The Masada Complex (63 page)

His eyes fell from her face to where her womb pulsated with life.

“I
am
doing both, Father.”

He made a croaking sound. His eyes blinked a few times.

She waited, letting him digest the news. “Your first grandchild.”

He didn’t exactly open his arms to her, but she didn’t expect him to show affection in front of the others.

Imam Abdul asked, “Is your husband an infidel?”

She did not respond.

The bearded man asked, “When is the baby coming?”

“Five, maybe four months.” Elizabeth knew she must leave the more difficult facts for a private discussion with her father. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my hotel now. I’m tired and hungry.”

Father whispered something to the Imam, who asked, “Hajj Mahfizie wants to know why your husband did not ask for his permission?”

Anger swelled again inside her, but she controlled it. “I will explain to my father after the award ceremony.”

“What’s his name?” Imam Abdul glared at her. “Surely your husband has a name?”

They were pushing her into a corner. “This is a family matter.”

“But we only ask for his name,” the bearded man joined in. “He must have a name.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. This baby will have a wonderful life, including a grandfather.”

“And your husband?”

“There’s no husband!”

For a moment, she thought Father took it well. In fact, a wisp of a smile touched his lips, but then it progressed to a twitch that turned his mouth into an ugly grimace. He rose, supporting himself on the table, and uttered a groan so loud it caused the others to grab his elbows. And while his mouth was wide open, sucking air, she noticed Father was missing most of his teeth and thought of taking him to Phoenix, where her dentist could fit him with a full set of dentures.

“Why today? Why
now?”
Rajid groaned in frustration. “Couldn’t you wait until tomorrow? Don’t you see what’s going on?” He pointed in the direction of the Jaffa Gate, where loudspeakers played Israeli music to the gathering crowd.

“The month of Ramadan is over tomorrow.” Silver spoke Arabic, keeping his voice low from the tourists and shopkeepers nearby. “I must pray today. It’s a call I can’t ignore.”

“But you can ignore orders?” Rajid kept looking over his shoulder, scanning the market alley. “Do you realize how precarious our achievement is at this moment? The fate of Palestine is hanging in the balance!”

“You forget I made it happen. And I am losing my—”

“Your eyesight. I know.” Rajid pulled him to the side of the alley, his mouth at Silver’s ear. “We’ll help you with that when things settle down.”

“Only Allah can help me.”

“Then pray to him in private.” Rajid’s arm encircled his shoulders, pushing him.

Silver wouldn’t move. “I must pray!”

“You must return to the hostel immediately and stay in your room until the vote is over!”

“
Allah hu Akbar
,” chimed a muezzin from a nearby mosque, as if taking a stand in their argument.

Silver grabbed two checkered kafiyas from a pile, paid the astonished merchant the quoted price without haggling, and tied one around his head. “You can join me.” He handed the other kafiya to Rajid. “Or you can tell our superiors in Ramallah that Abu Faddah obeys Allah’s command above theirs.”

Rajid must have heard the finality in Silver’s tone. He covered his head with the kafiya, its hem low over his sunshades, and followed him toward the Arab Quarter. “If they find out about this, they’ll cut off my head.”

Professor Silver patted Rajid’s arm. “Then you’ll be a martyr.”

Rabbi Josh watched them descend into the Old City. He wondered why the professor would meet in secret with the citrus-smelling, Orthodox driver who had argued with him so bitterly. Were they on some kind of a reconnaissance mission for the End of Days group?

He snatched a kafiya, dropped a hundred-shekel bill, and ran after them.

Silver’s companion glanced back occasionally, forcing Rabbi Josh to slow down. Every time they turned a corner, he rushed forward to catch up.

They descended deeper into the Arab Quarter, where shops gave way to crowded dwellings, the sweet aromas replaced by a bitter mix of dust and cooking fires. Turning another corner, Rabbi Josh saw a wider street, where the slanted rays of the sun touched the stone pavers. He held the kafiya to his head, reached the end of the street, and glanced in both directions. They were gone.

Several Arab men entered a courtyard and removed their shoes. Adjusting his kafiya to make sure it covered his hair, the rabbi followed them. Pulling off his shoes brought relief to his blisters. They entered a large hall and sat on their heels in rows. He did the same, keeping his kafiya low over his face, stealing glances in futile attempts to find Silver.

The prayer hall accommodated many rows of men. A voice chanted a Koran verse in Arabic, and they repeated, bowing until their foreheads touched the carpet, and sitting up, showing the palms of their hands. He wanted to leave, but his way was blocked by rows of additional worshippers. Fear seeped into him.

Down the line to the left, near the side wall, he noticed a small man who remained bowed. A gray goatee stuck out under the kafiya.

The rows bowed again, and Rabbi Josh did the same.

As they sat back up, he leaned slightly forward and saw the man’s head rise slowly from the floor, the palms of his hands showing, his bespectacled eyes turning up to the ceiling, his kafiya edging back, exposing his face. It was Professor Silver, and he was crying while his lips pronounced, “
Allah hu Akbar.
”

Elizabeth waited in the cell. She refused to sit on the floor. Soon Father’s anger would subside. Surely he craved a grandchild as much as she delighted in becoming a mother.

The door flew open and men grabbed her. A chair was brought in, and they forced her to sit. A fist clenched her hair and pushed her head down, her chin pressed into her chest. A rope circled her upper body and arms, binding her to the back of the chair.

“You’re hurting me!” She tried to shake off the hand clenching her hair.

The grip tightened, shoving her head down.

“Release me!”

Men filled the room, lining the walls. They stared at her darkly, saying nothing.

“I’m warning you! I’ll report this to the—”

Father was carried into the room on his chair, placed in front of her. His creased, sunken cheeks were covered in gray stubble, and his eyes were buried in a book.

“Father!” Elizabeth fought to control her voice. “It’s gone far enough!”

He didn’t look up.

“Father!”

Someone entered the room behind her. She tried to turn, but a rough hand pushed her head down. “What are you doing?” She struggled to loosen the rope, which did not budge. “This is criminal kidnapping! I’m no longer consenting to being held here—you’ll be arrested and prosecuted by the authorities!”

Her father looked up. His eyes, once a glistening brown, were pale now, his eyelids drooping.

“Father, I came here to make peace!”

He leaned forward in the chair and slapped her across the face. His lips, folded in between his toothless gums, made sucking noises. He took a few quick breaths and slapped her again.

A youth in a green headband held a piece of paper in front of her. Another pointed a video camera at her face.

She read aloud: “I am Elzirah Mahfizie, known in America as Elizabeth McPherson. I confess my betrayal of the Palestinian people. I profess my faith in Allah and his prophet Mohammad. I curse the American Satan.” She stopped and shook her head. “I can’t. As a senior government official—”

Father tried to slap her, but his hand fell in his lap, powerless. His disciples shifted about, restless, ready to pounce if she caused Hajj Mahfizie further aggravation.

She forced herself to think logically. Who would take this video seriously when it was obvious she was under duress, tied up, beaten, threatened? She read aloud: “I curse the American Satan and its president and its criminal officials, as well as the Zionist Satan and its criminal army. May Allah’s sword come down on their heads. My life belongs to Allah and his prophet Mohammad.”

She looked up, meeting Father’s eyes. He looked at someone behind her. Glancing back, Elizabeth saw the glint of a blade.

“Hey! What are you doing?” The whole thing was unreal. “Father!
Please!
”

The man behind her put his big hand on top of her head, sank his fingers into her hair, and yanked backward.

“No!” Elizabeth fought to keep her head forward, keep Father’s face in sight. “This can’t be happening! It’s a terrible mistake! I beg you—”

A long knife appeared from the right.

“No! Call Abu Faddah! He’s my contact! Please!”

The Hajj lifted his hand, and the knife stopped and retreated out of sight. The hand let go of her hair.

“He’s at a hotel.” Elizabeth gulped, searching her mind frantically. “The Ramban Hostel in Jerusalem. He’ll tell you what I’ve done. Hero of Palestine. He’ll tell you about the award ceremony. Wednesday! You’ll be proud!”

The room was still. Father’s forehead creased.

“The Ramban Hostel. Ask for Levy Silver.” She immediately realized she had just sealed her own fate. “It’s only a cover!”

Her father’s face twisted, and he motioned with his hand.

She screamed, “
No!”

The man grabbed her hair and pulled hard, tilting her head back. The long blade appeared from the right, held above her face. He forced her head all the way back, until she saw her executioner’s nostrils flaring, his mouth slightly open.

Her neck was exposed to the blade.

The baby in her belly kicked harder than ever before.