The Masada Complex by Avraham Azrieli Page B

of the car. A wrought-iron fence separated the parking area from a yard where hundreds of immigrants queued up to enter the building and file their applications. Their eyes followed her to the staff entrance. Was there a pregnant woman among them, standing in line between the rails, exposed to the August sun?
    Upstairs, she hurried down the hallway. David would jump with joy. He loved kids. Now their little family would start with the gift of a new life.
    David was not in his office, and his secretary was away from her desk. Elizabeth left him a note to come by ASAP. She tried to work on a case that was scheduled for arguments the following week, but couldn’t focus. It was a boy, she was certain, and he would be tall, like his father, not short like her, his mother! She almost laughed out loud. A single piece of news had turned her world upside down. She would be a good mother. And a good wife. David needed guidance. He was effective in the courtroom, with his boyish good looks and his all-American charm, but his inattention to details could hurt his career. And why shouldn’t she help him? He was her partner!
    Impatient to share the news, Elizabeth went to check David’s office again.
    His secretary, a new girl with a nervous look, was back.
    “Is David back?”
    “No, I’m sorry.” The girl blinked. “He’s gone for the day.”
    Elizabeth walked into David’s office and sifted through his cluttered desk, hoping to find his calendar. “Call his mobile for me.”
    A moment later, David was on the line. “Good afternoon, Elizabeth.” His formal tone indicated his wife was nearby.
    “Hi, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”
    “What is the issue?”
    “The issue is,” she chuckled, “I wanted to hear your voice.”
    He hesitated. “Yes?”
    “And to tell you that Dr. Gould found nothing wrong with me.”
    “That’s good.”
    She lowered her voice. “I have great news!”
    “David?” His wife’s screechy voice sounded very close, then his daughter’s laughter. He said, “We have tickets to the ballet.” His pretentious wife was a devotee of the Phoenix Ballet, forcing David to accompany her to every performance. “Got to go.”
    “I love you,” Elizabeth said.
    “Same here.”

     
    Rabbi Josh had picked up a pentagonal birthday cake, its sidewalls marked: R-A-U-L-5 . The top was shaped like a dog snout. Candles pointed sideways like whiskers, intriguing Shanty to no end. She put her front paws on Raul’s chair, sniffing the cake. Raul put his arms around her and rolled to the floor. Shanty fell with him, barked, twisted her neck to face Raul, and licked his face from chin to forehead. He yelled, “Phew!” and exploded with laughter as they rolled farther, bumping into the leg of the table.
    “Hey!” Rabbi Josh lifted the tray with the cake in one hand and Masada’s brownies in the other. “Let’s sing, birthday boy.”
    They lit the candles and sang Happy Birthday in English and in Hebrew. Raul blew out the candles.
    Rabbi Josh kissed his son, taking in the fresh smell of the boy’s shampooed hair. His mind made the inevitable connection, and he looked up at Linda’s photo on the wall, her smiling face framed by carrot-red ringlets. He kissed his son again. “May the Lord bless you with many wonderful years.”
    Raul took his time smudging his name on the frosting, relishing the taste of each letter. He offered Shanty a crumb, which she licked off.
    After consuming a slice of cake, Raul pointed to Masada’s brownies. “I want a piece of that too!”
    “Let’s take a break,” Rabbi Josh said. “We’ll go outside, throw some ball, okay?”

     
    “Masada El-Tal?” The caller’s voice was familiar.
    “Who wants to know?”
    “Ross Linder, WRGX Radio in New York. We just had Dick Drexel of Jab Magazine on the air. He said you’ve never spent time in an Israeli jail for manslaughter. Can you confirm?”
    Masada grasped the edge of the kitchen counter. Linder had millions of