Professor Silver and Al Zonshine watched the rabbi’s house for the first half of the night. Rabbi Josh returned late, but Masada didn’t leave. After some time, the lights turned off. The obvious implication, that Masada and the rabbi had gone to bed together, sent Al on a verbal rampage, but Silver calmed him down with a reminder that the lovers’ time together would be short.
They drove to Masada’s house and parked Al’s van in the dry wash in the back. They crossed her backyard and reached the dark patio unnoticed. Al put on surgical gloves and forced a flat screwdriver between the aluminum-framed glass doors.
Inside, moonlight cast shadows through the three large skylights in the high ceiling. Al checked every room, closing doors. With a purposeful air, he knelt by the closed garage door, unzipped a black bag, and took out a miner’s lamp on a headband, which he put on. From a box of long matches he selected three and banded them together with a strip of blue tape. “Fuse,” he explained, taping the matches head-down to the bottom of the door, the ignitable heads almost touching the floor. He tore an empty matchbox and stuck it to the stone floor at an angle, making sure the blue tape did not cover the ignition strip.
“Done.” Al stood up, grabbing his bag. “She’ll park her car in the garage, come to the door, turn the knob, and push it in. The matches will scrape the pad, ignite, and boom!”
“Right,” Silver said. Together with the house and the memory stick hidden somewhere within these walls. Then it would be Al’s turn to go, and Silver already had a plan.
In the kitchen, Al fumbled with the stove. He didn’t notice Silver going to Masada’s bedroom.
A mattress lay on the floor, wedged between the wall and a single night table. The light from the hallway fell on a book on the floor by the mattress. He picked it up and noticed a pair of holes that perforated his left cheek in the back-cover photo. He opened the book. The pin holes ran to page 67, and a light-brown stain had spread around each hole, as if something had been injected into the book.
Rejoining Al, he watched him turn a knob on the stovetop. An automatic starter began ticking and a flame appeared. Al lowered the flame, took a water bottle from his bag, unscrewed the top, and poured water in a circle over the burner, dousing the flame. Gas hissed slowly, spreading a sour smell.
They left through the patio, shutting the tall glass doors.
Silver said, “Good work, soldier.”
“Yes, sir!”
“What if she smells gas in the garage?”
“Solid wood door with tight rubber seal. Built to prevent gases from coming into the house from the garage. Works both ways.”
They got over the back fence and hurried through rocks and thorny brush to the path that ran down the middle of the dry wash. The neighbors’ homes were dark and lifeless. Huffing and puffing, Al glanced at the book. “You’re going to read it?”
“I wrote it.” Silver walked faster to keep up.
Al unlocked the van. “What’s it about?”
“About the German Jews in the thirties, under the Nazis.” He held on as Al drove off. “They wanted to escape Germany, but had nowhere to go. President Roosevelt called a conference of many countries in Evian, France, to discuss visas for Jewish refugees, but not a single country opened its gates. So Hitler concluded he could exterminate the Jews without interference from other nations.”
Al drove slowly, as Silver had instructed him, to avoid drawing attention. “They’re all anti-Semites.”
“That’s too simplistic. Many people admire the Jews for their intellectual achievements and national resilience.”
“They should.” Al pulled off his gloves and threw them in the back. “I mean, look at you, writing a book like that. How many goyim can write a whole book?”
“A few have.” Silver chuckled.
Al rotated his left arm, massaging his shoulder. “Pain’s driving me nuts.” He pulled a cigarette out of a pack and pressed in the lighter on the dash. “Suckers, that’s what we are. We work for the goyim, build universities and hospitals, find cures for diseases, and fight in their wars. And then they dump us, like they kicked us out of Sweden-”
“Spain, not Sweden.” The cigarette lighter popped, and Silver pulled it out and held it for him. “Portugal also, and England and France.”
Al drew deeply, blowing out enough smoke to momentarily hide the road ahead. “Screwing Israel is the new anti-Semitism. With help from traitors.” He spat out the window. “Going to burn, that bitch.” Al puffed a few times. “Wish I could watch her skinny ass getting barbecued.”
The image sickened Silver. “Al, please!”
“She’ll sizzle. Tssss! Tssssssss!”
“You’re taking it too personally.”
Al tossed the burning stub out the window. “Without America Israel is fucked. Fucked!”
Silver felt his lips curl into a grin. “You’re right,” he said. “When you’re right, you’re right.”
Elizabeth watched the sun ease up over the rooftops, lighting up the dark sky with a tinge of red. Soon the balcony floor would also be red. The knife rested in her lap. She was ready. When the sun cleared the rooftops, she would open her veins and let the blood pour out with all her agony.
Elizabeth examined Father’s face in the photo. The flesh had gone from under his skin, which had the color of dry parchment. He would never again carry her on his back through the dirt roads of the camp or surprise her with a discarded toy he had found or sit her in his lap while she tickled his neck, making him laugh.
She put the photo down next to the knife. David had betrayed her, destroyed her dream of a happy family, of a happy future. She had no reason to live any longer.
The sun showed itself in full.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Father was right. I am cursed.
Her hand grasped the black handle. She saw David with painful clarity, his good looks as deep as the mascara on a street-corner prostitute. He had used her to rise through the ranks, soared beyond her sphere of influence, and discarded her. Could she work in the same office with him? No! But what else? Private practice? Whoring her expertise to the fraudulent Mexicans she so despised? In a single day, her career and hopes had been crushed.
There was no future.
A dead end.
Cursed.
Elizabeth brought the knife to her wrist. She was determined to do it right, not to be another attempted suicide, a call for help. In her will, which she had written by hand, Elizabeth instructed that her body be cremated without an autopsy. She cringed at the thought of colleagues finding out she was pregnant.
She placed her wrist on the armrest and leaned hard on the knife. The skin parted with a burning sensation that reached her brain with alarm. Her pulse quickened. She realized a smooth blade would have worked better than this steak knife.
Just do it! Inhaling deeply, she began to saw her own flesh.
Something-someone! — poked at her belly. Elizabeth jumped, and the knife fell. She looked down in disbelief. It happened again. She grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up to her armpits, exposing her abdomen.
A little mound appeared near her belly button, as if a thumb stuck from within. It disappeared and poked out again, slightly higher, as if signaling a message. I want to live!
She bunched up the cloth of the dress and pressed on the wound to stop the flow of blood.
Sinking to her knees, Elizabeth looked up at the brightening sky. “Thank you, Allah,” she said, and began to sob.
The mask was grinning while its left eye squirted blood. Srulie’s bone protruded from the hole like a serrated monocular. The mask laughed. It melted into the face behind it, first the chin, then the lips and nose.
I know this face!
Masada lost her grip and fell backward into the void while the mask continued to laugh.
Who are you?
She dropped through the air with the sickening feeling of free fall, of gaining speed with the irresistible force of gravity. She braced herself for the collision with the rocky bottom.
“Masada,” a boyish voice pleaded, shaking her shoulder. “Masada!”
“Wait, Srulie! I must find out who it is behind-”
“Wake up!”
She threw off the blanket and sat up.
The window above the cot was bright with the morning sun.
Raul’s curls were flat on one side of his head, his eyes crusty, squinting in the light. “You scared me!”
“Sorry.” She touched him, the cotton pajama warm against her hand. “I had a bad dream.”
“My mom comes out of the picture sometimes and talks to me.”
“Is that a bad dream?”
He shrugged. “She wants me to come with her. I kind of want to, but I don’t want to leave Dad. And Shanty.” He crawled back into his bed and hugged a pillow.
Masada dreaded the moment he would learn that Shanty was gone.
“Dad said it’s because I really want to meet her, but she’s dead. So I can’t meet her in life. That’s why.”
Masada had not planned to spend the night at the rabbi’s house. He must have found her asleep when he returned home last night. She caressed Raul’s red curls, quickly pulling back. “Your dad is a wise man.”
Rabbi Josh found them sitting in Raul’s bed, each holding one end of the newspaper. Raul was saying, “But why is the man laughing?”
“I don’t know,” Masada said. “It’s probably an old photo.”
“Maybe he’s just pretending. Like I sometimes laugh, but inside I’m sad?”
“That can happen,” she agreed. “Drink some more juice.”
“Okay.” Raul let go of his side of the newspaper, reached for a glass next to the bed, and saw his father. “Dad!” He stood on the bed and jumped into the rabbi’s arms.
Masada got up and shook her right leg to release the pants over the knee brace. “Good morning.”
Rabbi Josh looked up from her body, feeling his face flush. She could not have missed his lingering eyes.
Raul tugged on his father’s finger. “You didn’t wash your hands this morning, Dad.”
“I did some work in the yard.” He dreaded telling the boy that he had buried Shanty.
“Masada had a bad dream.” Raul jumped up and down on the bed. “I had to wake her up because she was noisy.” He stuck out his lips and cooed repeatedly until they both laughed.
She shouldered her bag. “See you later, boys.”
“Bye!” Raul ran over and hugged her tightly. “I love you.”
She fluffed his hair and glanced at Rabbi Josh. “Be good,” she said.
The rabbi followed her outside. “Nightmares getting worse?”
“Variations on a familiar theme.” She shrugged. “It starts the same, but-”
“Different ending?”
“It’s the falling down thing, like being in Levy’s flying Cadillac, but it’s another place.”
Rabbi Josh was surprised. “I expected something connected to Senator Mahoney’s suicide. Usually the most stressful or shocking event pierces through the psychic walls. You really should see someone.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“It’s not a question of willpower. This condition could trigger a mental breakdown.”
“I don’t have money for therapy right now.” She picked up her bag.
“That’s an excuse.”
“Welcome to the life of a freelance writer. Plenty of fame-or infamy-but no cash. I’m tight until the next advance.”
He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “This came through my e-mail last night.”
It was a copy of her manslaughter conviction by the Israeli military court. “Ancient news,” she said. “I’m going to expose the Israelis.”
“Expose the truth, even if it’s not what you expect?”
“You doubt my integrity?”
“It’s hard to admit a mistake.”
“The facts will support my accusations. My next article will be titled: How Israel Doomed Itself.”
“Clever, but wrong.” Rabbi Josh looked at his muddy fingernails. “I have to find a way to tell him.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a while,” she said. “My bad luck is contagious.”
“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in God, who lets us make choices and face the consequences.” He gave her a hard look. “I also believe that, deep inside, you still love Israel.”
“I miss the Israel of my childhood. But that Israel is long gone.”
He watched her go to the door. “Don’t forget Friday night.”
When the sound of the Corvette disappeared, he sighed and went to tell Raul that Shanty had gone to dogs’ heaven.
Professor Silver parked the Cadillac under an expansive mesquite tree, lowered the windows, and turned off the engine. He glanced at the empty parking lot of the immigration service building, unfolded the letter from Hadassah Hospital, and read it again. He had to be in Jerusalem no later than Friday, August 15-eight days away. Assuming Masada would die in the explosion this morning, he only needed two more things to happen: a green card issued by the U.S. government, enabling him to return from Israel and commence Phase Two, and recognition as a new citizen from the Israelis, so that the treatment would be free. The irony was that if either of these two enemy governments realized his true identity, blindness would be the least of his problems.
Watching the parking lot through the front windshield, Silver wondered what had resulted from his brief conversation with Mrs. Goodyear yesterday. He had to make Elizabeth comprehend the calamity that would befall her if she continued to rebuff him.
He sighed bitterly. The brothers in Ramallah would rather let him go blind than risk losing the fruits of his brilliant work. He had achieved the impossible-turning the tide of American public opinion against Israel without shooting a single bullet or detonating a single bomb. Rajid had provided technical support-arranging for the house, car, and living expenses, the information about the old secret Al Zonshine held over Senator Mahoney, the bribe money, and even the suggestion of Masada as the media conduit-a credible Jewish critic of Israel. In fact, Masada could be useful during Phase Two, as well. But Ramallah had left him no choice but to eliminate her.
He glanced at his watch. 7:16 a.m. Masada should be approaching her house this very moment in a tired bliss after a night of lovemaking. He shuddered at the image of flames engulfing her lovely face.
Elizabeth’s Toyota turned into the parking lot. He got out of his Cadillac, put on the black beret, and adjusted his glasses. He expected her to be upset about the shattering of the Goodyear affair. The stick had to hurt, but the carrot he was about to offer her would be too sweet to resist.
Masada eased the clutch, and the Corvette moved closer to the Starbucks takeout window. An acid pit bore into her stomach. By sending that e-mail and old conviction to Rabbi Josh, Ness sent her a message. A threat. Shanty was only the beginning!
An engine roared nearby, and in the rearview mirror she saw the yellow motorbike enter the narrow drive, bypass the cars queuing behind her, and stop next to the Corvette. It was taller than the car, its yellow gas tank parallel to her passenger-side window. It carried the round emblem of BMW.
The passenger door opened, and a leggy woman in a blackleather suit got in. “Shalom,” she said, removing her helmet. The motorbike roared and moved off.
“You again.” Masada glanced at her. “Black boots and a BMW motorbike-like a Nazi storm trooper.”
“That’s why we bought yellow.”
“Hitler would have been pleased.”
The agent’s hand reached inside her black leather jacket, and Masada realized they had decided to eliminate her in the most simple and direct way: a bullet!
Elizabeth pulled down her left sleeve to hide the bandage on her wrist. She collected her briefcase and took a deep breath. She would not give them the pleasure of seeing her bowed in defeat.
“Good morning!” It was Father’s Jew friend. He followed her to the building. “You don’t look so well.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I worry about you.” He patted her arm. “You could be my daughter.”
Elizabeth swung around. “Don’t touch me!”
He examined her through the black-rimmed spectacles. “You lost the promotion, right?”
She turned and marched up the steps. From the top, she looked down at him. “I haven’t seen my father in decades, but I doubt he would break bread with a Jew.”
The professor took off his glasses. He hooked his finger and tapped on his left eye with the fingernail. “The last thing this eye ever saw was my son being murdered by an Israeli soldier. I am a Palestinian, and Allah is my God. Just like your father. And you.”
“But you have a Jewish name!”
“And you? McPherson? Good Irish stock?”
She laughed. “Touche.”
He walked up the steps, joining her at the staff entrance. “You’ve lived for your career, forgoing family, friends, children. And now, your career is over.”
She nodded.
“The Israelis made you a refugee and a wife to a cruel butcher, not your father, who had only tried to set you free from their occupation.”
“True.”
“The Israelis,” he said, “are your real enemies. Our enemies.”
Upstairs in her office, Elizabeth pulled the envelope from her bag. “You are ineligible for permanent resident status. I can’t change the rules.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed his eye. “You dream of going back, right? A hero’s arrival at the camp, everyone running out to greet you, a cheering crowd. Even Hajj Mahfizie.”
She could barely breathe. “How do you know my dream?”
“It’s every immigrant’s dream.” He sighed. “I dream of returning to Haifa, to my childhood home. I dream of hugging my parents and sisters, aunts and uncles, the old neighbors, introducing my wife and son to everyone, telling them of my important work in America, seeing the respect and adulation in their eyes. It’s my favorite dream.”
“Mine also. But it’s an impossible dream.”
“Impossible for me. My loved ones are all dead, and our homes gone. But your father is alive, waiting to hug you.” He joined her at the window. “He also dreams of your return.”
She shook her head.
The professor handed her a letter carrying the seal of the Palestinian president, dated a week before, awarding her the Hero of Palestine Medal, to be presented by a cabinet-level minister in a ceremony at the central square in the Kalandria refugee camp.
Elizabeth sat down, feeling weak. There was no doubt in her mind that Allah was rewarding her for sparing the baby’s life with an opportunity to fulfill an impossible dream.
Hero of Palestine.
She imagined showers of rice and flowers. “Tell me more about yourself.”
The professor removed his beret, revealing tufts of gray hair. “My family came from Damascus to Haifa in 1919. Business was booming, with the influx of industrious, educated European Jews. Many others came from Syria and Lebanon, also from Iraq and Egypt, even from Saudi Arabia. We lived under the British mandate, Arabs and Jews, doing business as if there was no tomorrow. But politics interfered, riots that killed Jews, retaliations that killed Arabs, and the British inciting us against each other to justify perpetuation their colonial grab on Palestine. The UN decided we should partition the land, but we were too proud to accept. So when Israel declared independence in forty-eight, our leaders told us to leave temporarily, until they finished killing all the Jews. My father locked the house, and we traveled to Nablus. But pride soon turned to humiliation, which continues still.”
Elizabeth nodded. “My family was from Acre. We never went back.”
“My father wanted to return to Damascus, but the Syrian regime didn’t want us. He died a few years later, poor and bitter. My mother followed him. I married a distant cousin, and we had a son, Faddah. I became known as Abu Faddah, a kind of nom de guerre. In sixty-seven, Nasser promised that Egypt, Syria, and Jordan would succeed where they had failed two decades earlier, but the Israelis won again. My wife was run over by a tank.”
“The Jews!” Elizabeth fumed. “They have no mercy!”
“Actually, it was a Jordanian tank.” He took a deep breath and exhaled with a whiff of cigarette odor. “They escaped from the Israelis at full speed, running over people and animals.”
Elizabeth covered her mouth.
He looked down, overcome with emotions. “I found Faddah alive in the ruins and took him to Amman. While getting a degree in history, I became involved with the PLO. My comrades raided the Jewish communities across the border, but I could not leave Faddah. The years passed, and slowly Haifa became a distant dream. One day, when Faddah turned fifteen, I realized I could not live like this any longer. So I devised a plan.”
“Weren’t you a Jordanian citizen?”
“I wish.” He sighed. “The Arab countries kept us on refugee status. Nasser, Sadat, Assad, Hussein-just as bad as the Zionists.”
“So you crossed the border to attack Jews?”
“I was never a man of violence. This was going to be my one chance to prove that a hostage operation can succeed. I spied on the target for months before taking action. It was going to be a media spectacle and a certain success.”
“Why?”
“Because I was going to make an offer the Israelis couldn’t refuse. We were going to live through and prevail.”
She watched his face sparkle with enthusiasm.
“I selected a location that symbolized the Jews’ historic sovereignty.”
“Jerusalem?”
He shook his finger. “Mount Masada-the last stronghold of the Jewish kingdom, two thousand years ago. The Israelis identify with the last siege. They glorify the zealots’ ultimate sacrifice. And back then, the Israelis would not negotiate for the release of terrorists. My plan was to demand something the Israelis could not refuse without appearing inhumane.”
His excitement was contagious, and Elizabeth leaned forward, eager to hear.
“I had observed that every month, when the moon was full, a handful of teenagers from a nearby kibbutz climbed the mountain to camp on the summit until sunrise. So one evening Faddah and I crossed in the shallow part of the Dead Sea and climbed Mount Masada. We waited for them in the ancient fort and herded them to one of the rooms-part of the perimeter wall at the cliff’s edge. A few girls and boys. We tied them up and sent a girl to the kibbutz with a note that we would release the hostages if we were allowed to return to our family home in Haifa. I still had the front-door key!”
Elizabeth was biting her fingernails.
“But Allah intervened.” He shook his head. “Our note must have reached someone very discreet, who called the Israeli army. No media. A helicopter came, we started negotiations, but one of the Israeli hostages attacked Faddah, and I accidentally pushed him off the cliff. That ruined everything. The Israelis won again.”
“Do you know his name, the boy who fell?”
“No.” He looked at his hands. “I didn’t even see his face very well.”
“So they attacked?”
“From the most unexpected place. They sent a soldier up the cliff.”
The pencil snapped in Elizabeth’s hand. “What?”
“That cliff goes straight up, higher than a hundred-story building, nothing to hold on to, sheer drop. I didn’t bother to block off that side. But I should have, because one must always expect the Israelis to do the unexpected!”
“They sent a man up that cliff?”
“There you go,” he chortled. “You expect a man, but the Israelis? They sent a woman.”
“But how?”
“My poor Faddah. He wasn’t a fighter. I rushed to help him, but I was too late.”
Elizabeth swallowed as sickness rose in her throat.
“That evil soldier threw Faddah to his death.” Silver’s voice broke. “What kind of a monster kills a boy in such a manner? What fear he must have suffered, dropping through the air, knowing the horrible end that awaited him. Allah’s mercy!” The professor covered his face.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Elizabeth said, trying to comfort him. “She killed him.”
“One day I’ll find that soldier and push her over a cliff!” His face was red, his fist clenched. “Damn her!”
Instead of a gun, Ness’s agent drew a handheld computer. Masada advanced to the Starbucks order window. “Tall latte and a blueberry scone,” she said. “And a cup of ice water.”
The screen lit up, and Colonel Ness appeared, his face against a gray background. “You look tired,” he said, his voice eerily close.
“No more sentimental vistas?”
“How was the night with the rabbi?”
She didn’t answer.
“He is a good man. I hope he makes you happy.”
Masada paid, took the cardboard tray with two cups and a paper bag, and placed all of it on the floor by the agent’s boots. The woman held up the device, the screen facing Masada. There was a camera lens on the top frame, not larger than a penny.
Ness asked, “Did he show you my e-mail?”
Masada maneuvered the Corvette out of the narrow driveway and stopped at Scottsdale Road, waiting for a break in traffic. “Get out, or I’ll pour ice water on your gadget.”
“Please don’t,” he said. “We had to fill out a hundred forms to explain what happened to the ten-thousand-dollar helmet you destroyed.”
She took advantage of a narrow gap and sent the Corvette roaring in a tight, screeching turn, heading north. The motorbike appeared in the rearview mirror.
“We’re running out of time,” Ness said. “Every anti-Semite in Washington is jumping on the Fair Aid bandwagon. More than seventy synagogues have been desecrated across America-broken windows, swastikas, a firebomb in Chicago.”
“You should have thought about it beforehand.”
“We didn’t bribe Mahoney!”
Masada accelerated with full throttle, weaving between cars. “You think you’re the center of the world, don’t you? You Israelis are so arrogant.”
“And what are you? A sabra doesn’t shed her thorns by changing her passport.”
“There are half a million former Israelis in Los Angeles alone,” Masada said. “Israel is losing its people more quickly than it gains new immigrants.”
“I’d love to discuss demographics with you another time, perhaps face-to-face. But right now I have an excellent tip for you. Our sources in the FBI tell us that the money they found at Mahoney’s ranch was traced to a branch of Chase Manhattan Bank in New York City. The account belonged to a subsidiary of a construction company in Riyadh, which is managed by a Palestinian engineer from Ramallah.”
“How convenient.” Masada turned onto McDonald Drive and headed west. “Any leads about snakes or cookies?”
His forehead creased as if he didn’t understand. “I’ll e-mail the banking details to you.”
“The FBI still has my Blackberry.”
“Then my agent will bring over a copy.”
“Don’t bother,” Masada said. “I’m not stupid. You got caught and now you’re lying to get out of it. Take the heat like a man. Accept responsibility for once, unlike the last time you screwed up.”
“I told you we didn’t bribe him. I’m offering you a good lead!”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re forcing us to demolish your reputation.”
“And you’re forcing me to tell the public about the hostage situation on Mount Masada, about how you let those Arabs kill my brother while you sat on your hands.”
“Break your oath of silence? That’s high treason!”
“You publicized my conviction. Deal’s off.”
Colonel Ness glared at her from the other side of the world. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Stopped at a red light, Masada leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Out!”
“No!” Ness barked from the screen. “I’m not done with you.”
Masada pulled the cup of ice water from the cardboard tray. “You’re going to experience connectivity problems.”
“One of the Arab who killed your brother might still be alive.”
Her left foot slipped off the clutch, the Corvette lurched, and the water spilled on her lap. Masada ignored the freezing sensation, focusing on Ness’s face. “You’re lying. They both died.”
“The young one, Faddah, you pulled over the cliff. But the other one was his father-Abu Faddah, Father of Faddah in Arabic. Him you stabbed in the eye.”
“I remember.”
“He threw a grenade and used your steel cable to slide down the cliff. We assumed he had died in the desert, but his body was never found, only his bloody mask.”
The light turned green, and Masada drove off, her mind swirling with emotions. Srulie’s killer? Alive?
“Officially,” Ness said, “the report concluded he must have fallen into a ravine and was consumed by animals.”
“But?”
“A year after the disaster, we learned that the PLO had paid for a glass eye in Italy. I sent someone to check, but the trail was already cold. The file was closed and sent to storage.”
“And you waited decades to tell me this?” She stopped in the middle lane, waiting to turn left on Echo Canyon Road.
“I had the file pulled out of storage. There’s some information I can give you. Eye color, age, physical description.”
“The trail was cold back then, why would it yield anything now?”
“We didn’t have the Internet then. You could search medical records electronically, find a match somewhere. You never know.”
“Why don’t you have Israeli agents search for him?”
“If we found Abu Faddah living somewhere, it would end with an anonymous bullet to the head. But you are a journalist. Finding your brother’s killer would be the scoop of your life. You’ll have your revenge, do a book, maybe movie too. A second Pulitzer, who knows?”
She picked a piece of ice from her lap and dropped it on the floor of the car.
“What do you say? It’s a fair trade.”
“Trade for what?”
“The info about the Arab who got a glass eye in Italy and a copy of the FBI file on the money trail from Ramallah. In return, you’ll publish a follow-up article, clarifying that you have no evidence Israel was involved, that Judah’s Fist is likely a front for an Arab plot, financed by the Saudis, like the 9/11 attacks.” Masada had always regretted failing to shove Srulie’s bone all the way through the Arab’s eye into his brain. Could she have a second chance at avenging her brother? “You want me to trade away my ethics? My self-respect? My reputation?”
“Don’t be so dramatic. All I’m asking is that save your homeland.”
The humor wasn’t lost on her, but she wouldn’t reward him, not even with a smirk. “My homeland is the United States.”
“That’s what German Jews said about Germany. Where would you go when America is plagued by the old virus of anti-Semitism? Where would you go when America kicks you out?”
“I’m an American citizen. No one can kick me out of here.”
“You’re a modern-day Josephus!”
Masada made the turn and drove up Echo Canyon. “Josephus didn’t cause the collapse of the Jewish kingdom. He reported its demise as he saw it, caused by the same obsession with Jewish messianic sovereignty. Josephus recorded history accurately. I admire him.”
“The wrong words can change history!”
The motorbike reappeared in her rearview mirror. She turned into her driveway and hit the button to open the garage door. “Shalom!”
“You’re making a tragic mistake.”
She took the young woman’s chin in her hand and forced it to face her. “Don’t waste your life on this freak.”
The agent got out of the car. A second later, the motorbike zoomed away.
Inside the garage, Masada turned off the engine and stepped out. Her pants were wet, and she couldn’t wait to change and go for a hike.
With the empty cup she scooped up pieces of ice from the floor. Carrying the bag and the Starbucks tray in her right hand, the paper bag and plastic cup in the left, she used her hip to close the Corvette door.
The garage was hot and a bit pungent. Approaching the door to the house, Masada paused, sniffing. The odor was faint, and she wondered if it was wafting in from the outside through the open garage door. She bent over to see if the Corvette was leaking gasoline but saw no stain underneath the car.
Both her hands occupied, Masada used two fingers on her right hand to turn the knob and nudged the door in with her left foot. But as her weight shifted completely onto the right leg, her bad knee buckled just as the door cracked open. She lost her balance and stumbled backward into the garage. She heard a scratch, as if someone lit a match, followed by a loud whoosh and a loud explosion. Through the crack between the closing door and the frame, a vertical sheet of flames burst out, giving Masada a glancing punch, hurling her to the floor. Her head hit the concrete, and the world went black.
Nothing melts a woman’s heart faster than a man’s tears. Professor Silver could see that Elizabeth was deeply moved. “You see,” he said, “I had planned the perfect hostage situation-no bloodshed, no unreasonable demands, only asking that my teenage son regains our family home. But there I was, Faddah murdered by the Israeli soldier who, not satiated with his blood, put a dagger in my eye. I had to throw my grenade, grab her rope, and jump.”
“Off the mountain?”
“Better the rocks than the Israelis. But Allah preserved me. It was a steel cable, swung me all the way to the other side, where the Romans built a ramp to raise their siege machines.” He showed her the palms of his hands. “It took the skin off my hands, terrible pain, and I could see nothing, hear nothing, think nothing. I felt ground under my feet and ran.”
“But surely they chased you?”
“The explosion kept them busy. I don’t know. I must have fainted in the desert. Days later I woke up in a Bedouin tent, cared for by those hardy desert nomads. If not for them, I’d be dead.”
“Allah was watching over you.”
“I’d rather Allah had watched over my son.” Silver sighed. “When I regained my strength, the Bedouins wrapped me in a carpet and delivered me under the Israelis’ nose to Gaza. My comrades smuggled me on a fishing boat to Sicily, and others drove me to Rome. There my destiny became clear to me, and I began a new life as a Jew named Flavian Silver.”
“Doesn’t faddah mean silver?”
“That’s one connection,” he said, raising a finger, “but the full name is in homage to the Roman General Flavius Silva, who put down the Jewish revolt and ended the last Jewish regime in Palestine two thousand years ago. He defeated the last Zealots at Mount Masada. He is my role model.”
“But how can you tolerate living as a Jew?”
“To beat the Jews we must learn to think like them. I studied their history, moved to Canada for a PhD, wrote articles and a book. I developed a plan to end America’s support of Israel by exposing the Jews as the backstabbing vermin they are.”
“My God,” Elizabeth whispered. “You were behind that bribe! I knew the Israelis aren’t that stupid! It’s brilliant!”
He bowed his head.
“And devious!” Her brown eyes examined him with both respect and apprehension.
“And my best helper is an ex-Israeli named Masada. Talk about symbolism!”
“Seems too good to be a coincidence.”
“Allah’s sense of humor, I tell you.” Silver looked upward in wonder. “My defeat on Mount Masada shall be redeemed through my victory using the journalist Masada. It’s divine justice!”
“Victory is still far off.”
“It’s like a chain reaction,” he explained. “One thing must lead to the next. Her expose ignited the process, and Mahoney’s suicide caused rage among his Senate colleagues. The Fair Aid Act will break the spell of the Israeli lobby in Washington and destroy the foundation of Israel’s political power in America-the Jews’ only international ally. In Phase Two, we will launch a campaign to brand Israel an apartheid state and impose appropriate sanctions.”
“Apartheid?” Elizabeth crinkled her face. “From a legal standpoint you’re incorrect. Apartheid is defined as political discrimination based on race. Israelis are from all races.”
“But only Jews are entitled to automatic citizenship, right?”
“Jews are not a race. They are people of many races who share a religion.”
“And keep everyone else out!”
“But every country in the world has limitations on immigration. I’m no friend of Israel, but even the one-and-a-half million Arabs living within the Green Line are regular Israeli citizens, with equal rights to the Jews. My father regretted leaving Acre and losing the right to become a full citizen of Israel. And I remember those Israeli soldiers-Caucasians, Africans, Asians, Slavs, even Druze and Bedouin soldiers. I think that’s why Americans love Israel-a fellow nation of immigrants.”
Professor Silver was shocked. “Whose side are you on? Have you forgotten what the Israelis have done to you and our people?”
“I’m saying, from a technical standpoint, apartheid is the wrong term.”
“Is Jimmy Carter wrong? You should read his book. A magnificent indictment of Israeli apartheid. He opened the floodgates for us, so we can drown the Jews.”
“Carter has no credibility. Polls show that Americans rate him as the worst president in history. And I’ve read his book. It’s about the occupation, not about any racism within-”
“Doesn’t Israel require immigrants to prove they’re Jews? Isn’t that racism?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Saudi Arabia has similar laws. Iran too. Even the Anglican Church is part of the British government structure.”
“Don’t get technical! Apartheid is a catchy word-it’s a known term, familiar to all those naive bleeding-heart liberals in the universities and churches. Political warfare is won by simple, catchy, incessant propaganda, and by forming alliances while sticking a wedge between your opponent and her allies. Without a U.S. veto, the U.N. will impose sanctions on Israel, just like South Africa, cut it off-no exports, no imports, no credit, no energy supplies, no flight privileges, no shipping, no military cooperation. They will have to allow the return of all the Palestinian refugees to Haifa and Jaffa, to the Galilee and Jerusalem. See the irony? They refused Faddah’s return to our home, now they’ll get hundreds of thousands of us. And when Israel is forced to give us the vote, the Arab majority will rule.”
“Fantasies,” Elizabeth said. “Pure fantasies. The Israelis will never allow a non-Jewish majority.”
“You think the Afrikaners ever expected to give blacks the vote? You should read my new book. The international sanctions that brought down apartheid South Africa will bring down Israel without a single explosive belt.”
“You wrote a book about it?” She was impressed.
He nodded modestly. “We will yell it from every podium in the world. Apartheid! I have already set the wheels in motion by sending an anonymous letter to three hundred university professors, inviting them to participate in an annual Israel Apartheid Week.”
“And?”
“Forty universities will hold it next March!”
“Really?”
“Just like South Africa,” he waved his finger, “Israel will kneel under an international boycott. It will be easier, in fact, because most of the world already hates Jews to begin with, even if they deny it. And once Israel caves in, every descendent of Palestinian refugees will become an Israeli citizen and get a vote. It’s a shoo-in.”
“But even then, you’ll still have millions of Jews in Israel.”
“Learn your history. After the Nazis won a democratic election in Germany, they burned down the Reichstag, blamed the Jews, and imposed so-called security measures. They cleansed the government, business, and academia of Jews. We’ll do the same in Israel.”
“In the end, the Nazis didn’t do so well,” she said.
“I assure you that we won’t attack Russia.” He chuckled and glanced at his watch, wondering if Masada’s house had already exploded. It was time to focus Elizabeth’s attention on the carrot he was dangling. “Just imagine: Hero of Palestine! The parade through Camp Kalandria. Your father at your side. And when Israel is transformed into Palestine, you’ll be minister of justice, or chief of the Supreme Court. Think of the possibilities!”
“Big dreams,” she said, but ambition sparkled in her eyes.
“Imagine coming home with honors-a parade, a band, dignitaries lined up to shake your hand.”
Elizabeth smiled. “My father won’t believe his eyes.”
When Professor Silver got home after the meeting at Elizabeth’s office, Al was waiting for him. “Mission accomplished!” Al held up a fist. “You can say Kaddish for the traitor.”
Overwhelmed with mixed emotions, Silver recited, “Blessed be He, judge of the truth.”
“Amen,” Al said.
“Go downstairs,” Silver ordered, “and wait in the basement until I return.” Unable to resist the urge to see with his own eyes, he got back in the Cadillac and drove over to her house.
Masada’s street was blocked off by police. He walked the rest of the way. The air smelled of smoke. He counted two fire engines, a TV van, three more police cars, and a Ford sedan with a forest of antennas on the roof. An ambulance waited at the curb by the house, which had lost all its windows.
Joining a small group of spectators, Silver wondered whether her body had already been removed. It could still be inside, police taking photos, marking the floor. He hoped she hadn’t suffered, that the initial explosion had knocked her out instantly.
He closed his eyes to have a break from the blotch in the middle of his vision. With Masada out of the way and Elizabeth working on his green card, he only needed to get rid of Al, and the road to Hadassah Hospital would be open.
A murmur in the small crowd made him open his eyes.
Two firemen in yellow coveralls helped Masada out of the ambulance.
“Shittan!” Silver’s utterance drew glances from several people. He cringed, realizing they mistook his Arabic reference to Satan for the English word for excrement. He retreated from the group. “Allah’s mercy,” he whispered, “she is indestructible!”
Masada seemed dazed, her blouse torn, her beige pants stained.
You can say Kaddish for her. Silver clenched his fists. Allah’s curses on you, idiot!
“Levy!” She beckoned him.
He followed her around the side of the house to the backyard and sat on a bench facing Camelback Mountain. He glanced over his shoulder into the living room, where police officers milled about. The walls were blackened, and glass shards covered everything. His voice quivered when he said, “This is terrible!”
“What brought you to the neighborhood?”
He had not planned on having a conversation with her. “A dead cat,” he lied. “I opened my door to get the mail and found the carcass on the doormat.”
“Unnatural cause of death, I presume?”
“Is it natural for a cat to lose its head before visiting an old Jew?” Silver sighed. “I came to tell you about my dead cat, and I find you like this!”
“Professional hazards.”
“It’s my fault,” he said. “Why did I give you the video? I should have remembered Rabbi Hillel’s rule: Silence is a sign of wisdom.”
“Rabbi Hillel did a lot of talking for someone preaching silence.” Masada sat at the edge of the bench. “I think I know why they secretly filmed the meeting.”
“Yes?” He had feared she would figure things out before she was eliminated.
“To hold over the senator’s head should he try to cross them. But in the excitement after the meeting, Sheen packed the video camera, but forgot the memory stick in your car.” She banged her fist against her knee brace, making a popping sound. “The insurance policy ended up causing a disaster.”
“And now they’re coming after me.”
Masada stretched her long legs, leaning back, her eyes shut under the bright sun. “Not likely.”
“Not likely?” His hurtful tone was sincere. Didn’t she care about him? “I’m a retired Yid who wants to enjoy his last chapter-a bit of travel, good friends, maybe publish another book. I’d like a few more years. Tell me, meidaleh, is that too much to ask?”
“They won’t hurt you.”
He pointed to the house. “They tried to kill you!”
“To scare me. If the Israelis wanted me dead, I’d be dead.”
She was right, of course. The reason she was alive was Al Zonshine’s incompetence.
Masada smiled, and the dimples by her mouth deepened. She examined him so intently that he turned his face away, fearing she would notice the glass eye despite the thick glasses.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve never lost a source.”
Before he could inquire further, the TV reporter appeared in the patio doors.
“I’ll be a few minutes.” Masada went into the house.
Professor Silver waited a moment and followed. The policemen were gone. He heard the voices in the study.
“Nice decor,” the reporter said. “Gothic.”
“Don’t joke,” Masada said. “We’re working together now. You better shut off your gas main.”
“You should feel very special. I think this is the first assassination attempt in Arizona since Geronimo.”
“Intimidation, not assassination. It’s just a bad prank.”
She was right, and Silver’s rage flared up again. Allah Almighty, why did you send me the only stupid Jew in the world?
“Did you find Sheen’s flight?”
“A single Air Canada flight that day,” Tara said, “arriving Phoenix at 9:00 p.m., but no passenger named Sheen.”
“Probably not his real name. You have the SuperShuttle records?”
Silver heard the fluttering of paper and Masada saying, “My source’s address is not on this list.”
“Maybe your source is lying?”
The professor held his breath.
“My source,” Masada said, “is the only person I trust in this town.”
Good girl. Silver exhaled.
“What makes you so sure?” Tara asked.
Silver strained to hear.
“He reminds me of my dad. That whole generation of Jewish men were the same-thoughtful, learned, soft spoken, ethical, always trying to do the right thing. Even his humor is like my dad’s.” Masada paused. “He’s kosher, trust me.”
In the hallway, Silver was beaming; he had managed to fool Masada El-Tal, Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative reporter!
“I know what you mean,” Tara said. “I had a source once who reminded me of my first boyfriend. He also turned out to be a scumbag.”
“My source was used as a safe house, that’s all. Sheen must have tipped the SuperShuttle driver to keep him off the log. Our last hope is your priest.”
A priest? Silver scurried away and dropped on the singed sofa, slumped, head back, eyes closed. Why does Masada need a priest?
The two women walked by, and the reporter asked, “Who’s the old Lenin?”
“Professor Silver is a good friend from Temple Zion.”
They walked away, and a moment later Masada’s footsteps returned alone. She shook his shoulder.
Silver opened his eyes in his best imitation of an old Jew rising from a brief nap. “Oy!” He stood up, leaning on her arm. “Did I fall asleep?”
She made him turn and began pounding his back and buttock, raising a cloud of soot. The burnt upholstery had clung to his shirt and pants.
“If I knew you’d spank me,” he said, “I’d fall asleep every time.”
“There.” She tapped his shoulder. “Best I can do.”
“I’m such a schlemiel.”
She led him by the arm to the front door, which was cracked at the hinges.
“Meidaleh, why don’t you drop the whole thing?” He reached up and pinched her cheek. “Move on to something else. Let sleeping lions sleep.”
“They’re not lions, and they’re not sleeping. They’re wide-awake bullies.”
“They can do more than mess up walls and slaughter cats.” Stepping outside, the sun’s sudden brilliance stabbed Silver’s eye. He removed his glasses and wiped his face. “It’s getting a little warm,” he said, his back to her. Opening his eyes cautiously, he saw that the fire engines and police cruisers were gone. The yellow line stayed. “What about the snake? That was deadly.”
“It was scary,” she shuddered. “But if I had just slipped into bed, like they had expected, at most it would have bitten me on the foot, which happens to a lot of people in Arizona. I’d be in terrible pain, but every hospital in this town stocks enough serum to treat a whole football team, cheerleaders included, if they all run together barefoot into a rattlers’ den.”
The image made Silver shiver.
Masada hugged him. “I’ll see you at temple on Friday night.”
“Are you leading the discussion?” He laughed. “God help us.”
“God’s too busy dishing out suffering to his chosen people-famines, slavery in Egypt, civil wars, exiles, pogroms, expulsions, inquisitions, ghettos, Holocausts, terrorists, internal strife, missiles, corrupt leaders-”
“Good-bye!” Silver got into his Cadillac, turned on the engine, and blew her a kiss.
As he was about to drive off, a large SUV stopped in front of Masada’s house. Two men and two women came out, all wearing blue FBI windbreakers. One of them showed her a piece of paper before entering the house.
Masada leaned on Silver’s window. “Don’t worry. They won’t find it.”
An oval line of gravel stones circled the hump of dirt, and a photo of Shanty was stapled to a stick. Rabbi Josh felt sick. Officiating at hundreds of funerals over the years hadn’t prepared him for this one. Not only was the deceased a dog, but the mourner was his son.
Raul mulled the dirt, crying softly. The rabbi went into the house and found the rubber cat Shanty had favored. He gave it to Raul, who held it to his cheek.
After sunset, he prepared a dinner of chicken and rice. Raul sat in his lap, and they ate from the same plate while watching Clifford the Big Red Dog on TV. He gave the boy a quick bath, together with the rubber cat, and read him a story in bed. Raul cried again before falling asleep.
Back in the kitchen, Rabbi Josh watched CNN. In L.A., the Nation of Islam organized a march from the Steven S. Wise synagogue to the Israeli consulate, which turned the freeways into parking lots before flaring up into a full-fledged riot. A crowd of youth in Queens, NY, beat up yeshiva students, and a Saint Louis Jewish Community Center was burnt to the ground. Other Jewish institutions across America were vandalized with broken windows and graffiti, followed by sporadic incidents in Canada and Europe. The White House issued a statement urging Americans to “distinguish between criminal actions of foreign countries and law-abiding U.S. citizens of any religion who uphold our constitutional freedoms and way of life.” The President himself, however, had remained conspicuously mum, indicating through his spokesman that he deferred to the Senate on the issue of investigating Israel for its suspected “unfriendly legislative interference.”
One day, Silver thought, this ugly little house would be a tourist destination: The Flavian Silver-Abu Faddah Museum. Schoolchildren and academic scholars would come to learn about the man who defeated the Zionist apartheid state and restored Palestine to its rightful Arab owners-not by the power of the sword, as his comrades had tried, but by the power of his ideas.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
He had taken the phrase to new heights, joining the Jews and beating them at their own ancient game of manipulating the gentiles. He had studied how the Jews survived through gaining influence, leagues beyond their tiny numbers, by devising advantageous financial and political systems-emancipation, communism, socialism, and capitalism, all supported by their system of international banking. Living as a Jew and utilizing academic tools to study them had given him an understanding of their ways. His plan owed its brilliance to his immersion in the Jewish way of thinking.
Al’s white van was in the garage. Silver drove in slowly until the front bumper of the Cadillac connected with the tire he had placed against the wall. His eye, slow to adjust to the dark interior, was a poor judge of distance. With practiced motions he depressed the foot brake, turned off the engine, and put a few drops of saline in his eye.
Down in the basement, the dumb grin was absent from Al’s face. He lit one of his cheap cigarettes and filled his barrel chest. “Don’t know,” he said, smoke petering through his spaced teeth, “how she walked away from such an explosion.”
The professor bit into an apple, savoring the juicy flesh.
“Don’t know.” Al blew a long tunnel of smoke.
“Well, I’m just a professor.” Silver took another bite.
Al drew once more, and the ashes fell on his shirt, rolled over the protruding belly, and dropped to the floor. “Being a witch, that’s her shield.” He bent down to pick up the ashes, which crumbled between his stubby fingers. He straightened up, huffing, red-faced. “Snake was huge. Should have seen how it fought me until I managed to stuff it in the pillowcase. And the explosion? Shot out of every window-boom!” He clapped his hands. “Nothing can destroy her. Nothing!”
Silver took another bite from the apple. The failure of Al’s fire trap, while causing unnecessary delay, meant the Jew would have to accept his destiny. “Your contraption ignited as soon as she pushed in the door. The explosion slammed the door back, protecting her.”
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” Al walked in a circle, beating his head. “Should have placed the ignition strip farther in, so the matches would reach it only when the door was wide open.”
Silver threw the apple core in the trash and took his time rolling the first joint of the night. His supply of hashish was ample, thanks to Rajid. He lounged in the armchair and puffed a cloud of smoke. “The National Council will be meeting after the Sabbath to discuss this situation.” He sighed. “We failed again. I’m so ashamed.”
“Honest mistake,” Al protested. “They must understand.”
The professor removed his glasses and buried his face in his hands. “We’re an embarrassment.” He considered quoting Rabbi Hillel, but decided it would be wasted on Al. “Our clumsiness is turning Judah’s Fist into a joke.”
“Give me another chance. Know I can get her. Let’s do it before they meet!”
“We can’t fail again.”
“Won’t fail. I swear!”
Silver make a show of pondering the dilemma. “We’ll have to do it in public-if you have the courage.”
“Yes! I have nothing to lose but a bad heart and a heartless wife.”
“Who poetic,” Silver said, surprised.
Al grinned. “A line from an old song.”
“Nice.” He rubbed his hands together. “How about we do it tomorrow evening at Temple Zion?”
“During the service?”
Pressing his fist to his heart, Silver invented a quote: “And God said to Moses: Hold down the traitor upon my altar and slaughter him before my ark, and his blood shall pass through my temple for all to see.”
Elizabeth McPherson typed quickly, determined to finish the draft she had been working on-an objection to an appeal of a deportation order. At 10:02 p.m., she was done. She filed it with the immigration court electronically, and left her office with an empty cardboard box.
The building was empty. She started downstairs, collecting forms, file folders, and blank receipts from the service counters. On the way up she stopped at various offices and picked up blank letterheads, approval stamps, and sample signatures of immigration officials who together formed the long assembly line traveled by every application for permanent resident status.
Earlier she had pulled from the archive the file of Dr. Greta Fusslig, an Austrian chemistry professor at ASU, who had won permanent resident status four months earlier through the little-known genius-visa route, based on her research on metal stress fractures.
Back in her office, Elizabeth arranged the blank forms in chronological order on the window ledge overlooking Central Avenue. Professor Silver had given her copies of his book, several research papers, passport photos, and fingerprints.
She began making up a file, starting with the application form.
A voice nagged her. You could go to jail! To fight off her doubts, Elizabeth thought about David’s betrayal and his promotion, which she had deserved after long years of diligent loyalty and hard work. This was her revenge, helping the strange professor obtain a green card, winning her own redemption at home. She imagined the stage, the Palestinian tricolor flags fluttering in the breeze, Father’s creased face joyous. Years from now, her child would look at those photos with pride.
With renewed resolve, she typed up fake statements, reports, interview records, and reference letters from academicians, praising Professor Silver’s brilliant work and future contributions. She used Dr. Fusslig’s file for inspiration, changing the jargon from chemistry to history and modifying gender from female to male. She signed each document differently, using her left hand in different angles and positions, and forged the professor’s signature on the forms, based on the sample he had provided. She granted him passing scores on an English and American history test, created transfer notes that would have accompanied a legitimate file between departments, and copied the medical report, attaching Dr. Fusslig’s lab results with the professor’s name plastered on it. A close review would reveal the female characteristics in the blood tests, but Elizabeth counted on the unfailing bureaucratic indifference of federal employees.
She drafted a Conditional Rejection Notice, addressed to Flavian Silver, berating him for overstaying his tourist visa, created a contrite reply letter from him, and a memo recommending a waiver, signed by a review officer whom Elizabeth had often criticized for unwarranted leniency.
When she finished creating the fictitious file, the dates on the documents spanned more than a year-the time it took Dr. Fusslig’s application to go through the various stages. Shortly after 4:00 a.m., Elizabeth began the tedious process of entering dates and actions into the database in the order they appeared in the paper file.
When it was time to save the new record to the system, her finger hesitated over the key. You are committing a crime! Think about your job, property, freedom, think of your child!
Elizabeth breathed deeply, calming herself. What had she gained after years of impeccable service to the U.S. government? Disrespect. Dishonesty. Disgrace. She thought of the crowd, cheering around the raised platform in the middle of the Kalandria refugee camp, the medal placed around her neck, Father hugging her, begging forgiveness. Hero of Palestine.
She clicked on Save.