Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

Masada reappeared in a pantsuit that exaggerated her height, clinging to her narrow hips and flaring out downward in a bell shape over her shoes. She seemed to walk on air. The jacket was open in the front, showing an ivory blouse over firm breasts. She wore no jewelry and her hair was loose.

The cameraman attached a microphone to her blouse. Silver stood in the corner. It was hot, even with the big fan they had set up.

“This is Tara Flint,” the reporter said, “reporting from the home of Masada El-Tal. First, can you tell us why the FBI searched your home last night? Are you a suspect?”

Masada looked into the camera. “Senator Mahoney’s suicide was a tragic event. He was a war hero and a dedicated politician. But my article was based on irrefutable evidence and the senator’s own confession. The FBI search is nothing but harassment, and our legal counsel is fighting it.”

“Senator Mahoney accused you of failing to tell the whole story. What else do you know about Judah’s Fist, its members and its sponsors? How are you planning to expose them?”

“What I know so far has appeared in my article. I’ll continue to investigate until Judah’s Fist and its Israeli sponsors are brought to justice.”

“The Associated Press reported today that,” the reporter glanced at her notes, “according to a source in Jerusalem, a prominent Israeli-American writer was once convicted in Israel and served time for manslaughter. Are they talking about you?”

Professor Silver watched Masada’s face, admiring her self-control. She bent her right leg, shifting her weight to the left, and said, “Why don’t you ask them?”

Verdi’s Nabucco was playing on the radio. Elizabeth McPherson, chief counsel for the U.S. Immigration Service, Southwest Region, sifted through the photos in the file until she found the one showing the scrawny wife washing dishes. “And this, Your Honor,” Elizabeth held up the photo, “was submitted by Mr. Hector to support his application for citizenship, purporting to depict a happy wife, her loving husband hugging her while she cleans up after dinner.” Elizabeth approached the chair she had positioned under the dark window as stand-in for the judge. “Unfortunately, as this court must realize, this photo is a fake.”

The phone rang, interrupting her rehearsal for tomorrow’s court hearing. Only one person could be calling five hours after the office had closed.

“David?”

There was silence at the other end.

“Hello? David?”

The caller hung up.

Elizabeth put down the receiver and faced the empty chair. “As I was saying, Your Honor, this idyllic photo was staged in a newly constructed home where Mr. Hector worked as a painter. Moreover, close examination of this woman’s arms shows multiple needle marks.”

She paused for a certain objection from opposing counsel and responded, “My esteemed colleague forgets that drug use proves disregard for the law and need for money. Based on this evidence, we ask this court to rule that Mr. Hector’s marriage was a fraud, deny his application for citizenship and order his deportation.”

With a satisfied sigh, Elizabeth gathered the documents into the file. After her ulcer operation two years ago, she had promised Dr. Gould to leave the office no later than 10 p.m. every night, which was now according to the radio.

The hourly news began with reports of vandalism at Jewish institutions in several major cities, threatening phone calls to Jewish leaders, and demonstrations in front of the Israeli embassy in D.C. The American-Muslim Central Committee issued a statement calling for an end to the “pro-Israel hegemony in Washington.”

“That’s right,” Elizabeth said out loud.

Checking her calendar for tomorrow, she noted the 9 a.m. hearing before Judge Rashinski and a department meeting at noon. A doctor’s appointment was marked for 4 p.m. She rubbed her lower abdomen and pushed away her fears. Years of intestinal problems and hormonal irregularities had taught her to watch her diet and manage stress, but recently her abdominal discomfort resumed-not with pain, but with nausea and hardness of her lower tummy. She turned off the lights and sighed. Why now, when everything’s going so well?

Walking down the empty hallway, Elizabeth reached into offices and turned off the lights, making a mental note to scold her staff for such waste. Exiting the elevator downstairs, she startled the guard, who stood up, his newspaper rustling. “Miss McPherson!”

“Hi, Rickie.” She pushed the door, and a gush of hot air hit her face. “Good night.”

The guard’s pickup truck was parked near the steps. Her own car, a seventeen-year-old Toyota, was in her reserved space, down from the director and his three deputies, who were long gone for the day. She didn’t mind. A female immigrant would not rise to chief counsel without exceptional diligence. She glanced up at the white building towering over her. People had expected her to slow down, but she worked even harder, determined to break through yet another glass ceiling.

Reaching her car, she noticed a black sedan in David’s spot. He had left hours ago, going home to his wife and daughter. Elizabeth searched her purse for the car keys.

The sedan’s door opened, the interior lights outlining a man in the driver’s seat.

Elizabeth found the keys and unlocked her car.

The man emerged from the black sedan and said, “Good evening.”

In the dim light she saw black-rimmed glasses under a dark beret, a gray goatee, and suspenders over a white shirt. He was not young, maybe sixty or seventy.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, handing her a piece of paper.

It was a photo of this man with his goatee and black beret standing next to a stooped man in a white robe and a checkered headdress. On the back, a hand had scribbled a sentence in Arabic: Daughter, help this important friend in whatever he asks of you. Allah is great.

The signature below resembled the endorsement signatures on the monthly checks that came back with her bank statements. In disbelief Elizabeth turned over the photo and looked closely at the face.

“Your father,” the man said, “sends his love.”

Elizabeth pointed to the white building. “Seventeen years I have worked here. Before that, seven years of night shifts at Circle K while attending college and law school. Whatever I’ve made, ten percent has gone to him. But not a word of thanks.

Ever!”

The man nodded. “Hajj Mahfizie praises you every day.”

“Not a word in twenty-four years.” She shook the photo in the man’s face. “Now this ?”

“A new beginning perhaps?” He raised his black-rimmed glasses and dabbed his right eye with a white handkerchief. “Allah works in mysterious ways.”

She tilted the photo under the street lamp. “He looks old. Is he ill?”

“Your father is tired, his strength drained by decades of struggle against the Israelis. But he is optimistic about the future-an independent Palestine for our children.”

Elizabeth fought back her tears. “Children were not my strength. He probably told you.”

“You are his child, Elzirah.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Hajj Mahfizie is proud of his prominent daughter.”

She shrugged.

“He is the conscience of the refugee camp, especially for the young men, who are filled with hate. The West Bank is still a place of suffering. You know about suffering, yes?”

Elizabeth leaned against her car, feeling weak. “As they say, you can take the refugee out of the camp, but you can’t take the camp out of the refugee.”

The old man smiled. “You miss him.”

“He sold me like a sheep.”

The man bowed slightly, as if in apology. “Your father regrets letting you marry so young.”