Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

“I’m not going anywhere,” he told her.

But as the lie escaped his lips he felt ashamed for deceiving her, for his inability to tell her that his future was uncertain at best…

She had kissed him, then. Brought those beautiful lips to his, and as if trying to bury one emotion with another, she kissed him harder, letting him know that she needed to be loved. She lay back on the sofa, pulling him toward her, unbuckling his belt as he slipped his hands beneath her bed shirt, sliding them along her ribs.

He felt her excitement, her hand gently squeezing him, as the other hand pushed his pants to his knees.

Getting to his feet, Abdal quickly shed his clothes, then grabbed the bed shirt and pulled it over her head, exposing her flawless flesh. He had never seen a body more perfect. Had never known a woman who enchanted and possessed him so completely.

And as he guided her down to the carpet he wondered, Is this our last time? Would there even be a grave for her to stand over, or would he simply disappear?

Concentrating on the sound of Sara’s moans, the feel of her hands gripping his back as their bodies moved together, he tried to drive these thoughts from his mind.

She was getting close. She ran her hands up behind his neck and pulled him toward her, kissing him hungrily as her muscles tightened. Her breathing stopped as she squeezed her eyes shut then let go, a long, guttural moan filling his ears. Then Abdal joined her, pulling her close as he released himself.

A moment later they lay still on the carpet, their breath labored, Abdal still struggling with his dark thoughts.

Before he could stop himself, he said, “I didn’t go to America on business.”

“I know,” she said softly.

Abdal was surprised. “But how?”

“I’m not stupid, Abdal. I know what you believe in, and I know you’re working with people who believe the same. You’ve been planning something together for several weeks now.”

He must have looked dumbfounded.

“You never tell me about the texts you receive,” she explained. “You do not speak to friends, do not appear to have any. You scan a restaurant, a park, the underground when we first arrive as though looking for someone-someone you hope not to find. You are not just a private man, Abdal, you work at it. You cultivate anonymity.”

He was stunned. She was better at this than he was. Abdal had never suspected she was studying him.

“Can’t you see that’s why this student’s death upset me so?”

“Yes,” Abdal said. “Yes, of course.”

“I don’t understand why you feel the need to keep it hidden from me,” she went on. “We both want the same thing. As the Koran tells us, ‘A life for a life, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and for wounds… retaliation.’ We both want retaliation.”

He nodded. She had obviously spent a lot of time considering this.

“I want to help you, Abdal. I want to be part of what you’re part of. To be one with you, just as we are when we make love. And if you’re to die, I want to die alongside you.”

These last words struck like a dagger. He had been on the verge of telling her everything but stopped himself, hard. It was one thing to risk his own life. He wouldn’t risk hers as well.

“I only hide these things to protect you, Sara.”

“You think I need protection?” she said sharply.

“It isn’t that,” he said. “I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. I won’t take that chance.”

“That is my decision to make.”

“Sometimes we are too close to our feelings to think rationally-”

“That too is Allah’s way. He will guide me. He knows that what we seek is right.”

Abdal was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Sara. I won’t. I can’t. ”

She said nothing. Not with words. She just got to her feet, grabbed her bed shirt and disappeared into the bathroom.

Abdal waited several minutes, then pulled his clothes back on, went to the door, and knocked.

She didn’t answer, even after he called out her name.

A moment later the shower started and he knew she wanted nothing to do with him for the rest of the night.

She was, he thought, preparing herself for the inevitable.

Perhaps she was wiser than he.

Perhaps he should prepare himself as well.

Hassan Haddad stood in the shadow of a large oak tree, watching the woman’s window. It was dark up there, though he had an idea what was going on. He had seen Abdal’s woman enter the place two hours earlier. Sara Ghadah. He had followed her from the College of Islam where she worked, and he could only assume that they weren’t playing backgammon. He had seen Abdal arrive an hour later. He stayed for an hour more and had just left.

Alone.

Haddad was leaving the country soon, and there were things to be done, but this was the second night in a row he had come here. The second night in a row he had followed the woman. The second night in a row he had seen that fool Iranian come and go.

The first time he saw Ghadah, Haddad felt she was possibly the most alluring woman he had ever seen. It struck him as odd that she would be attracted to the likes of a weakling like Abdal. What could he possibly offer a woman like this?

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.

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.