Ishmael Covenant

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by Terry Brennan


  A gruesome thought occurred to Mullaney. What if Cleveland had touched the box after conferring the blessing on his daughter? Cleveland dead? It was hard for him to imagine … hard to even contemplate Cleveland suffering a death like that. Mullaney was surprised at the depth of emotion that rushed through him at the thought of Cleveland’s death. His investment in Cleveland had long since passed a business relationship. It felt … kinda like Dad dying.

  “But what do the symbols mean?” Parker asked again, shaking Mullaney out of his emotions. “They seemed to frighten the life out of you.”

  “And so they should,” Herzog responded. “This combination of symbols is the most powerful death warrant in all of kabbalah. It carries the power of God in its warning, the wrath of heaven upon anyone other than the guardian who touches the metal box. It is a painful, excruciating, yet instant death … judgment without mercy. Yes, I am now protected. But the power of this warning is so severe, so lethal, that it shook me to my soul.”

  Mullaney felt vindicated. He now looked at the wooden box as if it were a den of poisonous vipers. It was wisdom to keep a safe distance from something so deadly.

  “The most powerful death warrant?” asked Mullaney. “And it’s not what’s on the box that’s deadly, it’s what is in the box?” Mullaney willed his eyes away from the viper den to face Herzog. “So Rabbi, what can be in that box? Can the words of an old man, written 250 years ago, carry the power of life and death?”

  Herzog shook his head. “Not the words he wrote. Not the paper they are written on. It’s the power that God has infused, imparted into the message itself.” Herzog perked up and shifted on the sofa. “It’s like Aaron’s staff. The wood of Aaron’s staff had no power. But when the power of the almighty God was imparted to that staff, it called down the plagues of Egypt and split the Red Sea in two.

  “I think,” the rabbi added, “that the question of greatest import, is not what’s in the box, but what’s in the message. What warning … what prediction … has the Gaon sent us? And why is it surrounded, protected, by so much power?”

  Herzog rubbed his hands together. “So … I will go no further here,” he said, shaking off his alarm. “I will take this box with me to the Hurva, to the council, as you requested … as Rabbi Kaplan desired. Because of one thing I am sure. These symbols are not the only barrier, not the only protection, for whatever is in this box. If there is a second prophecy in this box, a determined kabbalist like the Gaon would do all in his power to ensure the safety and security of that prophecy. It took the rabbis of the council and the Gaon’s now deceased great-great-grandson two days to safely open the first prophecy. We have that experience to call on, so perhaps this effort will not take as long. But I will not attempt it myself.”

  Herzog pulled wide the opening of the satchel, but Mullaney put a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Rabbi, I know this box and its contents are in their rightful place with you and the council,” said Mullaney. “But I would be derelict in my duty if I didn’t secure a promise from you before we allow this package to leave our control.”

  “You want to know what’s in the box,” Herzog said, nodding his head. “And if there is a message, you want to know what it says and what it means. Correct?”

  “And we want to know first,” said Mullaney. “Ambassador Cleveland or me … we want to be the first person you contact once the box is open and the message deciphered. Agreed?”

  “You have my word, Agent Mullaney. You will know what we have found as soon as we know ourselves.” Herzog extended his hand.

  Mullaney looked at the hand that had just unwrapped the box of death.

  “It’s safe,” said Herzog, an amused smile on his face.

  Mullaney reached out and grasped Herzog’s hand. And his fingers were crushed in the viselike grip of a bricklayer. Safe?

  33

  US Embassy, Tel Aviv

  July 20, 9:41 a.m.

  After a quick knock, the door to Cleveland’s inner office was pushed open. Jarrod Goldberg, deputy chief of mission at the US embassy, stood in the doorway, his hand still on the door handle.

  “The embassy in Amman just got a tip. David Meir is in Amman,” Goldberg said, his voice flat, emotionless, betraying none of his thoughts. “We’re checking, but it appears King Abdullah may be in Amman also. They will be making the announcement together.”

  “Not surprising,” said Cleveland. He relaxed in his chair and pushed back from his desk. “Thank you, Jarrod.”

  “Do you want me to assemble the—”

  “Thank you, Jarrod,” Cleveland interrupted. “Give me a few more minutes. Ruth and I have a few more issues to discuss. I’ll let you know when to call together the team.”

  “Yes, sir,” Goldberg responded, again his voice as flat as a calm sea. The door closed and latched with a soft click.

  Ruth Hughes held Cleveland’s gaze for a long moment. “You don’t trust him. And he knows it.”

  “Trust? I don’t know,” said Cleveland. He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched his weary bones. “I know Jarrod has his own agenda. And I don’t think it’s the same as mine.” Cleveland stood, walked around his desk, and sat in the chair next to Hughes. His words were for her ears only. “Ruth, I know you by reputation and recommendation. My gut tells me I can trust you. So I need your help.”

  “Anything, Mr. Ambassador. It would be my pleasure.”

  “Thank you.” Cleveland paused … weighed his words. “We have a leak, Ruth. We may have a traitor in our midst, or simply someone with loose lips.”

  “Or an opposite agenda?”

  “Don’t know,” said Cleveland. “But the attacks against me … the kidnapping of Palmyra … whoever is behind these things had inside information on where I was, where I was going. And they knew when Mullaney and Shin Bet were preparing to raid the warehouse in the Holon District. Our mission and our safety are compromised, at risk, until we uncover who is responsible.”

  “And you want me to keep my ears open.”

  “You have great ears, Ruth. They reach a long way. They reach into places beyond my ability. So yes … keep listening. Let me know what you hear.”

  Hughes’s eyes searched Cleveland’s face. “Yes, sir. I will do that. Gladly. Because I know you by reputation and by the uninhibited praise heaped upon you by people in whom I place the greatest trust. So yes, Atticus, I’ll see what I can find out.”

  It usually didn’t happen this quickly, developing trust. Like most in the Foreign Service, Cleveland was very select about when, and with whom, he would share those inner workings of his mind … open those compartments that would leave him vulnerable. For some reason, he had established an immediate intimacy with Mullaney.

  He feels like a son, thought Cleveland, the realization a bit of a surprise, but a blessing nonetheless.

  And now he assessed that in Hughes he had found not only an ally, but also a partner in whom he could trust.

  I am a blessed man.

  Cleveland sat up in his chair and arrayed himself with the full power of his position. “This information resides only at the highest level of the State Department, Ruth. Other than Mullaney, who was with me when the information was delivered, no one outside of Secretary Townsend’s closest circle—at least on our side—has a hint. It’s got to stay that way.”

  Hughes mirrored Cleveland’s solemn seriousness. “Yes, sir … you have my word.”

  A bonding moment. Professional to professional. In that silence, Cleveland knew he could trust Hughes to have his back and keep his secrets. There was no greater service she could give him. And it warmed his heart.

  “We have what we believe is an infallible source in King Hussein’s inner circle, a man we believe speaks for the king and with his full knowledge and direction. The Jordanians are confident of two things: that King Abdullah should not be trusted and that the Saudis have called in a debt. For the past twenty years, the Saudi government has bankrolled Pakistan’s developm
ent—”

  “The nukes?” Hughes interrupted, bolting upright in her chair. “Abdullah has called for his nuclear weapons to be delivered?” For a moment, Cleveland could see beneath Hughes’s tough exterior. Not only was she surprised, she was stunned, shocked, and shaken. “God help us, Atticus … a nuclear Saudi Arabia changes everything. We better start building hardened bunkers under every American foreign office in the Middle East. The Saudis get nukes … somebody will get antsy and start lobbing warheads in the desert. Gotta happen.”

  Her response echoed his own fears. But …

  “What about the peace treaty … if there is a mutual defense treaty?” said Cleveland. “Is that all a smoke screen for Abdullah’s real intentions? Why … why go to such lengths?”

  Hughes was shaking her head. “No … Abdullah will take the peace if he can get it,” she said. “There’s too much benefit for the Saudis in this peace—an independent Palestine; an alliance with the most powerful military force in the region, Israel; a massive, united, military, political, and economic confederation with the power not only to thwart Iran’s aggressive intentions, but perhaps also strong enough to cut the legs out from under the Iranian mullahs. No, sir, Abdullah will take the peace if he can get it. And he’ll gladly sacrifice Hezbollah and Hamas to do it.

  “But,” said Hughes, “Abdullah doesn’t think he’ll get the peace. At the very least, he’s hedging his bets. The odds are pretty high that David Meir won’t be able to corral enough votes in the Knesset to ratify the covenant. And even if he could, which I doubt, the opposition to this treaty both inside and outside Israel will be fierce. There will be no peace with this peace. Only more upheaval. But … but … sir … imagine the Middle East with a nuclear Israel, nuclear Saudi Arabia, and, if President Boylan gets his accord with the government in Tehran, in the near future a nuclear Iran. The Israelis are a pragmatic bunch who will risk destruction to avoid extinction. They could be prodded into a first-strike scenario that would leave this part of the world a desolate, contaminated, radioactive wasteland.”

  “And leave the rest of the world starving for oil,” said Cleveland. “A different kind of end days, I think.”

  Silence, profound in what was left unsaid, hung in Cleveland’s office like a shroud on a casket, hiding the inevitability of death. A honking of horns from the street below penetrated through the windows.

  Cleveland snapped the silence. “You have the sources, Ruth,” he said. “We need to know.”

  She nodded her head. It was not only in agreement. It was a promise of determination. Of results.

  “Thank you for asking for my help,” Hughes said with the passion of an embrace. “I’m honored that you would trust me with this information and entrust me with this mission.”

  “Well, Ruth, that—”

  “Sir?” Hughes interrupted. “There is one thing I’ve heard that I could use some clarity about.”

  “Certainly,” said Cleveland, sensing a turn in the conversation. “What’s that, Ruth?”

  “Tell me about the Vilna Gaon’s second prophecy and the box that is killing people.”

  Cleveland barely had time to register his surprise when a bellow of laughter erupted from his belly. “Oh, Ruth … you are good.”

  Cleveland looked at the clock on the wall and realized he needed to wrap up this conversation soon, regardless of how much he relished this interaction. He handed Hughes the cup of coffee he had poured from the well-used urn on the credenza and returned to his desk.

  “So I don’t know anything about the second prophecy,” said Cleveland as he leaned into his desk and rested his body against his folded arms. “Just that I was told there was a second prophecy inside a box that has been closely guarded for over two hundred years.”

  “Okay, but what do you think? And what did you mean earlier when you said the division of Israel will be a curse for everyone involved?”

  A door had been opened, perhaps inadvertently, but Cleveland now debated within himself whether it was appropriate, or the right time, for him to use that door. He took a step.

  “Ruth, the Bible is a book full of prophecies—some fulfilled already, a great deal of those prophecies yet to come. There’s a prophecy in Isaiah 19 that predicts a highway will be built from Egypt to Assyria and that the Egyptians and Assyrians will worship together. It says, ‘In that day Israel will be the third, along with Egypt and Assyria, a blessing on the earth. The Lord Almighty will bless them, saying, “Blessed be Egypt my people, Assyria my handiwork, and Israel my inheritance.”’ Interesting, but that hasn’t happened yet. And there’s another prophecy that Jewish cities will grow in Egypt and Jews will worship in temples in Egypt. And that hasn’t happened.

  “But there are prophetic statements in the Bible that have already been fulfilled,” Cleveland continued. “There are sixty-one specific prophecies in the Bible about Messiah, and three hundred references to those prophecies. Back in the fifties, a math professor gave six hundred students a math probability problem that would determine the odds of the accidental fulfillment of eight specific prophecies by one person. The answer was one-in-ten to the seventeenth power.”

  “The odds were one in ten, with seventeen zeroes after the ten?” said Hughes. “I don’t know the name of that number.”

  “One hundred quadrillion. That’s what I’ve read,” said Cleveland. “But the results were confirmed by the American Scientific Association, which found that the principles of probability were applied ‘in a proper and convincing way.’ Ruth, Jesus fulfilled all sixty-one prophetic statements about Messiah. That possibility is impossible.”

  Hughes’s eyes wandered around the room, unable to focus and stop on an object. It was clear to Cleveland that Hughes was carefully considering the import and impact of his words.

  “Be careful, Mr. Ambassador,” she said. “You might almost make me a believer.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  Hughes smiled. “You had a point, sir. Where were you going with this? Why will the division of Israel be a curse?”

  Seeds had been planted. Cleveland decided to leave it at that.

  “There is another prophecy in Scripture that has not been fulfilled,” said Cleveland. “It comes from the book of Joel, chapter 3. I’ve memorized this one. It says, ‘I will gather all nations and bring them down to the Valley of Jehoshaphat. There I will put them on trial for what they did to my inheritance, my people Israel, because they scattered my people among the nations and divided up my land.’ There are other translations that say ‘I will put them on trial and judge them.’ The valley of Jehoshaphat is the same as the Kidron Valley outside the Old City of Jerusalem. It’s also known as the valley of judgment.”

  Cleveland got out of his chair, stretched once again, and turned to Hughes. “Ruth, in the geopolitical realm, creating a Palestinian state out of some of the land conquered by Israel in the sixty-seven war makes a lot of sense. Logically, I can understand it. But as a Christian who believes the Bible is the revealed Word of God, it shakes me to my soul to think that the United States could become a willing partner to this proposed covenant … to this dividing up of Israel. To me, it just doesn’t make sense to ignore God’s promises.”

  The ambassador glanced at his wristwatch. “C’mon,” said Cleveland, “we need to get going and get the team together.”

  “One thought, Mr. Ambassador?” Hughes got up and joined Cleveland at his still-closed door. “I believe in power. I believe power resides in the hands of the strongest guy at the table. Power—the need, the hunger for power of any kind—is the most fundamental desire of the human heart. As long as there are human beings on this earth, there will be a fight for power. No disrespect, sir … but your Bible, your prophecies, will never prevent that battle for power.”

  In the world that Ruth Hughes occupied, out of her experience, Cleveland could understand her perspective.

  “I believe in power too, Ruth,” he said. “Just in a different realm … for a different pu
rpose.”

  34

  US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 20, 10:20 a.m.

  Two rabbis in long black coats and wide-brimmed black hats carried a large, rectangular object between them. The object was about five feet long and two feet wide, and it was clearly heavy as the rabbis struggled under its weight. The Israeli flag was draped over and wrapped around the object, and as the rabbis carried it through the open doors of the US ambassador’s residence, the marines stationed on either side of the door stood at attention and snapped a salute.

  Like a funeral procession, Rabbi Israel Herzog and Mullaney slow-stepped behind the struggling rabbis, somber looks on their faces. Shifting the object in their hands, the rabbis slid the object into the back seat of their waiting automobile. Herzog and Mullaney stood by the side of the car.

  “Do you think they’re watching?” asked Herzog, speaking to Mullaney but keeping his eyes on the object being wrestled into the car.

  “I would be surprised if they are not,” said Mullaney.

  “Good idea … making it look like a coffin,” said Herzog. “And the flag was a great touch. How did you get the carton so heavy?”

  “Surrounded the box with rocks,” said Mullaney.

  “Well, thank you for making such an effort to throw our adversaries off the scent. Although,” said Herzog, “I won’t feel completely in the clear until we’ve gotten ourselves and our cargo safely inside the Hurva.”

  “Please let me know when you arrive,” said Mullaney, passing Herzog his business card. “This is my personal cell number. Please call when you get there … and let me know as soon as you have some information on what’s inside the box.”

  Herzog turned, took Mullaney’s card, and then grasped Mullaney’s hand before he realized his danger. Mullaney winced at the rabbi’s viselike grip and almost missed his whispered response. “Certainly … and thank you for making my week … my month. Nothing this exciting has happened since the Gaon’s first prophecy was revealed. I’ll contact you as soon as we have something concrete.”

 

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