Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m understating.”

“Then you should have thought about it before bribing Senator Mahoney.”

“There she blows again!”

“It’s the truth, unlike what you’re peddling.”

“I offered you a trade, solid leads for a bit of your cooperation. But you blew me off, and now look at you.” Colonel Ness sighed. “Anyway, I’d like to talk more, but it’s Friday night, and my family is waiting.”

“At least you have a family.” Masada picked up the teacup then put it down. “Your failure cost me a brother, as well as my freedom, my knee, and, worst of all, my ability to trust anyone. Because of you, I never started a family, never had any-”

“We’ve all suffered.” Ness patted the blanket covering his stumps. “You allowed your loss to dominate the rest of your life. I chose to go on living and serving, and making more sacrifices when needed. That’s the Israeli way.”

“That’s the Israeli sickness. I built a new life, a good life. But you’re like a bad skin rash. You keep showing up. Again, you ruined my life.”

He smiled, the spider web creases deepening at the corners of his eyes. “I’m persistent.”

“Then you found your match. I have nothing to lose, unlike you.” She stood and pointed at the family photos on the piano. “Your Judah’s Fist scheme cost me my home, my car, my livelihood, my career, my freedom, and my good name. The only thing I have left is my ability to bring you down with me!”

“Please, sit down.” He gestured at the sofa. “Take the weight off your bad knee.”

“Which I have you to thank for!”

He exhaled, adjusting the blanket over his stumps. “It was my greatest fear, losing you. But then, I lost you anyway.”

“What you should fear is exposure of your failure to save those kids, of the masked-terrorist’s escape, of your lies about what really happened.”

Ness rolled his eyes. “Old news. And the official version came from above. Who was the chief of staff then? Rafael Eitan? Too bad he was killed a couple of years ago. Fell off a pier in a storm and drowned. Can you believe it? Like General Patton, a fearless warrior, countless battles, then dying in a foolish accident. Talk about food for conspiracy buffs.”

“You don’t scare me. I’ll publish the truth. People recognize the truth when they hear it.”

He rolled the wheelchair closer to her. “Who’s going to believe a convicted felon, deported for immigration fraud, who spews venom at the homeland that took her back? No one will take you seriously.”

“Your wife will take me seriously.”

Colonel Ness looked at her for a long moment. “That’s a line you mustn’t cross.”

“You leave me no choice.”

“My wife knows who you are. She won’t believe you.”

Masada reached for his earlobe, rubbing it between a finger and a thumb.

He closed his eyes, giving in to her touch.

“Your wife will believe me. She remembers you as a complete man.”

He pushed her hand away.

“Give me the document, and I’ll be gone from your life.”

“I can’t.” His voice was hardly audible. “Only if you help Israel. Take my trade. I have the documents here.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

“Fine!” Masada walked to the door and opened it. “Mrs. Ness? Can I talk with you for a moment?”

He wheeled forward into the door. It slammed shut, its glass insert rattling.

They faced each other.

A knock came from the door. Through the opaque glass they could see Mrs. Ness’s shadow, the two grandkids by her apron. “Dov?”

“We’re almost done.”

Masada reached for the door handle.

“Leave her out of it.” Colonel Ness glanced at the black-framed photo on the piano. “She suffered enough.”

Up close, Masada realized it was not Dov Ness in the photo, but a young man in air force uniform who resembled him, but whose softer chin and kinder eyes had come from his mother.

Mrs. Ness opened the door. “Come, my dear.” She took Masada’s hand. “The food is getting cold.”

After the funeral, Rabbi Josh went to pray at the Wailing Wall. Professor Silver claimed exhaustion and returned to the Ramban Hostel in hope of a nice meal, only to find the cafeteria closed for the Sabbath. A ten-dollar bill convinced the clerk to unlock the kitchen, and Silver found a few slices of bread and a half-empty milk carton in the fridge. The bread was dry, the milk no longer fresh, but at the end of a day of fasting he savored every bite. It was a far cry from his childhood memories of the iftars- the evening feasts during the month of Ramadan, the joyous gatherings of family and friends, overflowing with food, conversation, and laughter.

His solitary iftar in the privacy of his room put him in a contrite mood. Silver kneeled, bowed toward Mecca, and recited an improvised-yet-sincere prayer to Allah. He was too jetlagged to wash and, without his suitcase, had no pajamas to wear. He got into bed in his underwear.

Closing his eyes made the blotch disappear. In the morning, the cabby would drive him to that kibbutz by the Dead Sea, where he would look for information on Faddah’s grave and the soldier who had killed him. She was in her late forties now, probably fat, bored, and completely off guard. He would lure her to join him on a sightseeing drive, push her off a cliff somewhere, and listen to her scream all the way down-a fitting punishment. He would be back in the United States before her body was found.

A knock on the door tore him from his pleasant thoughts.

“Who’s there?”

“Room service,” a muffled voice answered.

The clerk must have realized he could earn a bigger tip with better food. “Hold on!” Silver wrapped himself in the sheet and turned the key.

The door was kicked in. It hit him in the face, jolting him backward. He tripped on the carpet and crashed into a night table, which collapsed on top of him.

After a long walk, Elizabeth found herself in a park bordering a residential neighborhood. Upon reflection, she realized the directions to the Ramban Hostel had been meant to take her from the main lobby exit, not from a side door. She retraced her steps to the Kings Hotel, found the main entrance, and made the right turn. Her feet hurt from the long walk, but she was determined to confront the professor.

She entered the Ramban Hostel and found the front desk manned by a kid playing an electronic game. She asked for Professor Silver’s room number.

The elevator wasn’t working. She took the stairs.

The place was dead quiet, as everybody was out for a Friday night meal with relatives or friends. On the second floor she paused. Upstairs, a heavy piece of furniture was knocked over, and someone shouted in pain. She waited, but there was no other sound from above.

Professor Silver groaned, his chest pressed by the night table. His forehead hurt where the door had hit him, and he could see nothing in the dark.

The door closed. The floorboards creaked.

He opened his mouth to yell for help, but he had no air to make a sound. He pushed the table off his chest, and it dropped to the floor with a thud. He sat up and tasted blood. With his forefinger he felt his teeth. All present. He’d bitten his tongue, and it hurt.

A hand grabbed his arm and lifted him. The air smelled of citrus blossom.

Finally he managed to speak. “Rajid?”

“Quiet!” He dropped Silver into a chair and turned on the lamp by the bed.