Ishmael Covenant

by Terry Brennan

  7

  US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 19, 7:38 a.m.

  The sun was on the front of the residence this early in the morning, so the patio to the side of the building, well shaded by palm trees and hedges, was washed by cool breezes coming off the Mediterranean Sea. Brian Mullaney, a hot mug of coffee in one hand and his suit jacket in the other, stepped off the stone veranda and moved into the shadows. He set his blue embassy mug on a square white table, draped his jacket over one of the padded white wrought iron chairs scattered throughout the large patio, and settled into the cushions like a man in need of comfort.

  There was nothing small about the US ambassador’s residence in Israel. It was perched on a cliff in the Herzliya Pituach neighborhood, just north of seaside Tel Aviv. A sprawling complex with an expansive, multi-level lawn overlooking the sea, the residence building had a modern white California-like exterior designed with the Spartan squareness of Israeli architecture. In most years, the staff would still be recovering from the ambassador’s annual Fourth of July party—an all-American extravaganza where over two thousand guests filled the lawn and filled themselves with McDonald’s burgers, Domino’s pizza, and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. But outgoing ambassador Harley Carnes canceled the event, partly out of respect for the mourning period for three Israeli teenagers who were kidnapped and murdered, but mostly just to avoid the embarrassment of answering the question of his sudden departure two thousand times.

  Mullaney pulled in a deep breath and stretched out his long legs. The air was sweet and mild but edged with the tinge of salt. He drained half his mug, determined to focus his mind on all he needed to accomplish in anticipation of Ambassador Cleveland’s arrival that afternoon. For the time being, it was necessary to find a compartment in his mind in which to stash his thoughts of Abby and the girls back in Virginia. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply once more. The scent of flowers floated …

  “Good morning, Agent Mullaney.”

  He looked over his right shoulder.

  “Please, don’t get up.”

  Palmyra Parker was a stunning woman. Tall and regal, with the grace of a professional dancer, she slid into the chair opposite. Unable to break his training and upbringing, Mullaney was on his feet. “Good morning, Mrs. Parker.”

  As part of the ambassador’s team overseeing the transition, Mullaney knew before he arrived in Israel two weeks earlier that Cleveland’s daughter would be joining the ambassador in the residence, taking on the role of hostess for her widowed father. He had seen her in passing in the two days since her arrival but had had little opportunity to speak with her.

  What he knew from his briefing was that Parker, who performed with the Alvin Ailey Dance Theater while an undergrad at NYU, had traded a short but accomplished tenure as a linguist at the United Nations for a law degree from Fordham University and ten years as counsel for the Children’s Defense Fund. Four months ago, her world ruptured when her husband was killed in an automobile accident. Childless and grieving, Parker welcomed her father’s invitation to make a home for them both in Israel.

  What he hadn’t been told was that Palmyra Parker, in addition to being a knockout, emanated a presence of both confidence and competence. Dressed in a white cotton dress with a turned-up collar, she wore her black hair in a short but elegant style. Her eyes were a shade of pale green that seemed translucent, framed by a café au lait complexion that added depth to her beauty. Wow! crossed his mind, followed immediately by an image of Abby’s smiling face and a certainty that only one woman had his heart. Abby might not be pleased that a woman as stunning as Palmyra Parker was in residence, but she had no reason to doubt Mullaney’s faithfulness … and he was not about to give her one.

  Mrs. Parker extended her hand across the table, and Mullaney caught a scent of what smelled like hyacinth. “I was happy to see you out here, Agent Mullaney. Give us a few minutes to talk in private.”

  Her handshake was deliberately strong and firm, sending a message.

  “How can I be of service, Mrs. Parker?”

  But her voice was welcoming. “First, I want you to know up front that I am very grateful to have you as head of security for Dad’s team here in Israel. I did a little homework before I got here, called a couple of friends. You are a highly respected man, both as an individual and as a professional in your work. I know you weren’t planning on this assignment, but selfishly, I’m glad you’re here. Second, Brian, my name is Palmyra. If we have to call each other by our titles, it will be a long two years. Maybe we can lighten up when it’s just us?”

  “Palmyra?”

  “My Dad was inoculated with the Greek classics by his mother,” she said. “She was an English teacher in a very run-down school in North Carolina. Don’t ask what my brothers are named.”

  “Androcles, which means glory of a man,” said Mullaney, “and Kleitos, which means splendid or famous. I’ve done some homework too.”

  Her eyes were the color of Caribbean shoals, a sparkling and fresh green, and they washed over his face with inquisitive assessment. A smile brushed the corners of her mouth. “And what do you know about me? Perhaps I should call you Agent Mullaney after all.”

  Tickled by her playfulness, Mullaney reclined farther into the cushions and returned her smile with one of his own. “I know what I read about you in the brief, the sterile stuff. But I’m happy to see that your heart confirms what I discerned—you love your father enough to set your life aside to serve him. And I can tell now that you’re somebody I want on my side. I would not want to cross swords with you, Mrs. Parker. Oh”—Mullaney leaned into the table and banished his smile—“I’m sorry about your loss. I can only imagine how painful it must be.”

  Parker searched his countenance once more, as if she were probing for signs of false sincerity. “Thank you, Brian. I appreciate your kindness.”

  Mullaney picked up his blue coffee mug and stared at the lukewarm contents. “I could use your help,” he said, looking up from the mug. “From what I’ve read about your dad and from what Tommy Hernandez has shared with me—”

  “I am so glad you got Tommy back on Dad’s detail,” she interrupted. “Tommy saved his life back in Istanbul.”

  Mullaney nodded his head. “Tommy’s rescued me more times than I care to remember. But listen. My experience has shown me there are two types of ambassadors—one is a posturing empty suit with too much pull in Washington, and the other is a guy like your dad, who has worked his way up and earned his post by staying three steps ahead of everybody else in the room. Guys like your dad are great to work for—until they decide to go off the reservation and try to do something on their own without proper security, because they’ve got the chutzpah to take a great risk for a greater reward.”

  Parker smiled. “That’s Dad.”

  “Then I need your help, Palmyra … I need you to help me keep him alive over here.”

  Mullaney rested his elbows on top of the table and leaned closer to Parker. “Your father came under attack in Istanbul, and I’m not convinced that President Kashani was the only target of the attack on the embassy in Ankara. That’s twice in the last three months that your father’s life has been threatened. My gut tells me whoever means him harm will likely try again. I’m going to know where Ambassador Cleveland is every minute of every day—until he decides to pull a Lone Ranger on me. And I need you to warn me when that’s coming. Because I believe you will know—probably even before Atticus knows—when he’s planning a stunt like that.”

  “Atticus? Are you part of the family now, Brian?”

  Mullaney relaxed. He knew he had found an ally in Palmyra Parker … an ally who would be invaluable for whatever amount of time he was in Israel. “Closer than a brother, Palmyra.”

  A mischievous twinkle lit up the corners of her eyes. For some men, Palmyra Parker would be irresistible. Mullaney would not allow himself to be one of those men.

  “Well, I guess it’s appropriate we’re alread
y on a first-name basis.” Parker pushed back her chair and stood, looking up into the blue sky. “Going to be hot again.” She turned to face Mullaney and reached out her hand once more. When Mullaney took it, her grip was still like hardened steel. “Thank you, Brian. I’ve lost my mother. Now I’ve lost my husband. I love my brothers, but”—her eyes bored into his—“Atticus is all I have. I am not going to lose my father, not to this job and not to those crazies out there who long to take his life. I think, together, we can keep him alive, but …” She let go of his hand and stepped back.

  “Brian … I know you didn’t plan to be here, and I know this assignment has caused upheaval in your family, and I’m sorry about that. Sorry you’ve been separated from your wife and daughters. And I’m pretty sure you’d like to get back to Washington as soon as you can. But I hope you’re here for the duration of Dad’s assignment. Please don’t hold that against me.”

  Standing, Mullaney shook his head. He picked up his jacket. “We both want what’s best for your dad. And we’re both here to serve—however long that’s required. Let’s just take it one day at a time. Tomorrow’s about as far ahead as I can look. And now I need to get to the embassy.”

  Parker started walking toward the residence. “Duty calls us both. Thank you, Brian. And be careful out there today.”

  What? The same words he and Doak spoke to each other almost every day when they were both with the state police. Mullaney stopped, watching Parker’s back. That’s weird.

  US Embassy, Tel Aviv

  July 19, 11:12 a.m.

  Mullaney’s empty stomach was just starting to send signals about lunch when Jarrod Goldberg knocked on his open door. Jon Lin was at his shoulder. “Got a minute?” It wasn’t a request.

  As deputy chief of mission for Israel, Goldberg was the ranking State Department officer in the absence of the ambassador and, as such, was in charge of the entire mission staff. He and Lin stepped into Mullaney’s office and closed the door behind them.

  “Half of our situation board just went red,” said Lin, a bespectacled MIT grad. He and Goldberg stood, ignoring the chairs in front of Mullaney’s desk. Lin, head of the FBI office in the embassy, reached across the desk and handed Mullaney a one-page report. “In the last twenty minutes Israel, Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and a handful of Gulf states all raised their threat levels to the maximum. Israel has called up one-third of its military reservists. Jordan and Egypt have mobilized military units.”

  Mullaney glanced at the paper. “Doesn’t make sense.” He looked up. “Ever since the Palestinian Authority turned over those suspects in the teenagers’ murders, everything’s been quiet. We’ve picked up no evidence of pending conflict anywhere. What’s happened?”

  “We don’t know,” said Lin, “and that’s both frightening and humiliating.”

  A myriad of possibilities raced through Mullaney’s mind, but the reality was clear. America’s diplomatic and security agencies had suffered a colossal failure. The governments of the Middle East were suddenly poised for a third Arab-Israeli war. And no one assigned as part of the US Diplomatic Mission to Israel or of any of its extensive intelligence corps had any clue it was coming.

  Washington must be in an uproar. And the ambassador was scheduled to land at Ben Gurion Airport in less than an hour. The men in this room were on the cusp of disaster.

  “We are not anticipating a military conflict between Israel and its Arab neighbors,” said Goldberg. “And that is the message we delivered to Washington.” A Foreign Service veteran with an illustrious record, Goldberg’s demeanor was as neatly pressed as his suit. “What we do not know is why. What has precipitated this unexpected activity? Jon and I are twisting as many arms as we can find, but no one is willing, or able, to enlighten us.

  “You’ve been here before, Agent Mullaney, during your tour in Amman. Are your contacts still viable?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe so.”

  “Good,” said Goldberg. “Utilize promises or threats, whatever is effective. But find out what is happening. We need answers.”

  Mullaney felt another rumble in his stomach. But this time it wasn’t hunger.

  Scrolling through the contacts on his iPhone, Mullaney stepped out of his office and stopped at the first door on his left. “Tommy …”

  Hernandez dropped the blue-covered daily CIA briefing to the top of his desk. “Yes, Boss?”

  “Get ahold of the ambassador’s daughter. She should be at the residence. Tell her we’ll be picking her up in about thirty minutes.”

  “Are we going on a date? Brunch on the Tel Aviv beach?”

  “No. And it’s no use trying to hide the crossword puzzle,” said Mullaney, his smile admonishing. “Ask her if she’s willing to accompany us to the airport to meet Ambassador Cleveland. Be polite, but it’s not a request. You and I are bringing Cleveland straight here from the airport—threat levels have just gone through the roof in Israel, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia. We need to be mobile. And we need Mrs. Parker to take on the responsibility of getting Cleveland’s belongings to the residence. So get a second car and a driver to the airport to help Mrs. Parker. And Tommy, let’s double the escort detail for both the ambassador and his daughter.”

  “You got it, kemo sahbee. And Brian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s a seven letter Farsi word for vacation?”

  Mullaney took one step into Hernandez’s office. “Try U R Fired! How’s that fit?”

  Hernandez threw up his hands. “Like a glove, Boss. Like a glove. I’m movin’.”

  “Good,” said Mullaney as he walked back through the door. “We all are.”

  He hoped the number was still active. You never knew for sure in this business.

  “Yes?”

  The voice was unfamiliar, the tone tense and wary. Not surprising, since so few had access to this phone number.

  “Is this the office of the Guard?”

  Silence.

  “This is Brian Mullaney, regional security officer for the US State Department, stationed in Tel Aviv, Israel. Please tell Sultan that I’m looking for him … and tell him he still doesn’t know how to play Texas Hold’em.”

  More silence. “This is Captain Lubayd Nasari of the Jordanian Royal Guard Brigade. In spite of your calculated rudeness toward my superior officer, I will inform Commander Abbaddi of your request. How may he reach you?”

  “He has the number, Captain. Thank you for your—”

  The click and dial tone ended the conversation before Mullaney could finish his sentence.

  8

  Ankara

  July 19, 11:58 a.m.

  The Turk was resting on a divan, slipping into slumber. The room was in twilight, two small lamps offering limited light from the corners.

  His reverie was cut short when his aide entered the darkened room. He lifted his right hand and waved it toward the door. Assan was dressed in a long black robe, a black cowl over his head. He was as thin as a cadaver, bony hands tucked into the robe’s voluminous sleeves, and he moved into the room like ice on a warm plate, sliding up to the divan’s side.

  “Tüm güçlü,” said the aide in Turkish, bowing deeply from his waist. All Powerful. It was the Turk’s favorite form of address.

  “Yes?” The Turk replaced the hose onto the hookah. “Why do you disturb me?”

  “Master.” He bowed low once more. “The ambassador’s plane is landing momentarily. He has the case in his possession. We have two teams of disciples at the airport, another outside the embassy, and a fourth watching the residence.”

  “Very well.” The Turk stretched the muscles of his legs. “Keep the package in sight at all times. If they see an opportunity to seize the package, do it. Let no one stand in their way.”

  “Yes, Master.” The aide hesitated. The Turk waited for the words he knew would follow. “May I ask a question?”

  “Proceed.”

  “Master … once we have the box … will it not be a death sentence to touch it?
How will we determine the contents of the Gaon’s second prophecy?”

  The Turk smiled. It was a smile without mirth or life, a smile that could freeze a flame in mid-flicker. Assan was once an eminent professor of philosophy. His dabbling in the occult opened a portal which the Turk accessed to exert dominion in mind, soul, and spirit. Assan was one of his most devoted disciples. Still at times, his mind functioned a bit too independently.

  “I require the box,” said the Turk, “because I require the prophecy. The Lithuanian knew how to destroy our plans. We believe that is the lethal nature of the message. It is imperative—it is worth any risk, any cost—to prevent others from knowing its message and using its power.”

  Assan bowed his head but withdrew one withered hand from the sleeve of his robe, turning it palm up. “Yes, Master. Your disciples are determined to frustrate and prevent the fulfillment of Jewish prophecy. If we can change the promises in the book, we can change its ending.”

  Soon, the Turk mused, I may need to consider Assan’s further freedom of thought. But for the moment …

  Like a man who longed to continue in slumber’s embrace, he drew his legs over the side of the divan and sat before his aide. “The prophecies of the Jew’s book, the Christian’s book,” said the Turk, “foretell the end of man in the great conflict for control of this world. Those prophecies are interconnected. If one fails, all the others collapse … lose their relevance and authority. I intend to write a new ending to history, Assan. An ending that is not in the book. An ending that enthrones us as rightful rulers of this world. There is one prophecy in the book that, when destroyed, will abolish all the rest.”

  The Turk rose, stiffly, but his leaving was stalled.

  “One prophecy, Master? Which one is this?”