Ishmael Covenant

by Terry Brennan

  “So as long as the metal box remains within the wooden case holding it, there should be no danger of making contact with it,” Cleveland concluded. “As a precaution, there’s the Aaronic blessing that can be passed from one holder to another that serves as a protective anointing. I gave the blessing to Palmyra before asking her to bring the satchel here for safekeeping. Now we—you, I hope—need to get it to the Rabbinate Council at the Hurva Synagogue as soon as possible and get it out of our lives.”

  “Where’s the box now?” Mullaney asked.

  “It’s safe,” said Palmyra. “I hid it when I got back to the residence.”

  Cleveland saw Mullaney shoot a questioning glance at his daughter.

  “Really … it’s safe,” Palmyra insisted. “No one is going to get near that satchel.”

  Clearly unsatisfied, Mullaney turned back to the ambassador.

  “Who do you think was after the box in Istanbul?”

  Good … Mullaney was going through a deliberate process. “I’m not sure,” said Cleveland.

  “The guys in the white van had Middle Eastern features,” said Hernandez. “But so do the other eight million people in Istanbul. We ran a check on the van … stolen. None of the guys in our SUV remember any distinctive marking from the truck that T-boned them into the restaurant. We had no warning chatter. And whoever was responsible seemed to drop off the face of the earth afterward. We couldn’t track down anything.”

  “And you think these bad guys might have followed you … followed the package … here.” It was a statement from Mullaney, not a question. Cleveland didn’t feel as if he was being interrogated. “You don’t think you’re safe, that the package is safe, in the US ambassador’s residence in Israel? You live in a fortress with some of the toughest guys on this planet dedicated to your safety. Mr. Ambassador, what has you worried?”

  Good man, this Mullaney, thought Cleveland. No bull. On point and direct.

  Cleveland turned to his right and put his hand on Hernandez’s arm. “Thank you, Tommy. You were correct in all respects.”

  “You’re welcome … what? … Did I win a prize?”

  Cleveland smiled, something he didn’t think possible in the current circumstances. “No, Tommy, I won the prize when you were assigned to my detail. And now I’ve been given another prize, Agent Mullaney here.”

  “Okay … I’ll pick up my winnings at the door. And could you make some of it chocolate? Hard to find here. Melts awfully …”

  “Sir,” Mullaney interrupted, “we don’t have much time. Why are you frightened for your safety?”

  The ambassador sighed and looked across the table. “It’s not my safety, Agent Mullaney. It’s Palmyra’s safety that concerns me. The safety of all the people who work here at the residence.” Cleveland leaned back in his chair, recalling the conversation in Istanbul. “Rabbi Kaplan in Istanbul told me that three terrorist attacks against the synagogue were known to the public. What isn’t public is that the synagogue has survived attacks and break-in attempts that have been ongoing for decades, ever since the box arrived from Germany in 1938. There have been subtle incursions and full-blown attacks, one of which nearly destroyed the entire sanctuary. Six of the synagogue staff have been killed in these attacks, two of them rabbis. Whoever is after this box and the document it contains, they are ruthless and relentless.”

  Mullaney was shaking his head. “And through all these years, whoever’s after the box never succeeded? Seems a bit lame for a ruthless and relentless gang of thugs.”

  Cleveland raised his hands, palms up. “Oh, they’ve succeeded,” he said. “Twice the attackers breached all the synagogue’s extensive security and gained control of the wooden chest.”

  “And they gave it back?”

  “No,” interjected Hernandez. “They got zapped, right?”

  “Zapped … yes,” Cleveland responded. “Both times, attackers were found, sprawled on the floor, the box not far away. Their tongues were black, they were bleeding from their eyes and their hair had fallen out.”

  “Ouch, that’s a nasty hangover,” said Hernandez, shaking his head.

  “But they keep trying?” asked Mullaney.

  “They keep trying,” Cleveland answered. “And there’s no reason for us to believe they will stop trying now that the box is here in Israel. Here in this house. We may be a well-guarded fortress, Agent Mullaney, and I’m glad for it. But a lot of people could still be hurt if we keep that box here. Besides … we need to get it to the Rabbinate Council. The descendants and followers of the Vilna Gaon may be the only people who can figure out what this second prophesy is all about. If the first one predicted the Russians marching into the Crimea, I think it’s critical we know what the second one predicts.”

  Mullaney got out of his chair. “Okay, it’s got to go.”

  Cleveland’s mobile phone rattled to life. Pressed to his ear, he listened for a few moments, then clicked it off. “And we’ve got to go too. That was Goldberg. We meet with the prime minister in seventy-five minutes. Jerusalem is an hour’s drive. So let’s get crackin’.”

  “Are we taking the box?” asked Hernandez. “I may need my asbestos gloves.”

  Cleveland stopped at the threshold of the gazebo and turned first to Mullaney and then to his daughter. The adrenaline pump he got from the news of the meeting with the prime minister was overcome by an onrushing bleakness … helpless frustration tinged with fear and regret. What had he gotten his daughter involved in?

  “I …”

  Palmyra stepped over and grasped his hand. “It’s okay, Dad. The box is safe. It’s well hidden, behind tightly locked doors where no one would think to look for it or even be able to reach it if they knew where to look.”

  Searching his daughter’s emerald eyes, Cleveland’s stomach felt like the inside of an unexplored cave—dark, cold, and empty. “I haven’t spoken to anyone at the synagogue.” His words were an admission, whispered as if he were in a confessional box in church. “They don’t know we’re coming. And we’ve got to leave now to get there on time. I don’t want to …”

  Palmyra ran her right hand along Cleveland’s cheek. “Go, Dad. It’s okay. Double the guard on the front gate, if it makes you feel better. But we’ll be okay. Right now, your thoughts need to be about preparing to meet with Prime Minister Meir. You need to find out what’s going on. That’s your job, your responsibility. I’ll be fine. When you get back, we can make plans to transfer the satchel to the people at the Hurva. For the moment, though, you need to focus on the world outside the walls of this compound. Okay?”

  If Cleveland could have reached inside his daughter’s heart and protected her inmost being, he would have done it. Instead, he wrapped his left arm around her shoulders. “Stay away from it. Wait for us to get back, okay?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Cleveland tore his gaze from his daughter’s. Mullaney and Hernandez were both on their mobiles.

  “Car’s out front,” said Hernandez. “The backup team is loading in the SUV and will be behind us before we leave.”

  “And the guard has been doubled,” Mullaney added. “Both front and back, and patrolling the perimeter. Right now, we’re Fort Knox.”

  With a sigh, and one more look at his daughter, Joe Cleveland drew himself to his full height, threw his shoulders back, and transformed from nervous Dad to commanding presence … the ambassador of the United States of America to the nation of Israel. “All right, let’s move,” Cleveland said. “Tommy, we need to be fast, but we need to be safe.”

  “Gotcha, Boss. I’ll keep it under a hundred and twenty.”

  Cleveland held out his left hand to Palmyra. “Walk with me.”

  With Mullaney and Hernandez following close behind, Cleveland spoke in a low voice. “Please make sure Jeffrey cancelled any commitments for the rest of the day. And ask him to clear my agenda for tomorrow as well. I think we’re going to need the time.” He squeezed his daughter’s hand. “Promise me you will stay away fro
m the package. I won’t be able to keep my mind focused unless …”

  “You’ve got my word, Dad. I won’t go near it. Just be careful out there.”

  With a father’s prayer in his heart, he gave Palmyra’s hand one more squeeze and then was around the corner of the residence, into the maelstrom of diplomatic intrigue.

  14

  US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 19, 5:31 p.m.

  Jeffrey Archer, Cleveland’s secretary, was in a dither. A moment earlier he had been holding his leather-bound daily planner in front of him, an imploring look in his eyes and stammering objections stumbling across his lips. Palmyra Parker empathized with Archer—she really did. But she had little comfort to offer. “Sorry, Jeffrey. Those were Dad’s instructions. He’s on his way to Jerusalem to meet with the prime minister. The welcome reception will just need to be postponed … until when, I don’t know.”

  The pained expression on Archer’s face belonged to a man with the daunting task of calling two hundred of the most powerful and influential people in Israel to tell them the party was canceled. Not a fun job.

  “What do I tell them?”

  Parker put her hand on Archer’s shoulder as she headed toward the door of his office. “Good luck, Jeffrey.”

  Palmyra Parker turned out of the secretary’s office and down the short corridor in the business section of the north wing, past the small, glass-walled conference room. She turned again and headed through the east wing of the residence.

  Originally constructed in 1963, the ambassador’s residence was extensively renovated in 1995. Located on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, in an affluent neighborhood of northern Tel Aviv, the residence was a large, U-shaped building that surrounded a broad patio. Its public rooms were spacious. From the north wing, Parker entered the grand oval entrance hall that was flanked by a sitting room and a living room. Farther into the house, to the west toward the expansive gardens, was a large, rectangular reception hall that was used for an endless schedule of luncheons, receptions, meetings, parties, and official functions. The western wall of the reception area was a series of movable french doors that opened into an enclosed patio that often augmented the reception room.

  Parker crossed the oval entrance hall to the south wing and walked down a hallway to a stout door that looked like thick wood, but was actually a reinforced steel blast door that protected the ambassador’s private wing. Access to the door was closely monitored twenty-four seven by a detachment of US Marines. Behind a one-way glass window on the left was the security center for the entire residence, where three marines were always on duty, two scanning the banks of monitors connected to the extensive security system, including the entrance to the ambassador’s private quarters. In front of her was a single, armed sentry.

  “Good evening, Corporal,” said Parker. She gave a half wave to the unseen men on duty behind the glass window.

  When the door was unlocked from inside the security office, the corporal opened the door for her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Parker. Is there anything we can do for you today?”

  “No, thank you, Corporal. Just more unpacking.”

  Parker entered the large, comfortably furnished living room and turned left to enter her private suite. Had she continued through the living room, she would have entered a smaller den-library that was connected to the ambassador’s bedroom. The bedroom occupied the far western section of the southern wing, just as the ambassador’s residential office occupied the far western end of the northern wing, and was provided a panoramic view of the gardens and Mediterranean Sea through a bank of bulletproof windows.

  Parker’s suite was significantly smaller but did include a full bath and two huge closets along with a sitting area in her bedroom. In spite of the size of the closets, moving boxes overflowed into the bedroom itself. Reminding herself that it was her idea to handle the unpacking of the family’s personal items, Parker picked her way through the stacks of boxes and stopped outside the flanking closets. She looked at the door on her left. The satchel was tucked away on the shelf running around the top of the closet.

  No, I promised Dad.

  Turning away from the closet, Parker scanned the scattered pillars of moving boxes littering the floor. She shook her head, rolled up her sleeves, and pulled open the first box she could reach.

  “Good morning, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Good afternoon, Jeffrey. How is the weather in Tel Aviv today?”

  Webster intended his words to be confounding to Archer—like an oiled knife, they were slippery and often dangerous. Good to keep this little guttersnipe in his place—insecure and afraid.

  “Beautiful once again, Mr. Secretary,” said the ambassador’s secretary. “But not everything is serene here. The ambassador has postponed his official welcoming reception. I’ve got two hundred disappointed and aggravated guests to disinvite.”

  “And the reason for this sudden postponement?”

  “He’s on his way to Jerusalem to meet with the prime minister, something that was not on his agenda. So I’ve been instructed to clear his calendar today and tomorrow,” said Archer. “Something is going on. Security has been increased and the tension level around here was very high already. And now the ambassador is dumping his entire schedule and running off to Jerusalem. It’s something I thought you would want to know.”

  Webster waited, allowing the silence to build. He wondered if he had made a mistake. Would Archer really be of value? Could he be trusted? Archer stumbled into the silence. “Cleveland’s only been in the country one day, and already he’s stirred up a mess.

  “Is that all you can tell me, Jeffrey?”

  “Well, there was one other odd thing that happened,” said Archer, a conspiratorial gravity shadowing his words. “Cleveland’s daughter came back from the airport with all the ambassador’s bags while Cleveland and his DSS team went straight to the embassy. She …”

  “Mrs. Parker, you mean?”

  “Yes … yes, sir. When Mrs. Parker got out of her car she was clutching a leather bag—bigger than a briefcase, but not as big as a suitcase. She held it in her arms, like no one was going to get near it. I was standing on the steps, by the front door, and asked if I could help. She nearly jumped out of her skin. I thought she was going to fall over, so I went down the steps and reached out to steady her. It was … well … like I had the plague or something. She jumped back, pulled the bag closer to her chest and said, ‘No … No!’ And then she almost ran up the steps and into the residence. Very odd. Then, later in the day, she’s in my office telling me the reception needed to be postponed, acting like nothing had happened outside. I don’t know. Something was going on there. But I have no clue what it was.”

  “Not a terribly auspicious start for you, Jeffrey, I must say.”

  “I’ve only just been introduced to the ambassador, Mr. Secretary,” Archer pleaded. “It’s likely going to take some time for me to build up a level of trust with him and his family.”

  “Very well, Jeffrey,” said Webster, a languid indifference coating his words. “Call me again as soon as you have further information. Good-bye.”

  Well, thought Webster, a new mystery has been added. What is in the bag, Mrs. Parker? What indeed?

  “When did the ambassador leave? How many were in his security detail? Did he have a package with him?”

  The gardener staggered back against the trunk of a palm tree from the onslaught of questions. In the lee of the compound’s wall, shielded by the palm tree from any eyes in the residence, he pressed the phone to his ear. “I don’t know, Master. I did not see him leave.”

  “Then what am I paying you for?” snapped the Turk.

  The Palestinian gardener, a long-time staff employee of the ambassador’s residence, had been recruited by this man, through the imam of his mosque, only two months ago. Still, he did not want to lose this sudden flood of cash that his extended family had so ravenously spent already.

  “I was listening
to the mobile telephone call of the ambassador’s secretary, who was sitting in the garden. The secretary told the other party that the ambassador abruptly canceled his schedule for today and tomorrow, including the ambassador’s welcome reception tonight. The secretary said the ambassador left suddenly for a trip to Jerusalem to meet with the Israeli prime minister. The secretary made his call at approximately six this evening.

  “The ambassador’s normal security team is comprised of two agents who ride in the limousine with him. Security was increased, and now there is a team of four additional agents who travel directly behind them in a black SUV. Since I did not see them leave, I cannot say if he used the same security protocol today. And forgive me; I did not see if he left with a package.” The gardener, who had not taken a breath during his response, held it longer as he waited for a reply.

  It was only when he forced air into his lungs that he realized he was on the phone alone.

  Ankara

  July 19, 5:48 p.m.

  “We do not know the location of the package,” said the Turk. His right hand held the mobile phone; his left hand fingered the wooden prayer beads of the Muslim faithful as his car moved slowly through the twisting streets of the Old City. “The American ambassador is driving to Jerusalem for a meeting with the prime minister. He left the residence about ten minutes ago. He has agents with him in his vehicle and an armed support vehicle following him. It may be in his possession. His intention may be to deliver the package to the Zionists at the Hurva Synagogue. You must stop them.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “What is our position at the residence?”

  “Security has increased significantly. It is very difficult to remain in constant surveillance of the front gate without being detected. But we have men watching and waiting at the front and the back. Perhaps when it becomes dark, we will find a way to gain access.”

  “You will not!” snapped the Turk. “Cleveland will be anxious to deliver the package as soon as he can. You will stop him.”