used him to bribe Mahoney, and then she exposed it.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because she hates Israel. First, her parents and little brother died-what happened to them, I don’t know, but she blames Israel. Then the Israelis put her in jail for something she didn’t do. The bribe was her revenge!”

“Where did she get the money?”

“Ah!” Silver had an answer prepared. “Is Israel short on enemies?”

“True.” Rabbi Josh redid the rubber band on his ponytail. “If that’s the case, why did Al try to hurt her-the snake, the poisoned brownies, the explosion?”

“Was she ever really hurt?” He chuckled. “It’s textbook diversion. Who would ever suspect the victim?”

The rabbi rubbed his cheeks with both hands. “And the temple shooting?”

Silver hesitated. Putting a spin on the event that killed the rabbi’s son required a delicate touch. “I believe Al was supposed to shoot over Masada’s head and run off, disappear into the desert, while the public, having witnessed the assassination attempt, would be even angrier with the Israelis. Think of the headlines: Writer Escapes Zionist Assassin’s Bullet! Think how her books would fly off the shelves.” He paused, sighing again. “Tragically, Hilda jumped on him and the headlines said: Writer’s Spurned Lover Misses, Shoots Boy Instead.

The rabbi looked away. “That’s a tall house of cards built on something you thought you heard in the middle of the night.”

Silver adjusted his glasses. “I heard her clearly. Wait, big guy-”

“I heard it the first time.” Rabbi Josh led him to the door. “You should confront her. There must be another explanation.”

Elizabeth McPherson looked at the insignia of the Israeli army on the document. It sent a shiver down her spine, even now, decades after the Israelis no longer controlled her fate. The bottom of the page provided an English summary of Masada El-Tal’s conviction and sentencing for manslaughter.

Elizabeth stepped outside her office and told her secretary, “Get me a copy of the decision in the Schellong case. It’s a Seventh Circuit appeal by a Nazi guard in eighty-five or eighty- six.”

Back in her office, she reviewed the writer’s immigration file, which had come up from the basement archive earlier. It was all here: An applications for student visa in 1983, for permanent resident in 1985 and for naturalization in 1988. She checked the responses to the standard questions on the forms and sat back, satisfied. The professor would be pleased.

Professor Silver’s hands shook as he carried a bundle of mail into the house and dumped it on the dining room table. For the first time since his childhood, he was observing the fast of Ramadan, and the supermarket coupons whetted his appetite with photos of meats and desserts. He glanced at his watch. Another hour to sunset.

There was a letter from Hadassah, sent by Express Mail, asking him to bring all medical records to the pre-op checkup at the Michener Eye Center on Friday. He looked through the dining room at the framed photo on the living room wall. The blotch covered part of the Dome of the Rock, but when he shifted his head slightly, the blotch descended to hide what the Jews called The Wailing Wall at the bottom of the photo. “That’s better,” he said.

The phone rang. He went to the kitchen to pick it up.

“Let’s assume you’re right.” Masada’s voice was edgy. “But if Rabbi Josh is Ness’s agent, why did Sheen stay with you and not the rabbi?”

Silver tried to think of a reason. “What does an old Yid like me know about these things? Maybe they were ordered to stay away from each other?” He held his breath, waiting.

“It’s called compartmentalization.”

“No matter what you think of him,” Silver said, changing the focus of discussion, “the rabbi lost the most precious thing in his life. I know how it feels to lose your only son. It’s worse than dying.”

After a brief silence, she asked, “What happened to your son?”

“An accident.” He choked, thinking of Faddah. “A terrible, needless accident. I can’t talk about it.”

“I understand. I can’t talk about my family either. I’m too angry, even after so many years.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe one day we’ll compare notes.”

“I’d like that,” Silver lied. “You know how I feel about you.”

“The daughter you never had?” Masada laughed, but there was a quiver in her voice.

“You read me like an open book.”

Wednesday, August 13

It hurt as if a welder took a torch to her private parts. Cold sweat sprouted all over her body. Masada lowered herself to the floor, lying flat on the cold tiles.

When the pain eased and her breathing returned to normal, she got up and splashed water on her face.

Back in the study, she sat down and focused on creating an outline for her next article. Readers deserved the whole truth. She would unmask Al Zonshine, Rabbi Josh, and Colonel Ness as the men behind Judah’s Fist. All the elements of a good story existed-an Israeli spymaster manipulating a misguided American rabbi, taking advantage of the rabbi’s Zionist idealism, only to see the operation blow up and fail.

The key was Sheen. Why did he stay with Silver? It occurred to her that she had not checked on the Canadian couple Sheen had used as reference. She called Temple Young Israel of Toronto. The membership coordinator told her Bernie Solomon was deceased and his wife was in a nursing home, location unknown.

Masada hung up. Another dead end.

“McPherson! Here you are!” Since promoting David over her head, the director had taken to calling her by last name only, a familiarity that unsettled Elizabeth with its tone of mockery.

Director Simpson led her to the lounging area in the corner of his office. “Coffee? Tea? Or me?” He laughed, patting her shoulder. “I like you, McPherson. You can take a joke.”

Elizabeth sat down and pushed her hair behind her ears, looking straight at him.

“I noticed you put in for a three-week vacation starting tomorrow. Everything in order?”

“My domain is always in order.” She glanced at his desk, piled with papers and magazines. “It’s my first trip home in many years.”

“Difficult times over there, missiles flying, people strapping on explosive belts, shooting at officials, lynching collaborators. It’s like a mini Iraq.”

“Media exaggerations.” She was getting annoyed.

“I’m concerned.” Director Simpson weaved his fingers together as if in prayer. “Why don’t you postpone until things calm down a bit?”

“I appreciate your concern, but my father is getting old.”

“One more thing.” The director got up and ambled to the window, where he watched the traffic below. “I hear you obtained a warrant against the writer who exposed Mahoney.”

Elizabeth had hoped he would not hear about it until after today’s hearing. “My department follows Homeland Security directives to investigate suspected crimes by any person previously processed for immigration status-”

“Spare me the legalese. This crime happened almost thirty years ago in another country. She’s no risk to anyone.”

“We suspect fraud in her immigration applications. We have a duty to investigate.”

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