The Masada Complex

She shifted her weight to the left. “That’s not the point. Bribing a senator is wrong!”

“What so wrong with deterrence, so the Arabs think twice before attacking Israel?”

“His voters deserve to know he’s corrupt.”

“The public’s right to know about yet another political graft is more important than Israel’s survival?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You go and publish such a thing with complete disregard for what it would do to Israel and Jews, and to those who love you!” He pointed at the waiting area, where Raul was playing.

Almost in a whisper, she said, “I wish I could switch places with Shanty.”

“That’s a cliche you’d never put in writing!”

“I mean it.”

Rabbi Josh sighed and put his arms around her. “You must find these people. Finish what you started. There’s still time to prove Israel wasn’t behind this bribe.”

“But it was.”

“Then we’re not worse off. But if you discover it was someone else, then the Fair Aid Act would fail, and Israel would be spared a disaster.”

At her second-floor apartment on Twenty-fourth Street, Elizabeth McPherson put the last French fry on her tongue, savoring it. The Barber of Seville played softly in the background. She swung her legs onto the ottoman, leaning back, and enjoyed the cool sweetness of the strawberry shake. She tilted the cup and moved the straw with her lips, sucking the last drops. She had much to savor-her estranged father reaching out, a long-overdue promotion to the top floor, and a baby. Their baby. David would move in with her at first, and when his divorce was final, they would buy a house with a backyard. He would teach their son to throw ball on the grass under the kitchen window while she made dinner. All those years of hard work had rewarded her with professional success and financial security. Now happiness arrived, the American dream, sweeter than honey.

The phone rang. Was it David, stealing a moment from his wife? She picked up.

“Professor Levy Silver here.”

“How did you get this number?”

He chuckled. “I know what needs to be known. Have you looked at my documents?”

“No.”

“We don’t have much time.”

“We?”

“And get some rest,” he said, “so you have energy for Mr. Goodyear tomorrow night.”

She slammed the phone and ran to the sink, where she lost her dinner.

After washing her face, Elizabeth took the brown envelope and sat down. Integrity. Attention to detail. Strict application of the law. These three rules and long hours in the office had brought success. But Father’s friend knew her secret. Not that she regretted falling in love with David. How could she regret the best thing that had ever happened to her?

She turned the envelope upside down, and its content fell into her lap.

On top was an Italian passport, issued originally in November 1983 to Flavian Silver, with entry and exit stamps from Italy, England, and Canada, and a single entry to the United States two years ago. In the photo he looked younger behind the same thick, black-rimmed glasses, his goatee a bit darker. His driver’s license was from Canada. Several university diplomas, a PhD in European history from the University of Ottawa, a Best Teacher Award from the graduating class at the University of Toronto, and several citations of his articles in academic journals. There was a photocopy of a New York Times review of his book on the Evian Conference under the headline How the Nazis Tested World Tolerance as a Prelude to Mass- Extermination.

Elizabeth set the documents aside. He had stayed in the United States illegally. His application would have no chance, even with a job offer backing it up. The conclusion was a load off her chest-she couldn’t help him even if she wanted. He would have to accept that. She closed her eyes, enjoying the music.

Masada lowered the soft top and started the Corvette. With the sun gone behind the red horizon, the day’s scorching heat had lost its edge. But she was hot with rage. Colonel Ness had sent his agents with laced brownies to scare her into cooperating. He would get the opposite!

Engaging first gear, Masada gave the throbbing motor a rich squirt of gasoline and let go of the clutch. Cutting through the parking lot, she turned onto Seventh Street, merging into traffic. Northern Boulevard took her to the Squaw Peak Parkway, where she pressed the pedal to the floor, launching the Corvette at full power all the way to three-digit speed.

She let go, slowing down, tilting her head sideways, the warm wind ruffling her hair. The desert hills passed by, the brown rocks and dry air reminiscent of the Judean Desert of her youth.

There were no news vans or police cars in front of her house. Waiting for the garage door to rise, she closed her eyes, willing Shanty to recover. Ness had gone too far!

The boxes of books waited for her inside. Masada kicked off her shoes and began lining books on the shelves. She worked fast through four boxes.

Taking a break, she went to the kitchen and pressed a glass to the ice dispenser, which disgorged in a loud cacophony, filling the glass to the rim. In the quiet that followed, she heard noise outside. It resembled rapid castanets, and stopped after a moment.

Five boxes to go.

The water refreshed her, and she put the half-empty glass on the edge of a shelf already lined with books. Reaching into another box, she pulled one book after another, passing them from hand to hand and onto the shelf. With the last box, Masada arranged the books on the top shelf until the last book was back in place.

Panting, she broke up the boxes and piled the flattened cardboard together. As she picked up the boxes and turned, the edge swept across the shelf and toppled the glass to the floor.

In the silence following the shattered glass, she heard the knocking sound resume outside. Was something wrong with the AC system? Masada put down the flattened cardboard boxes and sidestepped the broken glass.

She opened the sliding doors to the patio. The knocking quickened until it sounded like an old typewriter at top speed, simultaneously muffled and loud, far and nearby, impossible to locate. The next house was too far to be the source, especially as the owners lived in Nebraska most of the year, using the house only during the winter months.

The noise stopped as suddenly as it had started. She waited at the patio doors, torn between curiosity and apprehension. Several minutes passed. The mattress on the floor was inviting, the white comforter tucked in all around, the puffed-up pillows waiting to cradle her head. She could crawl in and snuggle for another night outdoors.

The phone rang, and she went to the kitchen to pick it up.

It was Rabbi Josh. “I’m calling to apologize for yelling at you.”

“You didn’t yell.” She hopped onto the counter, her legs dangling.

“For me, that was yelling.” Someone spoke to him in the background. “I have to go,” he said. “Have a restful night, okay?”

His brief call changed her mood. With renewed energy, Masada took the flattened boxes to the garage and fetched a broom and a dustpan to clean up the glass.

When she emptied the glass shards from the dustpan into the kitchen trashcan, the rapid knocking renewed outside with intensity. She realized it had responded to the noises she was making. It must be a woodpecker!

A half-hour with the vacuum cleaner left the house clear of dust and small debris. She opened the patio doors all the way and bent to grab the head of the mattress. The brace limited her ability to bend her right leg. Thank you for shooting me, Dov Ness.

Masada crouched, placing most of her weight on the left leg, jutting out the right leg sideways, holding on to the seam along the bottom of the mattress under the pillows. She straightened halfway, lifting the front of the