Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

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.