Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

Elizabeth McPherson looked at the insignia of the Israeli army on the document. It sent a shiver down her spine, even now, decades after the Israelis no longer controlled her fate. The bottom of the page provided an English summary of Masada El-Tal’s conviction and sentencing for manslaughter.

Elizabeth stepped outside her office and told her secretary, “Get me a copy of the decision in the Schellong case. It’s a Seventh Circuit appeal by a Nazi guard in eighty-five or eighty-six.”

Back in her office, she reviewed the writer’s immigration file, which had come up from the basement archive earlier. It was all here: An applications for student visa in 1983, for permanent resident in 1985 and for naturalization in 1988. She checked the responses to the standard questions on the forms and sat back, satisfied. The professor would be pleased.

Professor Silver’s hands shook as he carried a bundle of mail into the house and dumped it on the dining room table. For the first time since his childhood, he was observing the fast of Ramadan, and the supermarket coupons whetted his appetite with photos of meats and desserts. He glanced at his watch. Another hour to sunset.

There was a letter from Hadassah, sent by Express Mail, asking him to bring all medical records to the pre-op checkup at the Michener Eye Center on Friday. He looked through the dining room at the framed photo on the living room wall. The blotch covered part of the Dome of the Rock, but when he shifted his head slightly, the blotch descended to hide what the Jews called The Wailing Wall at the bottom of the photo. “That’s better,” he said.

The phone rang. He went to the kitchen to pick it up.

“Let’s assume you’re right.” Masada’s voice was edgy. “But if Rabbi Josh is Ness’s agent, why did Sheen stay with you and not the rabbi?”

Silver tried to think of a reason. “What does an old Yid like me know about these things? Maybe they were ordered to stay away from each other?” He held his breath, waiting.

“It’s called compartmentalization .”

“No matter what you think of him,” Silver said, changing the focus of discussion, “the rabbi lost the most precious thing in his life. I know how it feels to lose your only son. It’s worse than dying.”

After a brief silence, she asked, “What happened to your son?”

“An accident.” He choked, thinking of Faddah. “A terrible, needless accident. I can’t talk about it.”

“I understand. I can’t talk about my family either. I’m too angry, even after so many years.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe one day we’ll compare notes.”

“I’d like that,” Silver lied. “You know how I feel about you.”

“The daughter you never had?” Masada laughed, but there was a quiver in her voice.

“You read me like an open book.”

It hurt as if a welder took a torch to her private parts. Cold sweat sprouted all over her body. Masada lowered herself to the floor, lying flat on the cold tiles.

When the pain eased and her breathing returned to normal, she got up and splashed water on her face.

Back in the study, she sat down and focused on creating an outline for her next article. Readers deserved the whole truth. She would unmask Al Zonshine, Rabbi Josh, and Colonel Ness as the men behind Judah’s Fist. All the elements of a good story existed-an Israeli spymaster manipulating a misguided American rabbi, taking advantage of the rabbi’s Zionist idealism, only to see the operation blow up and fail.

The key was Sheen. Why did he stay with Silver? It occurred to her that she had not checked on the Canadian couple Sheen had used as reference. She called Temple Young Israel of Toronto. The membership coordinator told her Bernie Solomon was deceased and his wife was in a nursing home, location unknown.

Masada hung up. Another dead end.

“McPherson! Here you are!” Since promoting David over her head, the director had taken to calling her by last name only, a familiarity that unsettled Elizabeth with its tone of mockery.

Director Simpson led her to the lounging area in the corner of his office. “Coffee? Tea? Or me?” He laughed, patting her shoulder. “I like you, McPherson. You can take a joke.”

Elizabeth sat down and pushed her hair behind her ears, looking straight at him.

“I noticed you put in for a three-week vacation starting tomorrow. Everything in order?”

“My domain is always in order.” She glanced at his desk, piled with papers and magazines. “It’s my first trip home in many years.”

“Difficult times over there, missiles flying, people strapping on explosive belts, shooting at officials, lynching collaborators. It’s like a mini Iraq.”

“Media exaggerations.” She was getting annoyed.

“I’m concerned.” Director Simpson weaved his fingers together as if in prayer. “Why don’t you postpone until things calm down a bit?”

“I appreciate your concern, but my father is getting old.”

“One more thing.” The director got up and ambled to the window, where he watched the traffic below. “I hear you obtained a warrant against the writer who exposed Mahoney.”

Elizabeth had hoped he would not hear about it until after today’s hearing. “My department follows Homeland Security directives to investigate suspected crimes by any person previously processed for immigration status-”

“Spare me the legalese. This crime happened almost thirty years ago in another country. She’s no risk to anyone.”

“We suspect fraud in her immigration applications. We have a duty to investigate.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday.” He kept looking out the window, his back to her. “And I didn’t get to the eighth floor by being dumb.”

“There’s nothing inappropriate.”

“Of course there is.” He turned to face her. “Listen, McPherson. I know how these things work. Someone in Washington told you to pounce on her. Maybe they want to help the Israelis. I don’t want to know. But you’re playing with fire. El-Tal started an avalanche with her expose, and every politician in Washington is scrambling to criticize Israel. Don’t drag us into this mess!”

“We’re doing our job.”

“That woman,” his voice went up a notch, “has been harassed by the media, searched by the FBI, firebombed, shot at, and got sued for all she has. I won’t have my agency join this spectacle of lynching!”

“Under the regulations, we are required to investigate immigration crimes.”

“Again with the regulations? We’re a pawn in someone else’s game!”

“I’m happy to step back if you wish to take over.” She motioned at his cluttered desk. “Should I sent up the file?”

He frowned. “I don’t need to be personally involved. But I’m warning you formally that you’re pissing into the wind!”

It was hard not to laugh at how easy he was to manipulate. “I’ll make sure you don’t get wet, Simpson.”

Masada made a list. She would investigate Rabbi Josh’s college days, rabbinical education, close friends, visits to Israel, bank accounts, houseguests, and his writings. She would cast a wide net over every aspect of his life to find the link to his Israeli handlers. Her follow-up expose would tell the whole story, from the day he had been recruited as an Israeli agent, through his training, setting up the cell in Phoenix, selecting Senator Mahoney as a target, enlisting Al Zonshine, communicating with the mysterious Sheen, and executing the bribe operation, which only failed because Sheen forgot the incriminating memory stick in Professor Silver’s Cadillac. She would give the professor a fictitious name, of course, but her readers would learn everything that had happened. She would have to be methodical, trace all the evidence, and substantiate every allegation before publishing the story. Colonel Ness and Rabbi Josh Frank would go up in flames together.