Rabbi Josh Frank glanced at the heart-rate monitor on his elliptical exercise machine and quickened his pace. The morning sun shone through the open window, warming his shoulders, and Raul’s squealing came through as he chased Shanty in the backyard. The wall-mounted TV was turned to the Channel Six news. A report from Tel Aviv showed the burnt shell of a blue bus, body bags lined up on a blood-stained pavement. A bearded medic pulled a severed arm from a scorched tree.
The rabbi’s legs pumped faster. “Master of the Universe!”
On the screen, a departing ambulance marked with a red Star of David gave way to a Palestinian official, who refused to condemn the suicide bomber, blaming Israeli aggression for provoking the “freedom fighter’s justifiable resistance.” He was followed by a Knesset member, who accused the government of endangering its citizens’ lives with its reckless policies. And an old rabbi in Jerusalem said tremulously, “God is punishing the Zionists for their violations of the Torah!”
Rabbi Josh snatched the remote and changed channels.
Masada’s grimed face appeared on the TV.
He ceased pedaling, lost his balance, and stumbled off the machine.
The camera followed Masada to her door. Her shirt was torn, and she was limping badly. A man in a blue FBI jacket blocked the camera while Masada disappeared into the house. The camera returned to a blonde reporter standing against the background of a dark sky, who said something about a car accident. The rabbi realized it had been filmed last night.
There was no answer on Masada’s home phone. Her mobile went immediately to voice mail. He ran outside, yelled for Raul, and they drove to Masada’s house.
She lived in an older neighborhood of established homes on large desert lots. Her street had only three homes, separated from each other with cacti, mesquite trees, and brick walls.
He knocked on her door. When no answer came, he tried it, and realized that the lock was broken. He poked his head in. “Masada?”
No answer.
The great room was dominated by a wall of glass facing the giant boulders of Camelback Mountain. The opposite wall was lined with empty shelves. All of Masada’s books were gone, and the floor was littered with pieces of paper and cardboard.
“Hello?”
No response.
“Stay here,” he said to Raul.
In her bedroom, the floor was strewn with clothing and papers. Her mattress was gone. In the kitchen, adjacent to the great room in a single, contiguous open space, all the cabinet doors were open, dishes and pots piled on the counters.
Crossing the great room, he pushed aside the sliding glass door and exited to the patio, finding Masada curled up on a mattress, partly covered by a white comforter.
“Masada?”
She twisted and moaned, still asleep.
He sat on the mattress and caressed her hair.
She kicked off the covers and sat up, her eyes wide.
“I saw you on the news. What happened?” He helped her stand.
Masada’s nightgown ended well above the white bandage on her right knee. She stepped off the mattress, leaning on him. “Levy lost control of the car.”
“I noticed he was having trouble seeing the road.”
“I ran home, messed up my bad knee.”
He wanted to ask her how she had injured her knee in the first place, but it wasn’t the time to bring it up. “What happened?”
“FBI got here before I did, broke in, searched everything.”
“They’re quick. It’s the video they want.”
She nodded.
“Would you come and stay with us?”
She entered the house, moving slowly. “Kids aren’t my thing.”
That wasn’t what he hoped to hear. He motioned at the empty shelves. “They took your books?”
“The warrant allowed them to take every paper and electronic gadget. Even my Blackberry-I’m going to have a million e-mails by the time I get it back.”
While she used the bathroom, he made coffee. Raul went out to the backyard, keeping himself busy throwing pebbles over the back fence.
They called Professor Silver. He described his trip to the hospital last night, where they found nothing wrong with him. The police were holding his driver’s license until he had his eyes checked.
Rabbi Josh was struck by Masada’s fragility. The green of her eyes was almost gray against her olive skin. She moved haltingly, as if dreading a jolt of pain, but her slanted cheekbones and full lips were set in stubborn determination.
She noticed him staring and said, “Don’t worry. I’ve lived through much worse.”
He motioned at the debris. “You need a cleaning service.”
“Not in my budget. I’ll clean it myself.”
“If you need money-”
The look on her face stopped him. He collected her car keys from the kitchen counter. “At least let me get your tires fixed. I already told Raul. He loves sports cars.”
Masada looked at his soaked T-shirt. “I didn’t know morning prayers were so intense.”
He felt his face flush. “I was exercising when I saw the news.” He caught a whiff of Masada’s body, reminding him of Linda’s morning scent, the joy they had taken in each other during the first moments of each day. “We’ll be back with your car in a couple of hours.”
Masada watched Rabbi Josh leave, his ponytail wet with sweat, his blue T-shirt clinging to his wide, muscular back. His son took his hand, looking up to him with a big smile. The sight pinched her heart. She turned and went to the bathroom. While the sink filled up with warm water, she examined her face in the mirror. Her cheek and neck were bruised, her eyes bloodshot. No wonder Rabbi Josh kept averting his gaze.
She sat on the floor and removed the bandage. The old leg brace had skinned her knee when she ran home after the accident. The raw knee was still oily from the ointment she had applied last night. Soaking a facecloth in hot water, she pressed it to the wound. It burned, but she did not relent.
Before going to sleep, she had washed the blood off the brace and oiled the worn leather on the thigh and shin extensions, which were hinged to the brass knee cap. It stood on the bathroom counter like crude forceps.
A wave of sadness overwhelmed her. She sat on the toilet, hugging the brace to her chest. “O, Srulie.” Her lips touched the coarse leather. “I almost joined you last night.”
With a fresh bandage on her knee, Masada strapped on the brace, put on shorts and a tank top, and grabbed a bottle of water. The urge to exert her body was irresistible. She had to sweat off the acid of old memories.
She left through the rear patio, across the backyard, and through a small gate in the fence. Following along the drainage wash, she took the path over the lower hump of Camelback Mountain. Her body hurt, especially her right leg, but she kept going, heading east for the main Echo Canyon trail.
The sun was high, the heat rising. She passed between two huge boulders, where the trail took a steep turn to the left, ascending over the crest of the camel’s nose. She stopped to look down at her street. A news van was advancing toward her house.
She went on, stretching her arms, inhaling deeply. The trail split, and she took the steeper path through a deep crevice, pulling on the steel rail attached to the boulders, her arms taking the load off her aching leg.
Midway up the crevice, an engine rattled nearby, disturbing the tranquility of the mountain. She paused and looked back down the crevice.
A yellow motorbike entered the bottom end and stopped. The engine’s rattle was louder now, bouncing off the walls. The rider, with long limbs in black leather, revved up the engine.
Masada stood frozen, hand gripping the railing.
The motorbike raced up the crevice toward her.
The ophthalmologist browsed the sign-up sheet. “Car accident. No serious injuries. Age seventy-two. Have you been drinking, Flavian?”
“Professor Flavian Silver. My friends call me Levy. And I don’t drink.”
The doctor dropped the papers on the desk. “Let me see your glasses.”
“It’s only for protection. Not optical.”
“But there is a problem with your vision, yes?”
Silver hesitated. “A smudge. Like a shadow. It’s not too bad, but for me, limited as I am already, every little thing worries me.”
“A smudge.” The doctor gave him a stern look, as if he’d intentionally rubbed sand into his eye. “Left or right eye?”
“I wouldn’t see it in the left.”
The doctor picked up the chart again and browsed it. “Of course!” He moved Silver’s face from side to side. “They matched color and shape perfectly. Excellent work. How did you lose the eye?”
“A work accident. The current porcelain left eye was fabricated in Toronto, replacing earlier glass eye installed in Italy. I had occasional infections, treated in London, Ottawa, and Toronto.”
“You travel a lot.”
“My research takes me to different universities.”
“Research?” The doctor perked up. “I do some research myself. What is your field?”
“Jewish history. I wrote a book: The 1938 Evian Conference-Springboard to the Holocaust. Perhaps you heard of it.”
“I don’t have time for pleasure reading. This smudge you see, where is it?”
Professor Silver pointed at the doctor’s nose.
“Center field.” He clucked his tongue. “Let’s not sound the alarm before finding the fire. We’ll conduct a few tests and see what’s going on.”
Trapped between two walls of rock, Masada faced the speeding motorbike. Its front wheel tattled on the rocks, approaching her rapidly. She raised her hands to protect herself.
It stopped just before hitting her.
She picked up a rock.
The rider dismounted and shut off the engine. “Hi there.” It was a female voice. She pulled a second helmet from the rear rack. “Someone wants to talk to you.”
Masada recognized the accent. “You’re an Israeli.”
The rider handed her the helmet. “It’s set up for videoconferencing.”
Masada hesitated, but her journalistic curiosity was piqued. She slipped on the full-face helmet. It fit snugly, limiting her view through the open eye shield. A tiny electric motor buzzed as a miniature screen descended before her eyes.
A picture appeared. Mountains, rocky and bare of vegetation.
At first she thought it was somewhere nearby in Arizona. But the frame widened to show a body of water, flat as a mirror, its shoreline bleached with dried salt.
A drop of sweat trickled down Masada’s back. She tried to retreat from the familiar sights, which she had banished from memory, but the draw was too great. She watched the salty shore her feet had once walked, the clusters of tall weeds where she had scooped black mud to smear her young body. She remembered the heavy scent of sulfur and the smothering humidity.
The picture moved to the salt factory that had taken her parents’ lives, the long docks reaching into the thick water like skeletal fingers, the pinky still missing its middle phalanx. She thought of her dying mother, lips caked in salt, the air squeaking in and out of her destroyed lungs. Watch over Srulie!
“Shalom, Masada.” The camera focused on a man in a wheelchair, a bouquet of flowers in his lap. “It’s been a long time.”
Her right knee buckled. She swayed, her hip hit the steel railing. She tried to pull off the helmet.
The lanky rider grabbed Masada’s hands with surprising strength.
“I’m not talking to him.” Her eyes mixed the sights of the rider in her black helmet and the man in the small screen, sitting in his wheelchair on the other side of the world.
The camera angle widened, and the sight ended Masada’s struggle.
“I come here often,” Colonel Ness said, laying the bouquet on Srulie’s headstone. “Your brother was a gifted kid, a poet in the making.”
Masada groaned.
“I’d like to send you this one.” Ness pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Someone at the kibbutz gave it to me. Your brother wrote about missing his mom.”
“What do you want?” Masada swallowed hard. Srulie had recited the poem aloud in the dining hall during a ceremony marking the sixth anniversary of their parents’ death. Miss Feldman, the kibbutz’s general secretary, had confiscated it because of the concluding, unpatriotic line: And the Dead Sea reeked.
The camera focused on the colonel’s face. The skin had creased and weathered, yet his jaw was still square and stubborn, his expression still calm, radiating confidence. It was the same face she had once caressed and kissed with the wholeheartedness of first love.
Colonel Ness looked down at the paper. “This morning I read this to my grandkids at breakfast. Your brother would have become another Agnon.”
Masada was determined not to cry. “You didn’t arrange this high-tech showoff just to recite childish poetry.”
“True.” Up close, his eyes had remained as blue as the Mediterranean on a sunny day. “That disaster wasn’t only my fault. We were soldiers, sworn to follow orders.”
“You were the commander. You failed to act.” Masada’s voice trembled. “You practically killed him.”
“And you practically killed the others!” Ness shut his eyes, breathing deeply. “If not for your crazy attack, the Arab wouldn’t have thrown the grenade. But you’re right. In hindsight, I should have acted despite the orders, and then even Srulie would have survived.”
“Your only hindsight was covering your ass. You’re worse than those two Arabs. They sacrificed themselves for an idea, but you only thought of career and reputation. I despise you.”
“Still, after all these years?” He sighed, passing a hand through his white curls. “If you knew all the facts-”
“That won’t bring Srulie back.”
“You have not been the only one to suffer.” The camera descended to the paper with Srulie’s poem, resting on the wool blanket that covered the colonel’s lap. “I didn’t know they sent you to jail. I was in the hospital, dealing with my own loss. When I found out, I pressed for pardon.”
“How gracious. Why didn’t you wait outside when they released me, with red flowers and a mandolin?”
“Listen,” he said, “we both paid a terrible price. You should not have grabbed my megaphone, and I should have ignored the orders and attacked, which I would have done if I’d thought for one minute that Srulie was in danger.”
“If. If. If. It’s too late for excuses.”
“Always full of passion. That’s why I loved you.”
For a moment, Masada saw him in her mind as he had been, bright and confident, the ultimate sabra.
He smiled sadly. “It wasn’t all bad.”
“It wasn’t bad,” she said, “for a married father of two to screw a young babe in uniform.”
That shut him up.
“How do I get this thing off?” Masada pushed on the bottom of the helmet.
“In all these years,” he said quietly, “not a day passes that I don’t think of you. Not a single day that I don’t miss my beautiful-”
“Take it off!”
Colonel Ness leaned forward, his face filling the screen. “When you saw him crushed, you were crushed too. That night, you lost not only a brother. You lost your love for your country and for yourself. That’s the heaviest burden on my conscience.”
Masada’s eyes welled up. For a moment, she wanted to believe him.
“I’ve dreamt often that time rolled back, that I gave the order to attack, that we killed those two Arabs. In my dream, Srulie didn’t die, you didn’t attack the Arabs, the grenade didn’t go off, the other kids didn’t die, my legs didn’t separate from my body, and you didn’t run away to the other side of the world. In my dream I can walk, even run. And you and I? We’re happy. Together.”
She breathed deeply, exhaled. “And your wife and kids? Are they also happy in your dream?”
He sat back, his face turned away from the camera.
“Stop dreaming about me,” she said. “It makes me feel dirty.”
The camera left him and focused on the gravestone:
Israel (“Srulie”) El-Tal
Son of Miriam and Shlomo
Murdered 19.8.82
Seventeen at his death
God Avenge His Blood
Masada hoped the camera would linger. The grave had withered over the years, the stone no longer smooth, no longer white, no longer alone. There were many other graves under the shade of mature trees. Only the blue sky was the same, and the mountain towering over the kibbutz.
The camera returned to Colonel Ness. “What’s happening now is bigger than us. If you think I haven’t suffered enough, then chop off my arms too. But don’t punish the State of Israel for my sins.”
“Don’t compliment yourself. Your sins play no role in my life. Not anymore.”
“What would Srulie think of your efforts to destroy the homeland he loved?”
“Israel is destroying itself through infighting and lousy decisions. I’m just a writer.”
“Just a writer? You’ve sent two Arizona governors to jail and a senator to his grave. I’ve followed your career, read your work, watched your victories-”
“You’ve read my stuff?”
He shrugged. “I have people for that.”
In a flash she realized he was still in the game-the commander, staging a raid on a target, attacking with scripted maneuvers designed to weaken her defenses and bring about capitulation. “Then your people might have already told you that I didn’t seek the story. A source gave me a lead, and I followed it.”
“Just like that, out of the blue? You believe in coincidences?”
“Sometimes.” Masada’s back was drenched with sweat, and her scalp was itching under the helmet. “Anyway, it’s done.”
“It’s only starting. Senator Mitchum, the new chair of the Foreign Relations Committee, just announced proposed new legislation-The Fair Aid Act. It would suspend all military aid to Israel pending Senate investigation of Mahoney’s death. Mitchum dared anyone to oppose him, implying that they were on the take too. Our people in Washington are desperate. No one is taking their calls.”
“Pay more bribes.”
“Once it passed the committee, a full Senate vote will take place very soon, then a protracted investigation, unless our friends on the Hill can point to new evidence that Mahoney wasn’t bribed by Israel.”
“Fabricate something.”
“We would,” Colonel Ness said, “but it’s got to come from you. Have you checked your source thoroughly?”
“I’m not going to turn on my own source just to satisfy a crippled Israeli manipulator.”
After a pause, Ness said, “You should enroll in an anger-management seminar.” He pushed his wheelchair, and the camera followed him between rows of graves. “I’m asking you to save the Jewish state.”
“How melodramatic. Israel will survive without American aid.”
“This aid suspension would mean a reversal in American support for Israel, a devastating change of the relationship with our only ally. All I’m asking is that you dig up further, right where your first lead came from.”
“Forget it. I won’t risk my credibility for you people.”
“You people?” He swiveled his wheelchair, facing the camera. Behind him, the hill side was covered with the red roofs of Kibbutz Ben-Yair. The camera opened up, letting the view widen until it showed the tomato fields in the valley below and a green tractor raising a cloud of dust into the clear sky. Above, Mount Masada cut a square block in a skyline. “Your credibility is more important than your homeland?”
“My homeland is America.”
“You’re an Israeli first!”
“Not anymore.”
His face was red. “You’ll go down in history as the woman who brought down the Jewish state.”
“Do we need a Jewish state? Or a Christian, Muslim, or Hindu state?”
“We have a state. It’s alive, and millions of Jews live there.”
“Jews flourished for two thousand years without a state-maybe because they didn’t have a state.”
“Jews died for two thousand years-pogroms, stake-burnings, mass expulsions, crusades, inquisition, a Holocaust.” Ness’s voice was rising. “America alone stands with us against an anti-Semitic world. But the people of the United States would turn against us if they believe that we paid Mahoney to rig up legislation that would force American boys to fight for Israel.”
“The truth will set you free.” Masada inserted her hand through the open eye shield, grabbed the miniature screen, and pulled hard, ripping it from the helmet. A series of screeching sounds came through the earphones.
The woman rider said, “She’s off video feed.”
“Masada!” Colonel Ness’s voice came through the static noise. “Listen to me!”
She found the buckle, released the helmet strap, and took it off, throwing it at the rocks.
The biker picked it up. “He says he’s not done speaking with you.”
Masada walked up the rest of the crevice and stepped into the open. Something glistened on the ground by her foot. It was a snakeskin, long, scaly, and brittle. She picked up the skin and threw it at Ness’s agent. “Tell him he can slither back into his hole.”
“He says he doesn’t want to destroy you.”
A realization came to her with a burst of anger. “And don’t touch my car again!”
“What?”
“Tell him I want payment for the tires you sliced.”
The woman shrugged and listened to Ness’s response. “He says that we don’t bother with tires.” She paused. “He says that you’d better have someone else start your car for you.”
Rabbi Josh lifted Raul onto the flat bed of the tow truck. The boy pulled a lever, and the dual ramps rumbled down from the rear, landing on the hot asphalt.
The driver held Raul’s hand as he jumped down, glowing with pride. “I did it, Daddy!”
“Super.” Rabbi Josh tugged on the visor of his son’s baseball cap. “Didn’t you forget something?”
Raul turned to the driver. “Thank you!”
The driver tipped his straw hat, stuffed his stained orange shirt into his jeans, and bent down to hook up steel chains to the Corvette.
Raul fished Masada’s key ring from his father’s pocket. “I can do it.”
“The long one.” The driver touched the key with a callous finger. “Teeth down.”
Rabbi Josh watched his son insert the key into the keyhole and turn it counterclockwise. The door unlocked, and Raul pulled on the handle to open it.
“Good work,” the driver praised him. “You’re ready to have your own car.”
Rabbi Josh followed the tow truck in his Honda. Raul waved at him through the rear window. The boy had taken off the baseball cap, his wet carrot-colored ringlets pressed down in the shape of the cap. As they drove down Camelback Road, the driver guided Raul’s hand to a string attached to an air horn, clearing traffic before them.
“Eyes are funny.” Dr. Pablo ushered Silver back into his office. “Other essential organs are protected by ribs, bones, muscles, fat, and skin. But eyes are defenseless, like little balloons filled with liquid, nerves, and tiny blood vessels, easily damaged by any-”
“Bad news?” Silver asked.
“As I suspected.” The doctor seemed pleased with the validation of his premonition. “The dye we injected into your bloodstream allowed us to take a peek at your macula.” He handed Silver a pamphlet titled Age-related Macular Degeneration. “Your blotch is caused by AMD, which could be exacerbated by the accident last night.” Dr. Pablo led Professor Silver to a poster on the wall that showed the human eye. “In the front,” he said, pointing, “you have the cornea. When you look at something, the picture passes through the pupil and lens and reflects on the back of your eye, where the optic nerve transmits it to your brain. The macula is this small area.” His finger moved to the back of the eye. “Right in front of the optic nerve. It’s responsible for the most acute vision.”
“The center,” Silver said, “where I have a blotch.”
“It’s the beginning. Eventually, the whole center will disappear.” Dr. Pablo’s hands drew a large circle in the air. “Wet AMD appears as tiny bleeding in the retina, causing opaque deposits and scar tissue, and it’s progressive.” Dr. Pablo scribbled on a prescription pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Silver. “That’s for the police. They’ll let you drive for thirty days.”
“Why only thirty days?”
“I don’t want to get sued when you run over some kid on the street. You better prepare.” He patted the pamphlet. “Life’s about to change.”
“What’s the treatment?”
“Photocoagulation. A laser surgery, which I’ll perform. You have Medicare, yes?”
“I am self-insured.”
“It’ll cost more than twelve thousand dollars.”
Silver was shocked by the amount. “I can pay. I need my vision.”
“Vision is a relative term.” Dr. Pablo looked at the eye diagram on the wall, as if noticing something new on it. “I don’t want you to entertain false hopes. Photocoagulation is the lesser of two evils. Your vision will actually be much worse after the procedure.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If we let it progress, AMD will deprive you of all your vision. To preempt that, I will photocoagulate your central vision to save your peripheral vision, so you have basic functionality.”
Silver sat down, feeling weak. “How basic?”
“Imagine you’re holding a basketball in front of your eye. The ball hides most of the room, but you can still see a margin around it-a bit of the floor, so you can take a step, a little on the right and the left, so you can pass through a doorway, a bit of the sky, so you know if it’s going to rain. Your other senses, touch and sound, will help you form habits, get around the house, take care of personal hygiene, make a cup of coffee. You’ll be functioning on a basic level. Lots of people are legally blind.”
“No! I can’t go blind!” Silver raised his voice more than he had intended.
“I’m sorry, Professor, to be the bearer of bad news, but your right eye has done the work of two for a long time. It’s tired.”
“And if I don’t do anything?”
“Maybe a couple of months, before it’s too late.” Dr. Pablo closed the file. “The nurse will schedule the procedure for next week. At your age, we’ll keep you in the clinic for a few hours, make sure you’re okay before going home. Can your wife drive?”
“My wife died many years ago.”
“Your children?”
It was becoming too personal for Silver. “My only son is also dead. But I have friends at the synagogue.”
“Good. Very good.” The doctor headed for the door. “I’ll see you next week.”
Masada hiked up the mountain with ferocious determination, ignoring the pain in her knee. Colonel Ness’s show replayed in her mind, ending with his empty threat. She stopped to drink from her water bottle. He wouldn’t booby trap her car. It wasn’t something the Israelis would do to anyone but Arab terrorists with blood on their hands.
Yet as she continued hiking, it nagged at her. The Corvette had been left at the resort parking lot all night. Could Rabbi Josh be in danger?
Masada turned and ran down the trail, keeping her eyes on the uneven dirt and protruding rocks. The bandage was getting loose under the knee brace, rubbing the fresh scab. She ignored it, imagining Rabbi Josh in her car, turning the key.
She ran faster, chased by the image of his flesh on fire, teeth bared in a deathly grin. Why did I let him get my car? Why did I invite him to the award ceremony? Why in the world had I allowed him into my life? Into my bad luck?
Raul watched the technicians remove the wheels while Rabbi Josh went to pay for the new tires. When he returned, a young Hispanic was showing Raul a machine that pressed inflated tires into a water tub to check for leaks.
Moments later, the Corvette was ready. Rabbi Josh got in, stretching his legs under the steering wheel. Masada’s seat was far enough back to accommodate his height. His hand went to the ignition, but the key wasn’t there.
“Raul?”
The boy waved at the technician and ran over.
Rabbi Josh put out an open hand. “The keys, young man.”
Raul held a fist to his chest. “I want to start it.”
He grabbed Raul’s hand and tried to pry open his fingers, but the boy collapsed in laughter and wriggled free. He stepped back from the Corvette and dangled the keys, chanting, “You can’t get me. You can’t get me.”
Rabbi Josh considered the effort involved in getting out of the sports car and chasing the boy. “Okay,” he said, “we’ll do it together.”
Raul squeezed between the steering wheel and his father, who planted a ringing kiss on the boy’s cheek. “Yuk!” Raul tilted his head to his shoulder. “No kisses!”
“Okay.” Rabbi Josh noticed a half-circle of idle technicians around the hood, watching them. “Insert the key and turn it clockwise, like this.”
Raul leaned sideways to see where his hand was going. He inserted the key and turned it.
Professor Silver left Dr. Pablo’s office in a state of shock. Blind! He found Al Zonshine snoring in his white Ford van and knocked on the tinted windows. Startled, Al rubbed his puffy eyes. “What did he say?”
“I have eyes like an eagle,” Silver lied, shaking the paper in his hand. “Let’s go to the police station so I can retrieve my license.”
With his extended beer belly busting out of a stained T-shirt, Al Zonshine looked nothing like the rest of the congregants at Temple Zion. His sparse hair formed an unkempt horseshoe, and his shortness of breath caused him to keep his mouth constantly open, exposing large, yellow teeth. But identifying Al’s mental weakness had been Professor Silver’s real break. The retired plumber’s rough belligerence hid instinctive obedience, rooted in his Vietnam-era service. His soldier’s spirit had been easily awakened by Silver’s invitation to join a clandestine operation “in the service of Israel.”
At the police station on Lincoln Drive, Silver showed Dr. Pablo’s note and recovered his Toronto-issued driver’s license. Al drove him to the Avis office on Scottsdale Road, where another rental Cadillac was waiting.
Back at his house, with both vehicles parked inside the garage, Professor Silver turned on the radio in the living room, increasing the volume until it hurt his ears. He led the way down to the basement, shut the door, and rolled two joints.
“Going strong.” Al blew a ring into the air. “I’m sharp, like I’m nineteen again. Boot camp sharp. Everything so real, ever since I flushed those psycho drugs down the toilet.” He knuckled his forehead. “Ticking like clockwork!”
“Didn’t I tell you? Never trust those shrinks.”
“Fog’s gone from my head. Pain’s gone from my chest too.” Al grinned, smoke drifting between his teeth. He killed his cigarette in a Coke can.
“You watched Masada’s house last night?”
The snorting was uttered with the head tilted back. “Reconnaissance’s my specialty. FBI and police were already there when the bitch showed up on foot, all messed up.”
“And?”
“Hauled off loads of her stuff, those guys.”
“And Masada?”
Al rubbed his bald head, pleased with himself. “Stayed up for a while, spent lots of time in the bathroom, and went to sleep on the patio.”
“Outside?”
“Wore a really short nightgown.” Al touched his crotch. “Dragged her mattress out, white sheets, fluffy comforter.”
“And you?”
“Got in with her almost, show her what a real man can do between those long legs.”
Silver fought to control his anger. “You went near her while she was sleeping?”
Another snort. “Easy.”
“What if she woke up?”
“Nah.” Al laughed. “I’m like a VC in the jungle. Zero sound. A killing machine.” He pounded a fist into his palm. “Can’t believe Mahoney’s gone.”
“Right.” Silver turned on his computer, using the time to think about the next step. Al was easy to manipulate, but difficult to contain, an emotional seesaw. “I received our new orders from the National Council,” he lied. “Judah’s Fist will take revenge.”
Al folded his arms across his belly. “Teach her a lesson.”
The Yahoo homepage appeared on the screen. Silver clicked on Middle East News.
“Punish the rabbi too. He’s like a dog in heat!”
“Don’t be vulgar.” Silver read an Associated Press report about Senator Mitchum’s proposed Fair Aid Act and the meek opposition mounted by the pro-Israel lobby on Capitol Hill. Silver could not stop smiling. His plan was working faster than he’d ever expected. But this success could turn into tragedy if the FBI found the memory stick he had given Masada.
“Laughing at me?”
The professor turned away from the screen. “Do I have a reason to laugh?”
“Guess not.” Al snorted. “Tell me, what’s that Mahoney said about a spy video? Did the bitch follow me when I went to give him the cash?”
“Impossible.” It amused Silver how being a member of the phantom Judah’s Fist organization had intoxicated Al with self-worth. “You’re too good for her.”
Al nodded. “No way she kept up with me. I used top-notch avoidance techniques.”
“I’m sure you did,” Silver said, struggling not to laugh. He had installed the miniature video camera in Al’s van, a job made simple by the abundance of junk in it. “There’s no spy video,” he lied. “She was bluffing, and Mahoney bought it. It’s a textbook trick-journalists always claim they have evidence in order to dupe a subject into confessing.”
“Makes sense.” Al rolled and lit another cigarette. He inserted the burning end into his mouth, closing his lips. He blew, emitting smoke through the exposed filter, and took it out, pleased with himself.
While browsing the news, Silver considered Masada’s optional hiding places for the memory stick containing the video. Under a floor tile? In the toilet tank? In the freezer? The FBI wouldn’t miss those. The car. Must be in the car.
On the screen, a Reuters report quoted an anonymous source in the Israeli Defense Ministry: A prominent American-Israeli writer was once convicted and jailed for manslaughter.
Professor Silver read it again, shocked. He realized he knew nothing of Masada’s past. Then a thought came to him: Wasn’t Israel a leader in medical innovation?
He Googled key words: macular degeneration experimental treatment success
After browsing several pages of unhelpful results, he saw one that seemed promising and clicked on the link.
It was a Jerusalem Post news piece titled: Hadassah Surgeon Claims 68 % Success Rate with Experimental Stem-Cell Treatment for Macular Degeneration. At the bottom was a contact e-mail, which Silver used to send a short note describing his condition and requesting to be considered for treatment.
Running down the hill, Masada tried to calculate how long it would take for the tow truck to deliver the Corvette to the shop and for the tire repairs to be completed. She had to stop Rabbi Josh! Colonel Ness’s parting shot made it clear that he knew more than he was letting on. She had to get to a phone!
Masada took the shortcut through the crevice and down to the fork in the trail, where she followed Echo Canyon toward her house. What a cruel irony it would be if, instead of getting her, they would kill such a fierce supporter of Israel as Rabbi Josh.
Professor Silver parked the Cadillac behind the news van. Masada’s garage was open, the chrome bumper on her Corvette glistening in the sun. Entering the garage, he could hear voices through the connecting door to the house. He popped open the trunk and felt around the fading blue lining for the memory stick. He peeked in the spare-tire compartment and the tool box.
Giving up on the trunk, Silver opened the driver’s door, which was lined with blue vinyl. The hot air inside smelled of lemon and grease. To enter the Corvette, he had to bow down as in praying. He wondered, Why would anybody pass on a Cadillac to drive this tiny can of sardines?
Under the driver’s seat he found a box of tissues. The glove compartment, decorated with checkered-flag insignias, held the car manual in a blue plastic cover. He slipped his hand under the passenger seat, wincing as the gear shift bore into his ribs. Nothing.
Voices sounded from the house. He ignored the risk, determined to find the memory stick-the only physical evidence linking him to the affair. He turned around, his knees on the seat, his head against the soft top, and reached all the way down behind the backrest.
The door to the house opened, and the rabbi’s son asked, “Who’s there?”
Silver gritted his teeth and yelled jovially, “Hello!”
“Hi, Professor!” The boy stepped closer. “Are you stuck?”
Faking laughter, Silver tried to back out of the car. “Isn’t this a gorgeous machine?”
“Levy?” The rabbi appeared. “Are you all right?”
“This car is a work of art.” Silver finally made it out of the Corvette. “Oh, and you had the tires fixed already!”
“It was a quick thing,” the rabbi said. His son got behind the wheel and pretended to drive.
“It’s like a Ferrari I once drove in Rome,” Silver boasted. “Breathtaking.”
The rabbi gave him an odd look. “A Ferrari?”
Silver decided it was time to quote from the Torah. “Of the blue, purple and crimson yarns they molded vestments for officiating in the Sanctuary, and Aaron’s sacral vestments-”
“-as the Lord had given Moses the designs.” Rabbi Josh laughed.
The professor patted the soft top. “I didn’t know they made power tops in the fifties.”
“Fifties? This is an eighty-six model.”
“So much for my knowledge of cars.” Silver looked at the rabbi’s shorts and T-shirt, exposing his muscular arms and legs. “If you dressed like this for services, we’d have a crowd of young ladies sign up for temple membership.”
“You’re here!” Masada stood at the open garage door, outlined by the glaring sunlight. She bent over, panting. Below her shorts, an old-fashioned brace was strapped to her right leg from the shin to the middle of her thigh. Her skin was the color of mocha, making her teeth even whiter as she smiled at Rabbi Josh. “Am I glad to see you!”
“We were admiring your car.” Silver closed the passenger door. “Beautiful!”
“The quintessential American car.” Masada lowered her head to peck his cheek. “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t know what came over me, running off like that.”
“You suffered a shock, meidaleh.” He squeezed her arm. “My fault completely. I should sign up for pilot training.”
Rabbi Josh said, “Have you had your eyes checked?”
“What do you think?” Professor Silver touched his thick glasses. “The doctor was very impressed with my vision, especially considering my age. It was probably a speck of dust.” He watched their faces-they seemed to accept his lies without a question.
A car horn sounded in front of the house. The boy ran outside and yelled, “Taxi is here!”
“Got to go,” the rabbi said, touching Masada’s arm, “fetch my car from the tire place. Don’t forget you’re leading the Torah discussion on Friday night.”
“Look!” Masada pointed to the hood. “They keyed my car!”
“Oy vey!” Silver put a hand on her shoulder. “Such desecration!”
Rabbi Josh leaned closer. “What’s this supposed to be?”
Masada followed the pattern with her finger. “A hand holding a stick?”
“A tree branch,” the rabbi said. “Or a weapon.”
Silver was offended. He thought it was quite clear. “It looks like a letter.”
“A fist holding the letter J!” Masada traced it.
The rabbi stepped back. “Judah’s Fist.”
“Bastards!” Masada hit the hood with an open hand.
In a mild voice intoned to dispensing wisdom, Professor Silver said, “Listen to an old Jew. You hurt the criminals by exposing the bribe. Whoever they are, here they got a little revenge. Time to call it even.”
The taxi honked again.
“I disagree.” Rabbi Josh stepped out into the sun, his honey-colored hair sparkling. “You must investigate further, seek the truth.”
“But you know the truth already!” Professor Silver struggled to hide his anger. “Why put yourself at risk? Remember what Hillel said? If I am not for myself, who is for me?”
As the rabbi’s taxi drove off, the blonde reporter got out of the news van and approached the open garage door with a cameraman. “Masada, can you comment on the senator’s suicide?”
“You want it on camera?”
“Of course.”
“Then give me fifteen minutes to change.”
Inside, Silver feigned shock at the empty shelves. “Dear God!”
“FBI’s looking for the video clip.”
He followed her into a large walk-in closet. “I’ll give them a clip on the nose.”
Masada laughed at his bravado. She collected clean underwear, a bra, and a dark blue pantsuit on a hanger. “They won’t find it.”
“You sure? I’m taking Valium like there’s no tomorrow. We must get rid of it.”
“Not yet. I may be able to find more clues on it.”
He took off his eyeglasses and polished the thick lenses with a cloth. “I gave it to you because I didn’t know what else to do. But I never imagined this! The FBI!”
“It’s my problem, Levy. Nobody will ever know it came from you.”
He made his voice tremble. “I’m too old for scandals.”
She the bulky brace from her leg, exposing a bandage with a dark stain on her knee.
“No more retirement in the sun for me!”
“You don’t appear in the clip, your fingerprints are gone, and I didn’t keep any notes. So stop worrying already, okay?” She limped to the bathroom, carrying her clean clothes and the crude brace.
“Did you hurt your knee with all that jogging?”
“Exacerbated an old injury. Another pain I have Israel to thank for.” She closed the bathroom door before he had a chance to ask about it. “I’ll be done in a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Silver said and headed to the garage.
The phone rang. He heard the bathroom door open and paused, unsure what to do.
She must have hit the speaker button, and a man’s voice announced, “Masada, darling! How are you surviving? I am utterly sick over this!”
“Don’t be sick, Dick. You’ll ruin the rugs.”
“You are terrible!” Drexel laughed. “Listen, I have good news, and I have wonderful news. First, since this morning, online subscriptions to Jab Magazine are up sixty-two thousand!”
“I feel warm and fuzzy. Let’s send a thank you card to Mahoney.”
“Funny! Funny!”
“What’s the other news?”
“Our lawyer, Campbell Chadwick, filed court papers against the search and seizure. He expects you’ll have your stuff back by Wednesday at the latest. How’s that?”
“Peachy,” Masada said. “Jab well done.”
“Funny! Funny!”
“Speaking of funny, where is the TIR Prize Mahoney made me throw away?”
“The newsboy? I’ll send it over by messenger. Also, I got a call from New York. The book division is waiting for your outline of the new book.”
“Soon.”
“They’re anxious to capitalize on your current fame. They’ll pay you the next advance as soon as you deliver the first draft. You could use the money, right?”
“Understatement of the year.”
As soon as the bathroom door closed, Professor Silver stepped out to the garage, finding the Channel 6 crew setting up. The reporter stood by the Corvette, posing for the cameraman, counting into a microphone.
“Don’t mind me,” Silver said. “Just getting something from the car.” He entered the Corvette and continued his search. Finding nothing behind the seats, he went through the car a second time, finally giving up.
Masada reappeared in a pantsuit that exaggerated her height, clinging to her narrow hips and flaring out downward in a bell shape over her shoes. She seemed to walk on air. The jacket was open in the front, showing an ivory blouse over firm breasts. She wore no jewelry and her hair was loose.
The cameraman attached a microphone to her blouse. Silver stood in the corner. It was hot, even with the big fan they had set up.
“This is Tara Flint,” the reporter said, “reporting from the home of Masada El-Tal. First, can you tell us why the FBI searched your home last night? Are you a suspect?”
Masada looked into the camera. “Senator Mahoney’s suicide was a tragic event. He was a war hero and a dedicated politician. But my article was based on irrefutable evidence and the senator’s own confession. The FBI search is nothing but harassment, and our legal counsel is fighting it.”
“Senator Mahoney accused you of failing to tell the whole story. What else do you know about Judah’s Fist, its members and its sponsors? How are you planning to expose them?”
“What I know so far has appeared in my article. I’ll continue to investigate until Judah’s Fist and its Israeli sponsors are brought to justice.”
“The Associated Press reported today that,” the reporter glanced at her notes, “according to a source in Jerusalem, a prominent Israeli-American writer was once convicted in Israel and served time for manslaughter. Are they talking about you?”
Professor Silver watched Masada’s face, admiring her self-control. She bent her right leg, shifting her weight to the left, and said, “Why don’t you ask them?”
Verdi’s Nabucco was playing on the radio. Elizabeth McPherson, chief counsel for the U.S. Immigration Service, Southwest Region, sifted through the photos in the file until she found the one showing the scrawny wife washing dishes. “And this, Your Honor,” Elizabeth held up the photo, “was submitted by Mr. Hector to support his application for citizenship, purporting to depict a happy wife, her loving husband hugging her while she cleans up after dinner.” Elizabeth approached the chair she had positioned under the dark window as stand-in for the judge. “Unfortunately, as this court must realize, this photo is a fake.”
The phone rang, interrupting her rehearsal for tomorrow’s court hearing. Only one person could be calling five hours after the office had closed.
“David?”
There was silence at the other end.
“Hello? David?”
The caller hung up.
Elizabeth put down the receiver and faced the empty chair. “As I was saying, Your Honor, this idyllic photo was staged in a newly constructed home where Mr. Hector worked as a painter. Moreover, close examination of this woman’s arms shows multiple needle marks.”
She paused for a certain objection from opposing counsel and responded, “My esteemed colleague forgets that drug use proves disregard for the law and need for money. Based on this evidence, we ask this court to rule that Mr. Hector’s marriage was a fraud, deny his application for citizenship and order his deportation.”
With a satisfied sigh, Elizabeth gathered the documents into the file. After her ulcer operation two years ago, she had promised Dr. Gould to leave the office no later than 10 p.m. every night, which was now according to the radio.
The hourly news began with reports of vandalism at Jewish institutions in several major cities, threatening phone calls to Jewish leaders, and demonstrations in front of the Israeli embassy in D.C. The American-Muslim Central Committee issued a statement calling for an end to the “pro-Israel hegemony in Washington.”
“That’s right,” Elizabeth said out loud.
Checking her calendar for tomorrow, she noted the 9 a.m. hearing before Judge Rashinski and a department meeting at noon. A doctor’s appointment was marked for 4 p.m. She rubbed her lower abdomen and pushed away her fears. Years of intestinal problems and hormonal irregularities had taught her to watch her diet and manage stress, but recently her abdominal discomfort resumed-not with pain, but with nausea and hardness of her lower tummy. She turned off the lights and sighed. Why now, when everything’s going so well?
Walking down the empty hallway, Elizabeth reached into offices and turned off the lights, making a mental note to scold her staff for such waste. Exiting the elevator downstairs, she startled the guard, who stood up, his newspaper rustling. “Miss McPherson!”
“Hi, Rickie.” She pushed the door, and a gush of hot air hit her face. “Good night.”
The guard’s pickup truck was parked near the steps. Her own car, a seventeen-year-old Toyota, was in her reserved space, down from the director and his three deputies, who were long gone for the day. She didn’t mind. A female immigrant would not rise to chief counsel without exceptional diligence. She glanced up at the white building towering over her. People had expected her to slow down, but she worked even harder, determined to break through yet another glass ceiling.
Reaching her car, she noticed a black sedan in David’s spot. He had left hours ago, going home to his wife and daughter. Elizabeth searched her purse for the car keys.
The sedan’s door opened, the interior lights outlining a man in the driver’s seat.
Elizabeth found the keys and unlocked her car.
The man emerged from the black sedan and said, “Good evening.”
In the dim light she saw black-rimmed glasses under a dark beret, a gray goatee, and suspenders over a white shirt. He was not young, maybe sixty or seventy.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, handing her a piece of paper.
It was a photo of this man with his goatee and black beret standing next to a stooped man in a white robe and a checkered headdress. On the back, a hand had scribbled a sentence in Arabic: Daughter, help this important friend in whatever he asks of you. Allah is great.
The signature below resembled the endorsement signatures on the monthly checks that came back with her bank statements. In disbelief Elizabeth turned over the photo and looked closely at the face.
“Your father,” the man said, “sends his love.”
Elizabeth pointed to the white building. “Seventeen years I have worked here. Before that, seven years of night shifts at Circle K while attending college and law school. Whatever I’ve made, ten percent has gone to him. But not a word of thanks.
Ever!”
The man nodded. “Hajj Mahfizie praises you every day.”
“Not a word in twenty-four years.” She shook the photo in the man’s face. “Now this?”
“A new beginning perhaps?” He raised his black-rimmed glasses and dabbed his right eye with a white handkerchief. “Allah works in mysterious ways.”
She tilted the photo under the street lamp. “He looks old. Is he ill?”
“Your father is tired, his strength drained by decades of struggle against the Israelis. But he is optimistic about the future-an independent Palestine for our children.”
Elizabeth fought back her tears. “Children were not my strength. He probably told you.”
“You are his child, Elzirah.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Hajj Mahfizie is proud of his prominent daughter.”
She shrugged.
“He is the conscience of the refugee camp, especially for the young men, who are filled with hate. The West Bank is still a place of suffering. You know about suffering, yes?”
Elizabeth leaned against her car, feeling weak. “As they say, you can take the refugee out of the camp, but you can’t take the camp out of the refugee.”
The old man smiled. “You miss him.”
“He sold me like a sheep.”
The man bowed slightly, as if in apology. “Your father regrets letting you marry so young.”
“He regretted having to pay Hassan back the money he had gotten for me.”
The man tugged on his goatee. “Your father did his best.”
“He sold a sixteen-year-old girl, who spoke only Arabic and had never left the refugee camp, to a fifty-year-old butcher, who took me to America. I lost half my weight in four months and as many pregnancies.”
“I understand.” The man crumpled his beret. “He prayed for Allah to bless you with your own family in a free country.”
“Hassan accused me of causing the miscarriages, and Father believed him. Do you know the punishment for abortion under the law of Sharia?” She choked. “I was a child myself!”
The man dabbed at his eye again. “Your father begs Allah’s forgiveness every day.”
He was wrong, of course, but Elizabeth had no will to dredge up the pain. “Who are you?”
He bowed. “Here, I am known as Professor Levy Silver.”
“A Jew?” She had assumed he was a Palestinian who had lost his accent after many years in America. “My father sent me a Jew?” She reached into the car and pulled out her purse. “How much?”
“No, no!” He put his hands up. “Money is not a problem.”
“Then what is the problem?”
He pointed at the building. “I seek permanent resident status.”
“File an application. If you have a job, your employer can sponsor you.”
“My employer is you.”
She looked at him. Was he mad?
“I work for you and the rest of the Palestinian people. My work is secret, of course.”
Elizabeth entered her car.
“I need a green card, and you are in the best position to fix it.”
“Fix it?”
“Hajj Mahfizie was told of your position. Such a title entails lots of power.”
“It entails a duty to enforce the law, Professor, not to break it.” She started the engine. “For your sake, I will forget this conversation ever happened.” She began to close the door.
He grabbed it halfway and leaned into her car, emitting a smoker’s breath. “I’ll meet you tomorrow night, ten-fifteen, at McDonald’s on the corner of Indian School and Twelfth Street.”
She was paralyzed. How did he know her Tuesday night routine?
“Meal number three.” He smiled, adjusting his black-rimmed glasses. “With strawberry shake. To go.”
Elizabeth McPherson watched the professor get into his black sedan. She gripped the steering wheel to stop her hands from shaking and wondered, Does he know what I do on Wednesday nights?