The Masada Complex (57 page)

Rabbi Josh dipped his hands in the fountain and splashed his face. “How can she even think I was the one manipulating Al?” He searched the reporter’s face. “Do you believe I’m capable of it?”

Tara shook her head. “But I can see Masada’s logic. You had influence over Al as his rabbi, you knew his secrets, and you’re a devout Zionist.”

“Guilty until proven innocent? Would your editor let you go on the air accusing me of bribing Mahoney based on such circumstantial evidence?”

“Why did Colonel Ness attend your son’s funeral?”

“Why did you attend? To see who else was there, sniff around?”

“Fair enough. But what’s with the clandestine meeting at the Wailing Wall last night?”

He was shocked that they had followed him. “It’s the first time we’ve ever talked. He’s desperate to stop the Fair Aid Act. You can’t blame him for grasping at straws.”

“Are you a straw?”

“I’m a clueless rabbi from Arizona who had the bad luck to count Masada El-Tal and Alfred Zonshine among my parishioners. I’m a schmuck. Do you know what a schmuck is?”

Tara smiled. “I know what a
shiksa
is.”

“A schmuck is an idiot who thought himself smart. I thought I understood Masada, with her traumatic past, abstinence from happiness, and workaholic mania. I thought she suffered survivors’ guilt. I wanted to help her, maybe help myself too.” He breathed deeply and exhaled. “I don’t know anymore. She’s done things that cannot be reconciled with her goodness.”

“Like what?”

“Like seducing Al.”

“Bullshit! Who fed you this crap?”

Rabbi Josh was taken aback by Tara’s bluntness. “A friend overheard Masada and Al on the night of the shooting. They were doing it.”

“It’s Lenin, right?”

“Who?”

“The professor.”

“What if?”

“What if I told you he was the one who gave Masada the incriminating video clip?”

“I don’t believe it. Did she tell you that?”

“Not explicitly, but I can put two and two together.”

“Levy is a retired history professor. A good man.” Rabbi Josh shook his head. “Why would he get involved in this?”

“That’s the riddle. What motivates an elderly Jewish professor of history to bribe a U.S. senator for pro-Israel legislation and then leak the story to Masada?”

“Impossible.” Rabbi Josh followed her through the courtyard toward the exit. “The two acts are contradictory.”

“Aren’t rabbis trained in psychology?”

“I’m certain Levy Silver isn’t suffering from multiple personalities. You’re on the wrong track.”

She got into her car and lowered the window. “Maybe he’s conducting some kind of an experiment in political science? Academics do crazy things to get noticed.”

Rabbi Josh watched the TV reporter drive off. Had Levy Silver really given the video to Masada? Had he been the one manipulating Al? And where would the professor obtain such a pile of cash to bribe Senator Mahoney? Realizing how little he knew about the man he was so fond of, a sense of loss came over the rabbi. First Linda, then Raul, and now he had lost Masada, and maybe even Professor Silver. What would be the end of this suffering?

He broke into a run, sprinting along the busy street in an explosion of uncontainable energy. At the intersection on Agron Street, he turned left, away from the Old City, pounding the pavement with his feet, pumping the air with his arms, left-right, left-right, his mind going numb as his body worked madly, his skin sweating off bitter beads. He kept the sun at his back, gradually settling into a constant pace, avoiding potholes by habit learned over years of jogging.

The neighborhoods changed from old stone buildings along narrow streets to newer, taller condominium complexes along wide avenues, the men’s heads from wearing black hats to knitted, colorful skullcaps. He ran through parks and patches of pine trees, driving his body hard until his muscles burned for oxygen and his throat begged for water. He only slowed down when he saw the sign at the side of the road:
Hadassah Hospital.

Professor Silver had asked the nurse to call Ezekiel, who was waiting outside when he came out of the hospital. As they drove down toward the main thoroughfare, a man with long hair ran by the car in the opposite direction. Silver turned to look though the rear widow, but couldn’t focus his eye well enough to be positive. Why would Rabbi Josh run to the hospital?

Ezekiel slowed down. “You know this guy?”

Silver settled back in the seat. “I thought Jesus has already been crucified.”

“I can see you’re feeling well!”

“Wonderful,” Silver lied. “The procedure was a great success.” Reflecting on Dr. Asaf’s behavior, he wondered whether the doctor had lied about the reasons for aborting the procedure. But why? A dreadful thought occurred to him: Had he spoken Arabic in his sleep?

“That’s terrific!” The cabbie tapped the steering wheel. “May you go strong for a hundred and twenty years!”

“God willing.” Silver felt the eye drops bottle in his pocket and focused his mind on the immediate future. He would fulfill the vow he had made to his son—find and kill the woman soldier.

First, he needed information. The memorial service would be a perfect opportunity. He would go with Masada, who would introduce him to the survivors and the victims’ families, who likely knew the identity of the woman who had tried to save their kids with her crazy rock-climbing stunt.

Second, the discovery that Masada’s little brother was the boy he had pushed off the mountain necessitated her elimination. With all that was at stake, he could not afford the risk of her prodding into that old affair.

The two challenges, he concluded, could be met in a single swipe. “Ezekiel,” he said, “are you free tomorrow night?”

“Ah!” The driver grinned. “Taking a lady on the town?”

“Actually, taking her out of town.”

“Cancelled?” Masada had taken a taxi to Hadassah to visit Professor Silver, only to be told by the nurse that he was discharged moments earlier. “But he travelled all the way from Arizona for this procedure!”

The grandmotherly nurse beckoned Masada, and they took the elevator downstairs. In the lobby, they bumped into Rabbi Josh. He was out of breath, wiping the sweat off his face with the tail of his shirt. Masada looked away from him, embarrassed that he knew what Al had done to her. “Levy has been discharged,” she said.

“What?” Rabbi Josh followed them out of the building.

The nurse stood by a group of smokers clustered around a few trees. “You’re his kids?”

Masada nodded. “He’s like a father to us.”

“I understand.” The nurse tore the wrapping off a pack of cigarettes. “Did he tell you he’s losing his vision?” The shock must have appeared on their faces. “It’s not the end of the world. He’s pretty healthy otherwise.”

“He wears thick glasses, but I didn’t know his eyes were so bad. What happened with the procedure?”

“I hate it when they lie to patients.”

“Please, we need to know.”

The nurse nodded. “We got a call from the government, someone high up.”

“I don’t understand,” Rabbi Josh said.

“We depend on funding, so Dr. Asaf had to oblige and stop the procedure. But you could pull some strings if you have connections.”

“Bastards!” Masada stormed off. It was Ness. Levy’s eye in exchange for her cooperation. How dare he play with people’s lives like this? She flagged down a taxi. Rabbi Josh joined her. They did not speak the whole way to the Ramban Hostel.

“Elzirah Mahfizie,” she yelled, pointing at herself, “
anah Elzirah Mahfizie!
”

The hooded youth paused, his drawn knife hesitating.

She pointed at the rubble that had once been her father’s home. “
Bint el Hajj Mahfizie!
”

The mention of Father’s name had an astonishing effect. The group dispersed instantly. The one with the knife bowed and pointed the way.

Higher up the hill, the shacks gave way to large homes with expansive balconies, Roman frescos, and gold-painted railings overlooking the unpaved main strip and the feces running in open sewage ditches. Farther up, through tall iron bars, she saw a mansion under construction, its exterior being tiled in black marble. She quickened her pace to catch up with the hooded youth, stepping aside as two BMW sedans raced by.

The old mosque was gone. In its place stood a windowless white edifice with a minaret that gradually narrowed toward the wraparound terrace at the top. They crossed the front courtyard, which was carpeted with men’s shoes, and entered through a large, heavy steel door. As it closed behind Elizabeth, she noticed a crossbar and a large padlock with a key in it. The interior was dark and chilly.

A man’s voice echoed through the narrow hallway, speaking in monotone, pausing between sentences. She walked softly on the tiles, listening as the voice grew closer.

The prayer hall was lit by a round skylight at the center of the high ceiling. An old man sat in a chair, his checkered kafiya held with a black band, the vast floor before him covered with crouching men. “The duty is individual,” he intoned, “bestowed by Allah through the Prophet onto each Muslim man, bypassing the mind that sows doubt even in the most righteous man. By fasting during Ramadan, the mind is tempered like a horse in training, pulling the reins on our strongest urge—to eat—and replacing it with nutrition for the heart—the holy Koran. And once the bodily urges have been tamed, the mind becomes crystal clear, directed to a higher pursuit of the meaning and purity.”

He paused and looked up, his face shaded by the headdress.

She swallowed and said, “Hello, Father.”

Hundreds of faces turned to her.

He remained seated, not moving.

“It’s been a long time.” She smiled.

He closed the book.

A path opened for her through the crouching men, and Elizabeth approached her father.

He looked at her pants, her short-sleeve jacket, her uncovered hair. “Elzirah?”

She nodded.

His face was creased and pale, his mouth slightly open, his lower lip moist with dots of white saliva. A crazy thought came to her—to sit in his lap and hug his neck and kiss his rough cheek until he laughed and tickled her belly.