“He’s betting his reputation on one piece of information that might be telling,” Mullaney answered. “It’s true both Israel and Egypt have mobilized a portion of their military. But in neither case are those units moving toward the borders. Our assets on the ground tell us they are deploying around cities and other heavily populated areas. We should have a satellite pass in the next hour or so. The pictures will tell us a lot.”
Cleveland looked at the floor beneath his feet. Odd, now that there was no leather bag, he felt more fearful. He turned his mind back to Mullaney.
“Why is Jordan mobilizing, Agent Mullaney? If there was some flash point or offense occurring that we didn’t know about—some fracture about Gaza, for instance—I could understand heightened tensions between Egypt and Israel. But why Jordan? And the Saudis? Riyadh appeared to be opening conversation with the Israelis on several fronts. This mobilization doesn’t make sense. I wonder …”
Mullaney’s mobile phone clamored to life. “Excuse me, sir.”
There was no caller ID on the screen of Mullaney’s phone.
“Yes?”
“Two aces in the hole last time, remember? Cost you one thousand of your dollars. I’m sure you remember that.”
Relief washed over Mullaney’s anxiety, bringing a smile to his face. “Nearly cost my kids their Christmas gifts. How are you, Sultan? Well, I hope.”
“Probably better than you and your newly arrived ambassador at this moment, I would venture. Tell Ambassador Cleveland he can relax … there is no war about to erupt.”
“Can I put you on speaker?”
“Certainly. It would be my pleasure to reassure the ambassador.”
Mullaney turned to Cleveland, the iPhone held in front of him. “Sir, this is Major Sultan Abbaddi, commander of the Jordanian Royal Guard Brigade.”
“Personal bodyguards to the king and his family?” said Cleveland. “Highly placed.”
“And a good friend,” said Mullaney. He pushed the speaker button and handed the phone to Cleveland. “Sultan? I’m with the ambassador.”
“As salaam u aleiykum, Mr. Ambassador … peace be upon you.”
“Wa aleiykum as salaam,” responded Cleveland. “On my first day, I wish us all peace, Commander Abbaddi.” Cleveland glanced at Mullaney, who nodded his head. “Perhaps you can enlighten us somewhat regarding the heightened threat levels and mobilizations in the region? I would be indebted for your counsel.”
“Yes … well … with respect, sir, there is a limit as to what I am free to share,” Abbaddi said through the phone. “First, I am requested to share with you the pleasure of our government with your appointment.” Mullaney pulled a pen and small notebook from his jacket pocket and started to write. “You have consistently provided understanding and compassion to all in the Middle East. For that, we are grateful.”
Mullaney showed his notebook to Cleveland. He speaks for the king. Cleveland nodded in agreement.
“Thank you, Commander. I truly appreciate your welcome. But,” said Cleveland, “what can you tell us about today’s activities?”
“Mr. Ambassador, I can assure you that the actions taken today by my country, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and the Gulf States are not the first steps in an armed conflict between our nations and Israel. We apologize for their abruptness. There was little option. What I can share with you is that there is a seismic shift of power and influence—toward a lasting peace—about to take place in the Middle East. An announcement is imminent that will change the world as you know it.”
Cleveland grabbed the pen and pad from Mullaney’s hands.
“It is in anticipation of this announcement that our nations are taking precautionary steps,” said Abbaddi.
A peace treaty? Cleveland wrote. Why? Why now?
“Forgive me, but that is the extent of the information which I can share with you,” said Abbaddi. “We hope it will soothe any concern at the seat of your government.”
Cleveland shrugged his shoulders in a question, but Mullaney had no answers.
“Well, Commander Abbaddi,” said Cleveland, “I’m grateful for your information. I’m sure many of us will sleep better tonight. But forgive me, your information raises more questions than answers. Can’t you help us out here?”
“Truly, I wish I could …”
“Hey, Sultan,” Mullaney interrupted. “Enough of this diplomatic dance we’re doing. Okay, so there’s no holocaust about to descend on us, and we sure are relieved to hear that. But what’s really going on?” Cleveland reached out a cautionary hand. “You’re helping us out here, but we still feel like we’re walking in the dark.”
The silence from the other end of the phone made Mullaney concerned that he had overplayed his hand. Abbaddi had shown them one ace. Maybe he still had another in the hole.
“Officially, I’ve told you all that I can,” said Abbaddi. “I wish you peace.”
The car slewed violently to the left as Hernandez avoided a slow-moving truck.
“Tommy! Watch the road and not the back seat.”
“Yes, Boss. Slowing it down.”
Mullaney was frustrated as he and Cleveland looked at the phone and the “Call Ended” screen. Then his phone rang a second time.
“This call never happened.” It was Abbaddi’s voice. “I’ll be brief. Regardless of what is announced tomorrow, do not trust the Saudi king.”
“Commander,” interrupted Cleveland. “I must know. Is this you speaking or your sovereign?”
“For more than a decade,” said Abbaddi, ignoring the question, “the house of Saud has lavishly financed the nuclear weapons development program in Pakistan. Some of those weapons were developed specifically for the Saudis and are held in storage by Pakistan.
“King Abdullah sees his mortal enemies, the Persians, joining together to his north. He sees the probability of a nuclear-armed Persia. The king is cashing in his chips. He’s placed his order with the Pakistanis. The nuclear weapons will soon be shipped to Riyadh. I repeat: do not trust the Saudi king. What you hear announced tomorrow is historic. What is being done in secret could be catastrophic.”
Hernandez was driving the car like a rodeo rider on the back of a Brahma bull, bucking back and forth from one lane to another. Still, there was time before they could reach the US embassy in Tel Aviv, and Mullaney had a question gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.
“Mr. Ambassador,” he asked, twisting in the seat to look at Cleveland more directly, “I can understand the Saudis would feel vulnerable if Iran develops nuclear weapons. They would be in the same boat as Israel. So the idea of a treaty makes sense. What I can’t figure is why Pakistan would sell nuclear weapons to Riyadh. Why make the arms race in the Middle East worse than it already is?”
Cleveland set his hands on the car’s seat and pushed back, squaring his shoulders. Mullaney could tell he was trying to revitalize his body after the long flight.
“There is a twelve-round heavyweight bout going on in Washington right now,” said Cleveland. He took a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and wiped it across his face for a moment before stuffing it back in his pocket. “The main event is between those for and those against any nuclear deal with Iran. But there are any number of side slugfests going on over ancillary issues. One conflict is between those who believe an Iran deal will slow down nuclear proliferation and those who believe an Iran deal will accelerate nuclear proliferation because everybody else will want the bomb. A second theater of conflict revolves around the whole issue of Pakistan, which is really the most important wild card in this entire saga.”
Other than worrying about his daughter, the one thing that caused Cleveland to lose sleep each night was the dangerous morass that was the government of Pakistan. While most of the world wasn’t watching, Pakistan had devolved into the most dangerous nation on earth. Not Iran and its nuclear hopes. Not North Korea and its maniacal leadership. Neither the resurgent Russian bear nor the military and economic behemoth in China. Pakistan, a nuclea
r-armed Muslim nation with a population of two hundred million people, a government and military—often the same thing—both densely populated with radical, Islamic jihadists and a propensity of going to war with little provocation. One result of the Afghan war and America’s crusade against the killers of al-Qaeda was that the US and Pakistan became uneasy allies. Cleveland knew it was an alliance that could never be sustained.
“The military of Pakistan is rapidly becoming radicalized,” said Cleveland, “which is a threat to every nation on earth. Pakistan has somewhere north of 120 nuclear weapons. We don’t know where they are. We don’t know how secure they are. And we don’t know who has access to them.
“After 9/11, President Musharraf was terrified that elements of his military might just walk off with all 120 nukes. So he ordered the weapons be de-mated—the fissile cores are stored separately from the nonnuclear explosives packages, and the warheads are stored separately from the delivery systems. Then he ordered the parts to be randomly shuttled around between at least fifteen different storage sites throughout the country.” Cleveland raised his hands and shook his head. “They use commercial delivery vans to move nuclear weapons. Like bread trucks. No military escorts, no security convoys. Just a couple of guys in a truck with parts of weapons that could destroy nearly any city on earth.
“The greatest nightmare for the West is not whether Iran will get nuclear weapons,” said Cleveland, looking out the car’s window, “or even whether a Muslim country like Saudi Arabia gets nuclear weapons—both potentially catastrophic events in themselves—but whether Pakistan can keep from losing one, some, or all of the nuclear weapons it already has.”
“Pakistan is the worst kind of ally for the US to have … one you can’t trust,” said Mullaney. “So what can we do about it?”
The ambassador lowered his head for a heartbeat, then lifted his shoulders. He turned back to Mullaney. “Ever heard of JSOC?”
“Yeah, aren’t they the guys who run the Olympics every four years?”
Cleveland winced. “Thank you, Tommy, for your insight.”
“Joint Special Operations Command,” said Mullaney. “Yeah, I’ve heard of those guys. Tough bunch, very elite. I wouldn’t want to tangle with that outfit.”
“That would be wise,” said Cleveland. “Well, JSOC maintains rotating deployments of specially trained units in the Persian Gulf region, most of them Navy SEALs and Army explosive ordnance disposal specialists. If any of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons were to fall into the wrong hands, JSOC teams would be assigned to carry out a render-safe mission—finding, capturing, and disabling any weapon of mass destruction.
“They already pulled one off back in the nineties. CIA told JSOC that a North Korean ship had just left port with an illegal weapon. Our guys, a SEAL Team Six component, were able to find the ship, sneak aboard, find the weapon, and immobilize it in a way that left no trace of their presence or their mission. Extremely resourceful individuals.”
“Hey, Boss.” Hernandez was trying to keep one eye on the road and one eye in the rearview mirror—and failing. “How do you know so much about these super commandos? I’d think a lot of that info would be stamped Secret.”
“Most of that information is not classified,” said Cleveland. “Let’s just say I have a very good friend closely connected to JSOC and its mission in Pakistan. And that mission gets more challenging every day.
“In the event of a jihadist coup, civil war, or other catastrophic event in Pakistan, JSOC would be tasked for a disablement campaign—capturing and/or dismembering Pakistan’s entire nuclear arsenal. A most dangerous mission. JSOC has been preparing for such an operation for years—how to breach the inner workings of nuclear installations and what to do with any live weapons they find there. Delta Force and SEAL Team Six squads practice deep underground shelter penetration at a secure site northwest of Las Vegas. They’ve also built simulated Pashtun villages at a site on the East Coast for special ops training.
“In the event of a coup, our forces would penetrate Pakistan’s borders in several ways. They already have the necessary equipment stored nearby. Our guys would secure known, or suspected, nuclear-storage sites, disabling the tactical nuclear weapons first. If necessary, they also know how to destroy a nuclear weapon without setting it off. If we’re not certain we’ve located or contained the entire arsenal, there’s a standing order to launch precision missile strikes on nuclear bunkers, using special hard-target weapons. “We have lots of arrows in our quiver,” said Cleveland. “I wouldn’t want to be in Islamabad when those arrows were launched.”
10
Ankara
July 19, 1:22 p.m.
The man who entered had neither an ounce of fat on his muscles nor an ounce of doubt in his soul. He was the leader of the Disciples, the far-flung but tightly knit cadre of operatives devoted to the Turk and his calling, his mission, his destiny. Dressed in a suit and open-collared shirt, entirely in black, the man moved with the confident purpose of one trained to use his body as a weapon. He stopped six feet short of where the Turk rested on a divan.
“Praise and honor to you, Emissary of the One,” said the man, bowing at the waist. When he straightened up, his eyes were fixed on the Turk. “How, All Powerful, may I be of service?”
The Turk pointed to a straight-backed chair to the left of the divan. The man went to the chair. There is something unique about this man. He has never been afraid to look into my eyes.
“Bring it closer,” said the Turk. As the man lifted the chair and brought it to within a body length, the Turk thought quickly of the man’s father, and his father’s father, who had also served faithfully and effectively as leaders of the Disciples. Countless generations, father to son, had served the Turk in this critical role. Now, finally, the day of the One was closer than ever before. The Turk was confident that he and his disciples could engineer the coming of the One and his glorious reign. It was time to put into motion the harbingers of the end.
“Tell me of the Disciples,” the Turk said as the man sat in the chair.
“There are 186 equipped, trained and ready,” said the leader. “Forty here in Turkey, twenty-four in Iraq and Syria, ten well-placed in Iran. Two dozen remain in Israel and as many are in Palestine. Twenty on their way to Pakistan. The others established in Lebanon, Jordan, and Egypt. Waiting for your orders and ready to move at your command, All Powerful.”
“Very well. You understand the goal?”
The man bowed from his waist as he sat in the chair. “Yes, All Powerful. First, destroy the message and the box of power. And those who may stand in our way. At your command, seize the weapons from the infidel’s airbase at Incirlik. Do all in our power to ensure neither the Persians nor the Arabs get control of the weapon. Manipulate Israel, by whatever means necessary, into a position of vulnerability. Above all—destroy the book and its prophecies and hasten the dawn of the age of the Mahdi, the One of Allah.”
A torrent of heat flashing through the blood in his veins, for a moment the Turk struggled for control. Close … so close. Once the threat of the Lithuanian was finally destroyed, he could focus on his ultimate goal. “Yes … and this is what I wish you to do.”
Watching the leader’s departure, Assan floated into the light from a darkened corner of the room. “He still does not suspect.”
“No … he speaks of the One, but knows not which One.”
“There is a great day of reckoning coming,” said Assan. “Many will be astonished when the bedrock of their truth turns to sand.”
Once again, Assan’s independent thinking triggered an alarm in the Turk. Another task to be dealt with.
No signs of life were visible in the basement of the house on Alitas Street, a solitary cul-de-sac down the hill from the Ankara Castle. The only light came from the flame of the small oil lamp which the Turk carried with him down the stone steps. His soft-soled slippers made no sound as he descended, the temperature of the air falling more rapidly with each step deeper in
to the darkness. No cobwebs, no skittering of small, clawed rodent feet. No life.
But a fleeting trace … a nauseating sweetness of decay … tinged the air, thickening as the Turk reached the basement floor.
The lamp cast a pale halo around the Turk as he crossed a large subterranean room. On the far side was a wooden door. The Turk withdrew an iron key from the pocket of his jubba. He pushed the key into the keyhole, and despite its age and condition, the lock opened quickly on well-oiled tumblers.
The Turk leaned his shoulder against the formidable door, forcing its bulk open inch by inch. He was assaulted by an overwhelming putrid reek of rot and decay, but one to which he was so accustomed that it gave him no pause. As he pushed through the opening, the flame of his lamp was snuffed out. Impenetrable darkness engulfed him like a wet, black blanket. The door groaned with a mournful dirge as—on its own—it sealed the Turk within the room, the lock falling back into place.
He waited. The dark held no fear for him. It was home.
In the midst of the blackness, a pinpoint of light, red and pulsing, flickered and began to grow beat by beat. The air temperature rose quickly as the light expanded in size and intensity. The Turk stood immobile, the light and heat pressing upon him like the open door of a blast furnace. Two yellow dots appeared within the red light. As the light grew in size, the yellow dots also grew. A gray swirl, like clouds driven by the wind, flowed across the surface of the yellow dots.
They were looking at the Turk.
The Turk lowered his head, bowed from the waist, then got on his knees, his forehead pressed against the stone floor. “Exalted One.”
A voice slithered from the darkness in the corners of the room, closing on the Turk from all sides. The voice thrummed with sovereign power, held the Turk in an embrace like a constricting python.
“Rise.”
The Turk pushed up from the floor. A pair of gibbous, yellow eyes hovered in the midst of a dim, indistinct, and shifting countenance—like a face constructed of smoke rings distorting and dispersing in the heavy air. He could feel the power of the yellow eyes probing for his brain, searching for his thoughts, seeking for his knowledge.
Ishmael Covenant Page 14