Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [71]
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.”
Her gaze was unwavering, as if she wanted to find something suspicious—was just looking for an excuse to pull him into a back room somewhere and have him more thoroughly interrogated.
“And your luggage. Has it left your side today?”
“No.”
She stared at him a moment longer, Jack imagining the worst, then she suddenly handed him his documents.
“Have a pleasant trip,” she said with a warm smile.
When she moved on to the next person in line, Jack felt relief wash through him. There was still baggage screening and other checkpoints to get through, but the toughest test had been passed.
Now, if only he could get his chin to stop itching.
20
London, England
The flight to Bristol was mercifully uneventful.
Except for a moment prior to takeoff, when his fellow Lubavitchers started to pray together, there was nothing unusual about it. Jack had been warned of this and had joined in as instructed. As he genuflected and bobbed in prayer with the others, he felt out of place, like a conservative at Harvard.
After they landed, the group sailed through customs and immigration without a snag. Jack bid his escorts farewell, then traded dollars for pounds at the airport exchange and caught a cab to the Bristol Temple Meads railway station. He had a flashback to a story he’d once reported on about an undercover cop in San Francisco posing as a Chasid. The guy was spying on Israelis who were spying on us when he was assaulted by skinheads in a hate crime. His beard came off and his attackers were so stunned he was able to take them out with ease. There was no avoiding the publicity, which the SFPD used to its advantage: they said the guy was working to secure the safety of the Jewish community. He even got a citation from the Israeli ambassador.
In the men’s room, Jack stuffed the hat and the beard in his small carry-on, happy to finally wash the residue of the glue off his face, then smoothed back his hair, went to the ticket window, and bought passage to London.
Three hours later, as the train rolled into Westminster, Jack’s mind flashed memories of his week here with Rachel. They both thought they were in love at the time—who knows, maybe they were—and had wandered the streets of central London for hours, absorbing the sights and sounds, hitting all the usual tourist spots: Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, and of course, Trafalgar Square, with its beautiful fountains and majestic mid-nineteenth-century architecture. London had a unique vibrancy to it that was exhilarating, and it pained Jack to know that he was no longer welcome here.
Jack