Free The Masada Complex by Avraham Azrieli

tugged on his goatee. “Your father did his best.”
    “He sold a sixteen-year-old girl, who spoke only Arabic and had never left the refugee camp, to a fifty-year-old butcher, who took me to America. I lost half my weight in four months and as many pregnancies.”
    “I understand.” The man crumpled his beret. “He prayed for Allah to bless you with your own family in a free country.”
    “Hassan accused me of causing the miscarriages, and Father believed him. Do you know the punishment for abortion under the law of Sharia?” She choked. “I was a child myself!”
    The man dabbed at his eye again. “Your father begs Allah’s forgiveness every day.”
    He was wrong, of course, but Elizabeth had no will to dredge up the pain. “Who are you?”
    He bowed. “Here, I am known as Professor Levy Silver.”
    “ A Jew?” She had assumed he was a Palestinian who had lost his accent after many years in America. “My father sent me a Jew?” She reached into the car and pulled out her purse. “How much?”
    “No, no!” He put his hands up. “Money is not a problem.”
    “Then what is the problem?”
    He pointed at the building. “I seek permanent resident status.”
    “File an application. If you have a job, your employer can sponsor you.”
    “My employer is you.”
    She looked at him. Was he mad?
    “I work for you and the rest of the Palestinian people. My work is secret, of course.”
    Elizabeth entered her car.
    “I need a green card, and you are in the best position to fix it.”
    “ Fix it ?”
    “Hajj Mahfizie was told of your position. Such a title entails lots of power.”
    “It entails a duty to enforce the law, Professor, not to break it.” She started the engine. “For your sake, I will forget this conversation ever happened.” She began to close the door.
    He grabbed it halfway and leaned into her car, emitting a smoker’s breath. “I’ll meet you tomorrow night, ten-fifteen, at McDonald’s on the corner of Indian School and Twelfth Street.”
    She was paralyzed. How did he know her Tuesday night routine?
    “Meal number three.” He smiled, adjusting his black-rimmed glasses. “With strawberry shake. To go.”
    Elizabeth McPherson watched the professor get into his black sedan. She gripped the steering wheel to stop her hands from shaking and wondered, Does he know what I do on Wednesday nights?

     

Tuesday, August 5
     
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    R abbi Josh stopped by to check on Masada, who was already up, unpacking boxes of books. She was barefoot, in loose jeans and a white tank top, smelling of shampoo. She offered him her cheek.
    “Good book.” He pointed to The Case for Israel by Allan Dershowitz.
    “He got it all wrong.” Masada pulled a bunch of volumes from the open box and lined them on the shelf.
    He noticed the circles under her eyes. “How did you sleep?”
    She shrugged.
    “Nightmares are common after a traumatic event.”
    “You’re talking from personal experience?”
    “I’ve worked with veterans.”
    She stacked more books on the shelf. “Don’t psych me. I’m not one of those lunatic veteran the U.S. military is so good at producing.”
    He knew she was referring to Al Zonshine, who had stalked her after her lecture at Temple Zion, having convinced himself that Masada was interested in him. It had taken the rabbi’s intervention and a threat of a restraining order to keep Al away. “Vietnam crippled a lot of souls,” Rabbi Josh said. “It’s not like serving in the Israeli army.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Am I wrong?”
    She grabbed her keys from the counter. “Let’s go for a drive.”
    The garage was hot. Masada started the Corvette and turned up the AC.
    “Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome,” Rabbi Josh said, “isn’t a cause for shame. Some people are fine for years, able to suppress the memories, live with an emotional time bomb. Then something happens.”
    “Like a car flying into a ravine?” Masada pressed the gas, revving the engine.
    “Or