The Masada Complex (4 page)

Masada watched the senator press the stirrups to control the agitated horse, which rose on its rear legs before submitting to its master. The excited audience was on its feet, certain that this was part of the entertainment—a scripted stunt, orchestrated to amuse them. Masada knew better. She realized that, from this day on, her life would be dominated by tonight’s events.

She saw Rabbi Josh stand up, his broad shoulders tense, and take a step toward the advancing horse. Masada signaled him to sit down. She clutched the silver newsboy, weighing it as a weapon.

At the foot of the stage, the senator dismounted, turned the huffing beast around, and sent it back to the doors with a slap on the rear. “Sorry, my friends,” he boomed, “but the bastards from Washington took away my limo.”

Another laughter exploded in the hall.

“Miss El-Tal!” He approached the podium, and a slanted grin cut across his wind-beaten face. “Truth in reporting. What a novel idea!”

“The truth hurts,” Masada said.

His gaze fixed on her. “The heat must have scorched my old brain—wasn’t there also
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?
”

The audience clapped.

Senator Mahoney stomped his boot on the stage and shifted his Stetson so it sat sideways on his head. “I’ve been clean all these years, while you media folks sifted through my garbage bins for dirt. Finally, you got me! Yes, I took money from an old buddy for legislation I would have sponsored anyway. But what about—”

“No
buts
, Senator,” Masada said. “You took it, you’re dirty. End of a
true
story.”

“My friends,” he surveyed the audience, “can you believe this girl? How can it be a true story if it’s not the whole story?” He pointed a stained finger at Masada. “A fat bag of greenbacks doesn’t come easy. Who’s really behind that Judah’s Filth—”

“Judah’s
Fist
is a secret Jewish organization that logically must be controlled and financed by Israeli agents. That’s my logic.”

“Logic isn’t fact. I didn’t ask for that money.” He rapped his coat pocket. “Sure as hell needed it to buy campaign ads from you media folks.”

People laughed, though more hesitantly. The senator, who had lost a bitter and expensive presidential campaign two years earlier, was facing a tough reelection campaign for his senate seat against a contender who had been pounding at Mahoney’s his flip-flop positions on immigration reform.

“Needed the dough,” he continued, “but never asked for it. Oh, no. They pulled a fast one on us, and you, Prize Girl, didn’t bother looking further.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll keep looking.”

“Too late. Damage is done. When I was lying, broken up, at Hanoi Hilton, I swore never to be locked up again.
Never!”
His right hand swung back his coat, hooking it on the butt of a holstered revolver, which only Masada could see.

“Are you done?”

“It’s you who’s done. Give up the prize!”

She tossed the silver statue, which fell on the stage.

He stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a plastic lighter, which he chucked after the statue. “When I was growing up here, before y’all came and spoiled this pristine desert, we used our guns on
real
snakes.” He blew smoke at Masada. “You kept your eyes open and put a bullet in that ugly head, because if the rattler bit your ride, you’d be walking home on your own sore feet.”

Few in the audience laughed.

The senator’s lips twisted in a lopsided grin. “Should have thrown you out when you showed up at my ranch with your rude questions and damn spy video.”

Masada groaned at the mention of the video. Professor Silver must be frozen with fear. She had promised him the video would remain secret.

The huge revolver appeared in Mahoney’s hand, the long barrel aimed at her face

The audience gasped.

“Senator,” she thickened her voice, “make my day.”

“This
is
your day, girl.”

“Guns don’t scare me. And I’m no girl.”

“You’re no lady either,” Mahoney said, blowing smoke, “forking out lies to ruin the lives of those dedicated to public service.”

“At least I’m not a coward, hiding behind a big gun.”

“You kill without bullets. Words. More potent than a diamondback’s venom.”

The smoke stung her eyes, and Masada realized what was coming. “Don’t do it. Think about your legacy.”

“Ha!” His thumb cocked the hammer.

Masada stepped forward, the gun an inch from her nose. “A bullet won’t bring an end to this story. It’s not over yet!”

Senator Mahoney drew long on his cigarette. “Yes, it is. This horse is done riding.”

“
Senator!
”

His forefinger rested on the trigger. “See you in hell, girl.”

When the shot sounded, Professor Levy Silver was ready with his fingers in his ears. Rabbi Josh ran to the stage, while the banquet hall erupted with screams, chairs falling over, glassware breaking as people pushed and shoved to get away. The professor snatched Masada’s handbag from her seat and hurried to the exit, elbowing his way through the mayhem. He wished he had more time to consider all the facts, weigh the options, and form a strategy, but there was no time. The senator had referred to the spy video, which Masada’s exposé hadn’t mentioned. Now the authorities would be looking. It must be destroyed!

Professor Silver huddled behind a potted cactus in the corner of the lobby and inserted his hand into Masada’s handbag, feeling around for the memory stick he had given her. He felt papers, keys, pens, and her Blackberry, but not what he was looking for.

Where did she hide it?

He peeked from behind the thick trunk of the cactus as a group of police officers ran through the lobby into the hall. His watch showed 7:51 p.m. He rummaged through her bag again. Was the memory stick in her Corvette?

“Levy! Are you okay?”

He looked up. “Thanks God! I was terrified for you!”

“I don’t hurt easily.” Masada noticed her bag. “Thanks for keeping it—the place is a madhouse.”

They reentered the hall against the current of departing guests.

Senator Mahoney’s head rested in a red puddle. Smoke rose from the burning cigarette between his lips. Rabbi Josh, kneeling next to him, removed the cigarette and closed the senator’s eyes.

“Oy vey!” Silver dropped into a chair. “God help us!”

“Here, professor.” Masada filled up a glass of water and held it for him. “First time makes you woozy. It gets easier.”

He sipped water and wondered where Masada had experienced bloodied corpses before. She had mentioned serving in the Israeli army, but surely a woman wouldn’t be sent into battle.

She refilled his glass.

“This is bad for the Jews,” he said. “The goyim are going to be very angry with us.”

“I’ll get Rabbi Josh so we can leave before the media circus starts.”

“Go ahead. I’ll visit the boys’ room.” Professor Silver hurried back through the crowd, crossed the lobby, and headed to the parking area. It was vast and dimly lit. He stopped to wipe his glasses. A moment later, he saw the white soft top of Masada’s Corvette.

The doors were locked. He considered breaking a window, but feared the noise would attract attention.

His black Cadillac was parked nearby. Professor Silver got in, reached under the seat, and pulled out a sheathed hunting knife.

Masada waited in the lobby while Rabbi Josh checked the restrooms for the professor. The rabbi came back, shaking his head.

“He must have run off,” Masada said. “I think poor Levy is in shock.”

They exited the building just as a TV van screeched to a halt, its crew rushing into the lobby with cameras and sound equipment.

Rabbi Josh led the way toward the parking area. “It’s a tragedy, but at least the senator is at peace now. You, on the other hand, won’t have much peace for a while.”

“Peace is a bore,” she said. “Let’s find my car.”

The parking area sloped toward a giant fountain, illuminated in blue by submerged lights. They cut diagonally, zigzagging between lines of parked cars and occasional yellow lamps. She felt the brace scrape her knee but did not slow down.

Rabbi Josh strode beside her with long steps. He smoothed back his hair, redoing the rubber band that held his ponytail. He was as tall as Masada, but his solid build made him appear larger.

She recalled the confrontation with Mahoney at his ranch a week earlier, the senator’s shock at watching the video. He pled good intentions—a friend had offered him a gift to finance his campaign, and he would have sponsored the U.S.-Israel Mutual Defense Act anyway. Like all crooks, the senator felt wronged by the exposure, unfairly humiliated. The filing of a federal indictment against him that morning had made it clear that prosecutors were going to seek jail time. She cringed at the image of the revolver pressed against the senator’s temple, his eyes fixed into hers, the drum beginning to turn.

Forking out lies.

But she hadn’t lied. And further investigation would expose Judah’s Fist and its Israeli sponsors. She would seek the senator’s
old buddy
, who had borrowed Professor Silver’s car to deliver the bribe money while recording the payoff with a hidden camera, probably to ensure the senator kept his word. The mystery man had forgotten the memory stick in the professor’s car—an error of haste that bore the mark of an amateur.

“I worry about you.” Rabbi Josh pointed back at the Phoenician. “This is bigger than anything you’ve done before, bigger than state governors and their real-estate shenanigans.”

“It’s all the same—corrupt politicians caught dirty handed.”

“But Arizona is still the Wild West, despite all the fancy resorts and corporate headquarters. And you just knocked down their hero.”

“You’re too cynical for a rabbi. Too cute, also.”

Stopping under a lamp, he hugged her. “You’ll see. The bribe didn’t come from Israel.”

“You’re naïve.” Masada stepped out of his embrace. “Who else would pay so much dough for a U.S.-Israel Mutual Defense Act?”

“It’s open to speculation.”

“I prefer logical explanation. With its enemies going nuclear, Israel desperately needs an American guarantee to retaliate for an attack on Israel. It’s just like the cold war—Mutual Assured Destruction.”

“Israel needs American protection?” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “It already has God’s protection.”

For a moment, Masada let her shoulders sag under his warm hands. “I have work to do,” she said, turning away. But the roar of an engine made her stop as a motorbike sped toward them, its headlight blinding.

“Hey!” Rabbi Josh stepped forward, waving his arms. “Hey!”

Swerving to avoid him, it passed by Masada—a large, yellow motorbike with a black-clad rider perched high in a straight-up position, tilting the wide handlebar. The helmet nodded at Masada before disappearing into the night.