Mullaney started to lead the rabbi out of the reception room. “First … you came with a driver?”
“Yes, and my assistant.”
“Fine. Our staff will take care of them and make sure they are comfortable. But please … come with me. I’m afraid the ambassador was needed at the embassy. We’re going to meet in the residence with his daughter.”
“And this cleaning woman died where?”
Palmyra Parker pointed over Rabbi Herzog’s shoulder, toward her suite of rooms. “Just in the next room.”
“And you want me to … ?”
Israel Herzog hadn’t raised a question as Parker, with help from Mullaney, relayed Cleveland’s story about acquiring the mysterious box from the rabbi at the Neve Shalom Synagogue in Istanbul—and the curse that appeared to be on the box—about the attacks on Cleveland in Turkey and Israel, Parker’s kidnapping, and the strange and similar deaths suffered by Rabbi Moische Avi Kaplan in Istanbul and Haisha Golden in the ambassador’s residence. But his calm exterior showed stress cracks when Parker revealed why Rabbi Herzog had been summoned to the residence—that the box supposedly contained the second prophecy from the Vilna Gaon, a coded prophecy that Herzog and his council were expected to decipher.
“We want you to take the box,” said Parker, frustration and anxiety dripping from her words. Didn’t Herzog understand? “Rabbi Kaplan in Istanbul said to bring it to the Rabbinate Council … that you would know what to do with it. That you would know how to get the Gaon’s second prophecy and understand what it said. So this box is now your problem. And we want it out of here before it kills anyone else.”
Rabbi Herzog held fast under Parker’s withering stare. Not a whisker nor a thread was out of place. With Parker still in his sight line, Herzog turned his head to look around the room. “And where is this box you speak of?”
“It’s still in the closet,” said Parker. “None of us felt safe touching it.”
He nodded his head. “Well then.” He stood to his feet. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
The closet door was open, the leather satchel still resting on the shelf above Parker’s clothes. Rabbi Herzog stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry, which aggravated Palmyra Parker even more.
“Do you know,” he said, turning to face Parker and Mullaney, “when the Gaon’s prophecy about Messiah came to light, there was an uproar around the world. What did it mean that, centuries ago, an aged scholar from Lithuania wrote down a prophecy that Russia would invade and annex the Crimea? Now that the current Russian government has fulfilled one part of the Gaon’s prophecy, does it follow that the second half of the prophecy will be fulfilled as well? Is Messiah’s coming actually imminent?”
Suddenly a light flashed on in Parker’s mind. A recognition of something she had overlooked … the Gaon’s prophecy was multi-faceted. Not only were there two obvious but independent statements, one about Russia and the second about Messiah, but there were also a number of perspectives from which to view the prophecy—political, geographic, religious—and varied viewpoints within those perspectives. What did it mean to Herzog that “the Times of Messiah have started, that his steps are being heard”? If true and accurate, what did it mean to David Meir’s government in Israel? What did it mean according to the eschatological clock of biblical prophecy? Didn’t the coming of Messiah mean the beginning of end times, the end of the world as we know it?
“I can see from the look on your face, Mrs. Parker, that the possibilities are beginning to become clear to you.” Rabbi Herzog’s bright aquamarine eyes were piercing in their intensity. “In the practical, worldly perspective, if the Gaon’s prophecy is accurate, does the government in Turkey need to fear an invasion from Russia? Do the Russians have plans on conquering and occupying Istanbul, modern Constantinople?”
“It would give Vartsev something the Russians have coveted since the Czars,” said Mullaney, referring to the Russian president. “Control of a warm-water port for their navy. And another step in the resurrection of Russia as a world superpower.” He was leaning up against the doorframe of the closet, to Parker’s left.
Herzog’s hat was bobbing up and down as he nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, one of many consequences if the Gaon’s words of two hundred years ago are accurate for today. And now you tell me that inside that satchel is a box that contains another prophecy from the Gaon?”
“That’s what Ambassador Cleveland was told in Istanbul,” said Mullaney. “But one thing I don’t understand is why you? Why did the rabbi in Istanbul insist that the box be delivered to you, to the Hurva Synagogue, to the Rabbinate Council?”
“Ahhh … good question. Logical. Easy to explain. The original synagogue, built on the site now occupied by the Hurva, was started by a group of Ashkenazi Jews early in the eighteenth century. Unfinished and heavily in debt, the structure was destroyed in 1720, the year the Gaon was born … burned to the ground by the local Arabs who controlled the debt. In 1812 another group of Ashkenazi Jews, known as Perushim, immigrated to Palestine from Lithuania. They were disciples of the Vilna Gaon and were determined to rebuild the spiritual home of the Ashkenazi. It took them over forty years to secure permission from the Ottoman Empire, and another nine years to rebuild the synagogue, which was considered the most beautiful in all Israel. Unfortunately, that synagogue was also destroyed, blown up by the Jordanian Arab Legion in 1948 during Israel’s war for independence. The rebuilding of the current Hurva was delayed for decades by indecision and factional infighting. Construction finally began in 2000. Built over the ruins of its two predecessors, the new Hurva was rededicated in 2010.
“So the Hurva has always been viewed as the synagogue established by the Gaon’s disciples and it’s taken its place as the most revered synagogue in the country and the seat of the Chief Rabbinate Council of Israel. It’s logical that Rabbi Kaplan in Istanbul would send the Gaon’s new prophecy to us.”
Herzog turned to face Parker. “It’s interesting, Mrs. Parker, that you call the message that you believe is in this box the Gaon’s second prophecy. There are actually others.”
“Other prophecies?” said Mullaney. “What do you mean … the Vilna Gaon wrote more prophecies than just these two?”
“Oh, yes,” said Herzog, the taint of surprise in his voice. “Many more. He even wrote one about the Hurva Synagogue. The Gaon prophesied that the Hurva would be destroyed and rebuilt twice. He wrote that when the Hurva Synagogue is rebuilt for the third time then construction of the third temple of God will begin. Interesting on two points—this is the third Hurva building, the second time it was rebuilt. And according to Jewish belief, a temple needs to be rebuilt in Jerusalem before Messiah can come.”
“So if the Gaon is predicting Messiah’s imminent arrival …” said Mullaney.
“Yes … his Hurva prophecy has made me a bit uncomfortable. But Agent Mullaney, I think that is a discussion for a different time. Still, it is interesting to wonder what else the Gaon may have predicted.”
Parker’s mind was spinning as fast as her stomach was churning. She hadn’t thought about the potential fallout from a second prophecy. All she could focus on was getting the box out of their lives and getting her father out of the crosshairs of the men who so desperately wanted possession of the box that they were willing to commit any crime to secure it.
“Rabbi Herzog,” said Parker, “I don’t know what’s in that box or what it will mean—to you, me, or anyone else in the world. All I know is that people who have touched that box have died terrible deaths. And that there’s a gang out there who would kill everybody in this building because they want that box or what’s inside it. Will you … can you … take it away?”
32
US Embassy, Tel Aviv
July 20, 9:23 a.m.
Ruth Hughes stood to the left of the door leading out of Cleveland’s inner office in the US embassy as the rest of the station’s senior staff filed out, their assignments fo
r the next two hours clearly defined by the ambassador. Her arms were crossed, her face as resolute and unreadable as if it was carved alongside Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and Teddy Roosevelt on Mount Rushmore.
“Yes, Ruth?” Cleveland reached for this morning’s third cup of coffee, relished its warmth as it heated his palms, and leaned back in the ergonomically designed padded leather chair behind his desk. “What’s on your mind?”
The embassy’s political officer, Hughes had the deepest and most reliable Mideast connections of any officer on Cleveland’s staff. And she had Cleveland’s respect.
“What’s on my mind?” asked Hughes as she moved to one of the chairs in front of Cleveland’s desk. “It certainly isn’t the worst-kept secret of the twenty-first century, this soon-to-be-announced treaty between Israel and its Arab neighbors. What’s on my mind is how do we keep the peace once this peace treaty is finally revealed.”
“Palestine?” asked Cleveland, already knowing the answer.
“Bingo! And my sources,” said Hughes, “tell me part of the deal is to allow Israel to erect a platform attached to Temple Mount at the Golden Gates in order to build a Temple. Double Bingo! Well-informed people tell me there is enough in this treaty—multiple treaties, actually—to blow the lid off the Middle East six times over.”
“Then how are Israel and the Arabs going to pull this off?”
Hughes, former corporate officer and board member of Aramco, the giant oil company now fully controlled by the Saudis, shook her head and looked out the window behind Cleveland’s desk. “Honestly, I’m not sure either side thinks they can … or really wants to … pull this off.” She pushed herself forward in her chair. “Think about it. The Saudis are driving this treaty because they are scared senseless by Iran. And if the Arabs offer peace and a mutual defense agreement, which is also in the pact, what can Israel do? Meir’s government must accept and embrace the treaty. But how many in Israel are violently opposed to a two-state solution? And how many in the Arab world will be violently opposed to the building of a Jewish temple, even if it’s only adjacent to Temple Mount? Pragmatically, this treaty makes a lot of sense. Realistically, some of the stuff rumored to be in this treaty will likely kill it before it takes its first breath.”
Cleveland waited. He knew Hughes had only stated her preamble. She turned her gaze away from the window and stared directly at the ambassador.
“So I’m wondering, what are the Saudis really up to?” asked Hughes. “My understanding is that King Abdullah muscled a lot of people to join this covenant. That’s what they’re calling it, by the way. The Ishmael Covenant. The restoration of Abraham’s offspring into one family. But Abdullah really strong-armed both Egypt and Jordan to join in this pact and then muscled up against all the smaller Arab gulf nations. But why? Is a fear of Iran, even a fear of an allied Iran and Iraq, enough of a reason for the Saudis to make such a bold move?”
“So what’s Abdullah’s game?”
“Honestly, Atticus, I don’t know,” Hughes admitted. “Brokering a two-state solution for the Palestinians earns Abdullah a high level of esteem in the Arab world … gives him a lot of swag, as they say. And that’s important to him—international influence. But my instincts tell me there is more going on here than puffing up Abdullah’s pride.”
Hughes slid back into the depth of her chair and crossed her legs. She was about to shift gears. “But what do you think of this proposed covenant, Atticus? I know what President Boylan wants—an independent Palestine. But where do you stand on the possibility of a two-state solution?”
Once again, Cleveland considered that Hughes was excellent at her job. Either she had done her homework on her new boss or she had read him accurately. Because when it came to the Palestinian issue, Cleveland was a two-minded man. As a diplomat, the partition of Israel to make room for an independent Palestine seemed inevitable. And since both the Jews and the Palestinians had lived in the area—albeit not always peacefully—since Joshua crossed the Jordan, a two-state solution seemed the right thing to do.
But Cleveland had a second perspective on the partition of Israel that was just as vital to him as the one his diplomatic training considered inevitable.
“I’m convinced,” said Cleveland, holding fast to Hughes’s stare, “that any division of Israel will be a disaster—and a curse for every nation that is involved.”
US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv
July 20, 9:27 a.m.
Brian Mullaney took a step back from the closet, as Rabbi Herzog reached up for the leather satchel. The significance of the step back didn’t touch Mullaney until he realized that Palmyra Parker had done the same thing.
Parker was looking at him with a crooked smile on her face. “Better safe than sorry?”
Mullaney shrugged his shoulders. That’s embarrassing.
“You’re safe.” Israel Herzog stood in the door to the closet, holding the handles to the leather satchel in both hands. “Let’s go sit down and figure this out.”
The satchel sat on a coffee table, Herzog on the sofa with the satchel in front of him, Parker and Mullaney in chairs on the other side of the table.
“If you don’t mind,” said Herzog, “Mrs. Parker, would you be so kind as to confer the Aaronic blessing upon me before we proceed? Better safe than sorry, eh?” The rabbi removed his broad-brimmed hat and lowered his head in Parker’s direction. A yarmulke still covered part of his hair.
Mullaney watched as the normally confident and unflappable Parker hesitantly placed her right hand upon Herzog’s head.
“This is how my father transferred the blessing … the anointing … to me,” said Parker. She took a breath. “The Lord bless you, and keep you. The Lord make His face shine on you, and be gracious to you. The Lord lift up His countenance on you, and give you peace. There … is that good?”
“Thank you. You would make a fine rabbi.” Herzog took his hat in his hand, hesitated, and then set it on the sofa beside him. He looked up, and Mullaney saw a subtle change in the rabbi. Up until now, Herzog had been relaxed and affable. That man was now gone. Anxiety had paid him a visit.
Herzog snapped the latch on the satchel and spread open its sides. He looked into the bag, tilted the opening more toward the light, and looked in a second time. Then he laid the bag on its side, reached in, and withdrew a wooden box about the length and width of a piece of copy paper, but about six inches high.
“Okay … that part was easy,” said Herzog. “Now I think we come to the tricky part.”
The wooden box was hinged and Herzog gently toyed with the lid, testing it to see how easily it opened. The top lifted smoothly, revealing folds of purple cloth filling the box. With his thumb and forefinger, as if he were dancing with a live crab, Herzog lifted the top fold of the heavy purple cloth. Then he peeled away the second and the third folds and draped them over the sides of the box. “Here we go.” The rabbi grasped a wrinkle in the cloth of the final fold and drew it up and away. Facing him was a metal box. It looked like well-weathered bronze. Hammered into the top of the metal box were five symbols—one in the middle of the box and one in each corner.
Mullaney twisted his head to the side to get a different angle on the symbols. “What are these—” Mullaney looked up at Herzog. The question froze on his lips.
The rabbi was bending closer to the metal box on the coffee table, his eyes growing bigger with every inch closer he came, his mouth opened in a wide circle. “Ooohhh … I never …” Whack! Herzog slapped the lid of the wooden box closed and pushed his body back away from it, his head resting on the top cushion of the sofa and his eyes searching the ceiling.
“Rabbi?” said Mullaney. “Are you okay?”
Like a body rising from the grave, Rabbi Israel Herzog slowly came back to a sitting position. His face was pale and his breathing labored. Mullaney feared the rabbi may have suffered a heart attack. But his face looked worse.
Looking from one to the other, Herzog shook his head. “This
… I … I must take to the council,” he stammered. “It is not what I expected.”
Mullaney watched as Herzog tried to steady his nerves with a long, deep breath. “But what is it?” Mullaney asked. “What are those symbols?”
Herzog shook and rotated his shoulders, as if a current of electricity had just run up his spine. “The symbols,” he said, taking a deep breath, “are kabbalah, an ancient, mystical practice of Judaism.”
“Kabbalah symbols on the box surprised you?” asked Parker.
“No, not that they are kabbalah,” said Herzog, shaking his head. “The Gaon was a devoted believer in kabbalah, that the practice of kabbalah opened up a deeper relationship between the Creator and the created. No … it was the symbols themselves that surprised me.”
Herzog inched closer to the table and placed his hands on the purple velvet hanging over the sides of the wooden box. “Now I have been wrong before, but I believe that what Rabbi Kaplan shared with Ambassador Cleveland in Istanbul was correct in two respects … it appears that the power comes from what exists inside the box, not the box itself. There is no way to tell for certain while the message remains in the box, but it follows God’s pattern in the Torah. It wasn’t the ark of the covenant that possessed deadly power; it was what resided inside the ark that generated that power. And it also appears to be true that the anointing, the Aaronic blessing, protects those who safeguard the box. But the anointing can only be exercised by the last person anointed … the current guardian. It’s like the priesthood and the temple in Jerusalem. Only the high priest could enter the holy of holies. Anyone else would be struck dead … even a former high priest who was no longer ordained for that office. I believe that’s why Rabbi Kaplan perished. He must have touched the metal box after he conferred the Aaronic blessing onto your father. Just as you conferred it upon me, Mrs. Parker. Now I am the guardian.”
Ishmael Covenant Page 30