“My name is Sara,” she said softly, once again offering him that warm smile. “Since you’ve been so kind to me, I thought you should know.”
Names had never meant much to Abdal. They were merely labels used to identify people. But Sara’s name was like a song to him. The sound of it, as it was released from those beautiful lips, washed over him as if it were sent from heaven. A message from Allah that there was something special about this woman. Something beyond her beauty.
Sara. Sara Ghadah.
Abdal’s own name caught in his throat as he struggled to respond, but he finally managed to get it out, and what followed was a flood of words he had no memory of. Whatever he said to her, it made her laugh and that could only be good.
For the next several days they sought each other out on the train until Abdal finally found the courage to ask her to dinner. They went as soon as they left the train, and only then did Abdal realize that Sara was just as eager to know him as he was to know her.
They ate at a small café near Hyde Park, a meal that lasted much longer than it should have. It was a traditional halal meal, which was more and more common in London, offered by merchants who prized profit over indignation toward the Muslim population. They had lamb with a white bean and risotto mix on the side, finishing with fruit. While the food was mediocre, every bite seemed exquisite because he was sharing it with her.
Afterward, they walked in the park, talking. Abdal told her about his job repairing computers in a small government office, but he didn’t mention the strings that had been pulled to get him that job, nor the parts of his background that had been carefully erased and rewritten.
Sara worked in a small office at the College of Islam, processing applications for new enrollees. She had immigrated from Yemen when she was nineteen after tragedy struck her family. Her brother—a young man who had given so much to her—died in an explosion, an innocent victim. Her desire to come here was fueled by the fact that it was the new battleground for their faith. The city, awash with Muslims, was sometimes referred to as Londonistan. It was meant as a pejorative, but both Abdal and Sara found it inspiring, proof that they had a home here and that there were those who feared their presence.
You do not wait for the enemy to come to you, Abdal believed.
It was not until they shared their first night in bed that Abdal confessed there was much more to him than a simple computer repairman. That he was one of Allah’s chosen who had killed in His name.
And would surely do so again.
But Abdal did not tell Sara about the Hand of Allah. He had been sworn to secrecy by those who had recruited him, and he told her that the trip to America was for business. She suspected he had ties to a group of freedom fighters, but she didn’t push for details—not then. She merely told him how proud she was of the work he did, calling him her aswas jundi.
Her brave solider.
But Abdal didn’t feel very brave these days. In the week since he had returned to Newham, he spent most of his time praying, hoping that Allah—and Imam Zuabi—would spare him. He didn’t want this for himself only. As much as he had come to depend on Sara, he knew that she needed him as well.
And then he discovered the dark side of that need, and of keeping his secret.
Abdal went to her flat after she’d failed to answer her cell. It was the longest, most agonizing journey of his life. He had knocked on her door, again and again, and was ready to force it open when she finally let him in. She was wearing nothing but a bed shirt, her face pallid, her beautiful brown eyes puffy from crying.
“What is it?” he said with alarm. “What happened?”
Sara fell into his arms and sobbed against his chest, and Abdal stood there feeling helpless, wondering what terrible thing could have happened. When she finally calmed down, they sat on her sofa and she told him that a student at the college—a student she had helped enroll—had been found stabbed to death. A young man from Lebanon who had wanted nothing more than to further himself. A young man who had reminded her of her brother … and of Abdal. She said she couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to lose him. She had looked directly into his eyes as she said this, and Abdal fought to keep from looking away, afraid she might see the truth behind them.
“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.
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, 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.
Abuse of Power Page 16
