Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

“I looked through the lawyers’ list to see who’s ripe for promotion.”

Elizabeth perked up. Simpson was a step ahead. He must have realized her first concern would be to find a good replacement for the chief counsel position. “David Goodyear is excellent, has a good mind, solid work ethics, and people skills. He’s ready for more responsibility, no question about it.”

“That’s what I like about you, Elizabeth.” Director Simpson stood up, offering his hand. “You understand how this business works.”

She scrambled to her feet, a bit surprised by how easy it was. “Should I mention it to him?”

The director led her to the door. “Let me do the honors.”

Back in her own office, she called David, who came over and closed the door. He towered over her as they hugged and kissed. He sat across the desk and slipped off his shoes. His legs reached under the desk, his feet touching her. “How do you feel?”

“My stomach is bothering me.”

His foot climbed the inside of her leg and tickled her thigh. “You should drink something warm.”

“You’re terrible!”

He laughed, his brown hair falling onto his boyish face. He jerked his head to one side, throwing off the hair. “Come on, Ellie, I can’t wait till tomorrow night.”

“Soon we’ll be living together, and you won’t have to wait.” He had promised to leave his wife when his daughter turned six. “You will chair the staff meeting today. It’s time the others saw you as a leader.” She pushed a pile of papers across the desk. “Here’s the material.”

“You’re the leader.”

“I’m grooming a successor. We can’t work in the same section after we’re married.” She pointed to the pile. “The agenda is on top, background and weekly reports underneath. You have thirty minutes to prepare.”

He browsed the list. “Piece of cake.” He got out of the chair. “This dress is wooph! ”

She crossed the room, intending to open the door, but he caught up with her in two long strides and grabbed her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts. “They’re big!”

“David!” She was terrified someone would walk in.

His mouth closed on her ear and his tongue sent a buzz of pleasure through her body. She reached forward and locked the door. He rubbed against her buttocks. His right hand gave her breast another squeeze, dropped down, pulled up her dress, and reached into her underpants. He clung to her from behind, his left arm wrapped around her chest, his tongue in her ear, his bulge poking her behind. His finger entered her.

Elizabeth surrendered to his dominance, letting him bring her closer and closer to climax. “Bend over,” he whispered urgently.

“No!”

He leaned on her, his chest forcing her to bow.

“ Not here!” She clenched his hand between her legs as his finger moved up and down, the pressure increasing, until she exploded, burying a scream in his arm.

Rabbi Josh wanted to explain himself. It’s been only five years since Linda died. But Masada seemed relieved the intimate moment had passed. She drove off, catching a yellow light, and turned left onto Forty-fourth Street. The Corvette hit a pothole and rattled noisily. “I don’t need a knight on a white horse,” she said. “If I wanted emotional entanglement to interfere with my work, I’d be married already.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said quietly.

“I investigate. I write. I publish and make a difference. That’s my life.”

Rabbi Josh looked at the passing views of homes and trees. “My psychology professor at Penn wrote a book titled Saying No To Marriage: Untrue Rationale, Unacknowledged Phobias, and Untreated Trauma. Eighty-three percent of his subjects took less than six months of therapy to realize that their reasons for avoiding matrimony were rooted in unresolved childhood trauma, festering guilt, or fear of repeated loss.”

Masada downshifted and hit the gas, speeding up. “Thanks for the therapy session.”

Sirens went off behind them. A police cruiser flew by and cut in, blocking their way.

Two officers approached the Corvette. Masada lowered her window.

“Step out of the car,” one officer said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Professor Silver’s eye stung. He blinked repeatedly to moisten it, marching through the park, Rajid’s bag of cash and hashish slung over his shoulder. Al Zonshine trailed him, panting. “Keeping secrets! Not fair! I’m entitled to participate!”

“Shush!” Silver was gripped by fear, not from this pathetic Jew, who obviously thought Silver had rendezvoused with a Judah’s Fist representative, but from Rajid and his suppressed violence.

“Let me meet them! Know stuff you don’t!”

Silver walked faster. If Rajid saw this, he would conclude that Abu Faddah had lost control of the operation. My reward will be a Palestinian bullet in the back of the head. Allah’s sense of humor!

“Slow down!” Al ran a few steps to catch up. “Give me another heart attack!”

Silver waved his hand. He got into his Cadillac, locked the doors, and started it. Air blew through the vents, hot at first, cooling down. His hands shook, and he had a hard time getting the drops into his right eye. He sat back, eyes closed, taking deep breaths.

When he drove off, Al’s white van appeared in his rearview mirror.

A half-hour later, down in Silver’s basement, they rolled joints and lit, smoking in silence. Al was slumped in the big chair, belly rising and falling with his draws.

The professor pointed with his joint. “Next time you sneak behind my back, I’ll have you expelled from Judah’s Fist.”

Al turned red. “Wanted to know, that’s all!”

“And I want to know what madness possessed me to risk my standing with the organization for you!”

“Meaning what?”

Silver drew in, enjoying the excellent weed, prolonging Al’s bewilderment.

Al sat at the edge of the sofa, watching him.

“As your commander, I recommended you for the second-highest decoration, previously awarded to only three members in the secret history of Judah’s Fist, all of them posthumously .”

“Really?”

“My recommendation was accepted in a secret meeting of the National Council.”

The Jew was buying this nonsense with wide eyes.

Standing up, Silver declared, “On behalf of the National Council of Judah’s Fist, in recognition of your exceptional courage and readiness to make the ultimate sacrifice, I hereby anoint you Member of the Order of Ben-Yair.” Silver pinned a tiny brass fist to Al’s shirt. “Mazel tov!”

Al couldn’t take his eyes off the small pin. “Thought they’d be angry with us, no? Meaning, after the bitch exposed the whole thing, all that money, wasted on Mahoney?” Between his pudgy face and bald head, the Jew now had the shape and color of a ripe eggplant.

“The National Council concluded, based on my input, that your courage should not be discounted on account of Masada El-Tal’s treason. I told them that you are a true believer, that you stand ready to make any sacrifice for the Jewish people.”

Al stood erect, as much as his belly allowed. “Five years in Nam, hell on earth, and they gave me nothing. Decorated Mahoney instead. Valor! Ha! Told me to keep mum about him.”

Rolling new joints, Professor Silver said, “You expect the goyim to decorate a Jew?”

They smoked together as comrades. Silver pretended not to notice how Al caressed the tiny brass fist on his chest. It had cost Silver two dollars in a Phoenix flea market.