Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

“Chill out,” Al said. “Get her next time, promise!”

Silver wanted to stub the crumbling joint in the Jew’s eye. Or better yet, finish him off with the hunting knife, a quick slash across the throat. He drew deep and shot the smoke at Al’s face. “You send a snake to kill her? Who do you think you are? Harry Potter?”

Al snorted. “Made her piss in her panties, that’s for sure.”

“Enough! From this moment on, you’re not lifting a finger without my explicit permission! Understood?”

Al leaned back in the armchair, his short legs forward, his hands locked behind his head. “Suffered a minor setback. So what? Got to roll with the punches, lose a battle, win the war, you know?”

Silver threw the burning cigarette at Al. It bounced off his bald head and landed on his shoulder, smoldering.

“Shit!” He jumped, brushing it off. His hairy neck and bulging eyes contrasted with the childish hurt on his face. “You crazy?”

Coming from Al, the accusation almost made Silver laugh.

“Combating is like that! Win some, lose also, real life, not like your books.” Al touched the pin on his chest, which Silver allowed him to wear in the basement. “Action is my specialty. Not like you. A bucket of words. Professor .”

“Are you trying to insult your commanding officer?” Silver sat on the sofa, leaned back, and watched the smoke rise from his mouth to the ceiling. Rajid had ordered him to monitor Masada and Al, but that was a death sentence to his eyesight . That’s why Masada had to die. “What’s your plan?”

“Burn the bitch,” Al said, “with her house.”

The doorbell rang.

“Did I wake you up?” Masada walked in. She was wearing a gray jumpsuit, running shoes, and a baseball cap over hair collected in a bun.

Silver glanced at his watch. 6:05 a.m. “Old men rise with the sun.”

He led her to the kitchen, and she sat at the table. “Cute house.”

“I don’t need much.” The house was a rental, arranged by Rajid through a Canadian straw company. Silver poured coffee, placing a mug in front of her. She seemed tired. Surviving the rattlesnake attack must have kept her awake for the rest of the night, just as her survival had kept him and Al up. He sat across the table, facing Masada and the only door.

She took a sip. “This is good.”

“I make real coffee.” He chuckled loudly to hide the squeaks from the basement stairs.

She took another sip and licked her upper lip. Even in her current state, tired and anxious, Masada was still gorgeous. Pity she had to die.

Al appeared in the doorway behind her, the hunting knife in his hand. He raised it over her head. Unaware of his presence, Masada brought the mug to her lips for another sip. Silver glared at Al, shaking his head.

Al smiled, showing his yellow teeth, and grasped the long knife with both hands, ready to stab downward.

Putting down her coffee, Masada said, “I found a rattler in my bed last night.”

“A snake!” Silver assumed an expression of outrage and glanced up at Al to indicate that his anger was directed at him. Al shrugged, rolling his eyes.

“I never knew rattlesnakes grew so big,” she said.

“How did you kill it?” Silver had heard from Al that she had tossed the dead snake over the back fence.

She gave him a surprised look. “How did you know I killed it?”

Behind her, Al tilted forward, looking at Silver for a go-ahead.

“It was either you or the snake, and here you are.”

“I was lucky.” She sipped coffee.

“ Oy vey! What a thing to experience!”

“The Israelis crossed the line. I’m going to expose-”

“But meidaleh, we’re in Arizona. I had a rattlesnake in my backyard one time.”

“Not in your bed.”

“But your bed was outside. The snake must have slipped under the covers.”

“Inside a spray-painted a pillowcase?”

“God in heaven!” Silver snatched the morning paper from the end of the table and put it in front of her. “Look at this,” he pointed vaguely at the front page. “The world’s gone mad.” He walked around the table. “I’ll be right back.” He closed the door, coughing to mask the noise, and pushed Al down the stairs to the basement.

Masada skimmed the front page of the Arizona Republic . A piece about Mahoney’s funeral regurgitated the high points of his life-fighting in Vietnam, Purple Heart for surviving three years in captivity and torture without betraying secrets, recovering from his injuries, running for the Senate as a straight-talk rancher, riding into Washington on his horse to clean things up, his tough foreign-policy legislative record, presidential run, and the tragic-yet-heroic end of his life, sparing the nation a scandalous trial. Tough to the bitter end!

Since watching the short video clip, Masada had wondered: Why would a shrewd politician take a bribe from an unknown Jewish organization? Why had he ignored the risk of a setup, especially after the recent lobbying scandals in Washington? Unfortunately, the clip had been filmed from an angle that only showed Mahoney, and without sound.

She pushed the paper aside. Silver’s kitchen was neat, especially for an elderly man living alone, but the air was smoky. When Silver reappeared, she shook a finger at him. “Naughty boy.”

He paled. “What do you mean?”

“I can tell Marlboro from hash.”

The professor laughed and pinched her cheek. “When you grow up, I’ll let you try.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Masada said, playing along. “Tell me, when that Judah’s Fist guy called you, what exactly did he say?”

The black-rimmed glasses slipped to the tip of his nose. Silver pushed them up. “He was traveling for a Jewish charity and needed a place to stay.”

“July eleventh, correct?”

“I think. Yes. The eleventh.” Silver seemed unsure. “He mentioned my friends in Toronto.”

“Which friends?”

“The Solomons. Bernie and Sally. No, Sarah. We attended services together at Temple Young Israel years ago. Lovely people. So I invited him to stay. Why not? How could I know this person was going to bribe a senator?”

“And he told you his name.”

“Fred Sheen. Came on a blue SuperShuttle van.”

“Bags?”

“We’ve been through all this,” Silver protested.

“Indulge me.”

He sighed, looking up, tilting his head. “A gym bag and a hard suitcase with wheels.”

“Any stickers on the suitcase? Airline tags?”

“I saw the red leaf inside a circle, and we spoke about Canada.”

“Describe him, physically. Tall, short, young, old?”

Silver sighed. “Is this necessary?”

“Do you want a snake in your bed?”

“That wouldn’t happen.” He chuckled. “Let’s see. He was tall and thin. Gray hair. Brown suit. In the morning, he borrowed my Cadillac for about two hours, took the black gym bag but returned without it. Then the SuperShuttle van came for him, and that’s it.”

“And you found the memory stick.”

“Between the seats. I was looking for my eyedrops.” Silver tugged at his goatee. “Should have thrown it in the trash, but I was curious, so I stuck it in my computer and the video popped up, the senator counting money out of that gym bag. They put me in an awful position-an accomplice to bribery!”

Masada pitied him, a retired history professor, ill-equipped to deal with the real world. “Found anything else in the car? Cigarettes? Papers?”

Silver shook his head.

“Let’s search your car again. Maybe you missed something.” Masada headed down the hallway to the garage.