase Two.”
“You want her involved?”
“She is a prominent lawyer in America. The next phase of my plan-inciting an international boycott of Israel-would benefit from her legal expertise in drafting documents for the various human rights organizations, press releases, legal opinions and so on.”
“Would she do it?” Rajid drove by the Ramban Hostel and continued at a moderate pace.
“I guarantee it. She’s susceptible to threats and temptations. In her position, she could be very influential for the cause.”
“I’ll discuss it in Ramallah, see what our leaders think.” Rajid turned onto a side street.
Silver found the door handle. “You can drop me off here.”
Rajid slowed down but didn’t stop. “I need your papers about Phase Three. To keep in a safe place.”
“It’s safe.” Silver opened the door, though the car was still moving.
“Just think.” Rajid tapped the brake, inching forward. “How terrible it would be for Palestine if the media got hold of it.”
“Are the Israelis looking for me?” Silver tried to read Rajid’s expression. “They have informants in our ranks, that’s known.”
“The Israelis?” Rajid laughed. “They’re chasing explosive belts, not papers.”
“So why?”
“The leadership in Ramallah is nervous about you, Abu Faddah.”
“Then it’s time I presented my plans in person!” Silver stuck his foot out through the open door. “Pick me up tomorrow morning at the cafe. I’ll bring my papers, and you’ll take me to Ramallah.”
Rajid gripped Silver’s arm. “My orders are to pick up all your papers now. The president himself is concerned. Exposure at this time would ruin everything.”
“There will be no exposure.” Silver tried to free his arm. “Let go!”
The light came on above Elizabeth’s head, a single bulb dangling from a wire in the middle of the ceiling. A key turned in the lock. She wiped her face and brushed back her hair.
The door opened. A veiled woman entered, closed the door, and revealed her face.
“Aunt Hamida!”
They hugged. Aunt Hamida was Father’s younger sister, who had taken care of his household after Elizabeth’s mother had died. She looked much older now. And very nervous. “Here!” Aunt Hamida unfurled a dark robe. “Put this on.”
“I like my clothes.” Elizabeth searched the floor, relieved to find her purse. She located Bob Emises’s card. “Call this man at the American consulate.” She pushed the card into Aunt Hamida’s hand. “Tell him to come and pick me up from the Israeli checkpoint in two hours.”
“Quick!” Aunt Hamida held forward the robe. “Put it on. I’ll show you a way out of the mosque. You can walk to the checkpoint and ask the Israelis to call a taxi for you.”
“I’m not running away. This time, I’ll be leaving through the front door with Father’s blessing.”
“Elzirah, listen-”
She felt the baby kick. “And bring something to eat, please.”
“It’s Ramadan. No food!”
“How about a bathroom?”
“They’ll come for you soon.” Aunt Hamida left, locking the door.
The baby gyrated, giving her that unique fluttering sensation. “Hey, little guy, calm down.” Not even born yet, and he was already making her laugh.
On his way back to the hostel, Rabbi Josh noticed a car cruising down the quiet street with the passenger-side door open and a foot dangling through. As the car passed by, he recognized Professor Silver. Despite the pain in his blistered feet, the rabbi gave chase, reaching the car just as it stopped near the end of the street. He pulled the door open. “What’s going on here?”
The driver removed his hand from Levy’s forearm. The fingers left red marks on the professor’s skin. Mirror shades hid the driver’s eyes. His yarmulke sat on slicked-back, black hair. Rabbi Josh smelled a strong fragrance in the car.
“Joshua!” The professor got out, forcing Rabbi Josh to step back. “What a pleasant surprise!”
The rabbi realized the aroma simulated citrus blossom. “Are you alright?”
“Shalom!” Silver waved at the driver. “All the best.” He slammed the door. Threading his arm in the rabbi’s. “What a beautiful morning!”
Rabbi Josh’s eyes followed the departing car. “What was that all about?”
“That nice young man gave me a ride from a little coffee shop on Ben-Yehuda Street. You know it?”
“He didn’t seem so nice.”
“Well educated, works for a large organization. We discussed the American vote, of course. I reminded him what the prophet Ezekiel said: Israel is like a sheep among the wolves.” Silver chuckled. “He thinks China would take over as our benefactor. Can you believe it?”
“I believe God is our real benefactor, not America or China.” Rabbi Josh’s feet were on fire. He found a low wall separating a private garden from the sidewalk and sat with a sigh of relief.
“I told you to see a doctor.”
The rabbi wanted to remove his shoes to air out the angry blisters but knew his swollen feet would not fit back into the shoes. “Let’s go,” he said, grimacing. “I need to lie down.”
They turned the corner onto Ramban Street and had to step off the sidewalk. A woman with a glue roller stuck a yellow placard on a wall, announcing a rally at the Jaffa Gate tonight. The wall was covered by different posters that alternately protested the American vote, accused the Israeli government of underhanded actions, faulted American Jews for electing a president hostile to Israel, or pointed out that everything happened because God had ordained it in His wisdom. The ads were signed by various organizations-Union of Orthodox Synagogues, Peace Now, the Chief Rabbinate, Reform Congregations of Israel, Boys and Girls Scouts, Hebrew Gay and Lesbian Society, Chabad of Israel, United Kibbutz Movement, Bnai B’rith, and others
Silver peered closely. “What a rancorous people.”
“Argumentative is a better word. And fearful, I think.”
“Why fear? Isn’t the Messiah due to come when Israel fights a great war against the whole world?”
“Gog and Magog?”
“Armageddon.” Silver waved a fist. “God will show the goyim who is king. The best thing for Israel.”
“The End of Days is a minority view.” Rabbi Josh touched the red marks on the professor’s forearm. “Must have been quite an argument.”
“You know how Israelis are with politics. They beat you up for disagreeing and hug you for standing up for your opinion.”
“I didn’t know you believe in Armageddon as the ultimate salvation.”
“You can barely walk.” The professor stopped, gazing down. “It could get infected.”
“Levy!” Masada was marching toward them, her long legs consuming the distance rapidly. “I was looking for you!”
Rabbi Josh didn’t let go of the professor’s arm. “Good morning, Masada.”
“Your morning is good. Not mine.”
“I hope it improves.” He was determined not to respond in kind to her misguided hostility. “A person is happier when able to distinguish between good and evil.”
“Can you distinguish?” She pulled Professor Silver toward the hostel.
“Come now, meidaleh,” Silver said. “Not nice to speak like that. Joshua is grieving.”
“I’m grieving too!”
The rabbi watched the professor follow Masada up the stairs and into the Ramban Hostel. Resting against a parked car, he sighed. Could he tell good from evil? Whoever bribed Mahoney was evil. But was Masada evil? His gut told him she was good. She was also angry. And sad. But her intentions were noble, he was certain. And Al? He had not been evil either. Mentally ill, yes, and delusional, easy to manipulate, but merely as a pawn, not a general. That left Professor Levy Silver. But could such a wise Jewish man, so learned and warm, be wrapped around a core of evil?
Across the street, a mother walked with a boy about Raul’s age, with reddish hair and springy feet. Rabbi Josh searched the boy’s face for Raul’s features, as he had been doing every time a child reminded him of his son.
Stop it! Raul is gone! Free of this world. He’s sitting with God.
The rabbi suddenly remembered Silver’s dramatic declaration after Raul’s death, that the disaster had moved him to make aliyah. He had not mentioned the scheduled procedure to save his vision. Another small lie. But was it an indication of a propensity for bigger and worse lies? Could Levy be the one who had sent Al to bribe Mahoney, to stalk Masada, to shoot a gun in the temple? Had Levy told Al to rape her?
No! It’s too monstrous! Impossible!
Rabbi Josh pressed his temples until his head hurt. Levy Silver had no reason to do these things. He was a retired academic with an affinity for unnecessary secrets and silly inconsistencies, but he wasn’t evil. Could he be a true believer in Armageddon? Fanaticism could hide behind the most civilized facade.
Rabbi Josh stepped toward the hostel, his shoes rubbing the raw blisters. He recalled something that had made no sense at the time. What had Colonel Ness said at the Wailing Wall? You just don’t want to see it. It’s too inconvenient.
Masada led Professor Silver into the hostel. “Okay, Levy! I have some tough questions for you!”
“Really?” He approached the front desk, and the clerk handed him some papers. He browsed the papers and handed them to Masada. “Take a look.”
The first page was a letter from a Phoenix law firm confirming that Monte Loeb, Esq., would represent Miss El-Tal subject to receipt of the professor’s $10,000 retainer check, as well as his signature on the enclosed agreement to place a lien on his house to guarantee payment of all her legal fees and expenses.
“So?” Silver beamed. “What do you think now of your old friend?”
Masada looked again at the letter and the guarantee. “Thank you, but I can’t let you do this. You could be on the hook for a lot of money. You could lose your home!”
“It’s just walls and a roof. And this lawyer is worth every penny.” Silver chortled. “I spoke to seven lawyers in Phoenix early this morning. They all said the same thing: Get Monte Loeb. He’s the best immigration lawyer in Arizona.”
Masada looked at the letter again. “Ten thousand in advance?”
“Loeb read about you in the newspapers. He’ll play hardball.” Silver looked at his watch. “We’re having a telephone conference with him tomorrow, after we return from Mount Masada. Now, what’s your tough question?”
She shrugged. How stupid she’d been to suspect him. “Did you search my Corvette for the memory stick?”
“Yes. I had to look for it because I had a terrible feeling.” He pounded his chest with a fist. “Dreadful, just like before my son was killed. A premonition. Something terrible was going to happen to me, but instead-”
“It happened to Raul.”
He nodded.
“The memory stick is in a safe place.” She bent her leg, the brace pressing her knee.
“I should have told you.” He sighed. “Please forgive me.”
She hugged him. “I’m going to pay you back the legal fees as soon as I can.”
“Nonsense.” Levy planted a kiss on her cheek. “I’m arranging a taxi to take us to the memorial service. You’ll see familiar faces, experience nostalgia.”
“I doubt it.”
“A memorial service for your brother is an opportunity to reflect, to reconnect with people. Do it for me.” Silver touched her cheek. “Confront the past, meidaleh. How else will you heal?”
“What did he say? How long?” Elizabeth watched her aunt shut the door.
“There was no answer.” Aunt Hamida pushed Bob’s card into Elizabeth’s hand. “You must change! Where’s the robe?”
“But I called him at this number yesterday! Did you put in the area code?”
Aunt Hamida found the robe on the floor. “The number is no longer in service.”
Elizabeth pushed away the robe. “Then call the main number for the American Consulate in Jerusalem.”
“You must-”
“Ask for Bob Emises and tell him Elizabeth McPherson, the chief counsel from Arizona, will be waiting for him at the checkpoint. And tell him to bring food because-”
“Elzirah!” Aunt Hamida held Elizabeth’s chin as if she were a young girl. “I called the American consulate. They never heard of this man!”
“It’s a mistake. He is in charge of VIP visitors. He picked me up from the airport!”
“You must escape. Cover yourself and come with me.” She bunched up the robe to slide it over Elizabeth’s head. “Quick!”
Elizabeth stepped back. “I’m not running away from him again.”
“But-”
“I’m a successful professional, not a frightened teenager. I deserve Father’s respect.”
“Allah’s mercy!” Aunt Hamida’s hands fell, and the robe dropped to the floor. “Stubborn, like my brother. I beg you, child, please!”
Men’s voices sounded from down the hallway.
“Thank you.” Elizabeth kissed her aunt. “Now go and call the U.S. consulate again.”
The handgun was a modern version of the old Beretta he had carried in Amman in the seventies. Professor Silver checked the magazine, which was full, and reset the safety. The silencer could be useful on Mount Masada in case things got out of hand.
He placed the gun under the pillow and lay down on the bed, closing his eyes. The possibility that he would have to actually shoot Masada was remote. Her tragic end must pass for a suicide. He would surprise her with a shove, sending her plummeting to her sad, untimely death at the foot of the mountain.
He thought about her question. Did you search my Corvette? The TV reporter must have told her. The fax from the lawyer had arrived with perfect timing. Masada’s transparency of emotions was endearing, the absence of a calculated facade was almost juvenile. The truth was, Masada was a tortured soul. Death would be a relief for her, a favor.
Too irritable to sleep, he removed his glasses and tested the blotch on the palm of his hand. It seemed smaller. Excited, he picked up the plastic bottle with Dr. Asaf’s experimental drops and held it over his eye. His hand shook, and the bottle let out more than he intended, some trickling to his lips.
“Schlemiel!”
He hurried to the bathroom, expecting a foul medicinal taste to spread inside his mouth. He opened the cold-water tap, filling his joined hands, leaning forward to slurp a mouthful.
He paused.
There was no unpleasant taste in his mouth, only mild saltiness.
Holding the bottle upside down, he plugged it with his thumb, which he then sucked. The liquid tasted like tears, a bit salty, melting away in his palate. He held the plastic bottle up against the vanity lights. The liquid was clear.
He found the original glass bottle Dr. Asaf had given him and turned it in his hand. There was only his name, handwritten on a white sticker. Flavian Silver. No list of ingredients, no chemical formulas, no warnings or instructions for the patient. In the corner of the sticker he noticed tiny letters: PL
Placebo!
“Allah’s curses on you!” He snatched the plastic bottle and put it to his lips, taking a sip, swishing the liquid between his teeth, under his tongue, in the back of his mouth, until even the trace of salt was gone. He spat, threw the bottle at the mirror, and yelled, “Filthy Jews!”
Barely making it to the bed, he collapsed, holding his face in his hands, trembling. The world was going dark, closing in on him.
A voice in his head mocked him. Blind!
He commanded the voice to shut up.
Blind! Blind! Blind!
He yelled, “Why, Allah? Why?”
As if in response, a muezzin whined mournfully over the roofs of Jerusalem, summoning Allah’s faithful to prayers.
Silver stumbled to the window, where the calls of the muezzin reprimanded him for his long absence from Allah’s worship. “I am observing Ramadan,” he pleaded. “I’ve lived as a Jew for our people, for Allah’s glory.”
But as he bargained for divine leniency, his heart told him he could have been a better Muslim, even in secret. Tears filled his eye, and he opened his arms, admitting his depravity, begging for Allah’s forgiveness. For a brief moment, the blotch was gone, and he no longer heard scorn in the muezzin’s chants.
The front desk clerk allowed Rabbi Josh to use the computer in the office. He Googled the words: End Days Israel. One of the sites showed a bearded man blowing a ram’s horn, a string of words emerging from it: End of Days = Israel’s Salvation! Below was a block of quotations from Ezekiel 38: At the End of the Days, when my people return from the many nations of their exile and settle back on the barren hills of Israel; Gog and Magog shall attack them from the north; all the nations of the world, many horses and great battalions and large armies; I shall try Gog and Magog in blood and rain and rocks and fire; destroy him and the nations with him; it shall be known to all the nations that I am God.”
The web site went on to explain that Ezekiel’s End of Days prophecy meant that Armageddon would be an attack on Israel by all the nations of the world, led by the U.N., UNIFIL, NATO, the OIC, and other international organizations-the modern version of Gog and Magog, an amalgamation of gentiles converging to destroy Israel. The war would end with a spectacular victory of God, destroying all the gentile armies and saving Israel. That victory would be followed by the arrival of the Messiah, the revival of the prophet Elijah and all the righteous Jews, and the rebuilding of God’s temple in Jerusalem. At the bottom it said: It is the duty of every Jew to rise, instigate, promote, and incite by all available means the gentiles’ animosity toward Israel so as to hasten the End of Days. Give $$$ to hasten the arrival of the Messiah! Donations accepted in cash, check, credit cards, or PayPal.
The counter showed that more than seven million visitors had frequented the site. Rabbi Josh calculated that, if one visitor in ten gave ten dollars, the group would have collected seven million dollars to use in hastening the End of Days.
Questions chased each other in the rabbi’s mind: Was this the source of money used to bribe Senator Mahoney, followed by exposure to incite rage in America against Israel? Was Professor Silver an End of Days believer? He regularly referred to gentiles negatively, as if they were all anti-Semites. His constant quoting from the Torah and the sages revealed his literal interpretation of the Jewish scriptures. Even his book about the Evian Conference had a similar theme-the German Jews being rejected for immigration by all the nations of the world. What was he writing now?
The whole chain of events could be explained if Levy Silver indeed was an End of Days fanatic, working with others to actively instigate a showdown between Israel and the rest of the world. Had he arranged for Al to deliver the bribe and leaked the information to Masada to create the scandal? That would also explain his surreptitious attempts to defame and sabotage Masada, who presented the biggest risk of exposure! It also meant that he had lied about hearing Masada and Al together!
Rabbi Josh stood up. Masada should be aware of this possibility. Neither of them had known Silver for long, but she was a professional, capable of investigating. Could Silver’s warmth and intelligence hide such extreme ideology?
He heard voices in the lobby. The front desk clerk said, “Sure, Professor, use the phone in the office.”
The rabbi glanced at the desk, where a telephone rested by the computer screen that displayed the End of Days web site.
They led Elizabeth through a corridor, past a kitchen lit by the blue glow of a TV, under an arched entrance, and into the main sanctuary of the mosque. When her eyes adjusted to the bleakness, she saw three men seated at a table. Father was in the middle, hunched over an open book, murmuring. She was made to stand before them, the odorous blanket draped on her shoulders.
The man on the left, with a red band securing a checkered kafiya to his head, asked, “Why did you come here, woman?”
She recognized him. Imam Abdul, the school principal in her day. “I provided a service for our national cause. Our leaders invited me to be honored.”
“Where?”
“A senior Palestinian official will present me with an award at a ceremony in the main plaza on Wednesday. They must have notified you.”
Father shook his head, his lips continuing to silently recite from the book.
“Nobody knows about this honor.”
She felt her face flush. “I’m a very important lawyer in America. You think I would waste my time coming here to be treated like this? Pick up the phone and call Ramallah.”
“Silence!” Imam Abdul pointed at her. “Do not issue orders to this tribunal!”
Elizabeth was about to snap when the baby moved. “Father,” she said, “I didn’t mean any disrespect with my inadequate dress. I didn’t expect to meet you here, in the mosque. I looked for you at our home. But it’s in ruins. At least we can rebuild our relationship, right?”
Imam Abdul glanced at her father, who stopped murmuring and looked up from the book.
“I apologize,” she continued, “and wish to start my visit afresh. I will dress appropriately when I return. We do have an exciting event coming up, and-”
Father whispered, and the red-banded Imam asked, “What service?”
Elizabeth balked. “Excuse me?”
“What did you do for Palestine?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss it, but it’s of great value, which is why I’m being honored.”
“The honor, yes.” The imam showed the yellow teeth of a habitual smoker. “And who asked you for that service?”
“Actually, my father did.” She unzipped her purse and took out the photo, placing it face up on the open book before her father.
Father’s lips stopped moving. He bent closer, examined the photo, and shook his head.
“Turn it over. There’s a note in your handwriting.”
Father glanced at the scribbled message and grunted.
“A forgery.” Imam Abdul took the photo. “Who is this man?”
Elizabeth felt weak. Why was Father denying his own writing?
“He is my father’s friend. Don’t you see the request on the back?”
“Hajj Mahfizie doesn’t know this man.” The imam threw the photo on the floor between them. “You were tricked. Foolish woman!”
She picked up the photo. “This man is Abu Faddah, a brilliant Palestinian who is running the most important operation in our national history.”
The imam and the bearded man exchanged rapid whispers over Father’s head while he continued his recital of the holy book. The bearded man said, “We’ve never heard of this Abu Faddah.”
They whispered to each other again, nodding in agreement.
Imam Abdul declared, “You’re an Israeli spy.”
“Or an American spy,” the bearded man added. “Or both.”
Professor Silver entered the office and paused at the sight of Rabbi Josh hunched over the desk, his back to the door. “Hello, Joshua,” he said.
“Oh, hi there.” The rabbi turned, the computer screen going blank before Silver could see what he had been looking at.
There was an awkward moment, and Silver asked, “Will you go to the rally later?”
“I’m still in the shiva period. No festivities allowed.”
“Hardly a celebration. It’s more of a national protest.”
“Why not celebrate? The suspension of American aid means true independence, right?” Rabbi Josh’s voice had a touch of sarcasm, as if it were a trick question.
“That’s an interesting-”
“Kind of a biblical isolation? A preordained fulfillment of Israel’s destiny?”
The rabbi’s tone was contentious, but what debate was he trying to win? Silver sighed. Between these three Jews-Al, Masada, and the rabbi-a psychiatrist could have kept busy for years. “Joshua, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. May I use the phone, please?”
“Sure. We’ll talk later.” Rabbi Josh left the office.
Silver called Ezekiel to arrange a ride to Mount Masada at 2:30 a.m. He reminded the driver that a lady friend would be joining. “Please don’t ask her questions. Her life is in shambles. She is fragile.”
“Of course,” Ezekiel said. “Say no more.”
“It’s important that you understand.” Silver assumed the cabby would be questioned by police after Masada’s death. “I’m worried about her. I told her not to go, but she insists. What good would it do, to open up old wounds? She’s so depressed as it is. Who knows what can happen?” Silver sighed. “Two thirty in the morning then.”
Masada stood in line at a food market down the street from the Ramban Hostel, holding a basket with oranges, apples, and dried figs. A wide-screen TV mounted above the cashier reported that large police forces were gathering in preparation for more than a million Israelis expected to attend the national rally in Jerusalem to protest the vote in the U.S. Senate. The anchor mentioned the rumor that the writer Masada El-Tal, who recently made aliyah after losing her American citizenship, might speak at the rally tonight. Her photo appeared.
“The goyim kicked you out.” A man with wild white hair rattled a bunch of grapes he was holding. “We should crucify you at the gates of the city, like we used to do with traitors.”
“Oh, shush!” a fat woman in the back of the line said. “Leave her alone! What do we need the goyim for anyway? They can keep their money.”
“America is not the goyim,” the cashier said with a Russian accent, moving items over the bar-code reader. “America is a Yiddisher country. Who do you think calls the shots in the White House? The smart Yids with PhDs, that’s who. Like Kissinger.”
“Henri Kissinger?” The fat woman laughed. “He retired thirty years ago. Is he still alive?”
“That’s what the anti-Semites say.” A bespectacled man looked up from his newspaper. “The Elders of Zion control the world. It’s absurd. We’re the victims!”
“We are victims of Jews like her.” The first one rattled his grapes at Masada again. “Spreading lies, telling the goyim that Israel pays dirty money for a pound of legislation. That’s anti-Semitism! Shame on you!”
Rabbi Josh stood by the office door, eavesdropping on Professor Silver’s conversation. Why would he take Masada to the memorial service? Why was he telling the driver she was depressed? The professor’s protective tone contrasted with the ominous falseness of what he was saying.
A terrible possibility occurred to Rabbi Josh. If Silver had been behind the bribe as part of an End of Days conspiracy, then he had also directed the attacks on Masada-the brownies, the rattlesnake, the gas explosion, the shootings. Was Silver planning to murder Masada and make it look like a suicide? The few people who really knew her would never believe she killed herself, but the Israeli police could see the logic-her life destroyed by a series of misfortunes, the writer bids farewell to her dead brother and jumps off Mount Masada.
The whole idea seemed unreal. Levy Silver, the bad guy? Rabbi Josh felt as if he’d caught a glint of the devil in the eyes of a beloved friend.
Inside the office, the professor hung up the phone.
Rabbi Josh retreated into the ladies’ room, his mind swirling with doubts. A woman was powdering her nose at the mirror. He kept his back to her, his foot stuck in the door, and watched Professor Silver cross the lobby and exit the hostel.
“Hey,” the woman said behind him, “are you lost?”
“Completely! Lost and confused!” He hurried through the lobby, down to the sidewalk.
Silver was strolling toward downtown, his head swaying from side to side in the slow manner he had developed lately. The rabbi fell behind, keeping a distance. His feet, bathed in anesthetizing ointment, squeaked inside his shoes. Buses and trucks rumbled by, pedestrians rushing on their midday errands.
Police barricades blocked motorized traffic to Jaffa Street. The wide thoroughfare was filling with thousands of people in advance of the rally. Many wore yellow shirts, some of them big enough to fit over the ultra-Orthodox black coats. Vendors were selling flags and whistles and yellow plastic hammers. An old man wearing a wool sac and rope sandals held a sign: Jews Who Don’t Pray Keep the Messiah Away.
The professor stopped by a cart of drinks and ice cream, lingered by a hot dog stand, and chatted briefly with a youth selling sugared peanuts, who proffered a brown bag. But he bought nothing and walked on, unaware of the middle finger the youth raised behind him. Rabbi Josh’s mouth watered at the appetizing smells as he kept up with Professor Silver.
Close to the walls of the Old City, the crowd grew denser. The Jaffa Gate had been decorated with Israeli flags and yellow ribbons. A stage had been erected against the walls. Expecting Silver to find a shaded spot to wait for the rally, Rabbi Josh hung back. A group of noisy youth passed by, blocking his view. When they moved on, the professor had disappeared.
Rabbi Josh hopped onto a garbage bin and searched the wide avenue, catching sight of the short figure with the black beret entering the Old City through the Jaffa Gate. But he wasn’t alone. A man followed Silver through the gate-tall, with black hair and a black yarmulke, resembling the fragrant driver who had argued with Silver and grabbed his arm.
The rabbi ran after them. Inside the gate, he searched the sea of hats, yarmulkes, kafiyas, and bare heads. He proceeded up the street, past the entrance to David’s Tower, where pedestrian traffic thinned out. He ran back to the gate area, slowing by each storefront, glancing inside.
They were gone.
A narrow market alley greeted him with dim light and the dense aroma of smoked meats, spices, and dried fruits. He ignored a pleading vendor and went deeper down the alley, filled with tourists and goods overflowing from shallow stalls.
Three women were chatting in German while a fourth tried on a kafiya. Next to them, he saw Silver and the other man arguing in hushed voices.
The rabbi pretended to examine a copper teapot, turning away to hide his face. The Arab merchant said, “You like?”
He nodded.
The professor and his companion walked slowly down the alley.
“Sixty dollar,” the Arab said, and tore a sheet from a roll of brown wrapping paper.
“Fifteen.” The rabbi glanced at them.
“Forty, okay?” The shopkeeper held ready the wrapping paper. “Very good price.”
Rabbi Josh peeked over the tray to see where they were heading. “Fourteen.”
“Thirty!” The Arab raised two fingers. “Cheap!”
They allowed Elizabeth to use the bathroom while Father and the other two discussed the ludicrous idea of her being a spy. She relieved herself in a reeking hole in the floor and rinsed her face in the single faucet over a plastic bucket. She moistened her hair and brushed it behind her ears.
Back before them, she decided to take control of the situation. “As an experienced lawyer, I assume Islamic law requires evidence to convict a person of a crime.”
Father returned to muttering the verses. The bearded man said, “We are fighting a jihad. You serve the American Satan. Do you deny it?”
“Satan?” Elizabeth had to laugh. “The United States is a country with millions of free citizens who vote to elect their representatives and officials-”
“Women too?” Imam Abdul sneered.
“That’s right! You can mock America, but Palestine and the rest of the Arab world will never thrive until women are allowed to participate in political and economic life. We are like a person trying to run on one leg. Our women will double our national-”
“Silence!” Father closed his book and pointed a trembling finger at her. “You speak of women? You are no woman. Barren as a field of rocks.” He spat on the floor.
She stepped closer. “You’re wrong.”
Father waved a bony hand. “A woman bears children, not political fantasies.”
Her hand rested on her midriff. “I can do both.”
His eyes fell from her face to where her womb pulsated with life.
“I am doing both, Father.”
He made a croaking sound. His eyes blinked a few times.
She waited, letting him digest the news. “Your first grandchild.”
He didn’t exactly open his arms to her, but she didn’t expect him to show affection in front of the others.
Imam Abdul asked, “Is your husband an infidel?”
She did not respond.
The bearded man asked, “When is the baby coming?”
“Five, maybe four months.” Elizabeth knew she must leave the more difficult facts for a private discussion with her father. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my hotel now. I’m tired and hungry.”
Father whispered something to the Imam, who asked, “Hajj Mahfizie wants to know why your husband did not ask for his permission?”
Anger swelled again inside her, but she controlled it. “I will explain to my father after the award ceremony.”
“What’s his name?” Imam Abdul glared at her. “Surely your husband has a name?”
They were pushing her into a corner. “This is a family matter.”
“But we only ask for his name,” the bearded man joined in. “He must have a name.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. This baby will have a wonderful life, including a grandfather.”
“And your husband?”
“There’s no husband!”
For a moment, she thought Father took it well. In fact, a wisp of a smile touched his lips, but then it progressed to a twitch that turned his mouth into an ugly grimace. He rose, supporting himself on the table, and uttered a groan so loud it caused the others to grab his elbows. And while his mouth was wide open, sucking air, she noticed Father was missing most of his teeth and thought of taking him to Phoenix, where her dentist could fit him with a full set of dentures.
“Why today? Why now?” Rajid groaned in frustration. “Couldn’t you wait until tomorrow? Don’t you see what’s going on?” He pointed in the direction of the Jaffa Gate, where loudspeakers played Israeli music to the gathering crowd.
“The month of Ramadan is over tomorrow.” Silver spoke Arabic, keeping his voice low from the tourists and shopkeepers nearby. “I must pray today. It’s a call I can’t ignore.”
“But you can ignore orders?” Rajid kept looking over his shoulder, scanning the market alley. “Do you realize how precarious our achievement is at this moment? The fate of Palestine is hanging in the balance!”
“You forget I made it happen. And I am losing my-”
“Your eyesight. I know.” Rajid pulled him to the side of the alley, his mouth at Silver’s ear. “We’ll help you with that when things settle down.”
“Only Allah can help me.”
“Then pray to him in private.” Rajid’s arm encircled his shoulders, pushing him.
Silver wouldn’t move. “I must pray!”
“You must return to the hostel immediately and stay in your room until the vote is over!”
“Allah hu Akbar,” chimed a muezzin from a nearby mosque, as if taking a stand in their argument.
Silver grabbed two checkered kafiyas from a pile, paid the astonished merchant the quoted price without haggling, and tied one around his head. “You can join me.” He handed the other kafiya to Rajid. “Or you can tell our superiors in Ramallah that Abu Faddah obeys Allah’s command above theirs.”
Rajid must have heard the finality in Silver’s tone. He covered his head with the kafiya, its hem low over his sunshades, and followed him toward the Arab Quarter. “If they find out about this, they’ll cut off my head.”
Professor Silver patted Rajid’s arm. “Then you’ll be a martyr.”
Rabbi Josh watched them descend into the Old City. He wondered why the professor would meet in secret with the citrus-smelling, Orthodox driver who had argued with him so bitterly. Were they on some kind of a reconnaissance mission for the End of Days group?
He snatched a kafiya, dropped a hundred-shekel bill, and ran after them.
Silver’s companion glanced back occasionally, forcing Rabbi Josh to slow down. Every time they turned a corner, he rushed forward to catch up.
They descended deeper into the Arab Quarter, where shops gave way to crowded dwellings, the sweet aromas replaced by a bitter mix of dust and cooking fires. Turning another corner, Rabbi Josh saw a wider street, where the slanted rays of the sun touched the stone pavers. He held the kafiya to his head, reached the end of the street, and glanced in both directions. They were gone.
Several Arab men entered a courtyard and removed their shoes. Adjusting his kafiya to make sure it covered his hair, the rabbi followed them. Pulling off his shoes brought relief to his blisters. They entered a large hall and sat on their heels in rows. He did the same, keeping his kafiya low over his face, stealing glances in futile attempts to find Silver.
The prayer hall accommodated many rows of men. A voice chanted a Koran verse in Arabic, and they repeated, bowing until their foreheads touched the carpet, and sitting up, showing the palms of their hands. He wanted to leave, but his way was blocked by rows of additional worshippers. Fear seeped into him.
Down the line to the left, near the side wall, he noticed a small man who remained bowed. A gray goatee stuck out under the kafiya.
The rows bowed again, and Rabbi Josh did the same.
As they sat back up, he leaned slightly forward and saw the man’s head rise slowly from the floor, the palms of his hands showing, his bespectacled eyes turning up to the ceiling, his kafiya edging back, exposing his face. It was Professor Silver, and he was crying while his lips pronounced, “Allah hu Akbar.”
Elizabeth waited in the cell. She refused to sit on the floor. Soon Father’s anger would subside. Surely he craved a grandchild as much as she delighted in becoming a mother.
The door flew open and men grabbed her. A chair was brought in, and they forced her to sit. A fist clenched her hair and pushed her head down, her chin pressed into her chest. A rope circled her upper body and arms, binding her to the back of the chair.
“You’re hurting me!” She tried to shake off the hand clenching her hair.
The grip tightened, shoving her head down.
“Release me!”
Men filled the room, lining the walls. They stared at her darkly, saying nothing.
“I’m warning you! I’ll report this to the-”
Father was carried into the room on his chair, placed in front of her. His creased, sunken cheeks were covered in gray stubble, and his eyes were buried in a book.
“Father!” Elizabeth fought to control her voice. “It’s gone far enough!”
He didn’t look up.
“Father!”
Someone entered the room behind her. She tried to turn, but a rough hand pushed her head down. “What are you doing?” She struggled to loosen the rope, which did not budge. “This is criminal kidnapping! I’m no longer consenting to being held here-you’ll be arrested and prosecuted by the authorities!”
Her father looked up. His eyes, once a glistening brown, were pale now, his eyelids drooping.
“Father, I came here to make peace!”
He leaned forward in the chair and slapped her across the face. His lips, folded in between his toothless gums, made sucking noises. He took a few quick breaths and slapped her again.
A youth in a green headband held a piece of paper in front of her. Another pointed a video camera at her face.
She read aloud: “I am Elzirah Mahfizie, known in America as Elizabeth McPherson. I confess my betrayal of the Palestinian people. I profess my faith in Allah and his prophet Mohammad. I curse the American Satan.” She stopped and shook her head. “I can’t. As a senior government official-”
Father tried to slap her, but his hand fell in his lap, powerless. His disciples shifted about, restless, ready to pounce if she caused Hajj Mahfizie further aggravation.
She forced herself to think logically. Who would take this video seriously when it was obvious she was under duress, tied up, beaten, threatened? She read aloud: “I curse the American Satan and its president and its criminal officials, as well as the Zionist Satan and its criminal army. May Allah’s sword come down on their heads. My life belongs to Allah and his prophet Mohammad.”
She looked up, meeting Father’s eyes. He looked at someone behind her. Glancing back, Elizabeth saw the glint of a blade.
“Hey! What are you doing?” The whole thing was unreal. “Father! Please!”
The man behind her put his big hand on top of her head, sank his fingers into her hair, and yanked backward.
“No!” Elizabeth fought to keep her head forward, keep Father’s face in sight. “This can’t be happening! It’s a terrible mistake! I beg you-”
A long knife appeared from the right.
“No! Call Abu Faddah! He’s my contact! Please!”
The Hajj lifted his hand, and the knife stopped and retreated out of sight. The hand let go of her hair.
“He’s at a hotel.” Elizabeth gulped, searching her mind frantically. “The Ramban Hostel in Jerusalem. He’ll tell you what I’ve done. Hero of Palestine. He’ll tell you about the award ceremony. Wednesday! You’ll be proud!”
The room was still. Father’s forehead creased.
“The Ramban Hostel. Ask for Levy Silver.” She immediately realized she had just sealed her own fate. “It’s only a cover!”
Her father’s face twisted, and he motioned with his hand.
She screamed, “No!”
The man grabbed her hair and pulled hard, tilting her head back. The long blade appeared from the right, held above her face. He forced her head all the way back, until she saw her executioner’s nostrils flaring, his mouth slightly open.
Her neck was exposed to the blade.
The baby in her belly kicked harder than ever before.
Masada took a cab to Oscar’s photography studio. Traffic came to a standstill along a wide avenue lit up with strings of blue, white, and yellow lights. The driver tuned the radio to a broadcast from Washington, where Senator Mitchum opened the debate on the Fair Aid Act by declaring, “Let us take a moment of silence in honor of Senator Mahoney, my mentor and friend in this great institution, a victim of foreign intrigue and corruption.”
A reporter described the Senate floor as full to capacity, including the rotunda.
Mitchum resumed his opening remarks by informing the senators that they must keep their speeches to a minimum so that a vote could take place no later than 10:30 p.m. Masada calculated; that would be 5:30 a.m. tomorrow, Israel time.
“It is imperative,” Mitchum declared, “to set an example. A foreign government-even a close friend as the State of Israel-that attempts to corrupt the American republic will be punished!”
The radio report cut to the rally in Jerusalem, where hundreds of thousands of Israelis were gathering to protest the American vote. Looking out the cab window, Masada saw dozens of buses adorned with yellow banners. She had never expected her article to set in motion such a chain of events, but Mahoney’s bullet to the head had triggered a political tsunami that had destroyed her own life and was now washing over Israel.
Masada asked the driver, “Can you go around this jam?”
“No problem.” He looked over his shoulder, turned the steering wheel all the way, and jumped the median, driving over the flower beds and down the other side, speeding up in the opposite direction.
The mosque in the Arab Quarter of the Old City had no splendor or eminence, but the familiar prayers transferred Professor Silver back to his childhood in Haifa, reviving bittersweet memories he had pushed out of his mind while living as a pretend Jew. Yet despite those years of alienation, Allah was accepting him back into the circle of faith.
Allah saw his sincere repentance.
Allah would save his eyesight.
The preacher mounted the pulpit near the front wall and bowed toward Mecca. “The Zionist dogs are barking,” the preacher yelled into a microphone, “they’re scared!”
The worshippers yelled “Allah hu Akbar!”
“And why are they ganging up, painted in cowardly yellow? Why?”
“Allah hu Akbar!”
The preacher tapped the microphone, producing sounds like gunfire. “The Zionists are foaming at the mouth!”
Silver joined everyone, “Allah hu Akbar!”
“Why is the Great Satan cutting off the Little Satan?”
They responded with laughter.
“Why are they losing their beloved money?”
The crowd shouted, “Allah hu Akbar!”
“Because it’s Allah’s judgment day! Because they stole our land! Slaughtered our sons! Poisoned our wells! Injected AIDS into our babies! Stuffed filth into our girls’ minds!” The preacher took a deep breath. “Allah’s sword is coming down!”
“Allah hu Akbar!”
Silver could have burst with pride. He, Abu Faddah, was the one chosen by Allah to bring down the Zionists!
“Yes!” The preacher shook a finger. “The Zionist dogs are running scared!”
“Allah hu Akbar!”
“Cut off,” the preacher shouted, passing a hand across his own throat. “Cut! Cut! Cut!”
“Allah hu Akbar!”
In the brief moment before the preacher spoke again, a voice shouted in Arabic, “The Jews attacked Al Aqsa! Help!”
The words hung in the air. Even the preacher was suspended in indecision.
“El Yahood,” the voice in the rear shrilled, “they set fire to the Dome of the Rock!”
Silver recognized the voice. Rajid!
“Itbakh el-Yahood!” The preacher waved his hands frantically. “Itbakh el-Yahood!”
The call to slaughter threw the worshippers into frenzy. They jumped to their feet and rushed to the exit. Silver struggled to stand up, suddenly faced with a forest of stomping feet. His legs were numb from crouching, and as soon as he managed to get up, someone bumped into him, and he stumbled. He opened his mouth to inhale, but the crowd pressed him forward, his face smothered by a wide back in a coarse galabiya.
The crowd yelled in a chorus, “Itbakh El-Yahood! Itbakh El-Yahood!”
Silver had no air. He pushed with his arms, fighting to breathe. He turned his head sideways, mouth gaping to fill his starved lungs, but the pressure surged from behind like a giant ocean wave, crushing him between heated bodies, his chest unable to expand for air. His throat was on fire.
“Itbakh El-Yahood! Itbakh El-Yahood!”
Slaughter the Jews. But I’m not a Jew! Silver’s knees buckled, his body held up by the pressure around it. Darkness descended. The noise abated, replaced by peaceful quietness.
Faddah’s face appeared.
He reached to caress the boy’s smooth cheek.
Elizabeth saw the long blade rise before her eyes. She tried to swallow, but her neck was bent backward by the hand gripping her hair. She wanted to touch her belly once more, to feel the baby’s frantic kicks, but the rope immobilized her arms. Her throat was about to be cut, and she wondered, would it hurt?
The blade kept rising, as if the butcher derived twisted pleasure from prolonging the moment. The steel suspended high above her eyes.
She stopped fighting.
Please, no pain!
He held the blade steady, ready to drop it and slice her throat.
She shut her eyes, her groans turning to quick breathing. She felt his hand tug harder on her hair as his other hand dropped the blade.
She expected terrible pain in her throat, but all she felt was a sudden release of the backward pull. Her head sprung forward. She opened her eyes, expecting to see blood sprout forth.
But there was no blood.
A chunk of dark hair dropped into her lap.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair again, tugged hard, slashed with the blade, and tossed it on the floor.
She was paralyzed, watching the hacked chunks of her thick hair drop like spent hay. Every time he chopped off a lock, he blew on her scalp, as if to make sure she felt it exposed. He clutched a heavy clump in the back of her head, chopped it, and long sheaves of hair flew in the air. The young men along the walls began to laugh.
Her eyes filled with tears. It was better than dying, she told herself. Yet the humiliation was greater than anything she had ever experienced. She closed her eyes and pushed back the tears, while he finished off what was left of her beautiful hair.
Masada arrived late at Oscar’s studio. He wore bathing shorts under the Hawaiian shirt. “I had a job this morning in Tel Aviv,” he explained. “My client suspected his wife was romancing her sailing instructor.”
“Good for her.” Tara raised a glass of lemonade.
“But she’s not.” Oscar showed them a photo of two women pulling up a purple sail on a white boat, stealing a kiss behind the canvas. “She’s doing a fellow student. I have a title for the movie: Cheating Wives on Choppy Waves.”
They laughed, and Tara asked, “What’s the plan?”
Oscar placed a blue backpack on the table. “It looks innocent, but it’s the best portable video surveillance system for live transmission. This is the antenna.” He pointed to a short metal rod. “It also serves as the on/off switch.”
“What’s this?” Masada tugged at a tube attached to the right shoulder strap.
“Careful!” He showed her the glass end. “A miniature wide-angle lens. Let me show you.” He lifted the backpack and strapped it on Masada. “You want both shoulder straps and the hip belt to be buckled up tightly.” He tightened all three and pulled on the backpack sideways and up and down. “You have to remember to wear it like this, no loose movement, or the video quality will be bad. Keep it on your back at all times.”
“What’s in there? Rocks?”
“The batteries are heavy. They’re good for six hours, which is a lot considering the high power required for wireless video transmission.” Oscar helped her remove the backpack.
“You guys haven’t heard of lithium ion batteries? I thought Israeli technology was advanced.”
“It’s a sealed unit, ready to go.” He put it down carefully. “Don’t try to open the zipper or anything. When you get off the cable car at the top of the mountain, put it on like any backpack, tighten all straps, including the one across the hips, and push the antenna sideways to switch on the unit. That’s all.”
“We’ll be nearby,” Tara said, “receiving your video and sound.”
“I don’t like spying on friends.”
“Lenin isn’t your friend.”
“Stop calling him Lenin. His name is Levy.”
“Flavian.”
Masada had no patience for Tara’s word games. “Your point?”
“Remember the Roman general who broke down the rebellion and caused the zealots to die on Mount Masada? Flavius Silva. And Lenin’s name? Flavian Silver. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Masada stood up to leave. “It’s Levy’s fault his parents named him Flavian as much as it’s my fault my parents named me after the site of a mass suicide.”
“Just be open to the possibility.” Tara patted the backpack. “Tease him hard, get some answers on video.”
“I’ll do it,” Masada said, “only to prove to you that he’s innocent.”
Rabbi Josh didn’t understand the Arabic words Silver’s companion was shouting from the rear, but their impact was dramatic. The preacher screamed, and the worshippers surged toward the exit with murderous fury. He tried to get through to Professor Silver, but the raging Arabs blocked the way, many waving fists in the air, chanting, “Itbakh El-Yahood!” He caught sight of Silver’s white face, his black-rimmed glasses askew. A second later, the professor disappeared. A hand brushed against the rabbi’s kafiya, almost pulling it off his head. He grabbed it. If they got a good look at him, he’d be dead in less than a minute.
Someone was fighting against the current, pushing men aside, shouting in Arabic. It was Silver’s companion. His sunshades and kafiya were gone, and his black hair was no longer sleek. At lease he had the mind to hide his yarmulke! He kept shouting about the Al-Aqsa mosque. The rabbi wanted to yell, Liar! But opening his mouth would be akin to committing suicide.
The man reached the spot where Silver had dropped, went down and reappeared carrying the professor above the crowd, the balding head slumped to one side, the eyes closed. He carried Silver easily on one shoulder, pushing against the tide toward the wall facing Mecca, where the preacher continued squealing from the pulpit.
Standing on his toes, Rabbi Josh saw a wide berth of empty floor between the pulpit and the crowd. He pushed through, parallel to the floating professor, his right shoulder serving as a wedge to separate bodies and make way.
The man carried Silver across the open area toward the back door, which the preacher had used to enter the mosque. He kicked it open, turned sideways to pass through, and his eyes focused on the rabbi, who was fighting through the last rows of crazed men. He smirked, exposing white teeth, and vanished through the door with his load. Rabbi Josh wondered whether the man had noticed him follow them and had incited the riot to shake him off.
Pushing through the last few Arabs, the rabbi ran forward. The carpeted floor gave way to smooth tiles, and his socks, infused with the ointment, lost traction and slipped from under him. He fell and rolled over twice, his hands still holding the kafiya to his head.
It took him a moment to recover. He got up on one knee, placed a foot flat on the tile, and stood up. With the preacher screeching violently on his right, he took small, geisha steps toward the door, expecting someone to grab his shoulder any second and shout, “Kill the Jews!”
He made it through the door into a narrow corridor and continued edging forward, resisting the urge to break into a run. The corridor turned left, then right. At the far end he saw light filtering through a doorway, where Levy’s cunning companion must have exited.
He quickened his steps, feeling the wall with one hand, and pushed the door, which flew open, letting him through. Bright daylight blinded him, and the ground dropped from under his feet. He stumbled down a few steps and fell.
Starting to rise, the rabbi lifted the hem of his kafiya and looked up, squinting against the sun. A crescent of Israeli policemen in riot gear surrounded him. Thank God, he thought, and opened his mouth to speak, but a policeman stepped forward, lifted his club, and landed it on the rabbi’s head.
Professor Silver wiped his face with the wet cloth Rajid handed to him. “I could have been killed!”
“Could have. Would have. Should have.” Rajid drove down a narrow street, away from the Old City. “I told you to stay in your room until tomorrow.”
“You are insane!” Silver held the wet cloth against his forehead. His black beret was gone, as well as his eyeglasses. “Our of your mind! Who knows how many were injured or arrested because of you. Why on earth-”
“You grew a tail. I had to snip him off.”
“Impossible!”
The handler’s eyes, exposed without his shades, remained cold. “Your rabbi from Arizona.”
“Joshua? In the mosque?” The professor clucked his tongue. “Allah’s mercy. They would have torn him to pieces, the foolish man.”
Rajid lowered the window, allowing in warm air, and lit a cigarette.
“Joshua, Joshua, Joshua.” Silver sighed, resting his head back, closing his eyes. He had noticed the rabbi’s prodding questions, but never expected him to play amateur sleuth.
“That’s why we’re concerned about your judgment. The debate is going on in Washington right now, and here you are, running around Jerusalem, placing it all in jeopardy.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
Rajid laughed. “He looks like that actor from Mr. amp; Mrs. Smith, but with a few days’ stubble, ponytail, and wrestler’s shoulders. How many of those did you see in the mosque?”
“Ah.”
“He was stunned to see you pray so devoutly to the wrong God.”
Silver smiled, remembering. “It was a real connection. Allah listened, reached down, and touched me. Allah calmed the fears in my heart.”
“I’m sure your rabbi was impressed.” Rajid snickered. He parked in front of the Ramban Hostel, pulled his yarmulke from his pocket, and put it on his head. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“No. I’m going upstairs. You are leaving.”
Rajid pulled a plastic strap from his breast pocket and made it into a loop. “These are called FlexiCuffs-cheap to make, easy to slap on, impossible to chew through.”
Silver reached for the door handle. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“My orders are to handcuff you, if necessary. Ramallah wants you in your room until the vote is over.”
“Tell them I learned my lesson.” Silver put his hand out. “Can I have these?”
Rajid gave him the plastic handcuffs. “Keep them as a reminder that I trusted you. Stay locked in your room until tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at the cafe at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Bring your papers.”
“A new day, a new paradigm.” Silver slipped the handcuffs into his pocket. “You must find the rabbi and deal with him.”
Rajid smirked. “I thought you were fond of him.”
“I am.” Silver sighed. “But he saw too much.”
“We’ll take care of him.”
Silver watched Rajid drive off and turned to climb up the steps. A long night was ahead, requiring all his faculties. The memorial service on Mount Masada would be his best chance to seek information about the woman soldier who had killed Faddah. Before luring Masada to a far side of the mountaintop, he would use her to make the other Jews more talkative. He needed a name, maybe even an address. Faddah’s killer would suffer, as Faddah had suffered.
In the lobby, the front desk clerk played an electronic game that emitted tinny sounds and beeped repeatedly. Holding his hand out for his key, Silver glanced at the board. The keys to Masada’s and Rabbi Josh’s rooms hung from their respective hooks. He didn’t know where Masada had gone, but Rajid’s smirk had left Silver confident that the rabbi would never need his key again. Heading to the stairs, he muttered, “What can I do, kinderlakh? You two are so nosey.”
Elizabeth would not look up from the pile of hair on the floor. Father was carried out of the room, trailed by his followers. The rope was untied, and a broom was thrown at her feet.
Aunt Hamida appeared. “Poor child!”
Burying her face in her aunt’s black robe, she broke down. Hard, painful sobs shook her body.
When she calmed down, they swept the floor together, and Aunt Hamida unfurled a yellow robe. “Your father ordered that you put this on. Please don’t argue anymore.”
Elizabeth reminded herself of the responsibility she had to the baby. Bow, accept your punishment, act repentantly, and get out of here. She wore the yellow robe and tied a yellow scarf over her shorn scalp. She asked, “Did you try Bob Emises at the consulate again?”
“They hung up on me.” Aunt Hamida glanced over her shoulder and whispered, “I could sneak in a phone. You could call them.”
“It’s too late for that. I can’t be seen me like this.” The last thing she needed was a media-worthy scandal. She had to convince Father not to use the video clip. Then she would walk to the checkpoint, ask the Israelis to call a taxi for her, and return to Jerusalem. Many of the Orthodox Jewish women wore wigs. She would buy a nice one before contacting the consulate.
Leaving Oscar’s studio, Masada found the streets jammed with people in yellow. The afternoon breeze made walking pleasant. She joined the current of human traffic, eventually finding herself on Jaffa Street. She passed by a group arguing loudly and stopped to listen. A young woman accused the government of stupidity while an Orthodox man justified the bribe as a necessary attempt to secure Israel’s survival. Soon two of the debaters were yelling at each other, others were joining in, and policemen on horsebacks trotted by watchfully.
A whiff of grilled meat attracted her to a cart, where she bought a pita wrap with chopped lamb, fries, salad, and humus. She paced down the avenue, chewing mouthfuls of Israeli food she had not tasted in decades, absorbing the sounds and smells and sights of the huge gathering. Her knee wasn’t hurting, the head bruises had almost healed, and the staccato of Hebrew made her smile.
Near the Jaffa Gate, hundreds of youths danced in concentric circles to Israeli folk songs, which she recognized from her youth. A banner above the main stage read: Israel-Past, Present, and Future.
Across from the stage she saw a Microsoft banner hanging from a balcony. Motorola was strung between two telephone poles. A Smith Barney flag fluttered from a stoplight, now blinking yellow. Intel flew a mini blimp over the Old City. More banners strung along the avenue-Home Depot, Toys R Us, Starbucks, GMC, IBM, and GE. She understood the subliminal message sent via American TV channels to the senators in Washington: U.S. companies relied on Israel for their research and development, for their competitive edge, which tied American products and jobs to Israel’s fate.
The banners, however, did not end with subtleties:
America + Israel = Democracy + Freedom
One Mistake in a Long Friendship = Forgiveness
Guilty Unless Proven Innocent?
Israel = Bringing American Democracy to the Middle East
America + Israel = Golda Meir And there were contrarians as well:
America, who?
We’re fine. Aid yourself!
And Masada’s favorite, spray-painted on a wall:
How Would Senator Jesus Vote?
She jotted down the wording of the signs. Such authenticity would demonstrate the consequences of what Colonel Ness and Rabbi Josh had done.
“So?” A hand tapped her shoulder. “You still want Israel to be destroyed?”
She turned to see the man with the colorful skullcap who had asked her to speak at the rally.
Rabbi Josh was sure his head was split open, oozing gray brain matter onto the ground. Otherwise it wouldn’t hurt so badly. He parted his eyelids one at a time and saw the world sideways, like a TV standing on its side. The ground pressed against his left temple. He wasn’t at the mosque any longer, but he didn’t remember being moved. He touched the crown of his head, finding it was still covered with the kafiya.
The large cage was made of chicken wire and steel posts. Arab men crouched or stood in clumps of hushed conversations. A bearded man wearing a white knitted cap noticed he was awake and helped him to a sitting position. The rabbi winced, his head pounding. The man said something in Arabic.
An Israeli policeman tapped the bars with his club and pointed to one of the Arabs, who approached a small opening backward and stuck out his hands. He was cuffed and led away.
There was music nearby, blurred against the deep background hum of a huge crowd. Rabbi Josh realized the rally was taking place only a few streets away from here. He looked around, digesting his situation. He was locked up with a few hundred Arabs in a makeshift cage in the parking lot of a police station. Every few minutes, one of them was handcuffed and taken across the parking lot to another cage, whose walls were blocked off with gray tarp. At the current pace, he could be here for hours.
The events at the mosque replayed in his mind. Silver praying to Allah.
He wanted to believe the professor had merely visited the mosque for reconnaissance purposes. But Levy’s expression bore the fervor of a true believer experiencing that rare joy of spiritual unity with his creator. Rabbi Josh knew sincere faith when he saw it, and Silver’s faith in Allah, while utterly unbelievable, was sincere.
The implications were astounding. Professor Levy Silver was a Muslim! But was he an Arab? A Palestinian?
Rabbi Josh rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his mind. He reflected on Silver’s constant use of Yiddish phrases, his inaccurate yet endearing quotations of Jewish sages, his humor-Jewish humor. The professor had put on a masterful act of an elderly Jew, of good-natured resilience, spiced up with jokes and affection. Had he once been a Jew and converted to Islam out of misguided convictions? Or was he a born Arab who had assumed a Jewish identity for clandestine purposes?
Thinking objectively of the elderly man he had so fondly respected, the rabbi remembered Silver’s subtle accent and the softly tanned hue of his skin, both explained away by his Italian roots, yet now hinting at another, ominous possibility. The events of the recent past could be explained by a frightening hypothesis: Silver could be a Palestinian agent! His training, instructions, and money could have come from the Palestinians! It all fit together!
Rabbi Josh closed his eyes, trying to think clearly. Silver must have recruited Al into the imaginary Judah’s Fist organization, bribed Senator Mahoney with Arab money in exchange for sponsoring a pro-Israel act in the Senate, and leaked the information to Masada, whose deep resentment of Israel had conditioned her to write a scathing expose. The senator’s suicide fueled the anti-Israel fire, inciting a vote for the Fair Aid Act that was lethal for the U.S.-Israel friendship. Logically, at the conclusion of the plot, the professor needed to get rid of Al and Masada in order to eliminate any risk of exposure.
The plausibility of this scenario terrified Rabbi Josh. The sounds of the rally nearby proved how brilliantly the Palestinian scheme had worked.
Darkness was settling down on the city. Lights were turning on one by one, illuminating the parking lot. He must warn Masada before she left with Silver for the memorial service!
A policeman approached the lockup and pointed with his club at one of the Arabs. Rabbi Josh got up, wincing as his swollen feet pressed on the hard concrete, and rattled the chicken wire to attract the policeman’s attention. The Arab who was called stuck his hands out to be tied and grunted something in Arabic, likely telling the rabbi he had no reason to rush.
The policeman stepped closer, his club ready. Rabbi Josh cupped his mouth and whispered in English, “I’m an American.” He hoped the noise from the nearby rally prevented the Arabs behind from hearing him. “Let me out.”
“An American?” The policeman banged his club on the bars, making Rabbi Josh jump back. “Do you need my aid?”
Rabbi Josh turned. The whole group was standing, glaring at him. The Arab with the white knitted cap snatched the rabbi’s kafiya and yelled, “American!” Another Arab came forward and kicked him in the groin. The rest of them launched their bodies toward him, wailing in Arabic.
When the sun went down, Elizabeth heard the muezzin call for evening prayers. While the men gathered in the prayer hall, the women set long tables in the courtyard for the iftar. They carried bowls of rise and lamb stew, baskets of pita breads, and jugs of ice water. A smoky fire kept away the flies.
Aunt Hamida had gone to bring another dish, and Elizabeth stepped to the side of the courtyard, observing the commotion. The evening communal eating during Ramadan was familiar, even after so many years. Fasting from sunrise to sunset during the long, hot summer days was taxing, which probably contributed to Father’s impatience and the harsh punishment.
She realized no one was paying attention to her. With all the men in the mosque, who was going to stop her from running off?
She inched along the wall toward the exit from the courtyard, but paused. Now that her punishment had been meted, what was the point of running away? Tonight, after the iftar, she would demand a private audience with Father. Caressing her tummy, Elizabeth was determined that her child would have a grandfather.
Cursing and shouting “Itbakh El-Yahood,” a swarm descended on Rabbi Josh, showering him with clenched fists. He hooked his fingers in the chicken wire, and the Arabs’ shrill screams filled his head with the certainty of doom.
He felt cold spray on his face. The beating stopped, and the angry shouts changed to cries of distress. Fierce burning flared in his eyes and nose. He began to cough.
Police in blue uniforms entered the cage, the hisses of their pepper spray barely audible over the screaming. They dragged him out and sat him on the ground. Wheezing with each breath, he remembered Masada, about to join Silver on a one-way trip, and struggled to get up. “Please,” he said to one of them, “I need to-”
“Shut up!” The policeman raised his club. “Sit!”
Rabbi Josh dropped, raising his arms in defense. “I’m not an Arab. It’s a mistake!”
“Mistake? Your mother made a mistake!” The club was about to land.
“I’m Jewish.” He wiped the tears and mucus from his face.
“Then why did you entered the mosque?” The policeman spat on the ground. “Idiot!”
They led him into the station, up two flights of stairs and along a corridor to a room with a mirror wall, a steel table and four chairs. He saw his reflection-soiled with blood and mud, his socks torn, exposing the blisters on his feet.
They went to the door.
“Hey! Let me go!”
They shut the door in his face and locked it. He heard them laugh, their footsteps fading.
He limped to the barred window. The sun had gone down, and the sounds from the rally on Jaffa Street had intensified. He could tell by the deep rumble that the crowd had become enormous, and he wondered if the senators in Washington paid any attention to what was happening in Jerusalem. By morning, Israel time, they would vote to punish the Jewish state for what it had not done. But how was he going to convince anyone? Telling the media that Professor Silver had attended a mosque would achieve nothing, especially as he himself was there too.
The only thing that mattered now was saving Masada! Rabbi Josh went to the mirror wall. Was it one-sided? He tried to see through, but couldn’t. He pounded the door. “Open up!”
The noise from the rally suddenly quieted, and the music ceased. He returned to the barred window and listened.
“I am not,” a woman’s voice reverberated from many loudspeakers, “a supporter of the Jewish state.”
Masada?
“I am, however, a supporter of freedom, security, and happiness for the Jewish people-and for all other people.”
There was no mistaking the voice. It was Masada! She was addressing the rally!
“And I believe that a state defined by religion cannot provide freedom, security, and happiness to all people, because setting religious criteria to citizenship contradicts the very essence of a modern democracy.”
The hum of the crowd disappeared, as if the many thousands in attendance were holding their breaths.
“I ask you this,” Masada continued. “Why live in another ghetto, even as big as Israel, when we can live anywhere in the Western world as equal citizens, free to practice our Jewish religion, follow our ancient customs, and pursue our individual, personal aspirations without fear or foe?”
Her question remained hanging, the crowd hushed. Rabbi Josh leaned against the bars and imagined her shrug in that special way.
“My question is hypothetical though, because the fact is that Israel exists, and you-I hear there are over a million people here-feel deep love for Israel. It is a love I cannot deny sharing with you. For us, born Israelis, love for this troubled land comes with suckling mom’s milk. But the reason I agreed to come up to the stage is not because you need to hear me, yet another Jewish writer with utopian ideas. What I had to say has already been heard in America, which started this fiasco.”
A grumble went through the crowd, multiplied by many thousands. But it died quickly.
“I agreed to speak here tonight because one of the organizers asked if I wanted Israel destroyed.” Masada paused. “Do I want Israel to die?”
A momentary swell of murmuring swept through the night.
“The answer is no.” Another long pause. “I do not wish destruction for Israel. It is my birthplace, the land of my youth, the country my beloved parents died for. And despite its flaws, Israel represents my values of humanity and progress in stark contrast to its neighbors. It stands for democracy among dictatorships, for creativity in a region beset by dark ignorance, for modernism among primitive fundamentalism. So I can’t help but pray for Israel’s survival.”
Hearing her sad voice, Rabbi Josh felt like crying. He grabbed the bars, wishing he could run out there and take her in his arms, tell her he knew she was not guilty of anything, that she was the victim of manipulation.
“However,” Masada said, her voice strong again, “I believe that optimism for Israel’s future is possible only if you ignore history. There is scant precedent for a lasting Jewish state on this land.” She paused. “As much as we hope for Israel to live forever, we must also consider the other possibility. Our existential risks come not from the Arab countries that render us landlocked. Israel is too useful for them as a scapegoat for their dictatorial failures and their peoples’ misery. Neither would Islam’s hate for the West likely to sweep us in its viral spread of Improvised Explosive Devices or nuclear-tipped rockets. The real risk to Israel is what has caused the repeated destructions of Jewish kingdoms: Infighting among Jews.”
Rabbi Josh listened, as mesmerized as the crowd outside.
“Only if we accept Israel’s vulnerability, maybe, just maybe, we can unite and save it. So please,” Masada said, “close your eyes and imagine hearing this hypothetical news bulletin on your car radio.”
Complete silence descended on the night, as if the whole city of Jerusalem froze in anticipation of Masada’s made-up news.
“This report has just arrived from Jerusalem.” Masada spoke in the even tone of a news anchor. “This morning, following the assassination of the prime minister and his cabinet, the Israeli Knesset building was destroyed by an explosion credited to an extremist Jewish organization. With El-Al jetliners burning on the tarmac at Ben Gurion Airport, Israeli citizens crowded into fishing boats and yachts, heading for Cyprus and the Greek islands. Meanwhile, bloody rioters vandalized central Jerusalem, and warring militias fought in Tel Aviv. At the United Nations building in New York, the blue and white flag went down while the Security Council voted to send peace observers to the former Jewish state. As of today at noon, the State of Israel is no more.”
Like a million other Jews nearby, Rabbi Josh shut his eyes as Masada’s made-up news bulletin echoed in his mind.
The State of Israel … is no more.
Moses must have felt the same way, Masada thought, only his sea wasn’t yellow. She descended from the stage and passed through the parted sea of people. The path was wide enough that no one touched her, even by accident. Some nodded, some bowed, and some looked away. A man cursed her but was hushed by others. Behind her, the next speaker was quoting verses from the Bible. But the crowd seemed numbed by the mental experiment she had foisted on them.
Masada walked back to the Ramban Hostel through streets filled with people. The front desk clerk looked up from his handheld game, saw her, and jumped to his feet. “Miss El-Tal! I heard your speech on the radio!”
She silenced him with her hand. “Did my friend leave a backpack for me?”
“The reporter? Yes.” He hefted the video backpack over the counter. “Careful. It’s heavy.”
“I know.” Masada shouldered it. “Have you seen Professor Silver?”
The clerk directed her to the cafeteria, where she found him alone, spreading butter on a piece of bread. He wasn’t wearing his thick eyeglasses, and the black beret was replaced by a white baseball cap sporting an extra-wide visor. The table before him was scattered with documents.
“May I join?” She sat down.
“Look who’s here!” He collected his papers into a large, padded envelope. “What a nice surprise!”
“Working on a new book?”
“Always.” The professor pulled the cap’s visor lower over his face. “How was your day?”
She realized he must have missed her speech at the rally. “Uneventful.”
“Mine too. Practically a vacation.” He sipped milk and put down the glass, his hand shaking.
She felt sad. Clearly he was putting on a brave face. “Your eyes bother you, right?”
“Not too bad.”
Masada tore a piece of bread and chewed on it. “Let’s skip that memorial. You don’t seem too well.”
“I’ll get some sleep before we leave.”
“Dress well. It gets chilly up there at night.” Hesitating, she added, “I could go by myself.”
“Absolutely not.” He waved both hands. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
It occurred to Masada that he didn’t even know what had happened to Srulie. “You have to promise me not to ask questions about my family or my past. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Agreed.” Silver squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry so much, meidaleh. Everything’s going to be fine.”
A guest walked in and turned on the TV. The U.S. Senate podium came into view. A female senator with blondish hair and red lipstick declared hoarsely, “It’s especially painful when you find a friend turning that knife in your back. In upstate New York we have a saying: It’s not who’s sharing the fire with you in winter, but who’s gathering your calves when you’re sick. I say, this great nation need not share its firewood with a country that-”
Masada stood. “I’ll meet you downstairs at 2:30 a.m. If you’re not there, I’m back to bed. Please be late.”
“I doubt it.” Professor Silver chuckled. “Good night.”