“Like the African National Congress.”
“Exactly. Israel would have no choice. Then, with all the new Arab citizens going to the polls, Jewish rule will end. Just like the white Afrikaners in South Africa, the Israeli Jews will become a minority overnight. After the elections, we’ll control their Knesset and form a government. Without a single bullet we will own the State of Israel-Jerusalem, Jaffa, Haifa, Acre, Nazareth-even Dimona! We’ll unify the land with the West Bank and Gaza, and take over Jordan, finally winning back all of Palestine. As Mohammed said, You shall inherit the infidels.”
For the first time in the two decades Silver had known Rajid, the Palestinian handler was speechless. He nodded thoughtfully. He looked up at the ceiling. He checked his sunglasses against the window. Finally he said, “I admire your creativity, Abu Faddah, of which Allah has blessed you aplenty. But we are soldiers in an army, yes?”
“As Allah is my witness, my intentions are pure.”
“Then you must obey the orders.” Rajid turned his briefcase around. It was empty. “Bring all the copies of your book manuscript and all other documents you have.”
Seething, Silver went to the basement and brought up a box. He sat down, watching Rajid arrange the papers in his briefcase.
“That’s all?”
“Phases One and Two,” Silver said.
“Is there a Phase Three?”
“No disrespect to you,” Silver said, standing up, “but Phase Three I shall only discuss face-to-face in Ramallah.”
“I’ll trust you to erase your computer memory.” Rajid closed his briefcase. “Now tell me what happened with the writer.”
Silver sat down. There was no way for them to know the truth, especially with Al Zonshine unconscious in the hospital. “The Jew, whom you have selected as a conduit to the senator,” he paused to let the implication sink in, “is a petulant and vindictive man, completely primal in his obsessions. He pretended to heed my unambiguous orders to leave the writer alone but persevered in his private vendetta nevertheless.”
“You had no hand in the attacks?”
“If I had,” Silver attempted a chuckle, “would she be alive?”
“We hold you responsible,” Rajid said, “that the writer is not harmed again. If she is, the Senate might delay its vote pending an investigation.”
“Have you told Ramallah that I must be at Hadassah Hospital on Friday?” Silver removed his glasses and wiped the lenses on his shirt. “The writer is hospitalized, out of commission.”
“You will monitor her and the other Jew to prevent any interference with the vote in Washington.” Rajid looked at him, not blinking. “That’s an order.”
Silver felt cornered. “If I go blind, how shall I continue my work?”
Rajid smiled. “An intellectual wins battles with his mind, not with his eyes.”
Masada thanked the nurse for bringing Jell-O and toast. While she ate, Drexel appeared at the door with a large bouquet of flowers in a pink vase. “You look terrible,” he said, pecking her cheek.
“You, on the other hand.” She motioned at his purple jacket and matching tie. “What’s this style? Meticulously casual.”
“You have a good eye.” He smoothed down his hair. “You must feel like you’re back in the army, with all the gunfire going on around you.”
“And no money.”
He cleared his throat. “Darling, I called corporate several times, but they’re slow.”
“I need to fix my house and,” she patted the bed, “pay medical bills. I can’t do any work while starving.”
“The fate of a freelancer.” Drexel clicked his tongue. “Feast or famine. I’m doing my best, but the next payment is not due until you submit a draft.”
“Don’t be technical, especially with all your new subscriptions.” Her head began to throb. She rested back on the pillows.
“Masada darling, I’m on your side, but perhaps you could take a mortgage on your house in the meantime. Nobody owns a house debt-free in this country.”
“I don’t like debt.”
He punched a number on his iPhone. “Campbell Chadwick wants to talk to you.”
“Quite a night you had,” the lawyer said cheerfully, as if Masada had gone barhopping.
“Just trying to stay alive.”
“Dropping a bucket of concrete on an old veteran’s head?” Chadwick chuckled. “What can I say?”
“It was paint, not concrete. And it dropped when he invaded my bedroom in the middle of the night.”
“Police says you set a trap and lured him in through the window.”
“He broke in.”
“Without waking you up?” The lawyer sighed. “The jury isn’t going to buy it.”
“Jury?” Masada raised her voice. “What jury?”
“D.A. announced possible indictment against you for first-degree assault.”
Masada couldn’t believe it. “Al Zonshine tried to shoot me at Temple Zion!”
“He threatened you, that’s true, but according to his wife the gun discharged accidentally when she bumped into him. She says that you’ve seduced and manipulated him and caused him to dump his medication.”
“That’s nonsense. I have a restraining order against him! And he broke into my house, beat my head in, abused me, and shot at me again!”
“Technically,” Chadwick interrupted her, “he couldn’t break into an open house.”
“Because he blew out my windows on his previous attempt to kill me!”
“There’s no evidence he was behind the gas explosion. According to the D.A., the explosion seemed like an inside job. There was no evidence of break in. There is evidence, however, that after the shooting in the synagogue you declined an invitation to stay the night with friends. As your legal counsel, I strongly recommend that you do not dismiss the risk of a criminal indictment.”
“You must be joking.”
“Also,” the lawyer continued, “please refrain from discussing with anyone facts or allegations related in any way to the incident or the previous incident that resulted in manslaughter-the one in Israel.”
“This is right out of Kafka,” Masada said.
“We face grave legal risks, not only to you, but also to Jab Corporation and its respective publishing enterprises.”
“Since when does the victim go on trial?”
“Victim status is a subjective thing. You’re a beautiful, successful, famous, and-pardon me for saying-self-righteous writer, while an elderly veteran, whose history of mental illness was known to you, is fighting for his life. I suggest you pray for Mr. Zonshine’s full recovery, or we’ll be defending a wrongful death claim, as well.”
When the sun went down and the Sabbath was over, Rabbi Josh forced himself out of Raul’s bed and drove to Temple Zion. He called the funeral home about transportation of the body. Finding a phone number on the Internet, he reached the burial society in Jerusalem, where it was already Sunday morning. The Israelis had a well-oiled process for accommodating dead Diaspora Jews. He paid for three plots, so that Linda’s remains could follow later. Going onto the Continental Airlines web site, he bought a one-way ticket for himself on a flight to Israel via New York. By e-mail he informed his colleagues around town of his imminent aliyah and asked them to fill in for him at Temple Zion until the congregation hired a new rabbi. Next he began to draft a letter to the members of his congregation.
The office door opened and Professor Silver entered, mulling his black beret in his hands. “Oy vey, Rabbi,” he sniffled, “my heart is broken.”
Rabbi Josh nodded. “The Lord gives, the Lord takes, may His name be blessed.”
“Amen.” Silver put on his beret. “This brings back memories of my son, his memory be blessed. Oy, oy, oy!”
“Your son?” The rabbi felt tears emerging from his eyes. “Levy, I didn’t even know you had a son.”
“I never speak of him. Too painful.” Silver straightened his hunched posture. “But I made a decision. My place is in Israel. I decided to make aliyah immediately.”