The Masada Complex

“Old traumas continue to tick even if we try to suppress them. They often manifest in vivid nightmares.”

Masada accelerated up the street, turning into Echo Canyon Road without slowing down. “You think I’m going crazy?”

Her tone confirmed he had touched a nerve. “Are you?”

Masada decelerated sharply to stop at a red light. “I’m not Al Zonshine.”

Rabbi Josh turned to her but said nothing. Her thinness extenuated the features of her face-a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a perfect jaw. He interlocked his fingers, keeping his hands in his lap, longing to touch her. “He is a member of my flock. I’ve tried to help him fight off his demons.”

“Unsuccessfully, it seems.”

“Has he bothered you again?”

“Not since the restraining order was issued.” Masada took off as the light changed, pushing the car hard. She downshifted, approaching a turn. “There’s a barf bag under the seat.”

“Thanks.” He laughed, realizing the drive was intended to test him.

“Did Raul like my Corvette?”

“He wants me to trade the Honda for one of these. I told him it’s unbecoming for a rabbi.”

Masada downshifted to pass a slower car and turned right on Camelback Road so fast that he had to grab the door handle to avoid falling on her. She laughed. “God, I love this car.”

“God loves you too.” He watched her shifting gears with a slender arm. The radio played, I’m a prisoner of your soul, a lifer in paper walls, plastered with your face, before you left this earth. He thought of Linda’s photos on his own walls, her clear eyes framed in carrot-red curls, a smile that was contagious even when he cried.

Masada lowered the volume on the radio. “A shekel for your thoughts.”

He hesitated. “I miss my wife.”

“Do you feel guilty about liking another woman?”

“Liking would have been fine. But when it’s more than liking-”

“Guilt is impractical. I prefer anger.” Masada pushed her hair behind her ears. “Aren’t you angry at whatever killed her?”

“I’m angry at myself.” Rabbi Josh sighed. “How about you?”

“It’s easy for me. I blame Israel for the deaths of my parents and brother.”

“Is that why you’re so eager to indict Israel?”

“Who else would pay Mahoney to sponsor a mutual defense act with Israel?”

“Christian fundamentalists? Jehovah’s Witnesses? Michael Jackson? The world is filled with misguided souls.”

“Only countries spend that kind of money on bribes, and Israel is the only country interested in legislation that would force our president to declare war on whoever attacks Israel.”

“And require Israel to fight against anyone attacking America.”

“Ha!”

“It’s convenient to only see the facts that support your theory.

Can’t you acknowledge the possibility it wasn’t Israel?” Rabbi Josh put his arm forward as the car came to a screeching halt at a red light. “That Fair Aid legislation is a terrible development.”

“Israel should have learned from the Pollard affair, the Abramoff and AIPAC scandals. Instead, they bribed Mahoney, and failed.”

“You say ‘Israel’ as if it’s a single entity that acts and speaks in one voice. You know how divided and conflicted Israel is, including the ever-changing coalition government. And even if one of Israel’s agencies did bribe Mahoney, should the whole Zionist enterprise suffer?”

“I don’t hear Israeli voices protesting the smear campaign against me.”

“What did you expect? They have to discredit you by showing that you have a score to settle.”

“You condone their tactics?” The light went green, and Masada threw the clutch, spinning the wheels until they caught traction, and the car bolted with a roar of its engine.

He tugged on the seatbelt, which hurt his shoulder. “The Fair Aid Act would cause suspension of military aid and a full-scale Senate investigation. One committee might spawn seven subcommittees, and so on. To discredit your accusations, the Israelis must discredit you. I’m sad to see them lie-”

“Who said they’re lying?”

The rabbi was stunned. “Did you really go to prison?”

She hit the brakes, stopping with a screech at the side of the road. “You have a problem with that?”

The hurt in her eyes shocked him more than the revelation of her past imprisonment. “I’m sorry that you suffered.”

She touched his face. “You’re too good.”

Facing her so closely, he saw specks of gold in the dark green of her eyes. He leaned closer, craving to taste her moist lips.

Masada retreated a bit, and in that sliver of time he glimpsed Linda’s face between them and turned away, coughing to hide a groan.

Elizabeth McPherson sat at the prosecution table. The arguments had been intense, but her meticulous preparations had paid off again. Judge Tolstoy Rashinski pounded his gavel. “This court hereby accepts Miss McPherson’s position that the Immigration Service proved that this couple’s marriage was a scheme to obtain a green card for the husband.”

Defense counsel stood up. “Your Honor, the evidence points that way, but now they are in love. Really!” He motioned at the dyed-blonde, skeletal woman and her Mexican husband. “It would be a crime to separate them just because of a technicality.”

“The law,” Elizabeth stood, “is not a technicality, and this case is not a romance novel. Immigration fraud requires deportation.”

The young woman suddenly spoke up. “But I’m pregnant.”

“The child’s welfare,” defense counsel declared, “takes precedent!”

“I object!” Elizabeth could not believe her ears. This pitiful flat-chested woman was pregnant?

But the judge had no choice. He sent the two lawyers, the court reporter, and the young woman to the ladies’ room, where she proved her condition by urinating on a store-bought pregnancy test.

Back in the courtroom, the judge glanced at the proof without touching it and brokered a compromise, which Elizabeth had to accept. Instead of deportation, which would make the Mexican ineligible forever, he would leave the United States voluntarily and apply again.

Judge Rashinski ordered him handed to the Border Patrol to be escorted across the border. While Elizabeth was packing up her papers, she saw the Mexican kneel before his purported wife and bury his face in her tummy.

Professor Levy Silver crossed Encanto Park in a measured stroll, the beret pulled down to his brow. He stopped to let an open train with squealing kids rumble across the path. Passing the pedal-boat rental dock, he approached the service shed by the shore of the lake. The combination of extreme heat and standing water made it hard to breathe, but he knew there was no risk of running into any acquaintances from Temple Zion.

The service shed sat on a concrete pad that jutted into the brown water. Silver stood at the edge, hands behind his back. He wondered whether fish survived in the thick broth that licked his shoes.

“Professor!”

Silver waved at the approaching pedal boat.

Rajid helped him into the boat and pedaled away from shore. His tanned legs moved smoothly, his muscles bulging under the white shorts. As always, the handler from Ramallah wore enough cologne to ward off the stench of the lake.

“Let me help you.” Silver’s shoes rested on the rubber pedals and joined the turning motion. He adjusted his