Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

Do it!

He stole another glance at her. A thought crossed his mind. Was Masada’s peacefulness due to her trust in him? Old Levy will watch over you.

Enough!

He pressed the piston all the way, emptying the air into her IV line.

Shaking badly, he watched her face for the first sign of shock, of sudden pain and fatal terror.

Masada continued to breathe.

He searched for a sign of distress, of her body responding to its imminent death with a jerk, a convulsion, something!

He bent over to look closely at the syringe and the IV tube. It was hard to see. He lifted the line close to the dimmed light and saw the point of the needle sticking out the other side of the tube. He had pushed it through the tube, injecting air into the air!

No longer able to breathe, his hands trembling beyond control, Professor Silver pulled out the syringe, shoved it in his pocket, and ran out of Masada’s room.

The custodian at the Heavenly Pines Cemetery demanded an early-bird premium. Professor Silver paid without haggling. An hour later, he watched the two Mexican laborers dig Al’s grave while the groggy mourners sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups. He had called a bunch of Temple Zion members, explaining that Al’s funeral would be held early to beat the heat and the media. But his real reason was to bury Al before someone asked for an autopsy.

When the coffin was placed over the grave, everyone came closer, two of the women supporting Hilda. In the rabbi’s absence, Silver took the lead. “We have gathered here today,” he said, “to say farewell to an old friend. Alfred Zonshine showed his courage as a young man in the United States Marine Corps, fighting bravely to bring democracy to Vietnam. He returned from captivity an impaired man, physically and mentally, and had struggled for a normal life, fencing with the demons of war and captivity. His private quest for internal peace was won day by day with the support of his soul mate.”

Hilda sniffled behind the black lace that hung from the brim of her hat.

“Al was a mensch ,” Silver declared, “who fought for ideas, argued for just causes, and sometimes made mistakes. But today we remember only his virtues and his long effort to remain upstanding despite the rushing current of the river we call life.”

He paused, glancing at the men and women around the grave, suppressing a grin. If they only knew how comical all this really was-a Palestinian agent eulogizing the Jewish schmuck he had killed only hours earlier.

“And we remember with fondness Al’s devotion to Jewish causes, to Israel, and to his wife.”

At that, Hilda turned and gave him a look through the black lace.

Silver sighed, smacked his lips, and looked down at the cheap coffin. “As our friend is passing on to greener pastures, we find solace in the words of the prophet: And God shall comfort Zion, console her ruins, turn her desert into paradise and her wasteland into heavenly garden, bestow her with joy and relief, sounds of praise and chanting.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Dear Alfred longed for Zion. May his unfulfilled aspirations serve as his heavenly redemption. And we say, amen.”

He stepped forward, touched the coffin with a solemn expression, and for a moment expected Al to leap out with a mouthful of obscenities. But Al remained dead, and Silver stepped back from the coffin and said haltingly, “Shalom, friend.”

The lever was pulled and the coffin descended in dignified slowness into the hole in the ground. Silver shoveled a load of dirt onto the departed. Hilda went next, then the others.

An hour later, back at his basement, Professor Silver put his feet up on the desk and blew circles of smoke-little bagels, as a Yid would call them. Al was finally covered in dirt, but Masada was going to leave the hospital and resume her investigation. He had to admit there was something to Ramallah’s concerns-Masada was the most tenacious woman he’d ever met. If anyone could crack the wall of deceit he had built, it was her.

He reduced the joint to ashes until it burned his fingers. He stubbed it and went upstairs to check the mail.

Nothing.

He called Elizabeth. “My flight leaves on Thursday morning!”

“I’d rather you not phone me in the office,” she said.

“I’d rather not cancel your award ceremony,” he snapped.

She was silent except for the sound of her breathing.

“You have power. Influence. Use it!”

“I could ask, but it might draw attention.”

“Ramallah has scheduled your award ceremony for August twentieth.”

He heard her flipping through a calendar. “That’s next week!”

“They decided on Wednesday for security reasons,” he lied, “especially with the Senate vote against Israel coming up. I’m planning to attend, of course, assuming I can travel.”

“I’ll call the Washington office right now.”

Masada took a taxi from the hospital to Channel 6. Priest had worked overnight with a lip-reader to transcribe Senator Mahoney’s words. The silent video played on the screen. Mahoney was sitting in the van. He smiled and said something.

Priest read from scribbled notes: “I promised you I’ll stand by Israel. I kept my promise, didn’t I?” Mahoney listened to Al Zonshine, and his lips moved again as Priest spoke for him, “Promise is a promise, but politics is worse than the jungle, and my opponents are worse than the Vietcong.” Mahoney shifted in the seat, listening to Al, and shook his head. “I don’t know. I gave a speech last month saying the Israelis should allow U.N. peacekeepers along their borders and turn their swords into shovels.”

Mahoney paused, listened, and said, “Right. Spades .” He listened and shook his head. “Stand down, soldier. The Foreign Relations Committee isn’t a rubber stamp. It’ll cost me every political chip to push through the Mutual Defense Act.” Mahoney counted on his fingers. “One, automatic obligation to defend Israel takes away the president’s freedom of decision. Two, all those congressmen who live on money from the oil companies aren’t going to be happy. Three, commitment to send American boys to defend Israel will be unpopular. Four, it’s going to be expensive. Pushing this through would be a lot harder than plowing through a village with a flame thrower.” Mahoney leaned his head back and laughed in the same manner Masada remembered from the TIR Prize ceremony.

A black gym bag landed in the senator’s lap. He unzipped the bag and drew out a bundle of bills. “Mother of water!” Mahoney curled his lips, and Priest whistled. “That’s more than thirty coins of silver!” He listened, and his eyes widened. “That much?” He fished out another bundle. “Who gave it to you?” Another pause. “A friend from Temple?” A doubtful tilt of the head. “Really?” Mahoney listened, nodding thoughtfully. “He’s a man of faith? I like faith. You can trust the faithful to lie only when necessary.” The senator’s large hand landed on the black bag. “I’m not saying that, soldier. You, I trust. You’re no snake.”

“Snitch,” Masada corrected Priest.

In the video, Mahoney appeared to listen intently and said, “You kept quiet for decades. You’re solid.” The senator took more cash out of the bag and looked at the money, shaking his head. “With this much dough I can pull off a comeback, no question.” He zipped up the bag, hugging it to his chest. “Next year in Jerusalem.” He laughed and grabbed the door handle.

“Jerusalem!” Tara leaned closer to the screen. “He implies that the money came from there!”