The Masada Complex Read Free Page A

ceremony for Truth in Reporting!” His grinning face filled the huge plasma screen above.
    Amidst the burst of applause, Rabbi Josh thought he heard the horse again. He turned to Masada. “Are you ready?”
    “Not really.” She picked a cherry tomato from her small dinner salad and ate it. “Tastes like water.”
    He took her hand and felt her shiver. The hall was cooled by powerful AC units that pumped chilled air through large ceiling vents. The LCD banner along the base of the stage showed the time and the temperature outside: 7:30 p.m. - 112°F
    Masada leaned closer to him. “I can’t stand these things, but—”
    “Necessary evil?”
    Her white teeth showed against the tanned skin. She had shoulder-length dark hair that tended to fall over her face, adding another layer of mystery to this woman, who had enchanted him for nearly a year. She had lectured at his synagogue last summer, part of a speakers series organized by Professor Levy Silver, who was sitting across the table now, watching them with a satisfied smile. After the lecture, Rabbi Josh and Masada had lingered in the synagogue parking lot, arguing about her theme, America is the New Jewish Homeland. When she got into her Corvette, he asked her out, shocking himself—he had not gone on a date since his wife had died. But Masada agreed, and they met for a small dinner and a large bottle of wine, argued about Israel’s relations with Diaspora Jews, and made out like teenagers at her front door. They continued to meet and argue heatedly, but their intellectual fencing, rather than snuff out their passion, seemed to fuel it.
    Masada spoke into his ear, “You think they’ll notice if I bail out?”
    Rabbi Josh laughed, rubbing his five o’clock shadow.
    Across the table, Professor Levy Silver winked behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses and said, “ Kinderlakh, you’re making the lights flicker.” He wore a red bowtie and green suspenders—they had teased him earlier about dressing up like a professorial cliché, to which he had replied, tugging at his gray goatee, “Every retired professor is a cliché.”
    Masada flexed her leg under the table, tilting her foot from side to side. Rabbi Josh had asked her about the bulky knee brace, but she dodged the question. He wasn’t offended. Even though she spoke and wrote like a native English speaker, Masada was still a sabra immigrant whose occasional abrasiveness meant no harm.
    The sound of muffled banging made them both turn. In the back of the hall, valet boys rushed in from the parking lot and shut the tall doors.
    On the stage, Drexel announced, “It is my pleasure to welcome this year’s winner for Truth in Reporting, the author and journalist, Masada El-Tal!”
    Rabbi Josh watched Masada make her way to the stage, pacing herself to hide the limp. She waved with a slender hand, acknowledging the applause.
    Drexel had to stand on his toes to peck her cheek. Back at the mike, he said, “Since earning her journalism degree at Arizona State over two decades ago, Masada has dedicated her life to the truth, expounding the accomplishments of good people, and exposing the failings of prominent ones. Her relentless pursuit of the truth has earned her many awards—”
    “And enemies,” she interrupted him.
    “And critics,” Drexel said, “and a Pulitzer Prize last year for her book,” he glanced at his notes, “ Holy Land to Disneyland: Sabra Immigrants Embracing the American Dream .”
    The audience clapped politely, and Rabbi Josh smiled. He had suggested she should write a companion book about American Jews who had immigrated successfully to Israel.
    “Masada’s contributions,” Drexel continued, “to our Grand Canyon State, go beyond mere words. She is the only investigative reporter in modern history to bring down two state governors—each of them impeached based on her findings. Now that’s an laudable record!”
    “Not so laudable for the state of Arizona,” Masada said.
    Rabbi