The Masada Complex (26 page)

Friday, August 8

M
asada pulled up a chair, sat next to Priest and watched his fingers dance on the keyboard, aligning photos of white vans.

“The meeting took place inside a white Ford van.”

Instead of solutions, she was running into more questions. Sheen had borrowed Silver’s Cadillac, but met Senator Mahoney in a Ford van. “Was it Mahoney’s van?”

“I checked DMV records,” Priest said. “Mahoney didn’t own a car.” He skipped to the end of the clip and focused on the handshake. He enlarged Sheen’s hand, which seemed pudgy and hairy. He marked off a square from the green sleeve by the wrist and dragged it to the other half of the parted screen. He brought up a mesh of tiny blocks in different colors, scrolled down to shades of green, and dragged the cutoff from the sleeve to a glistening green square for a perfect match.
Florida lime.

“I’m confused,” Masada said. “My source said Sheen left his house Saturday morning in a black Cadillac wearing a brown suit.”

“Could be another guy. A relay.” Priest pulled up the Public Television web site and found a promo for an old band of five men in long sideburns and glistening green suits.

Tara tapped the screen with her finger. “Polyester. My dad still has one.”

Masada stood and stretched her right leg, wincing.

“What’s wrong?”

“Old battle scars. What happened to the sound on the video?”

Priest turned on his stool. “It was muted.”

Tara laughed. “A mute senator—that’s a new one.”

“He’s not mute,” Priest said, smacking his lips.

Masada saw an opening. “Do you remember why Bush Senior lost to Clinton?”

Tara imitated the ex-president: “
Read my lips - no more taxes!
”

Professor Silver entered McDonald’s. A fat youth stood by the door, stuffing his mouth with fries. Elizabeth was sitting at a corner table with the
Arizona Republic
. She held it up to show him a cartoon. It depicted a tank, marked with a Star of David, aiming its cannon at a lanky woman with black hair, who crouched behind a cactus, next to a burned-down house, aiming a giant pencil at the Israeli tank.

Silver laughed. “That’s my Masada.
Fearless!
”

Elizabeth handed him an envelope. “You’re officially approved as a permanent resident of the United States.”

They smiled at each other with the camaraderie of sinners.

He peeked inside the envelope. “Is this the green card?”

“They’ll mail your card directly from Washington. When you leave the country, you show the card at the airport, and the system won’t flag you for overstaying your visa.”

“Washington?” His good eye stung and blinked. “You can’t give it to me now?”

“Your application has been approved. It’s done, really. You should receive the card within sixty days.”

“That’s two months!”

Elizabeth’s face was taut. “Maybe less, several weeks.”

“I don’t have weeks. I’m booked on a flight Thursday morning. You must get it!”

“
Must?”
Elizabeth’s face turned red.

He grabbed her wrist. “Thursday!”

She pulled free. “Just like my father! Ungrateful!”

“Grateful for what?” Silver stood up, shaking the envelope. “A job half-done?”

Masada spent the morning clearing up the broken glass and scrubbing the floors. After a quick shower, she went to the bedroom, closed the door, and lay down.

She thought of Rabbi Josh, the way he had come to check on her the morning after Mahoney’s suicide, sweating and panting. She thought of his concerned eyes, his scruffy chin. She imagined caressing his bulging biceps, kissing his skin, and felt a jolt of pleasure.

Assuming a fetal position, Masada hugged her knees to her chest, the brace pressing against her heart. She could barely breathe, shocked by the crushing lust. “You’re a foolish woman,” she said. “
Foolish! Foolish! Foolish!
”

Professor Silver parked his Cadillac in front of Masada’s house and stuffed her copy of
The Evian Conference
under his shirt, which he tucked back into his pants. He got in through the tarp that served as a front door and almost stumbled over a large paint container. “Hello? Masada?”

She appeared in the hallway, her face rosy, but before she said anything, the phone rang in the kitchen.

Masada picked it up and listened. She said, “You’re off base, Dick. Tara won’t jump the gun.” She listened more. “I need her resources.”

Standing by the door, Silver let the book drop to the floor, coughing to mask the noise, and kicked it under the refrigerator.

“Listen, Dick,” Masada said, “tell them to send me the next installment. I need to buy new windows.” She tapped her foot, listening. “No, the insurance won’t pay because I’m being investigated by the FBI for suspicion that I staged the explosion, okay?” She slammed the phone down.

“I can help you with some money,” Silver said.

“They’ll pay me. It’s all a game.” She pulled two water bottles from the fridge, handing one to him. “How are you holding up?”

He almost laughed.
She
was worried about
him
. Allah was falling off his throne in laughter. “No more dead cats, thank God.”

“Oh, before I forget. That Canadian, Sheen, when he was at your house, did he wear a green jacket or suit?”

“No. A brown suit.”

“Did you notice a green jacket in his suitcase?”

“Meidaleh,” he patted her cheek, “I’m not the type to peek in my guests’ luggage.”

“We didn’t find a record of Fred Sheen passing through the airport. He must have used a false identity.”

“I open my home to him, and he lies to me. Disgusting!”

“Also, SuperShuttle has no record of him, or of your address.”

Alarmed, Silver realized he had spiced up his lies with crumbs of false authenticity, exposing himself to easy refutation.

“He could have paid the driver off.” Masada tightened the straps of her knee brace. “But why did he stay with you? With so much money in the bag, he could have stayed at the Ritz.”

She had unraveled his story but gave no indication of suspecting him. Silver’s hands trembled, but he calmed himself with the thought that tonight this clever woman would meet Allah. “Don’t they ask for a credit card at a hotel?”

Masada’s hands passed through her hair, toying with the long strands. “There must be a link between you and these people. You and I need to sit and dig into every detail.”

“We’ll talk at temple, after services.” Professor Silver opened his arms. “Give a hug to an old man.”

Masada bent down to embrace him. He returned her embrace with a tight squeeze, knowing it was the last time. He detached from her with difficulty, his throat tight.

Raul pointed to a page in the prayer book. “That’s where we start, right?” Rabbi Josh nodded. He watched the members of his congregation. The men’s heads were covered with white yarmulkes, the woman bejeweled, filling the synagogue with the aroma of mixed perfumes. They sat in rows of padded chairs arranged in succeeding crescents that faced the dais and the Torah Ark. Many regulars brought guests, whose faces Rabbi Josh did not recognize. He was pleased with the swelling crowd. Word must have gotten around that Masada El-Tal would discuss the Torah portion. Mahoney’s shot to the head, the attempts on her life, and the consequent media storm had given her notoriety.

He tensed every time the door opened, expecting her tall figure to appear. He pinched the strings on the old guitar Linda had bought him for his birthday.

Raul held up the book, pointing to the Hebrew text. “Dad, is this a
Yod
or a
Vav
?”

Rabbi Josh bent to look closely at the letter. “It’s got a short leg, so—”

“It’s a
Yod!
”

“Correct.” The rabbi listened as Raul recited the Hebrew letters. Earlier they had discussed the importance of prayer in securing Shanty a good spot in dogs’ heaven.

Al Zonshine entered with Professor Silver, who held Al’s arm as they proceeded down the aisle to the first row of seats. The contrast between them was striking—Silver in his white shirt, red bowtie, and blue suspenders, and Al in a greenish polyester jacket over a grubby T-shirt. Rabbi Josh assumed they had run into each other in the lobby and wondered if the professor’s eyes were giving him trouble again.

Al’s face was red, his head bowed like a charging bull. He had visible deteriorated since stalking Masada a few months earlier, followed by the separation from his wife. Rabbi Josh was planning to speak to Al after the service to offer him help, having heard a rumor that Al was living in his van. But seeing Al’s odd appearance, he became worried enough to step down from the dais and beckon Hilda, who was sitting on the left end of the hall. Reluctantly she came over and settled a couple of seats down from her estranged husband. “That’s close enough,” she said, shaking her head. Al didn’t seem to notice, his bulging eyes focused on the Ark of the Torah.

The long arm of the wall clock touched the top. 7:00 p.m.

Rabbi Josh stood and faced the congregation. “Welcome to our Friday night service.” He waited for the chattering to quiet down. “I am glad to see that no one was intimidated by what happened.” The graffiti had been painted over that morning, but he had worried people would stay away. “Let us pray for those who hate us. Let us pray that they allow God’s grace into their hearts. Let us pray that they forgo hate for love and charity.”