The Masada Complex (23 page)

The screen lit up, and Colonel Ness appeared, his face against a gray background. “You look tired,” he said, his voice eerily close.

“No more sentimental vistas?”

“How was the night with the rabbi?”

She didn’t answer.

“He is a good man. I hope he makes you happy.”

Masada paid, took the cardboard tray with two cups and a paper bag, and placed all of it on the floor by the agent’s boots. The woman held up the device, the screen facing Masada. There was a camera lens on the top frame, not larger than a penny.

Ness asked, “Did he show you my e-mail?”

Masada maneuvered the Corvette out of the narrow driveway and stopped at Scottsdale Road, waiting for a break in traffic. “Get out, or I’ll pour ice water on your gadget.”

“Please don’t,” he said. “We had to fill out a hundred forms to explain what happened to the ten-thousand-dollar helmet you destroyed.”

She took advantage of a narrow gap and sent the Corvette roaring in a tight, screeching turn, heading north. The motorbike appeared in the rearview mirror.

“We’re running out of time,” Ness said. “Every anti-Semite in Washington is jumping on the Fair Aid bandwagon. More than seventy synagogues have been desecrated across America—broken windows, swastikas, a firebomb in Chicago.”

“You should have thought about it beforehand.”

“We didn’t bribe Mahoney!”

Masada accelerated with full throttle, weaving between cars. “You think you’re the center of the world, don’t you? You Israelis are so arrogant.”

“And what are you? A sabra doesn’t shed her thorns by changing her passport.”

“There are half a million former Israelis in Los Angeles alone,” Masada said. “Israel is losing its people more quickly than it gains new immigrants.”

“I’d love to discuss demographics with you another time, perhaps face-to-face. But right now I have an excellent tip for you. Our sources in the FBI tell us that the money they found at Mahoney’s ranch was traced to a branch of Chase Manhattan Bank in New York City. The account belonged to a subsidiary of a construction company in Riyadh, which is managed by a Palestinian engineer from Ramallah.”

“How convenient.” Masada turned onto McDonald Drive and headed west. “Any leads about snakes or cookies?”

His forehead creased as if he didn’t understand. “I’ll e-mail the banking details to you.”

“The FBI still has my Blackberry.”

“Then my agent will bring over a copy.”

“Don’t bother,” Masada said. “I’m not stupid. You got caught and now you’re lying to get out of it. Take the heat like a man. Accept responsibility for once, unlike the last time you screwed up.”

“I told you we didn’t bribe him. I’m offering you a good lead!”

“You’re lying.”

“And you’re forcing us to demolish your reputation.”

“And you’re forcing me to tell the public about the hostage situation on Mount Masada, about how you let those Arabs kill my brother while you sat on your hands.”

“Break your oath of silence? That’s high treason!”

“You publicized my conviction. Deal’s off.”

Colonel Ness glared at her from the other side of the world. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Stopped at a red light, Masada leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Out!”

“No!” Ness barked from the screen. “I’m not done with you.”

Masada pulled the cup of ice water from the cardboard tray. “You’re going to experience connectivity problems.”

“One of the Arab who killed your brother might still be alive.”

Her left foot slipped off the clutch, the Corvette lurched, and the water spilled on her lap. Masada ignored the freezing sensation, focusing on Ness’s face. “You’re lying. They both died.”

“The young one, Faddah, you pulled over the cliff. But the other one was his father—Abu Faddah,
Father of Faddah
in Arabic. Him you stabbed in the eye.”

“I remember.”

“He threw a grenade and used your steel cable to slide down the cliff. We assumed he had died in the desert, but his body was never found, only his bloody mask.”

The light turned green, and Masada drove off, her mind swirling with emotions.
Srulie’s killer? Alive?

“Officially,” Ness said, “the report concluded he must have fallen into a ravine and was consumed by animals.”

“But?”

“A year after the disaster, we learned that the PLO had paid for a glass eye in Italy. I sent someone to check, but the trail was already cold. The file was closed and sent to storage.”

“And you waited decades to tell me this?” She stopped in the middle lane, waiting to turn left on Echo Canyon Road.

“I had the file pulled out of storage. There’s some information I can give you. Eye color, age, physical description.”

“The trail was cold back then, why would it yield anything now?”

“We didn’t have the Internet then. You could search medical records electronically, find a match somewhere. You never know.”

“Why don’t you have Israeli agents search for him?”

“If we found Abu Faddah living somewhere, it would end with an anonymous bullet to the head. But you are a journalist. Finding your brother’s killer would be the scoop of your life. You’ll have your revenge, do a book, maybe movie too. A second Pulitzer, who knows?”

She picked a piece of ice from her lap and dropped it on the floor of the car.

“What do you say? It’s a fair trade.”

“Trade for what?”

“The info about the Arab who got a glass eye in Italy and a copy of the FBI file on the money trail from Ramallah. In return, you’ll publish a follow-up article, clarifying that you have no evidence Israel was involved, that Judah’s Fist is likely a front for an Arab plot, financed by the Saudis, like the 9/11 attacks.” Masada had always regretted failing to shove Srulie’s bone all the way through the Arab’s eye into his brain. Could she have a second chance at avenging her brother? “You want me to trade away my ethics? My self-respect? My
reputation
?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. All I’m asking is that save your homeland.”

The humor wasn’t lost on her, but she wouldn’t reward him, not even with a smirk. “My homeland is the United States.”

“That’s what German Jews said about Germany. Where would you go when America is plagued by the old virus of anti-Semitism? Where would you go when America kicks you out?”

“I’m an American citizen. No one can kick me out of here.”

“You’re a modern-day Josephus!”

Masada made the turn and drove up Echo Canyon. “Josephus didn’t cause the collapse of the Jewish kingdom. He reported its demise as he saw it, caused by the same obsession with Jewish messianic sovereignty. Josephus recorded history accurately. I admire him.”

“The wrong words can change history!”

The motorbike reappeared in her rearview mirror. She turned into her driveway and hit the button to open the garage door. “Shalom!”

“You’re making a tragic mistake.”

She took the young woman’s chin in her hand and forced it to face her. “Don’t waste your life on this freak.”

The agent got out of the car. A second later, the motorbike zoomed away.

Inside the garage, Masada turned off the engine and stepped out. Her pants were wet, and she couldn’t wait to change and go for a hike.

With the empty cup she scooped up pieces of ice from the floor. Carrying the bag and the Starbucks tray in her right hand, the paper bag and plastic cup in the left, she used her hip to close the Corvette door.

The garage was hot and a bit pungent. Approaching the door to the house, Masada paused, sniffing. The odor was faint, and she wondered if it was wafting in from the outside through the open garage door. She bent over to see if the Corvette was leaking gasoline but saw no stain underneath the car.

Both her hands occupied, Masada used two fingers on her right hand to turn the knob and nudged the door in with her left foot. But as her weight shifted completely onto the right leg, her bad knee buckled just as the door cracked open. She lost her balance and stumbled backward into the garage. She heard a scratch, as if someone lit a match, followed by a loud
whoosh
and a loud explosion. Through the crack between the closing door and the frame, a vertical sheet of flames burst out, giving Masada a glancing punch, hurling her to the floor. Her head hit the concrete, and the world went black.

Nothing melts a woman’s heart faster than a man’s tears
. Professor Silver could see that Elizabeth was deeply moved. “You see,” he said, “I had planned the perfect hostage situation—no bloodshed, no unreasonable demands, only asking that my teenage son regains our family home. But there I was, Faddah murdered by the Israeli soldier who, not satiated with his blood, put a dagger in my eye. I had to throw my grenade, grab her rope, and jump.”

“Off the mountain?”

“Better the rocks than the Israelis. But Allah preserved me. It was a steel cable, swung me all the way to the other side, where the Romans built a ramp to raise their siege machines.” He showed her the palms of his hands. “It took the skin off my hands, terrible pain, and I could see nothing, hear nothing, think nothing. I felt ground under my feet and ran.”

“But surely they chased you?”

“The explosion kept them busy. I don’t know. I must have fainted in the desert. Days later I woke up in a Bedouin tent, cared for by those hardy desert nomads. If not for them, I’d be dead.”

“Allah was watching over you.”

“I’d rather Allah had watched over my son.” Silver sighed. “When I regained my strength, the Bedouins wrapped me in a carpet and delivered me under the Israelis’ nose to Gaza. My comrades smuggled me on a fishing boat to Sicily, and others drove me to Rome. There my destiny became clear to me, and I began a new life as a Jew named Flavian Silver.”

“Doesn’t
faddah
mean
silver
?”

“That’s one connection,” he said, raising a finger, “but the full name is in homage to the Roman General Flavius Silva, who put down the Jewish revolt and ended the last Jewish regime in Palestine two thousand years ago. He defeated the last Zealots at Mount Masada. He is my role model.”

“But how can you tolerate living as a Jew?”

“To beat the Jews we must learn to think like them. I studied their history, moved to Canada for a PhD, wrote articles and a book. I developed a plan to end America’s support of Israel by exposing the Jews as the backstabbing vermin they are.”

“My God,” Elizabeth whispered. “You were behind that bribe! I knew the Israelis aren’t that stupid! It’s brilliant!”

He bowed his head.

“And devious!” Her brown eyes examined him with both respect and apprehension.

“And my best helper is an ex-Israeli named
Masada
. Talk about symbolism!”

“Seems too good to be a coincidence.”

“Allah’s sense of humor, I tell you.” Silver looked upward in wonder. “My defeat on Mount Masada shall be redeemed through my victory using the journalist Masada. It’s divine justice!”

“Victory is still far off.”

“It’s like a chain reaction,” he explained. “One thing must lead to the next. Her exposé ignited the process, and Mahoney’s suicide caused rage among his Senate colleagues. The Fair Aid Act will break the spell of the Israeli lobby in Washington and destroy the foundation of Israel’s political power in America—the Jews’ only international ally. In Phase Two, we will launch a campaign to brand Israel an apartheid state and impose appropriate sanctions.”

“Apartheid?” Elizabeth crinkled her face. “From a legal standpoint you’re incorrect. Apartheid is defined as political discrimination based on race. Israelis are from all races.”

“But only Jews are entitled to automatic citizenship, right?”

“Jews are not a race. They are people of many races who share a religion.”

“And keep everyone else out!”

“But every country in the world has limitations on immigration. I’m no friend of Israel, but even the one-and-a-half million Arabs living within the Green Line are regular Israeli citizens, with equal rights to the Jews. My father regretted leaving Acre and losing the right to become a full citizen of Israel. And I remember those Israeli soldiers—Caucasians, Africans, Asians, Slavs, even Druze and Bedouin soldiers. I think that’s why Americans love Israel—a fellow nation of immigrants.”