Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

Down in the basement, the dumb grin was absent from Al’s face. He lit one of his cheap cigarettes and filled his barrel chest. “Don’t know,” he said, smoke petering through his spaced teeth, “how she walked away from such an explosion.”

The professor bit into an apple, savoring the juicy flesh.

“Don’t know.” Al blew a long tunnel of smoke.

“Well, I’m just a professor.” Silver took another bite.

Al drew once more, and the ashes fell on his shirt, rolled over the protruding belly, and dropped to the floor. “Being a witch, that’s her shield.” He bent down to pick up the ashes, which crumbled between his stubby fingers. He straightened up, huffing, red-faced. “Snake was huge. Should have seen how it fought me until I managed to stuff it in the pillowcase. And the explosion? Shot out of every window- boom!” He clapped his hands. “Nothing can destroy her. Nothing! ”

Silver took another bite from the apple. The failure of Al’s fire trap, while causing unnecessary delay, meant the Jew would have to accept his destiny. “Your contraption ignited as soon as she pushed in the door. The explosion slammed the door back, protecting her.”

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” Al walked in a circle, beating his head. “Should have placed the ignition strip farther in, so the matches would reach it only when the door was wide open.”

Silver threw the apple core in the trash and took his time rolling the first joint of the night. His supply of hashish was ample, thanks to Rajid. He lounged in the armchair and puffed a cloud of smoke. “The National Council will be meeting after the Sabbath to discuss this situation.” He sighed. “We failed again. I’m so ashamed.”

“Honest mistake,” Al protested. “They must understand.”

The professor removed his glasses and buried his face in his hands. “We’re an embarrassment.” He considered quoting Rabbi Hillel, but decided it would be wasted on Al. “Our clumsiness is turning Judah’s Fist into a joke.”

“Give me another chance. Know I can get her. Let’s do it before they meet!”

“We can’t fail again.”

“Won’t fail. I swear!”

Silver make a show of pondering the dilemma. “We’ll have to do it in public-if you have the courage.”

“Yes! I have nothing to lose but a bad heart and a heartless wife.”

“Who poetic,” Silver said, surprised.

Al grinned. “A line from an old song.”

“Nice.” He rubbed his hands together. “How about we do it tomorrow evening at Temple Zion?”

“During the service?”

Pressing his fist to his heart, Silver invented a quote: “ And God said to Moses: Hold down the traitor upon my altar and slaughter him before my ark, and his blood shall pass through my temple for all to see. ”

Elizabeth McPherson typed quickly, determined to finish the draft she had been working on-an objection to an appeal of a deportation order. At 10:02 p.m., she was done. She filed it with the immigration court electronically, and left her office with an empty cardboard box.

The building was empty. She started downstairs, collecting forms, file folders, and blank receipts from the service counters. On the way up she stopped at various offices and picked up blank letterheads, approval stamps, and sample signatures of immigration officials who together formed the long assembly line traveled by every application for permanent resident status.

Earlier she had pulled from the archive the file of Dr. Greta Fusslig, an Austrian chemistry professor at ASU, who had won permanent resident status four months earlier through the little-known genius-visa route, based on her research on metal stress fractures.

Back in her office, Elizabeth arranged the blank forms in chronological order on the window ledge overlooking Central Avenue. Professor Silver had given her copies of his book, several research papers, passport photos, and fingerprints.

She began making up a file, starting with the application form.

A voice nagged her. You could go to jail! To fight off her doubts, Elizabeth thought about David’s betrayal and his promotion, which she had deserved after long years of diligent loyalty and hard work. This was her revenge, helping the strange professor obtain a green card, winning her own redemption at home. She imagined the stage, the Palestinian tricolor flags fluttering in the breeze, Father’s creased face joyous. Years from now, her child would look at those photos with pride.

With renewed resolve, she typed up fake statements, reports, interview records, and reference letters from academicians, praising Professor Silver’s brilliant work and future contributions. She used Dr. Fusslig’s file for inspiration, changing the jargon from chemistry to history and modifying gender from female to male. She signed each document differently, using her left hand in different angles and positions, and forged the professor’s signature on the forms, based on the sample he had provided. She granted him passing scores on an English and American history test, created transfer notes that would have accompanied a legitimate file between departments, and copied the medical report, attaching Dr. Fusslig’s lab results with the professor’s name plastered on it. A close review would reveal the female characteristics in the blood tests, but Elizabeth counted on the unfailing bureaucratic indifference of federal employees.

She drafted a Conditional Rejection Notice, addressed to Flavian Silver, berating him for overstaying his tourist visa, created a contrite reply letter from him, and a memo recommending a waiver, signed by a review officer whom Elizabeth had often criticized for unwarranted leniency.

When she finished creating the fictitious file, the dates on the documents spanned more than a year-the time it took Dr. Fusslig’s application to go through the various stages. Shortly after 4:00 a.m., Elizabeth began the tedious process of entering dates and actions into the database in the order they appeared in the paper file.

When it was time to save the new record to the system, her finger hesitated over the key. You are committing a crime! Think about your job, property, freedom, think of your child!

Elizabeth breathed deeply, calming herself. What had she gained after years of impeccable service to the U.S. government? Disrespect. Dishonesty. Disgrace. She thought of the crowd, cheering around the raised platform in the middle of the Kalandria refugee camp, the medal placed around her neck, Father hugging her, begging forgiveness. Hero of Palestine.

She clicked on Save .

Masada pulled up a chair, sat next to Priest and watched his fingers dance on the keyboard, aligning photos of white vans.

“The meeting took place inside a white Ford van.”

Instead of solutions, she was running into more questions. Sheen had borrowed Silver’s Cadillac, but met Senator Mahoney in a Ford van. “Was it Mahoney’s van?”

“I checked DMV records,” Priest said. “Mahoney didn’t own a car.” He skipped to the end of the clip and focused on the handshake. He enlarged Sheen’s hand, which seemed pudgy and hairy. He marked off a square from the green sleeve by the wrist and dragged it to the other half of the parted screen. He brought up a mesh of tiny blocks in different colors, scrolled down to shades of green, and dragged the cutoff from the sleeve to a glistening green square for a perfect match. Florida lime.

“I’m confused,” Masada said. “My source said Sheen left his house Saturday morning in a black Cadillac wearing a brown suit.”