Ishmael Covenant

by Terry Brennan

  “Where are you going?” Nelson was hanging on, one hand on the dashboard, the other against the door, as the car swung through traffic like a towel snapping in the wind.

  “Fastest way to the Ataturk Bridge and the airport,” breathed out Hernandez. “Get in the back and get the ambassador on the floor.”

  The van driver muttered a Turkish epithet as the ambassador’s car disappeared amid the clogged traffic at the circle.

  “Don’t lose him.”

  The van driver muttered another Turkish epithet, weaved left behind a bus, cut between two trucks parked along the hub of the circle, and drove with two wheels on the sidewalk.

  Hernandez wrestled the black Crown Victoria past the Daru Sultan Hotel onto a tight access road. Traffic was backing up.

  “Red light!” Nelson yelled.

  “Hold on.”

  Cars were standing still in the street, backed up from the red light. With a veteran’s calm, calculated assessment, Hernandez identified a wide grass-and-dirt plaza at the far end of the street. It was on the left, just short of the intersection … an escape route. But first he had to get there.

  A low, stone divider to his left ran down the middle of the street, separating the traffic running in opposite directions. The divider sloped downward from their travel lanes to the lanes of oncoming traffic and continued all the way to the grass-and-dirt plaza. In the flick of an eyelid, Hernandez yanked the car left. The Crown Victoria jumped the curb, sliding down the incline of the barrier. The Ford bounced hard into the lane of oncoming traffic. Hernandez strained to keep the car against the inclined divider, ignoring the rising wail of car horns. He muscled the car halfway up the stone divider before the car hit the dirt plaza. Turn green! A tall, steel light pole sent sparks in the air as it scraped against the left flank of the Crown Victoria. Turn green!

  “We have company,” warned Nelson.

  Hernandez couldn’t risk a glance in the rearview mirror. Didn’t matter. He had no choices.

  They could see the large black car, sliding along the stone divider in the middle of the street. The light was red.

  “Get beside him.” He looked in the back. “Open the door.”

  The side door of the white van slid open, and the barrels of three automatic weapons peeked into the sun.

  “Cover him, Jack.”

  The intersection they were hurtling toward was the six-lane highway to the Ataturk Bridge—three lanes going onto the bridge on the far side of the intersection and three lanes exiting the bridge on the near side of the intersection. The ambassador’s Crown Victoria slalomed through the dirt plaza, avoiding traffic signal poles and steel utility boxes. And still the light glowed red. God help us. Hernandez mashed the gas pedal and aimed for the intersection.

  “He won’t make it,” said the driver.

  A taxi exiting the bridge must have seen the Ford plowing into the intersection. In the traffic lane closest to the rampaging automobile, the taxi driver instinctively pulled his car to the left, into the path of a small truck. The chain reaction started. One of the spinning vehicles slammed into the left rear quarter panel of the Ford, but that just drove the car through the three exiting lanes with even more force. Hernandez’s hands fought the steering wheel against a deadly combination of too much speed and not enough room, causing him to doubt …

  The light finally turned green as the ambassador’s car skidded across two of the far-side lanes—lanes now suddenly empty of traffic—its back end fishtailing so it was facing toward the bridge. Out of his peripheral vision, Hernandez saw two things as he tried to keep the Crown Victoria traveling in a straight line: dozens of pedestrians scattering in all directions from the intersection’s crosswalks, and a white panel van, its side door open, slamming headlong into the steel pole of a traffic signal.

  “Stay down, Jack. But see if you can raise our escort team on the mic. I’ll call the marines.”

  Still accelerating, Hernandez flexed his fingers, stretched his shoulders, and took a quick glance into the rearview mirror. No van. No pursuit. Wow … that was a miracle.

  “And Jack … see if you can get some of that chocolate from the ambassador, eh?”

  5

  Ankara

  July 16, 9:15 p.m.

  The location of Medir’s “office” was as cloaked in secrecy as the smuggling business he conducted from it. Off tree-lined Ileri Street in Turkey’s capital city, it was found by climbing a rear, outdoor stairway behind the busy Dedem coffee shop on Ordular Street, just south of Anitkabir, the sprawling, massive mausoleum to Ataturk, the father of Turkey’s republic.

  The Turk sent his bodyguards into the room first, as was his custom. And his customs were singularly eccentric.

  He neither ate nor drank in public, which could be discerned as caution. His hands were forever folded up within the voluminous sleeves of his jubba, the ankle-length, robe-like garment he wore over the traditional baggy trousers, the salvar. When offered a hand to shake, the Turk would smile, bow, but refrain. He didn’t touch others and expected none to touch him. Caution, perhaps.

  But along with his penchant for the ancient dress of Turkey, the Turk practiced other peculiarities—peculiarities that often caused Medir considerable anguish. And fear for his soul.

  Like repeating back to Medir the smuggler’s most private personal thoughts. After one such revelation, Medir had dispatched his three mistresses and no longer skimmed a few lira off the top of any transaction that came his way. Like inquiring as to the health of Medir’s wife and twelve children with sweet words that appeared to carry evil, lethal intent that chilled Medir’s blood and froze his corpulent fleshy folds.

  Most peculiar of all were his eyes. Or what was behind his eyes. Medir could not tell for certain, since he no longer looked into those eyes. Medir had looked once, at their first meeting, and felt his heart shrivel in his chest. One more moment of those eyes, he believed, and his heart could have stopped altogether. Forever. But it was one look he would remember. Forever. The Turk’s eyes were black, his pupils a pale yellow, the space around his irises swirling like a gray fog. In Medir’s one look, the yellow pupils appeared to swell, pulse as if they had a life of their own—or they were the portent of death.

  Medir sat silent, immobile behind his desk as the bodyguards circled the room, opened the door to the closet, and ensured the windows were shut, latched, and covered by their curtains. Who this man really was, Medir didn’t know. At the prices he was willing to pay, Medir didn’t care. When he was first contacted, Medir was told to expect the Turk the next afternoon. As if there was only one Turk. Well, there certainly was only one of this man … perhaps only one of him in the entire world. For his own peace, Medir called him only “Excellency.” He hoped that was deference enough.

  The bodyguards completed their circuit of the room and stood, flanking the door, one facing Medir, one facing the small alcove beyond the door that opened onto Kale Kapisi Street in the Old Town of Ankara. The Turk entered, his silent, unnamed aide in his wake, and approached the desk. While there was movement under his salvar where his legs would be, the Turk appeared more to glide over the floor rather than walk. For a man who radiated an incredibly powerful aura, the Turk’s physical presence seemed as formidable as the morning fog. His voice was a sibilant whisper that seemed to emanate from the lips of a serpent. Medir lowered his eyes and bent from his shoulders. “Excellency, how may I serve you today?”

  “Good afternoon, Medir.” The Turk’s words slithered into Medir’s ears and defiled his thoughts. Medir kept his eyes fixed on the amulet at the base of the Turk’s throat and tried to empty his mind. “How is the health of your wife and children?” The Turk slipped into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “May their good health continue.”

  “Thank you, Excellency.” Medir was perspiring in rivulets, snaking down his body and soaking his clothes, including the expensively tailored French suit that still looked like a wet potato sack.

  “Forgive me
for my lack of courtesy today, Medir, but I have little time and many pressing matters. May I get directly to the issue at hand?”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “Do you have what I requested?”

  “Yes, Excellency.” Medir focused his attention on the amulet at the Turk’s throat—an infinity symbol carved into the face of the earth. “The convoy is ready to move, well hidden in the mountain valleys south of Lake Van. Some heavy weapons, including two tanks and a half dozen mortar and rocket launchers, four thousand assault rifles, and an abundance of ammunition. The Peshmerga will be delighted.”

  “The Kurdish militias in northern Iraq are fighting a lonely battle against ISIS. They will only be delighted if we can put these weapons in their hands. Can you get them safely to our destination?”

  “Yes, Excellency, without a doubt. We have traveled the route many times. Our connections are effective and reliable. We will succeed.”

  Eyes diverted, Medir waited. No response came. The longer the silence, the stronger the compulsion to look up once more and see if those eyes were truly as he remembered. But that was a risk he would not take.

  “Medir … I have long admired your smuggling enterprise in the east. The operation has reaped great wealth for you. I hope it continues to flourish. It would cause great hardship, for both of us, if the government were to intercept your shipment … shut down your means of trade.”

  Medir shuddered at the veiled threat.

  Without appearing to move, the Turk withdrew a large leather pouch from the folds of his jubba. He tossed the pouch onto the top of the desk, where it hit with a thud and the invigorating crinkle of gold coins. “Half now … half on delivery.”

  Medir gazed at the leather pouch. This operation would earn him twice the normal yearly income on all his other smuggling combined. If only he didn’t feel like he was dealing with Satan himself.

  Medir lifted his eyes from the bag of gold coins to address the Turk once more. But the chair was empty. The specter-like aide and the bodyguards were gone. The Turk had silently disappeared. And Medir felt like he needed to bathe—both his flesh and his spirit.

  Ankara

  July 17, 5:55 a.m.

  “I despise that pink monstrosity. All of it! I hate living in Ataturk’s museum.” Turkish president Emet Kashani walked slowly through the long greenhouse of the Pink Palace, the presidential residence built for Kamal Ataturk, the revered father of Turkey’s republic. His fingers caressed the velvety leaves of one bromeliad after another. “It’s as if I sleep with his ghost every night and walk with his memory every day.”

  The sun was barely up, the greenhouse tolerable at this time of day. Still, Kashani’s short-sleeved shirt was already streaked with sweat stains. Arslan Eroglu followed in his president’s wake, as he always did.

  “You won’t be here much longer,” said Eroglu, prime minister of Turkey and Kashani’s closest confidant. “The White Palace will soon be finished.”

  “Not one day too soon.” Kashani was wearing the pants of a farmer, soiled and stained from digging in the greenhouse—one of the safer ways to vent the anger he could not expose in public. And the greenhouse was one of the few safe places to keep certain conversations unheard. Kashani turned toward Eroglu. “What of our other plans, Arslan? How do they proceed?”

  How to respond? How much truth could he tell Kashani?

  “It is as we expected, Mr. President. All our enemies are committed to the same quest for the same land. It’s one of the few things we, the Persians, and the Arabs agree on, the unalterable truth that once Islam controls some part of the earth’s surface, that land is forever under the rule of Islam. Our conflict arises from the question of whose Islam will rule.

  “The Islamic State controls over eighty thousand square kilometers of Syria and Iraq, from the Mediterranean Sea to south of Baghdad. Its leader, the Sunni usurper Al-Baghdadi, has declared the caliphate. Now the Shia brethren of Iraq and Iran are moving inexorably toward a reincarnation of the Persian Empire, first to crush the stain of ISIS and then to reclaim all the territory once ruled by Persia.

  “We know our enemies. And unfortunately, no one controls ISIS any longer.” Eroglu reached a bench in an alcove of the greenhouse and settled himself into its cushions.

  “We were fools to think we could ignite that spark and keep it from scorching our fingers,” said Kashani. He walked over and joined Eroglu on the bench. “Are we being fools again by arming the Kurds?”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Eroglu recited. He leaned closer to Kashani. “Our task remains threefold: obstruct and cripple the advance of Persia, or dismantle it altogether; destroy ISIS as a military force; and cut the legs off that heretic pig in Damascus to absorb Syria into the new Ottoman Empire. An empire ruled by Sultan Kashani … where Turks are masters of the caliphate.”

  Kashani nodded his head. “Yes. Keep my eyes on the ultimate goal, Arslan.”

  If you only knew the ultimate goal.

  “So, my president, we use the weapons at our disposal,” said Eroglu. “We secretly arm the Kurds to fight ISIS. As we know too well, after fighting against their rebellion for the last decade, the Peshmerga are relentless enemies. And we offer to unlock the flow of fresh water back into Iraq and send our military to strengthen the corrupt Syrian government—with one stipulation. That Syria and Iraq join Turkey in contributing the territory necessary to create an independent Kurdistan, our bulwark to the east. When Syria and Iraq agree to those terms, the resurrection of the Ottoman Empire will be assured. Emet Kashani’s Ottoman Empire.”

  Eroglu bowed his head to his president, and set his final hook. “And the ghost of Ataturk shall be banished, forever.”

  6

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  July 18, 11:46 a.m.

  His iPhone powered up, Brian Mullaney was scanning the online sports section of the Washington Post, his mind completely enthralled by the roller-coaster reality that was the Washington Nationals, as he sat in Ben Gurion International Airport, waiting for Tommy Hernandez to arrive on the flight from Istanbul.

  “Excuse me, sir. Do you know of any good barbecue joints nearby? Or maybe a Taco Bell?”

  “Hello, Tommy,” Mullaney said, even before he looked up.

  “So I’ve blown my cover already? I’d never make a good spy.” Hernandez flopped into an uncomfortable plastic seat alongside Mullaney.

  Mullaney forced a smile to his face as he looked to his right. Tommy Hernandez and Mullaney had survived DSS training together under the relentless battering of the marines at Quantico, both of them honing rare skills in life-and-death management. After nearly two decades of friendship, Hernandez was closer than, and knew Mullaney better than, even his brother, Doak.

  Raised in Texas of Mexican American heritage, Hernandez was five ten, broad shouldered and barrel chested. His body thick with muscle, a flat-top crew cut bristling like porcupine quills, Hernandez radiated restrained power packaged in an expensive suit. He looked like a throwback NFL fullback or a phys ed teacher from the fifties. Except for his brown eyes, where a jester cavorted and mischief watched for opportunity.

  “How are Abigail and the girls?” Hernandez asked.

  “You knew the answer to that question before you asked, correct?”

  “Yeah … sorry. I guess that wasn’t the most tactful way to stick my nose in your business.”

  “She told me she didn’t sign up for this.”

  Hernandez shook his head and looked at the cowboy boots on his feet. “What happened to ‘for better, for worse’?”

  “It all looked pretty ugly there for a while …”

  “Ugly? It was a festering pus bucket,” Hernandez snarled. “The media were ravenous for someone to fry after that debacle in Ankara, and somebody conveniently leaked George Morningstar’s name. Morningstar got kicked into a basement office with no chance for parole, and you were banished to the land of the eternal sand wedge—for doing your job. Is that when your friends aban
doned you? Is that the way loyalty works?”

  “Back off, Tommy.” Mullaney turned off the iPhone and stuck it in his pocket. “Still too sensitive. Abigail moved eleven times during our marriage, packing up the house and the kids and heading off to another assignment. And the constant upheaval was acceptable because each return home improved my position and returned her to the Washington diplomatic and political circles she grew up with. I promised her one day we would be home for good. We both thought this was the time.”

  Mullaney’s mind and heart drifted back to their center-hall colonial home and the soccer fields of Fairfax, Virginia. He was brought back to Tel Aviv when Hernandez laid a hand on his arm.

  “Brian, I love Abby. You know I do. But … but”—Hernandez’s hands were waving in circles in front of him—“this is not the time. I mean, you just lost your dad, and all the stuff that went with that. And now your career has been hijacked from underneath you. Hey … I can tell by looking in your eyes at how deeply this has shaken you.”

  “Look, Tommy … all I want to do is get this assignment over with and get back to Washington as soon as possible. There’s still time to put this family back together again. I just need to be there to make it happen. But this”—Mullaney swept his hand, taking in the whole airport—“none of this is Abby’s fault.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Hernandez, throwing up his hands. “I get it. I’ll be like Zorro’s butler—mute and cute. So how are the girls holding up?”

  A wistful smile found its way to Mullaney’s lips. “Well at least I’m good with the girls. We had a week alone at the cabin in the mountains before I had to get over here. They understand what’s happened—and they are blissfully confident that Dad can fix all things. We have a great bond, thank God.”