The Masada Complex (8 page)

Masada turned and ran down the trail, keeping her eyes on the uneven dirt and protruding rocks. The bandage was getting loose under the knee brace, rubbing the fresh scab. She ignored it, imagining Rabbi Josh in her car, turning the key.

She ran faster, chased by the image of his flesh on fire, teeth bared in a deathly grin.
Why did I let him get my car? Why did I invite him to the award ceremony? Why in the world had I allowed him into my life? Into my bad luck?

Raul watched the technicians remove the wheels while Rabbi Josh went to pay for the new tires. When he returned, a young Hispanic was showing Raul a machine that pressed inflated tires into a water tub to check for leaks.

Moments later, the Corvette was ready. Rabbi Josh got in, stretching his legs under the steering wheel. Masada’s seat was far enough back to accommodate his height. His hand went to the ignition, but the key wasn’t there.

“Raul?”

The boy waved at the technician and ran over.

Rabbi Josh put out an open hand. “The keys, young man.”

Raul held a fist to his chest. “I want to start it.”

He grabbed Raul’s hand and tried to pry open his fingers, but the boy collapsed in laughter and wriggled free. He stepped back from the Corvette and dangled the keys, chanting, “You can’t get me. You can’t get me.”

Rabbi Josh considered the effort involved in getting out of the sports car and chasing the boy. “Okay,” he said, “we’ll do it together.”

Raul squeezed between the steering wheel and his father, who planted a ringing kiss on the boy’s cheek. “Yuk!” Raul tilted his head to his shoulder. “No kisses!”

“Okay.” Rabbi Josh noticed a half-circle of idle technicians around the hood, watching them. “Insert the key and turn it clockwise, like this.”

Raul leaned sideways to see where his hand was going. He inserted the key and turned it.

Professor Silver left Dr. Pablo’s office in a state of shock.
Blind!
He found Al Zonshine snoring in his white Ford van and knocked on the tinted windows. Startled, Al rubbed his puffy eyes. “What did he say?”

“I have eyes like an eagle,” Silver lied, shaking the paper in his hand. “Let’s go to the police station so I can retrieve my license.”

With his extended beer belly busting out of a stained T-shirt, Al Zonshine looked nothing like the rest of the congregants at Temple Zion. His sparse hair formed an unkempt horseshoe, and his shortness of breath caused him to keep his mouth constantly open, exposing large, yellow teeth. But identifying Al’s mental weakness had been Professor Silver’s real break. The retired plumber’s rough belligerence hid instinctive obedience, rooted in his Vietnam-era service. His soldier’s spirit had been easily awakened by Silver’s invitation to join a clandestine operation “in the service of Israel.”

At the police station on Lincoln Drive, Silver showed Dr. Pablo’s note and recovered his Toronto-issued driver’s license. Al drove him to the Avis office on Scottsdale Road, where another rental Cadillac was waiting.

Back at his house, with both vehicles parked inside the garage, Professor Silver turned on the radio in the living room, increasing the volume until it hurt his ears. He led the way down to the basement, shut the door, and rolled two joints.

“Going strong.” Al blew a ring into the air. “I’m sharp, like I’m nineteen again. Boot camp sharp. Everything so real, ever since I flushed those psycho drugs down the toilet.” He knuckled his forehead. “Ticking like clockwork!”

“Didn’t I tell you? Never trust those shrinks.”

“Fog’s gone from my head. Pain’s gone from my chest too.” Al grinned, smoke drifting between his teeth. He killed his cigarette in a Coke can.

“You watched Masada’s house last night?”

The snorting was uttered with the head tilted back. “Reconnaissance’s my specialty. FBI and police were already there when the bitch showed up on foot, all messed up.”

“And?”

“Hauled off loads of her stuff, those guys.”

“And Masada?”

Al rubbed his bald head, pleased with himself. “Stayed up for a while, spent lots of time in the bathroom, and went to sleep on the patio.”

“
Outside?
”

“Wore a really short nightgown.” Al touched his crotch. “Dragged her mattress out, white sheets, fluffy comforter.”

“And you?”

“Got in with her almost, show her what a real man can do between those long legs.”

Silver fought to control his anger. “You went near her while she was sleeping?”

Another snort. “Easy.”

“What if she woke up?”

“Nah.” Al laughed. “I’m like a VC in the jungle. Zero sound. A killing machine.” He pounded a fist into his palm. “Can’t believe Mahoney’s gone.”

“Right.” Silver turned on his computer, using the time to think about the next step. Al was easy to manipulate, but difficult to contain, an emotional seesaw. “I received our new orders from the National Council,” he lied. “Judah’s Fist will take revenge.”

Al folded his arms across his belly. “Teach her a lesson.”

The Yahoo homepage appeared on the screen. Silver clicked on
Middle East News
.

“Punish the rabbi too. He’s like a dog in heat!”

“Don’t be vulgar.” Silver read an Associated Press report about Senator Mitchum’s proposed Fair Aid Act and the meek opposition mounted by the pro-Israel lobby on Capitol Hill. Silver could not stop smiling. His plan was working faster than he’d ever expected. But this success could turn into tragedy if the FBI found the memory stick he had given Masada.

“Laughing at me?”

The professor turned away from the screen. “Do I have a reason to laugh?”

“Guess not.” Al snorted. “Tell me, what’s that Mahoney said about a spy video? Did the bitch follow me when I went to give him the cash?”

“Impossible.” It amused Silver how being a member of the phantom Judah’s Fist organization had intoxicated Al with self-worth. “You’re too good for her.”

Al nodded. “No way she kept up with me. I used top-notch avoidance techniques.”

“I’m sure you did,” Silver said, struggling not to laugh. He had installed the miniature video camera in Al’s van, a job made simple by the abundance of junk in it. “There’s no spy video,” he lied. “She was bluffing, and Mahoney bought it. It’s a textbook trick—journalists always claim they have evidence in order to dupe a subject into confessing.”

“Makes sense.” Al rolled and lit another cigarette. He inserted the burning end into his mouth, closing his lips. He blew, emitting smoke through the exposed filter, and took it out, pleased with himself.

While browsing the news, Silver considered Masada’s optional hiding places for the memory stick containing the video. Under a floor tile? In the toilet tank? In the freezer? The FBI wouldn’t miss those. The car. Must be in the car.

On the screen, a Reuters report quoted an anonymous source in the Israeli Defense Ministry:
A prominent American-
Israeli writer was once convicted and jailed for manslaughter.

Professor Silver read it again, shocked. He realized he knew nothing of Masada’s past. Then a thought came to him: Wasn’t Israel a leader in medical innovation?

He Googled key words:
macular degeneration experimental treatment success

After browsing several pages of unhelpful results, he saw one that seemed promising and clicked on the link.

It was a
Jerusalem Post
news piece titled:
Hadassah Surgeon Claims 68% Success Rate with Experimental Stem-Cell Treatment for Macular Degeneration.
At the bottom was a contact e-mail, which Silver used to send a short note describing his condition and requesting to be considered for treatment.

Running down the hill, Masada tried to calculate how long it would take for the tow truck to deliver the Corvette to the shop and for the tire repairs to be completed. She had to stop Rabbi Josh! Colonel Ness’s parting shot made it clear that he knew more than he was letting on. She had to get to a phone!

Masada took the shortcut through the crevice and down to the fork in the trail, where she followed Echo Canyon toward her house. What a cruel irony it would be if, instead of getting her, they would kill such a fierce supporter of Israel as Rabbi Josh.

Professor Silver parked the Cadillac behind the news van. Masada’s garage was open, the chrome bumper on her Corvette glistening in the sun. Entering the garage, he could hear voices through the connecting door to the house. He popped open the trunk and felt around the fading blue lining for the memory stick. He peeked in the spare-tire compartment and the tool box.

Giving up on the trunk, Silver opened the driver’s door, which was lined with blue vinyl. The hot air inside smelled of lemon and grease. To enter the Corvette, he had to bow down as in praying. He wondered, Why would anybody pass on a Cadillac to drive this tiny can of sardines?

Under the driver’s seat he found a box of tissues. The glove compartment, decorated with checkered-flag insignias, held the car manual in a blue plastic cover. He slipped his hand under the passenger seat, wincing as the gear shift bore into his ribs. Nothing.

Voices sounded from the house. He ignored the risk, determined to find the memory stick—the only physical evidence linking him to the affair. He turned around, his knees on the seat, his head against the soft top, and reached all the way down behind the backrest.