The Masada Complex (49 page)

The memory of the dead boy in his arms darkened the world with pain, but the rabbi forced his mind to focus. Masada must have planned for Al to shoot at her and miss in order to bolster her credibility as a victim. The rabbi knew he should hate her, but he could not overcome an irrational affection for her, rooted in his gut-felt certainty that she was in essence a good soul. Was physical attraction sabotaging his clarity of judgment?

“What should I do?”

His loud question drew no reaction from the Orthodox men around him, as if it were every Jew’s prerogative to speak up here, with no one listening but God. Rabbi Josh shut his eyes, wishing a message would come through telling him what to do about Masada.

A book had been left on the bench beside him.
The Complete Bible.
He weighed the holy book in his hand. It was all here—past, present, and future—everything a Jew needed in order to live a righteous life. Shouldn’t God’s answer to this particular Jew’s quagmire be there too?

Rabbi Josh held the Bible upright in both hands, his thumbs ready to open it at random. He took a silent vow: Whatever appeared on the page would be God’s order. If God spoke of forgiveness, he would forgive. If God spoke of forgetting, he would forget. But if God spoke of revenge, he would punish Masada to the bitter end.

The rabbi’s thumbs parted the pages and his eyes sought the first verse at the top of the page. He recited aloud: “
Hear thy Lord, you, who are anxious for his word.
”

Cold fear clasped his throat. The book was speaking to him! His thumbs had opened the holy book on this page, where God spoke to
you, who are anxious for his word.

He checked the top of the page.
Isaiah 66, verse 5.

Unable to resist, Rabbi Josh continued to read:
Your brothers, haters, defilers of my name, who challenge you, saying, ‘Let your God show his power to help you,’ they shall be shamed; a roaring noise bursts from my temple, the roar of God, taking revenge of his enemies.

Saturday, August 16

W
hen Professor Silver went downstairs at 7 a.m., Ezekiel’s beige taxicab was waiting at the curb. The cabby had brought an extra cup of coffee for his passenger, but the sun was already up, and Silver could not drink it. Instead he held the rim of the plastic cup near his nose and enjoyed the aroma. Observing the daily fast during the month of Ramadan had given him renewed pride in his faith and endowed him with a sense of invincibility. Allah was on his side.

They drove through the quiet streets of central Jerusalem. Bus service didn’t run during the Sabbath, and the sidewalks were filled with religious Jews marching to their various synagogues, prayer shawls draped over their shoulders.

“You slept well?” Ezekiel turned the radio to soft Hebrew music.

“Blessed be the Lord.”

“The room nice? Bed comfortable?”

“Can’t complain.” Talking irritated the bruise inside Silver’s mouth. He hoped it would not start bleeding again.

The roads were coal-black with fresh asphalt, cut into the hillside crudely, as if there was no time to worry about aesthetics. New apartment buildings and homes passed by. They drove through a valley and climbed a crest along the Judean Mountains’ watershed, where they crossed the road to Ramallah. Silver tried to read the road signs, shifting his focus left and right to confuse the blotch. While the car stopped at a red light, he was able to decipher a sign pointing right:
Hebrew University—Mount Scopus Campus
. Large buildings of white stone covered the hillside.

The greenery of western Jerusalem gave way to the arid rocks of the West Bank. The descent was rapid, the road skirting massive clusters of red roofs, part of the Jews’ effort to encircle Jerusalem. Silver smiled.
Man plans, and Allah laughs
.

Ezekiel asked, “Enjoying the ride?”

“Beautiful,” Silver exclaimed. “We’re settling the Promised Land, as the prophets predicted.”

“The prophets predicted a lot of things. Have you read Ezekiel lately?” The driver laughed, his ringlets dancing around his bald pate.

Silver didn’t respond, his attention drawn to a clump of tents on a flat piece of desert. Camels grazed on yellow weeds. A woman in a head-to-toe garment tended a small fire while boys in jeans chased a scrawny goat.

“Bedouins,” Ezekiel explained, “the last free people on earth.”

It was true, Silver thought. Despite their primitive ways, a family of Bedouins had managed to save him. One day, when Palestine was united under Arab rule, he would find
his
Bedouins and reward their long-ago charity.

Farther down toward the Jordan Valley, they stopped at an Israeli checkpoint. A concrete wall stretched in both directions, dissecting the land. Two soldiers approached the car, guns at the ready. Silver grabbed the door handle, faking calmness.

Ezekiel lowered his window. “Shalom!”

The soldiers glanced inside and waved them through.

The landscape resembled the Arizona desert, the road cutting through pale-brown rocks as it continued its descent. “Hold your breath,” Ezekiel joked, pointing to a blue billboard at the side of the downhill road:
Sea Level

For the first time since the TIR Prize ceremony, Masada slept through the night, uninterrupted by the gravity-defying nightmares. Morning sun flooded the room through the east-facing window, and she cringed at the memory of fainting in the bar the previous night. She had not drunk alcohol in years, let alone two tall beers on an empty stomach after almost three sleepless nights. Tara, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the booze. She revived Masada, enlisted a couple of guys to carry her to the car, and got her to bed at the Ramban Hostel.

When Masada eased her legs off the bed, the pain she expected didn’t come. In the bathroom, her forehead seemed almost clear of Al’s beating.

Voices filtered in through the door, adults and children babbling in French as they headed to Sabbath morning services. She wondered how Ness had managed to get an air force plane and a pilot to entertain Tara on the holy Sabbath. He must have labeled it
national emergency
. It occurred to Masada that nothing would spoil his plans worse than her presence.

She had just enough time to shower, strap on the brace, put on clothes, and run downstairs with her hair still wet.

Tara was waiting in the lobby, chatting up the acne face at the front desk. She flashed a big smile at Masada, mimicked with her hand a plane taking off, and declared, “To the colonel and beyond!”

“How do you manage to look like this so early?”

“Good genes and lots of base.” Tara leaned over the counter, closer to the wide-eyed youth. “How about two bottles of water, sweetie?”

He dropped his handheld electronic game and rushed off.

Masada left her room key on the counter. “I’m going to ruin your date.”

“It’s not a date.” Tara laughed. “Merely sightseeing.”

“The only sightseeing you’ll get from Ness is a twisted view of innocent little Israel, so vulnerable without America’s weapons. He’ll skip the nuclear missiles and army installations and the social Grand Canyon separating rich from poor, secular from religious—”

“Chill out, girl! It’s Saturday!” Tara grabbed the water bottles, winked at the young man, and pushed Masada to the door. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

Starting her rented car, Tara tilted her head at the hostel entrance. “How’s the hunky rabbi doing?”

“I don’t care how he’s doing.” Masada drank some water. “I care what he’s
done.
”

Rabbi Josh pressed his back against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, listening in case Masada returned. What was she up to now? Ingratiating herself with the TV reporter to conjure up the next media attack on Israel? Whatever it was, he had to expose her, and stop her.

He draped the prayer shawl around his shoulders and stepped into the lobby. The front desk clerk was standing at the glass doors watching the departing women. Rabbi Josh noticed Masada’s room key on the counter and snatched it. Before the clerk turned, the rabbi tiptoed to the staircase and headed up, the stolen key in his hand.

“It is with pride and gratitude,” Elizabeth announced, “that I accept this award from the honorable minister.” She marked the spot in her notes to insert the dignitary’s name and full title before the ceremony. “I thank Allah for the opportunity to serve the Palestinian cause. My success in America grew from my modest roots here. First and foremost, I am a Palestinian woman. Celebrating with you today constitutes an affirmation of my commitment to Palestine.”

She lowered the pages of her draft speech and bowed at the certain applause. She looked through the open window at the Jerusalem skyline, which for this rehearsal represented the audience at Kalandria.

“Today I set aside painful memories.” She paused, thinking of the crude midwife who had investigated her repeat miscarriages with thick, probing fingers. “The foundations of my character and success were laid here, at this refugee camp.” She glanced sideways to where Father would stand on the dais, his eyes surely moistened. “I feel—”

An explosion shook the building.

Elizabeth ran to the window and looked for smoke. From her childhood in the West Bank she knew the sound of a bomb. Nine stories below, a small car with flashing lights raced up the street. A moment later, a fire engine passed, its siren wailing. The Jews’ peaceful Sabbath was no more.