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  His motto was ‘if you can’t grow hair right, don’t grow it at all’. But despite that motto, and the stark reality of his receding hairline, Zack Batt would have shaved his head anyhow. From the days in which he dropped out of high school, at the age of seventeen, in his hometown of Charlestown, Massachusetts, to the current time in which he spent his days trying unsuccessfully to stay out of prison in between obliging to covert CIA missions as a highly paid contracted mercenary, Zack Batt was a skinhead.

  He sported a crisp, shaven head that sat atop a long sinewy body—a body strewn with muscular striations and scars of both the intentional and unintentional variety. He stood a towering, six feet three inches and had a chiseled physique that drew immediate attention, and usually fright, from most onlookers.

  On the side of his neck was a wonderfully colorful and detailed tattoo of a roaring Lion. A menacing image of the angel Gabriel, sporting a fedora hat, and manning an AK-47 lay tattooed upon the top of his right hand. Spider webs adorned his right elbow, as well as one tattooed awkwardly upon his inner ear. Across his knuckles, one word per set, the words ‘SKIN’ and ‘HEAD’ were etched in traditional tattoo script.

  On days that he wasn’t locked up wearing a bright orange jump suit, he was decked out in the requisite skinhead attire: ten hole Doc Martin boots, Levi’s blue jeans, polo shirts and plaid shirts made by brands such as Fred Perry or Ben Sherman, and a variety of attire made by the English boxing company Lonsdale. To the uninformed, he was a seemingly walking paradox. Zack Batt was indeed a skinhead with Jewish blood.

  Zack grew up in Charlestown, Massachusetts. He grew up hard. He grew up fast. At a very early age, he was ostracized for having no Irish blood. He lived with his mother in the projects. No matter how hard he tried he could not get along with the hoodlums in the neighborhood. His father had left when he was three, and the memories Zack had of him were not worth recalling.

  Drugs, crime, a widespread plague of moral depravity and the terror of youth violence ran rampant through the projects that young Zack called home. Zack was often the victim of mocking, teasing, and randomly issued beatdowns by the strong Irish contingency in the neighborhood. This was most the case in his pre-pubescent years before his physical strength, and subsequent confidence, grew immensely.

  His mom worked days in a factory and waitressed most nights at the local bar. Guidance was minimal at best, and usually non-existent, for young Zack. Zack never took to drugs because it was the drug users, and their predatory dealers, that made his life a living hell. He wanted nothing of it. But what he did want, was revenge.

  He immersed himself in punk rock and hardcore music as a means to vent his angers and frustrations. It became a sonic backdrop that served to increase his confidence levels so he could bravely face each hellish new day in the concrete jungle that surrounded him. In this culture, he found friends. These friends became like family.

  He discovered two strains of this counter culture that he chose to embrace simultaneously: the puritanical rhetoric of straight-edge hardcore punk which preached clean living and abstinence from drugs, alcohol, and tobacco coupled with the working class, street anthems of Oi! skinhead music. Zack married the two ideologies and styles and made them his own. He was as comfortable and zealous with the straight-edgers, as he was complicit with the skinheads.

  He upheld his straight edge ideals in terms of his lifestyle practices, but over the years he began to more and more identify with his skinhead side. When he was eighteen he joined a group dubbed SHARP or Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice. The group was adamant about repairing and reshaping the image of skinheads in the media. Their mission was to wipe out fascism and Nazism from the skinhead motif. Combatting years of narrowly reported media coverage of sensational events surrounding racist skinheads, this proved a difficult task. From the Nazi skins beating up Geraldo on his talk show set in the eighties, to the images of the movie American History X, the average man on the street had only one impression as to what a skinhead was: Nazi.

  For Zack, joining SHARP was more about channeling a general boredom and lack of direction into something somewhat organized than it was about any real passion for high ideals. Being part Jewish, it was easy for him to embrace the goal of wanting to stomp out racism and clean up the image of what a skinhead was, but truly he just wanted some like-minded friends to hang out with and roam the streets, clubs, and pubs of New England.

  SHARP was big on trying to educate the public on the true roots and culture of skinheads. They emphasized the role that Jamaican immigrants to Britain played in the creation of the skinhead phenomenon in the UK. They traced the fashion trends of the skinhead lifestyle. This originated with the British mods (moderns), who were known for sharp dressing, riding scooters, and listening to soul, ska, bluebeat, rocksteady and early reggae music.

  SHARP would denounce the unfortunate infusion of politics and race into skinhead culture and site it as the regrettable divisive wedge that had spoiled the skinhead image. Originally, skinheads were apolitical and racially tolerant, made up of black Jamaican immigrants as well as British nationals. Over time, skinheadism became a broader and broader tag that applied to a variety of related strains.

  Skinhead groups representing politics both on the far left and the far right and everywhere in-between emerged, both in Britain, and eventually in the US and worldwide. Music and fashion preferences were also diverse. The one seemingly consistent thread for most skinhead groups was an identification with the street-tough sensibilities of the working class and an obsession with skinhead fashion: boots, braces, Harrington jackets, Fred Perry polos, bomber jackets, sideburns, tattoos, and plaid shirts.

  Zack’s unexpected slip into the never-ending vortex of CIA covert recruitment was born out of the fallout of his first significant prison sentence. He was contacted by Chuck Gallagher while serving three to five in federal for paralyzing a neo-Nazi at a punk rock show in New Jersey where the internationally renown non-racist Oi! band, known as The Business, performed.

  The victim had shamelessly been sporting a tee shirt with the logo of the band Skrewdriver on it. Skrewdriver had been the seminal neo-Nazi skinhead rock band from England that was mandatory listening for any neo-Nazi recruit. It had been rumored that before the band went public with their abhorrent ideology, that they had toured with mainstream rock bands such as U2 and Motorhead.

  Zack was taken up in the wild spirit of indignation that he and his fellow SHARP friends were feeling. They were appalled by the audacity of this Nazi to so obviously make known his beliefs. But Zack’s reaction was far more extreme than any of his SHARP friends. Zack once again drifted into his untamed violent nature. It wasn’t long before words flew, pushing and shoving proceeded, and ultimately, Zack got a hold of a nearby folding chair. That folding chair took on a life of its own in Zack’s hands, and became the near-death instrument that repeatedly pounded the skull of the neo-Nazi.

  The crowd scattered and Zack paid no mind to the emptying of the room. He only proceeded to beat the Nazi harder and harder. Zack’s internal justification was based on the notion that he was defending his Jewish heritage and fighting the forces of racism and evil. This was indeed part of the truth.

  The other part of the truth, was that Zack struggled with an unhealthy pleasure in committing violence for the sake of it. This part of the truth drove him to continue swinging the chair long after his point had been made. And long after the Nazi was rendered powerless. The victim was beaten to the point of paralysis by the time Zack caught his breath and came to his senses.

  Zack looked around and saw that his friends had split. He did the same. This time though, unlike in the past, he didn’t get very far. He was captured and arrested within an hour of the incident.

  Chuck Gallagher was given a dossier on Zack by a buddy of his within the agency who knew Zack’s family. The dossier was complete with the clippings from the Rolling Stone magazine article wr
itten about the chair-beating incident. The article showed a picture of Zack shackled in an orange jumpsuit as he appeared in court. Gallagher was taken back by Zack’s appearance in the photo. What the hell are these jackass kids thinking when they get tattoos on their necks? Gallagher read the article and it intrigued him as much as every other bullet point he had read on the subject’s dossier.

  Gallagher was told of Zack’s tenacious fighting skills and his misguided love of his country. It was too late to get Zack into the military given the mess Zack had made of his life. It wasn’t too late to offer Zack a deal to get out of prison, entirely expunge his record, and mold him into one of the deadliest and effective mercenaries the CIA had in their arsenal, but denied ever knowing. That’s exactly what he did. And Zack thrived with the new identity and renewed purpose.

  Zack’s first mission, after Gallagher bailed him out of jail the first time, was to assassinate a radical communist activist in Argentina that was gaining far too much influence in the South American continent as a whole. Zack’s approach was pragmatic and direct. He studied the movements, patterns, and habits of his target. He did his due diligence thoroughly and applied his natural gift of extreme situational awareness. Once the building blocks had been arranged correctly, the hit was easy.

  Zack’s marksmanship was like a heroic verse from a Marty Robbins ballad—impeccable and executed with an appearance of effortlessness. The most troubling observation Zack made about himself, after his first hit, was how much he enjoyed it, and that the event left him completely without inner conflict and at perfect peace with himself. This lack of guilt puzzled Zack, but also confirmed that he was made for this.

  Gallagher thought of Zack as one of the biggest blessings, and one of the best-kept secrets, that the CIA had ever been given. And he also felt often like the gift of Zack Batt was the biggest curse the agency ever received.

  To the point, the ramifications of Zack being a curse largely fell into Gallagher’s lap to manage. He was Gallagher’s project. So it was, of course, Gallagher who had to continually clean up Zack’s messes. Gallagher had run the cost / benefit analysis on Zack a million times and every time he swore to himself when he concluded that Zack was still too valuable to abandon.

  In-between missions, Zack inevitably wandered back into gang life, succumbing to his unhealthy addiction to danger and violence. This concern never left Gallagher’s mind.

  SHARP had long ago ostracized Zack because of his uncontrollable violent nature, so Zack naturally embraced his straight-edge sensibilities to compensate. He moved out of Charlestown, MA to the lovely streets of Kensington in Philly. A prominent

  CHAPTER of the nationally syndicated, radical straight-edge street gang known as FSU was situated in Philly, specifically Kensington. FSU was an acronym for many things. Publicly known to mean Friends Stand United but privately, on the streets, and painfully felt by the group’s enemies, it stood for Fuck Shit Up.

  The group held high virtues of straight edge living and anti-racist ideals. Of course, these were fine attributes and admirable in and of themselves. Unlike a biker gang, the IRA, or a neo-Nazi gang, FSU did not deal drugs, run guns, promote prostitution or engage in the traditional revenue-generating activities of the typical street gang.

  FSU largely subsisted by running extortion scams. They reveled in a sadistic desire to apply their boiling, testosterone fueled machismo violence senselessly to as many as possible. Backed by an extreme Puritanical philosophy, no one was really safe—because few could measure up to their high standards of behavior.

  Drunks were routinely beaten. Drug dealers and defenseless addicts were damn near killed. Frat boys, out for a good time and few hits from the beer bong, found themselves in the hospital.

  FSU’s notoriety reached such heights that they were rewarded with their own special on the History Channel’s Gangland series. Luckily for Gallagher, Zack never appeared in the final edit. Apparently the History Channel heard Gallagher loud and clear on his informal, confidential request.

  It took Gallagher years of stern lectures, idle threats, physical confrontations, and aggressive prayer to a God he struggled to belief in, to finally see the day that Zack left gang life. Since then, Zack’s relapses into jackass tomfoolery had been minimum, and his contributions to the CIA’s needs had been maximum and fruitful.

  Gallagher was thankful beyond belief that the only reason Zack had landed in prison this time was because of a tiff-gone-wrong with one of his nut-job girlfriends.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER, JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  It was the day after Passover and Chaim Simmons, Israel’s larger-than-life prime minister, still reveled in the joy of the celebration.

  Prime Minister Simmons was a man for whom controversy, scourge, negative press, and straight up reality show-esque drama did not deter nor detract. The finger-pointing political pundits had a hard time figuring him out, but he certainly knew how to play the game. And deep down beneath the ever-outrageous show he loved to star in, there were some real, core beliefs.

  The ever-increasing threats from Iran kept him up at night. The increasingly neatly packaged alliance formed between Iran, Turkey, Lebanon, and the nations of North Africa kept him up even later. The fact that Russia had been blended into this geopolitical cocktail from hell damn near made his heart stop.

  But at the moment, Chaim was basking in the freedom, albeit fragile and elusive, that the nation of Israel had been feeling in recent months. He felt as if he was among the Jews of old having just been freed from Egypt. The ramifications of Israel’s newfound wealth and prosperity were vast. Massive oil findings had catapulted the nation into an era of self-sufficiency that would have been an outright laughable notion just years prior. The narrative of the nation of Israel continued to surprise the world. One hundred years ago, the notion of a re-established Jewish state was mocked as a fantasy.

  Now, Israeli citizens were discovering prosperity and opportunity like never before. Entrepreneurship now dominated the nation’s new psyche. Israel had developed the ultimate and supreme ownership-based economy. As Chaim took a sip of some very fine home-pressed red wine, plucked carefully from the vast collection he kept in his cellar, he pondered the juxtaposition of Israel’s prosperity with the lingering threat of her organized and motivated enemies. He resolved that barring verification of Iran’s rumored nuclear capabilities, Israel was indeed safer now, and strategically more secure, than at any other point since her re-birth. That said, the premise that Iran did not either already possess these weapons, or were inches away from possession, was one that many challenged. Including Chaim.

  As Chaim concluded his reflections, the silhouette from the kitchen disappeared and its source figure appeared before him in the study. As he reclined in his favorite brown leather chair, she placed an ashtray on the adjacent end table.

  “Thank you Abigayil.” Chaim smiled with gratitude.

  Abigayil smiled seductively as she walked slowly out of the study. Chaim gazed at the short skirt that hid her rather attractive backside for longer than any modest man would venture to stare. Chaim reached up to flick the switch on the overhead exhaust fan. Then he lit his madura Crown David cigar. It was one of his favorites. He had picked up a box of them from a small cigar boutique shop outside of Philadelphia once after he had given a speech at a conference in a hotel near St. Joseph’s University. The cigar shop was called SJ Cigars and was owned by a nice Israeli entrepreneur who was more than pleased to have Prime Minister Simmons visit his shop.

  As he exhaled the first puff of his cigar and enjoyed the lingering taste on his palate, he chuckled to himself as he thought of his colorful relationship with Abigayil. She was not his first mistress. And if in his heart of hearts he were to be honest, she would likely not be his last. Chaim Simmons had a problem with women. The discipline he practiced in his work life did not transfer over into his
personal life into the complicated realm of his relationships.

  Chaim’s problem had always been well known and had earned him the nickname of ‘the Jewish Clinton’, though sexual permissiveness was the only thing he had in common with the former US president. After the huge amount of controversy and press that resulted from his last wife, of a mere four years, leaving him upon discovering Abigayil, Chaim had been trying to tell himself that he would finally settle down. Three divorces was enough, he reckoned. If he ever did marry Abigayil, which he knew she would be soon pushing for, he would try to hold this one down.

  As he pondered this internal promise, cigar smoke bellowed upward and the thick aroma saturated the study. He knew he was weak in this area. But for now, the tabloids had finally been leaving him alone and he would enjoy this time with Abigayil and, day by day, try to focus on fidelity.

  And also for now, he would enjoy the peace and prosperity of his nation. Even while he prepared to counter or, more provocatively, pre-empt the evil and terror he knew was still bubbling up furiously within the nations that so tightly surrounded his beloved Israel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE OFFICE OF PRESIDENT SAMANI, TEHRAN, IRAN

  Hadi Samani peered out his office window at his beloved city. A city rich with history and significant meaning. President Samani often fantasized about the imminent return of the Twelfth Imam descending in glory upon his cherished metropolis.

  The World Toward Illumination project had now been in full effect for months, and Hadi Samani was more than pleased with the influence it was having on the wonderful people of the Islamic Republic of Iran. The Promised One was indeed nearing His arrival. The preparations were becoming increasingly feverish and anticipatory. Some truths Hadi knew unequivocally—deep within his ever-patient soul. He knew with certainty that he had been chosen for this point in time. He knew he had been chosen to facilitate the global conditions necessary to hasten the imminent return of his beloved Twelfth Imam.