Abuse of Power (21 page)

It was then that Haddad became suspicious of her. He had decided that there must be another explanation for her presence in Abdal’s life. Yet when he had checked into her background he discovered nothing unusual. She had been born and raised in Sanaa, Yemen, and for nearly nineteen of her years she was a good Shia girl. All of that changed when her brother was killed by a pair of Sunni radicals in a small flourish of sectarian violence.

After immigrating to London nine years ago, Ghadah had held a number of jobs, finally settling as an enrollment counselor at the college a few months before Abdal became part of her life.

Despite this, Haddad couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong about her. He had tried to tell this to Imam Zuabi a few nights ago, but the old man had dismissed him, just as he had dismissed Haddad’s pleas to handle the Abdal matter itself in an efficient and expeditious manner.

Zuabi’s reluctance to deal with an old friend’s son was understandable but ultimately reckless. Abdal had not only brought shame to the Hand of Allah, he had jeopardized their entire mission. At least Haddad had cleaned up his own mess, with the Turk. Actions such as the failed attack in San Francisco should not—
must
not—go unpunished.

It was times like these that Haddad wondered about his imam. Did Zuabi no longer possess the strength it took to be a leader? Haddad had known the old man for many years, had studied under him since he was a boy, and it pained his heart to think that his imam may have outlived his usefulness.

But no,
he told himself. Zuabi was in charge, and Haddad had a task to complete.

Even so, before he left for America he knew that he would have to learn more about this woman, and to do what Zuabi had so far failed to do: bring honor back to the Hand of Allah. The only questions that remained were how to do it. Where to do it.

And to whom.

19

Tel Aviv, Israel

“Welcome to the city that never sleeps,” the Reb said, as they exited the highway.

Traffic was light on the new express lane into Tel Aviv and the drive in from Ben Gurion International Airport had taken them only twenty minutes. Rabbi Mel Neershum had come in from San Francisco on an earlier flight—to make the appropriate arrangements for Jack’s arrival—and had picked up his friend in an old family heirloom: a ’66 Ford Anglia he’d borrowed from his cousin Ohad.

Jack had known Neershum for many years now. They’d met through a mutual acquaintance, Bill Hicks, a private detective. Hicks and Hatfield frequented the same restaurant, a place on Columbus, the North Beach Restaurant, where they both liked to eat at the bar as they watched the crowd coming and going while they talked what they called “the unholy trinity”: sports and politics and religion. The city’s ruling elite still ate there. Pelosi, Brown, the former mayor. All the known and hidden power brokers.

One night Hatfield brought up his disenchantment with the Catholic church (echoing his father’s own discontent), and complained that it had lost its edge and become too pacifist—no fire, no brimstone.

“If you’re looking for fire and brimstone,” Hicks said, “you should check out my old friend Rabbi Neershum. Toughest Jew I know.”

The more he heard about this “rebellious rebbe”—hence, the Reb—the more curious Jack got. Although he’d been raised Catholic, he’d always been attracted to his mother’s history and culture, so a few days later he set up a meet with Neershum, discovered a kindred soul, and the two became instant friends. And when the Reb found out Hatfield had Jewish blood, he insisted Jack join him and his friends on Friday nights for prayer, vodka, and a home-cooked meal—an invitation Jack had accepted more than once.

Hicks had been right. Neershum
was
a tough old Jew.

The product of an Orthodox day school, the Reb had fallen out of love with Judaism in his late teens and, much to his parents’ dismay, decided to rebel.

He was a hippie in the sixties. Later a boxer. Then, in his middle years, he rediscovered his roots with a fierce passion and spent five years studying Jewish law at a rabbinical seminary in New York. This was followed by a year in Israel, before returning to San Francisco as an ordained rabbi. He soon married the love of his life, Miriam, and fathered two sons and three daughters, all now grown.

The Reb was a “black hat,” a Chabad-Lubavitch Chasid, who often spent weeks at a time in Tel Aviv.

Jack himself hadn’t been here in years. The last trip was with his mother, who was seventy years old at the time, and they’d come to visit family that Jack hadn’t even known existed—and hadn’t spoken to since.

The first thing he noticed now was how much the place had grown. Comparisons to New York were no longer as laughable as they’d once been. Tel Aviv was a thriving metropolis perched on the edge of the Mediterranean, and everything about it screamed big city.

“So where are we headed?” he asked Neershum as they took the exit.

“First, we do something about those clothes.” Jack was wearing jeans and a suede leather jacket. “You want to blend in with us, you’ll have to look the part.”

The Reb himself was wearing a traditional dark suit and black felt fedora, although he’d substituted a more manageable suit coat for the
kapote
. The longer coats were reserved for Shabbat, the day of rest and reflection.

Hatfield had once asked him why Chasidic Jews always wore dark clothing, and Neershum explained they were more concerned with what was on the inside rather than what was fashionable. In fact, these Chasids wore nineteenth-century Polish business garb. They were stuck in a fashion time warp.

“I’m not so sure about blending in,” Jack said. “If I dress like you, I’ll probably look more Johnny Cash than Menachem Schneerson.”

The rabbi smiled. “Bring a guitar, you’ll get all the girls.”

*   *   *

Jack’s decision to come to Tel Aviv had grown out of necessity.

Logically, as he told Tony, he should have followed the trail to London. But Tony had brought up the obvious sticking point.

“How do you plan on doing
that,
genius? Last I heard, you were still on the home secretary’s hit list.”

“Rules are meant to be broken,” Jack told him.

“And
why
London?” Tony asked. “I understand about the consulate connection—”

“It’s more than that,” Jack said. “This guy Swain had MI6 all over him.”

“And you know that how?” Tony asked.

“Those boys worked the Gulf War,” Jack told him. “I saw a lot of them. They’ve got big personalities because they’ve got the international beat. They’re not like MI5, quietly and discreetly keeping eyes and ears on the home front. MI6 has to bully their way into places where they might not be welcome.”

“Fair enough. That still doesn’t explain why you need to go there.”

“Whether Swain is British intelligence or an independent contractor, whoever got to him and his team is
back
there. I need to follow the trail. Lift the rocks. There isn’t time to wait for them to come to me. Besides, I’d love to find the one honest person in the Home Office who had the courage to say I wasn’t a terrorist, that I never incited violence, and that the whole banning thing could backfire.”

“Who said that?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “It was in an e-mail my London solicitor uncovered. Written anonymously by someone in the Brown government. I’d like to find that person to prove I’m innocent of the charges.”

“I’m sure,” Tony said. “But it’s still moot. The minute you step on British soil they’ll deport you.”

“That might not be a problem,” Jack said. “What if John Samuel Hatfield never goes anywhere near England?”

“I’m confused.”

“What if Hatfield takes a vacation in Israel and Jacob Samuel Heshowitz makes the trip to London instead? Flies right out of Ben Gurion International?”

Tony was silent a moment. “You have a way of arranging that?”

“I’m pretty sure I know someone who does.”

It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Rabbi Neershum involved. The Reb was rumored to have connections to both Mossad and the Israeli mafia, and while he wasn’t a violent man he’d never shied from a good fight. He was also known to quote Rabbi Meir Kahane, the founder of the radical Jewish Defense League who was assassinated in a Manhattan hotel room in 1990 by persons unknown.

“Every Jew a twenty-two,” the Reb had said more than once.

A staunch proponent of the Second Amendment, the Reb had always supported a well-armed citizenry, which he believed was the only way to keep another Castro or Stalin or Hitler or Chavez from rising in America.

“The one thing that stops an evil government from seizing total power,” he once told Jack, “is fear of millions of armed citizens. The Brits learned that lesson a couple hundred years ago.”

Yet despite this tough talk, the Reb was genuinely a kind and friendly man. He acted as a missionary to fallen Jews he met in the streets of San Francisco, trying to bring them back to God. He’d saved many a drugged-out soul over the years, and they loved him for throwing them a spiritual life preserver when they were drowning.

In some ways, Jack was in need of a life preserver himself. And once he told his story, the Reb was all too happy to help.

*   *   *

“Try to look more serious,” the man behind the camera told him. “When was the last time you saw someone smile in a passport photo?”

Jack put on his best poker face. Hadn’t even realized he was smiling. He certainly didn’t feel much like it, standing there stiffly in his new suit with a black fedora perched atop his head. It didn’t help that the Reb had supplied him with a fake beard made by a wigmaker so that Jack could blend in with the rest of the Lubavitchers. The beard was surprisingly realistic, using human hair woven into a special netting, but the glue they’d used to secure it with was itching his skin like crazy.

He thought of Bob Copeland and the man’s love of cloak and dagger. Jack did not share that love.

The flash went off, Jack certain he looked appropriately dazed, then the man behind the camera—a Russian Jew named Falkovsky—popped out the data card and crossed the small room to a computer station.

“Your timing is good,” he told them. “Two years from now, who knows if I’m still in business?”

“Why is that?” the Reb asked.

Falkovsky, who worked out of a camera store, was an old-school documents forger who found the advent of computer technology a godsend. What had once taken him hours of precise work using special inks and printing presses could now be handled by a standard PC in about a third of the time.

“Biometrics,” he said. “The government is pushing for biometric passports and working on a slow roll-out to establish a database over the next couple years. There’s no final decision on whether they’ll implement, but some intelligence experts are worried that if they do, it’ll compromise their ability to operate. And I don’t need to tell you what it will do to me.”

Jack had heard about this. The “e-passport,” as it was called, used smart card technology to store standardized biometric information, including facial, fingerprint, and iris recognition. And intelligence agencies had a right to be worried. If these types of passports were adopted universally, they’d not only be virtually impossible to forge, but any leaks of biometric data could potentially put an agent traveling under a false identity in danger of being discovered by the enemy. All the phony beards in the world wouldn’t disguise them.

Fortunately, this wasn’t a concern for Jack right now. Jacob Samuel Heshowitz would be traveling with what, to the naked eye, looked like a standard-issue Israeli passport, properly distressed and carrying several travel stamps.

His cover story was simple. Heshowitz was a Borough Park Lubavitcher who had moved to Tel Aviv a year ago and sought citizenship under the Law of Return. A frequent traveler, he applied for and received an Israeli passport shortly after his arrival in the country.

The Reb had assured Jack that the passport would be flawless. Falkovsky—whom he’d met through one of his Mossad contacts—was
very
good at what he did.

The Russian pushed the camera’s data chip into a slot on his computer, then sat down.

“Give me about two hours,” he said, and waved them away.

*   *   *

Several hours later, after dinner had been served and the dishes cleared away, Jack and the Reb sat at Cousin Ohad’s dining table, admiring Falkovsky’s handiwork, Jack happy to be rid of the beard for the time being.

“What did I tell you?” Neershum said. “The man’s an artist.”

“He should be, for the price I paid. You sure you don’t have any qualms about all of this?”

The Reb gave him the look he always gave when Jack asked stupid questions. “Do
you
?”

“Not really, no.”

“Good. We’re at war, my friend. It may not feel that way sometimes and that in itself can be a problem, but it’s real, and real people die as a consequence—something you know better than most.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Jack said.

“This man you seek, I can assure you
he
has no qualms about breaking laws to further his goals. He’d just as soon see people like you and me buried under a pile of rubble.” The Reb absently stroked his beard. “No matter what a man’s ideology or religion may be, when he’s faced by a fanatic with a knife in his hand he should cut him down. No amount of reasoning will dissuade the true believer.”

“There are people who would disagree.”

The Reb leaned forward in his chair now, his gaze intense. “Then they deserve to die. They look at terrorists and genocide as abstract notions, lessons in history that fall on their ears like some ancient melody that no longer has any relevance. They comfort themselves with trivial entertainments, but how do you think they’d feel if that knife was pressed to their throats?”

“Ready to fight back.”

“Yes, then.
Then,
when it’s too late.” The Reb paused, leaned back again. “So I think God will forgive us for breaking a few rules for the greater good.”