The Masada Complex (18 page)

Masada pitied him, a retired history professor, ill-equipped to deal with the real world. “Found anything else in the car? Cigarettes? Papers?”

Silver shook his head.

“Let’s search your car again. Maybe you missed something.” Masada headed down the hallway to the garage.

“Wait!” Silver chased her. “It’s not the same car! The accident, remember?”

“Oh, I forgot.” To the right she saw a dining room, furnished in plain oak pieces. On the left was a small living room with red sofas, green drapes, and a black rug. There were no family photos. A poster of the Temple Mount hung on the wall. She opened the front door and felt the day’s heat, already rising. “Thanks for indulging my questions, Levy. I’ll check with SuperShuttle and Air Canada, just in case, but I’m sure he used a false identity.”

“The depravity humans are capable of!” He clicked his tongue and pecked her on the cheek. “Keep safe, meidaleh.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

Rabbi Josh Frank scraped the bowl of oatmeal and held up a heaped spoon, but Raul turned his head away. “My friend Adam said that only babies cry.” He had woken up crying, and was embarrassed about it.

“You cried because you’re brave enough to show your feelings.”

“That I feel sad about Shanty?”

“Exactly.” The rabbi put away the food and embraced his son, kissing him with loud, sucking noises until the little body was trembling with laughter and broke free.

“Want to play?” Raul ran to the living room, where a train set occupied most of the floor. “Come, Dad!”

At the Channel 6 office in downtown Phoenix, Tara was waiting in a conference room. Masada wasted no time. “I’d like to work together on the Mahoney affair. I’ll do print, you do TV. We’ll air simultaneously when we agree the story is solid.”

They shook hands.

Masada locked the door and pulled up her pant sleeve, exposing the brace. She fumbled with the tiny toggle under the brass knee cover. It was made of two pieces, molded to fit over her kneecap, with a small storage compartment in-between. She handed the memory stick to Tara.

In a windowless lab in the rear of the building, Tara introduced Masada to Priest, a wiry youth in black coveralls. His grin exposed a steel-capped front tooth. He spun around on his swivel stool and inserted the memory stick into the USB port on his computer.

Senator Mahoney appeared on the screen, facing the camera, his lips moving. He paused for a moment, listened, and shook his head, lips moving again. A black bag landed in his lap. Mahoney pulled out a thick bundle and browsed the bills. He dropped it back and put both hands on the bag in a gesture of ownership. He said something, listened, nodded, mouthed another short sentence, and extended his hand, shaking again. He laughed, made a mock salute, and got out of the car.

Tara whistled. “This is explosive.”

“My source is nervous as hell.” Masada turned to Priest. “I want to know everything you can glean from this clip—car model, time of day, what he had for breakfast, and so on.”

Priest hit a bunch of keys rapidly and handed her the stick. A second later, he was already dividing the screen into small windows, each with a frozen frame from the video.

Back in the conference room, Masada stashed the memory stick back in the brace. She gave Tara the date Fred Sheen had arrived on Air Canada and the approximate times he was on the SuperShuttle van.

Tara was writing furiously. “What’s the address in Scottsdale?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s my source’s home. Get me a record of all their Scottsdale drop-off and pick-up addresses that day. It’s a small chance, but there’s something amateurish about this Sheen character. Maybe he was stupid enough to use his real name.”

Elizabeth got in early and tried to work on court briefs, but her mind kept wandering to the new life growing inside her, a child, a wonderful fusion of David and her. It was a far cry from the four pregnancies that afflicted her youth, the products of a loveless imposition. She cringed, recalling the dread of each evening when her husband returned from his butcher shop with mocking laughter and grabbing hands, his heavy bulk smothering her against the hard floor, his bloody apron in her face, pain searing between her legs.

She brushed off the memories. David was the opposite, gentle from the start, taking his time, courting her so subtly that it had not occurred to her that this young lawyer, new to the department, harbored more than a yearning to learn the craft from a senior lawyer. With tentative gestures and sincere interest in her feelings, he had wooed her out of an emotional shell and gave her physical and emotional joy that ended her loneliness and snuffed out her distrust of men. And now, she was no longer barren!

She called David.

His secretary answered. “He’s gone to up to see the director before the senior staff meeting.”

“Of course.” Elizabeth hung up. Director Simpson was probably telling David he was the new chief counsel due to her promotion to deputy director. She smiled into the small mirror, freshening up her lipstick.

Her line rang.

“Good morning.” The professor’s voice was soothing. “How are you, Elzirah?

She swallowed her anger. There was no point in provoking him. “Unfortunately, I’m about to be assigned to a position outside the legal department and will no longer have the ability to assist you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m also sorry. Is this reassignment due to your Wednesday night trysts?”

She bit her lips. “If you really must know, I’ve been promoted.”

“Wonderful! Greater bureaucratic powers mean greater ability to assist me.”

Elizabeth realized he had tricked her. “It would only hurt your cause if I interfered. In any event, you must apply through the regular channels.”

“You really don’t want me to go through the
regular channels
.”

“I can’t help you. Please believe me.”

“You have misconstrued my good manners as weakness. I’ll fix that. Good day and
Goodyear
.”

Elizabeth put down the phone, her hand shaking. She stood and inhaled as deeply as she could, smoothed her dress, fluffed her hair, and marched to the door. She would not be intimidated by the oddball professor on this happy day, even if he had somehow befriended Father.

The senior staff was all there, sitting at the conference table. Director Simpson stood by the window with David, laughing at a private joke. He waved at her and led David to a vacant chair near the head of the table. “Now that we’re all here,” he said, “it is my pleasure to announce my choice for the new position of deputy director for interagency coordination. We’ll have someone right here in the building to blame for any problems with the Border Patrol.”

Everybody laughed.

“That’s right,” the director announced, “we’ve got to keep Washington happy, keep our sister agencies at bay, and keep all these aliens in Mexico. In that, I owe special gratitude to Elizabeth McPherson who, as you know, has served the agency longer than any of us, rising to chief legal counsel three years ago.”

Her face warm, Elizabeth smiled.

“What I admire most about Elizabeth,” the director continued, “is her ability to train young lawyers, not only in law, but also as practical, creative administrators, just like her. This kind of approach is commendable. It is therefore credit to Elizabeth that we are able to fill this new position internally, without having to accept an outside appointee from Washington or from another agency.”

Elizabeth said, “Thank you, Mr. Simpson. Your confidence in me is the greatest reward, and I will not disappoint you.” She clasped the armrests, ready to rise for a formal handshake.

“As a team,” Director Simpson said, “we’ll make this new position a success, and make the DHS agencies work better together.”

Elizabeth stood up, extending her hand, but the director turned the other way and announced, “Congratulations, Deputy Director David Goodyear!”

Professor Silver opened the basement door, letting out a cloud of smoke. “If you’re going to disobey my orders again,” he said to Al, “the National Council will hear about it.” He filled his voice with anger. “You play around with snakes and cookies, making me look like a fool. Then you take my knife without permission and attempt an unauthorized execution inside my home? And you call yourself a soldier?”

The stocky Jew shot to his feet, red in the face. “Better soldier than you!”

Struggling not to laugh, Silver thought,
Who said Jews were smart?

“Way better!”

“Better at what? Dereliction of duty?”

Al clenched his fists, his head bowed like a raging bull. “Did not
der-lee-cate
my duty!”

“Then how did Masada El-Tal find out about Mahoney and the cash?” This was a spur-of-the-moment idea, to make Al so defensive he would not even think of suspecting Silver. “Did you betray us? Did you give Masada a video clip of the cash delivery to curry favor with her?”

“No!”

Silver pointed at the stairs leading up from the basement. “Were you going to kill her so she wouldn’t tell me that you were her source?”

The accusation, which Silver uttered while a grin was fighting its way to his lips, deflated Al’s belligerence. He sat down and pressed his fisted paws to his temples.

Silver stood over him, enjoying the irony of the situation. “You know what happens to traitors?”

Al groaned. “Got a temper, I do, but I’m no traitor. She rejected me before you even told me about the Mahoney operation. Called the cops on me!”