Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

“The issue is,” she chuckled, “I wanted to hear your voice.”

He hesitated. “Yes?”

“And to tell you that Dr. Gould found nothing wrong with me.”

“That’s good.”

She lowered her voice. “I have great news!”

“David?” His wife’s screechy voice sounded very close, then his daughter’s laughter. He said, “We have tickets to the ballet.” His pretentious wife was a devotee of the Phoenix Ballet, forcing David to accompany her to every performance. “Got to go.”

“I love you,” Elizabeth said.

“Same here.”

Rabbi Josh had picked up a pentagonal birthday cake, its sidewalls marked: R-A-U-L-5 . The top was shaped like a dog snout. Candles pointed sideways like whiskers, intriguing Shanty to no end. She put her front paws on Raul’s chair, sniffing the cake. Raul put his arms around her and rolled to the floor. Shanty fell with him, barked, twisted her neck to face Raul, and licked his face from chin to forehead. He yelled, “Phew!” and exploded with laughter as they rolled farther, bumping into the leg of the table.

“Hey!” Rabbi Josh lifted the tray with the cake in one hand and Masada’s brownies in the other. “Let’s sing, birthday boy.”

They lit the candles and sang Happy Birthday in English and in Hebrew. Raul blew out the candles.

Rabbi Josh kissed his son, taking in the fresh smell of the boy’s shampooed hair. His mind made the inevitable connection, and he looked up at Linda’s photo on the wall, her smiling face framed by carrot-red ringlets. He kissed his son again. “May the Lord bless you with many wonderful years.”

Raul took his time smudging his name on the frosting, relishing the taste of each letter. He offered Shanty a crumb, which she licked off.

After consuming a slice of cake, Raul pointed to Masada’s brownies. “I want a piece of that too!”

“Let’s take a break,” Rabbi Josh said. “We’ll go outside, throw some ball, okay?”

“Masada El-Tal?” The caller’s voice was familiar.

“Who wants to know?”

“Ross Linder, WRGX Radio in New York. We just had Dick Drexel of Jab Magazine on the air. He said you’ve never spent time in an Israeli jail for manslaughter. Can you confirm?”

Masada grasped the edge of the kitchen counter. Linder had millions of listeners. “As a nineteen-year-old kid in the Israeli army, I spent a few months in confinement, but my conviction was later cancelled. The Israelis are trying to discredit me, that’s all.”

“You might have heard,” he added quickly, before she could hang up, “that Temple Emanuel in Manhattan lost two Chagall windows last night to vandals. Do you feel responsible?”

“No.” She hung up and called Drexel. “Don’t talk about me without my permission! Never!”

“Masada, darling, you’re absolutely right. But you must realize the value of this free publicity. I mean, we’re getting thousands of e-mails, new subscriptions-”

“You’re a greedy bastard.”

“I take offense,” Drexel whined. “I’m greedy for good writing, for real journalism, for opportunities to inform the public with all the news that’s fit to print.”

“Give me a break.” Masada started doing stretching exercises for her back, bending all the way forward until her forehead lined up with her knees.

“Our readers deserve to know who exactly bribed Senator Mahoney, you agree?”

“Dick!” Masada bent sideways, feeling the muscles of her lower back.

“You need to get on with it. Internet blogs and chat rooms are abuzz with rumors that you’re involved with Judah’s Fist, that you staged the whole thing to hurt Israel, or that you’re a sleeper agent for Israel, working for Mossad.”

She placed her left foot on a chair and bent forward, trying to touch her good knee with her forehead. “Who would believe such nonsense?”

“Ross Linder’s listeners, for example.”

Masada stood straight, pulling back her shoulders. “What do you want?”

“Get your investigation going, find someone else to occupy the hot seat.”

She switched legs, careful not to straighten her bad knee. “I don’t have much to go on. My source came upon the information by chance. He’s a bystander, terrified of getting snarled in a scandal. He’s got no more information.”

“Rubbish! Sources always know more than they realize. And what about that spy video Mahoney mentioned?”

“Bye, Dick.”

“Don’t you want to get back at them for releasing the jail story? They’re dragging your name through the muck!”

“First greed, now incitement. What’s next? Seduction?”

“If I thought I had a chance.”

“Not if you talk to Linder again.” She looked through the wall of glass at the patio, her mattress on the concrete floor. Tonight, after shelving her books and cleaning the house, she would sleep in her own bedroom. “And thanks for the brownies.”

“What brownies?”

“Chocolate, with the T, I, and R . Nice touch.”

“Hold on.”

A moment later he came back. “I wish I could take credit for it, but we don’t know anything about brownies.”

“Oh, God!” She hung up and called the rabbi’s house.

The phone rang once, twice, three times.

A machine picked up, prompting her to leave a message.

“It’s Masada. Don’t eat those brownies!”

She tried Rabbi Josh’s mobile. No answer. She grabbed the keys to the Corvette and ran.

Professor Silver watched Elizabeth’s Toyota enter McDonald’s parking lot. She emerged from the car legs first, breasts second, then the rest. She was plump in a pleasing, feminine manner that reminded him of the women in Nablus and Amman. He felt kinship toward her. Like him, she had tucked away her Palestinian identity and put on an effective facade to achieve her goals.

But he could not afford to be soft with her. A flurry of e-mails during the previous night, including electronic copies of Dr. Pablo’s test results, had produced a lifeline: Hadassah Hospital accepted him into the experimental treatment, provided he was approved by the Ministry of the Interior as an Oleh Hadash -a new Israeli citizen entitled to free health care coverage. They were expecting him for pre-op tests no later than 3:00 p.m. on Friday, August 15-ten days away!

Elizabeth picked up her usual order, collected napkins and a straw, and turned to leave.

“Hi there!”

Her face lost some color, but she came over and sat across from him.

“Here, my papers.” He produced a brown envelope. “The application form, my birth certificate-”

“I’m not your immigration lawyer.” Elizabeth sipped from her drink and stood up. “Take your chances like everybody else.”

“My tourist visa is long expired.” He remained sitting, counting on her good manners not to leave an old man in midsentence. “I have no chance without your help, Elzirah.”

“My name is Elizabeth McPherson!”

“A new name doesn’t change the person.” His eye stung, reminding him how essential it was to obtain this woman’s assistance. He blinked to moisten the eye, trying to ignore the blotch in the middle of his vision.

She leaned over the table. “I’m not going to jeopardize my career for you or for my estranged father. Now leave me alone, or you’ll need a criminal lawyer too!”

“Please,” he forced himself to smile, “sit down for a minute.”

“I must wart you that under the law-”