Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [67]
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,