Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

“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.”

He got to his feet, grabbed his glass from the table and drained the last of his potato vodka from the Ukraine. Clean. No hangover.

He let loose a satisfied sigh as he set the glass down again. “To bed,” he told Jack. “Tomorrow is a big day and you need rest. I only wish I were going with you.”

Jack finished his own glass. “You still can.”

The Reb shook his head. “This is a one-man job. I’d only be in your way.”

“I doubt that,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “But I understand. Are you heading back to San Francisco tomorrow?”

“Ohad has invited me to stay a while. I think I’ll stick around, enjoy the family.” He smiled. “Thank you for the holiday, my friend.”

Jack nodded and shook his hand. “Good night, Rabbi.”

“Lailah tov.”

Jack traveled with a group of ten, all Lubavitchers who were flying to Bristol, U.K., for a week-long sojourn-friends of the Reb who were happy to have Jacob Heshowitz’s company, no questions asked.

Despite knowing that he blended in, Jack felt conspicuous. The fake beard didn’t help, especially since it was itching twice as much as the day before. He caught a glimpse of his reflection as he moved with the others past a phalanx of armed guards to the airport terminal doors, and what he saw made him feel naked, like a high-school kid in the halls without pants.

He half expected one of the guards to pull him away and interrogate him, but they merely glared. That was the first line of security: to look intimidating and see who started to perspire. Jack couldn’t afford to; the spirit gum holding his beard would come loose. Fortunately, to them, Jack was part of a group of men no different from a thousand other such groups that would pass through these doors in the coming weeks. They dismissed him as harmless.

The group’s flight wasn’t scheduled to depart for three hours. Jack had been warned that airport security measures at Ben Gurion International were quite different than they were in the U.S., and he and the Reb had spent much of the previous night going over how Jack should act and what he should say.

As they moved into the check-in line, Jack was approached by a pleasant-looking woman in uniform. The Israelis called this second line of security, somewhat jokingly, “the Fisher of Men.” The surly-faced guards made you uneasy. This was the one who reeled you in.

She spoke Hebrew. “Passport and ticket, please.”

Jack’s facility with the language was limited to a few brief phrases he’d learned from his mother and grandfather, and a couple the Reb had taught him last night. But he’d been assured that Tel Aviv was a melting pot, that most Israelis spoke English, and a relocated American with limited knowledge of the native tongue wouldn’t raise too much of a red flag. He could easily be a drifter who had only recently rediscovered his faith.

Taking his ticket and the forged passport from his inner coat pocket, he handed them to her, telling her he preferred to speak English.

She glanced at his suitcase, carry-on, and passport, then directly at him. “Where did you live before you moved to Tel Aviv, Mr. Heshowitz?”

“Brooklyn,” he said. “Borough Park.”

“I have family there. What area did you live in?”

“Near Eighteenth Avenue,” he told her. “Although I only spent about three years there. I was raised in California.”

As he spoke, she didn’t stop looking into his eyes. He knew he was being profiled, that she was trained to search for any signs of distress, and he did his best not to show her any.

His biggest concern was the beard. The wigmaker’s artistry was nearly as flawless as Falkovsky’s, but he couldn’t help worrying that this woman could see right through it. He just hoped his concern wasn’t showing in his eyes.

“Are you traveling alone?” she asked.

He gestured to the other Lubavitchers around him, grateful for the momentary break from her gaze. “We’re all together.”

She gave the others a cursory glance, then looked at his ticket and said, “I see you’re flying to Bristol today.”

“Yes,” he said.

Back to his eyes again. “And the reason for your travel?”

“Worship. We’ll be visiting the Bristol Chabad.”