The Masada Complex (31 page)

“We got word about another book you have written.”

“Excuse me?” Silver felt fear. How had they found out? He made a dismissive gesture. “A preliminary draft merely, some ideas about international sanctions.”

“You’ve submitted the manuscript to a publisher.”

He didn’t respond.

“Are you free from the chain of command?”

“It’s part of the plan.” Silver made himself chuckle lightly. “I was hoping to brief our brothers in person when I visit Jerusalem.”

“Taking action without prior approval?”

“Never.” Silver was starting to hate the cologne the agent was wearing—an imitation of budding citrus.

“The United States Senate moved up the vote against Israel to August nineteen. The White House announced that the president will sign the bill as submitted, saying that
Congress has the administration’s support in its autonomous authority to take punitive actions over attempts to corrupt it.
The next ten days are crucial. We don’t want any interference.”

Silver rubbed his goatee. “My plan is working even faster than expected. There is no problem.”

Rajid opened his briefcase. “There is a problem. You sent a manuscript to a publisher, drawing dangerous attention. You think the Israelis are asleep? They have eyes everywhere, including in New York publishing houses. Your actions could undermine the operation.”

“I am an academic. That’s what I do. Write. And this second book is part of my plan.”

“
Your
plan?”

He took a deep breath, struggling to control his anger. “We’re about to complete Phase One successfully. The Fair Aid Act will snip off Israel’s lifeline of American support. My second book constitutes the intellectual foundation for Phase Two—applying the South African precedent to Israel. The process has already started by Jimmy Carter’s book about Israel—
Peace or Apartheid
.”

“That’s right. Allah knows we’ve paid President Carter enough millions for his,” Rajid feigned quotation marks, “
Peace Institute
.”

“And the U.N. Anti-Racism Conference in Durban? We’ve got momentum against Israel. Phase Two is the apartheidization of Israel!”

“It’s a tricky argument. Israel has almost two million Muslim and Christian citizens with full rights, just like Jews.”

“No, no,” Silver raised a finger, “I’m talking about their immigration policies. Only Jews are entitled to become new, voting Israeli citizens. That’s racial discrimination.”

“Good point.” Rajid held a thumb up, which seemed almost humorous.

“Without an American veto, the international bodies will go ahead with it—the United Nations, European Union, NATO, Organization of African Countries, the Asian bloc—they’ll impose an economic boycott of Israel like they did with South Africa.” Silver rubbed his hands. “Just imagine—no trade, no raw materials, no access to financial markets, no new weapons, no tourism. Israel will choke! And for the world to release its chokehold, just like with South Africa, Israel will have to end its apartheid, grant Palestinian refugees the right of return, make them full citizens, and give them the vote.”

“You think they’ll allow Fatah and Hamas to run for the Knesset?”

The professor smiled, though he really wanted to smack him across the face. “We will form a new political organization—The Palestinian National Congress.”

“Like the
African
National Congress.”

“Exactly. Israel would have no choice. Then, with all the new Arab citizens going to the polls, Jewish rule will end. Just like the white Afrikaners in South Africa, the Israeli Jews will become a minority overnight. After the elections, we’ll control their Knesset and form a government. Without a single bullet we will own the State of Israel—Jerusalem, Jaffa, Haifa, Acre, Nazareth—
even Dimona!
We’ll unify the land with the West Bank and Gaza, and take over Jordan, finally winning back all of Palestine. As Mohammed said,
You shall inherit the infidels.
”

For the first time in the two decades Silver had known Rajid, the Palestinian handler was speechless. He nodded thoughtfully. He looked up at the ceiling. He checked his sunglasses against the window. Finally he said, “I admire your creativity, Abu Faddah, of which Allah has blessed you aplenty. But we are soldiers in an army, yes?”

“As Allah is my witness, my intentions are pure.”

“Then you must obey the orders.” Rajid turned his briefcase around. It was empty. “Bring all the copies of your book manuscript and all other documents you have.”

Seething, Silver went to the basement and brought up a box. He sat down, watching Rajid arrange the papers in his briefcase.

“That’s all?”

“Phases One and Two,” Silver said.

“Is there a Phase Three?”

“No disrespect to you,” Silver said, standing up, “but Phase Three I shall only discuss face-to-face in Ramallah.”

“I’ll trust you to erase your computer memory.” Rajid closed his briefcase. “Now tell me what happened with the writer.”

Silver sat down. There was no way for them to know the truth, especially with Al Zonshine unconscious in the hospital. “The Jew, whom you have selected as a conduit to the senator,” he paused to let the implication sink in, “is a petulant and vindictive man, completely primal in his obsessions. He pretended to heed my unambiguous orders to leave the writer alone but persevered in his private vendetta nevertheless.”

“You had no hand in the attacks?”

“If I had,” Silver attempted a chuckle, “would she be alive?”

“We hold you responsible,” Rajid said, “that the writer is not harmed again. If she is, the Senate might delay its vote pending an investigation.”

“Have you told Ramallah that I must be at Hadassah Hospital on Friday?” Silver removed his glasses and wiped the lenses on his shirt. “The writer is hospitalized, out of commission.”

“You will monitor her and the other Jew to prevent any interference with the vote in Washington.” Rajid looked at him, not blinking. “That’s an order.”

Silver felt cornered. “If I go blind, how shall I continue my work?”

Rajid smiled. “An intellectual wins battles with his mind, not with his eyes.”

Masada thanked the nurse for bringing Jell-O and toast. While she ate, Drexel appeared at the door with a large bouquet of flowers in a pink vase. “You look terrible,” he said, pecking her cheek.

“You, on the other hand.” She motioned at his purple jacket and matching tie. “What’s this style? Meticulously casual.”

“You have a good eye.” He smoothed down his hair. “You must feel like you’re back in the army, with all the gunfire going on around you.”

“And no money.”

He cleared his throat. “Darling, I called corporate several times, but they’re slow.”

“I need to fix my house and,” she patted the bed, “pay medical bills. I can’t do any work while starving.”

“The fate of a freelancer.” Drexel clicked his tongue. “Feast or famine. I’m doing my best, but the next payment is not due until you submit a draft.”

“Don’t be technical, especially with all your new subscriptions.” Her head began to throb. She rested back on the pillows.

“Masada darling, I’m on your side, but perhaps you could take a mortgage on your house in the meantime. Nobody owns a house debt-free in this country.”

“I don’t like debt.”

He punched a number on his iPhone. “Campbell Chadwick wants to talk to you.”

“Quite a night you had,” the lawyer said cheerfully, as if Masada had gone barhopping.

“Just trying to stay alive.”

“Dropping a bucket of concrete on an old veteran’s head?” Chadwick chuckled. “What can I say?”

“It was paint, not concrete. And it dropped when he invaded my bedroom in the middle of the night.”

“Police says you set a trap and lured him in through the window.”

“He
broke
in.”

“Without waking you up?” The lawyer sighed. “The jury isn’t going to buy it.”

“Jury?” Masada raised her voice. “What jury?”

“D.A. announced possible indictment against you for first-degree assault.”

Masada couldn’t believe it. “Al Zonshine tried to shoot me at Temple Zion!”

“He threatened you, that’s true, but according to his wife the gun discharged accidentally when she bumped into him. She says that you’ve seduced and manipulated him and caused him to dump his medication.”

“That’s nonsense. I have a restraining order against him! And he broke into my house, beat my head in, abused me, and shot at me again!”

“Technically,” Chadwick interrupted her, “he couldn’t break into an open house.”

“Because he blew out my windows on his previous attempt to kill me!”

“There’s no evidence he was behind the gas explosion. According to the D.A., the explosion seemed like an inside job. There was no evidence of break in. There is evidence, however, that after the shooting in the synagogue you declined an invitation to stay the night with friends. As your legal counsel, I strongly recommend that you do not dismiss the risk of a criminal indictment.”

“You must be joking.”

“Also,” the lawyer continued, “please refrain from discussing with anyone facts or allegations related in any way to the incident or the previous incident that resulted in manslaughter—the one in Israel.”

“This is right out of Kafka,” Masada said.

“We face grave legal risks, not only to you, but also to Jab Corporation and its respective publishing enterprises.”

“Since when does the victim go on trial?”

“Victim status is a subjective thing. You’re a beautiful, successful, famous, and—pardon me for saying—self-righteous writer, while an elderly veteran, whose history of mental illness was known to you, is fighting for his life. I suggest you pray for Mr. Zonshine’s full recovery, or we’ll be defending a wrongful death claim, as well.”

When the sun went down and the Sabbath was over, Rabbi Josh forced himself out of Raul’s bed and drove to Temple Zion. He called the funeral home about transportation of the body. Finding a phone number on the Internet, he reached the burial society in Jerusalem, where it was already Sunday morning. The Israelis had a well-oiled process for accommodating dead Diaspora Jews. He paid for three plots, so that Linda’s remains could follow later. Going onto the Continental Airlines web site, he bought a one-way ticket for himself on a flight to Israel via New York. By e-mail he informed his colleagues around town of his imminent
aliyah
and asked them to fill in for him at Temple Zion until the congregation hired a new rabbi. Next he began to draft a letter to the members of his congregation.

The office door opened and Professor Silver entered, mulling his black beret in his hands. “
Oy vey
, Rabbi,” he sniffled, “my heart is broken.”

Rabbi Josh nodded. “
The Lord gives, the Lord takes, may His name be blessed.
”

“Amen.” Silver put on his beret. “This brings back memories of my son, his memory be blessed.
Oy, oy, oy!
”

“Your son?” The rabbi felt tears emerging from his eyes. “Levy, I didn’t even know you had a son.”

“I never speak of him. Too painful.” Silver straightened his hunched posture. “But I made a decision. My place is in Israel. I decided to make
aliyah
immediately.”