At the end of the passage a gate stood partially open, the figure of a man standing with the sun at his back.
Mullaney cradled Herzog’s left elbow in his hand. “Watch your step,” he said as he steadied the rabbi down the two roughly hewn stone steps to the passageway, “until your eyes get adjusted to the light.”
“Well, what is it you think of our friend Poppy, eh?”
Herzog was looking for an answer, but Mullaney was looking toward the end of the passage, down by the gate. The shadowed body had moved farther into the narrow, open-air corridor, and light now shone upon his features. Mullaney stopped in his tracks, jolting Herzog to a halt. Even thirty, fifty yards away, Mullaney could see the man clearly. He was a young man, dressed entirely in black, with thick dark hair and Middle Eastern facial features. But two things arrested Mullaney’s attention … the intense fury of the young man’s dark eyes and the livid pink scar that emerged from his right ear across the top of his forehead and disappeared under the hairline.
The street demonstration on the Namir Road. It’s the same man who was pushing close to our car, whose eyes were burning holes in my head.
Mullaney assessed the memory and calculated the risk. But then he saw other bodies, also clad in black, moving in the light and shadows behind the young man who relentlessly stared down the passage as if his eyes had locked onto the object of his lust.
His grip on the rabbi’s elbow stiffened as Mullaney pivoted Herzog away from the corridor and pushed him up the two steps and back through the door, into the monastery.
“What …”
“It’s not safe,” snapped Mullaney. “We need to find another way out. Stay close to me.”
Mullaney paused just inside the door, trying to regain his bearings. He remembered they came up some dark stairs before reaching the round, stone rotunda which led to this door. But there were three sets of stairs leading down from the rotunda, all dark. Mullaney glanced over his shoulder. The young man and at least four or five others were moving cautiously along the open-air passage. Too many to fight … got to protect the rabbi. He kicked the door shut.
Mullaney tugged on the rabbi’s elbow and pulled him into the stairway on the left, gingerly making his way down the well-worn stone steps.
“Who are those men?” Herzog asked between gasps for air as Mullaney hustled him down the stairs.
“The same ones—the Disciples—who have been after us since the ambassador got that box.” Mullaney stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Deeply shadowed corridors fanned out in three directions. He tried to remember the layout of the building from when he saw it from the street. Twin towers crowned its front façade, and the blue Mediterranean stretched out behind it. The rest of the monastery appeared to be walled in. He had glimpsed the roof of what looked like a chapel on the left of the building, which is why he took the left staircase … hoping to find the chapel and, hopefully, the safety of others.
But there was no chapel in front of them, just three dim corridors. And there were no sounds to follow … only muffled voices and scuffling steps above them.
“Which w …”
With one hand Mullaney pulled the rabbi into the corridor straight ahead of them and with the other fished out the mobile phone from his jacket pocket. He tapped the screen to bring the phone to life—no bars! They came to a wooden door in the left wall, but it was locked. The voices were closer … bottom of the stairs. He got close to Herzog’s face. “Quiet!” he whispered.
Mullaney pushed forward with the rabbi in tow. Another wooden door stood in the gloom at the end of the corridor. As they came before the door, Mullaney realized another set of stairs led up to the left. There was no light coming from the stairs, only darkness.
He reached for the handle of the door.
“Here!”
Mullaney grabbed Herzog by the arm and pushed the rabbi before him, up the steps to the left. If nothing else, the stairway gave them darkness and the high ground. Keep the rabbi behind me … fire from the darkness … downhill. He reached for the 9-millimeter Glock in the holster at the small of his back and …
“Oh …”
Rabbi Herzog stumbled on the stairs above him and fell back against Mullaney’s legs. As he started to pitch forward, over Herzog’s sprawling body, Mullaney reached one hand to catch Herzog and the other hand to cushion his crash into the stone steps. Barely out of the holster, the Glock slipped from his grip and thudded down the stairs.
Reacting simply by instinct and training, Mullaney grabbed Herzog with both hands, yanked him to his feet and pushed him forward, the darkness his only hope, when Herzog ran into something …
“Ughhh …”
… and a door to the outside sprang open before them.
Blinding light poured through the door. A single gunshot echoed, the bullet ricocheting off stone wall, as Mullaney dragged Herzog through the door and hauled his struggling body into the light and slammed the door back into place.
In a heartbeat, Mullaney scanned their surroundings. No other people were in sight, and the windows he could see were heavily barred.
The door they had burst through opened under a buttressed, vaulted stone ceiling that was exposed to the air on three sides. The sea was in front of them, a wall running parallel to the sea behind them. A narrow corridor to the right seemed to lead nowhere. To the left, an outdoor stairway rose to an upper level.
Next to the stairs on the left was a round outcropping from the building—like a shrunken turret, or a hobbit’s home—with a humped roof and a miniature-sized doorway at the curved wall’s apex.
It took only a fraction of a second for Mullaney to absorb the scene. He wrapped his right arm just below Herzog’s shoulder blades and half carried him around the stairs. In a tiny slot between the stairway and the round building, there was a shallow alcove on the far side of the turret door that was barely visible from where they had exited.
Mullaney pressed Herzog into the alcove as far as possible, shielding him with his own body and forcing him down onto his knees. Wishing for a weapon, Mullaney had only his iPhone. He turned off the phone’s ringer and started to text when he heard the voices coming closer.
26
Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv
July 23, 9:04 a.m.
McKeon sat in the back seat of the armored limo, Cleveland to her left, her mobile phone pressed against her right ear. Ringing … ringing … ringing … but no answer. She had already left a message for Mullaney with no response.
Cleveland reached into the pocket of his jacket and felt the heft of the small device. Before leaving the embassy, he had flipped its toggle switch to On. The jammer was powerful. It allowed calls to be made. But they would never get connected … the impression that no one was answering. It was limited in range. He needed to be fairly near the person to jam their cell phone connection. Limited, but hopefully enough to give him the edge he needed … a little more time.
The ambassador’s car and its escort were cleared by Shin Bet officers and pulled through one of the back, private entrances to Ben Gurion Airport. It headed for an unmarked metal hanger at the western end of the compound.
“No response from Mullaney?” asked Cleveland.
“No … and I’m concerned.”
“He’s at the monastery with the rabbi,” said Cleveland. “Perhaps where they’re meeting is outside of normal cell service. I’m sure he’ll respond. And you filed your report, so he’ll know where we’re going.”
The line of cars pulled up alongside the hanger, the other three DSS agents taking up positions around the limo before Cleveland could exit. McKeon reached out and placed a restraining hand on the ambassador’s forearm. “Sir … for the record”—McKeon locked gaze with Cleveland—“I’m not in agreement with you leaving the country without Agent Mullaney. I think you’re taking a risk, and I would pull rank on you if I could. Or I would get the green light from somebody in Washington.”
Cleveland was shaking his bald head. �
��I told you, no contact with Washington. You’ve got to humor me on this, Agent McKeon. As far as Washington is concerned, this visit to Cyprus does not exist.”
“Yes, sir … and that’s another reason I protest,” said McKeon. “We’re going out of the country with no cover. You need to know how strongly I object to this.”
Cleveland gave McKeon a warm, fatherly smile. “Objection noted, Agent McKeon. And appreciated. Ruth,” he said to Hughes, sitting to his left, “you’re the witness. Make sure Agent McKeon’s objections are duly noted in the security log when you get back to the residence. Now please, introduce me to these kind folks who are taking us to Cyprus.”
St. Archangel Michael Monastery, Tel Aviv
July 23, 9:06 a.m.
“Which way?” The whispered question came from the other side of the stairs. Mullaney could hear their heavy breathing.
They were trapped. No way to escape … no way to defend themselves. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, determined to focus all of his attention on the sounds that were so close. Herzog squirmed behind him, and Mullaney put out his hand to keep the rabbi still.
He listened, straining to hear any sound, his eyes glued to the edge of the stairs around which the attackers would have to come to get to them. The silence was complete, only the cawing of a sea bird in the distance breaking through.
One minute … two minutes passed, Mullaney trying to muffle his breathing. Why hadn’t they come around the stairs?
He heard steps, coming from the direction of the door they burst through. They’re coming!
The sound of movement came closer to the stairway. Brian Mullaney made sure Herzog stayed behind him, balled his fists, and balanced his weight over his legs. If he was quick enough …
“Agent Mullaney?” came an urgent voice.
Herzog’s shoulders jumped and his head popped up, but Mullaney pressed him even harder against the alcove’s wall.
“Agent Mullaney?” The voice was more urgent. He could hear someone going up the staircase. “It’s Shin Bet.”
Mullaney’s hold on Herzog never wavered, but he leaned out of the alcove and stole a glance at the stairs. He could see the bottom of khaki uniform pants and brown shoes. No black.
Still wary, Mullaney took the risk. “Down here.”
“I’ve got them,” said the voice as the legs turned and the feet descended the stairs. Around the corner came an IDF soldier. “Corporal Lantz,” said the soldier. “Are either of you wounded? Here … let me help.”
The corporal reached down to help Herzog to his feet.
“How did you get here?” asked Mullaney, brushing off his pants.
The soldier turned to Mullaney with a questioning look on his face. “Did you think Colonel Levinson was going to allow you to go anywhere in this city—in this country—that we didn’t keep an eye on you? As soon as we heard the gunshot, we had men converging on the monastery.”
“The guys dressed in black?”
“Vanished,” said the corporal. “Whoever it was that came after you, we didn’t see a trace of them.”
Mullaney shook his head, frustrated that his attackers should escape again. “Well, I got a good look at one of them. He’s not somebody I’m likely to forget.” He turned to Rabbi Herzog. “Are you okay?”
“Okay? This life is an exciting one you lead,” said Herzog, shaking his head. “But for an old man, it’s exhausting. Can I get a nap please before we again take on the enemies of mankind?”
“Sure,” said Mullaney. “Do you want us to take you home?”
“Home? And miss all the fun? Not a chance,” said Herzog. “We’ve still got work to do. We need to get the Gaon’s original messages to Poppy. I’m sticking with you. Who knows, you may need my help, eh?”
The corporal pointed up the stairs. “We can get out this way. And I’ve been instructed to escort you, whether it’s back to the embassy or the ambassador’s residence. Colonel Levinson said he would meet up with you wherever you decide to go.”
27
Aboard the Gulfstream, Bound for Cyprus
July 23, 9:31 a.m.
In a plane that flew nearly six hundred miles an hour, it was only forty-five minutes of flight time from Tel Aviv to Cyprus, and Cleveland intended to make the most of the time. His plans were developing on the fly, fleshing out with each step he took. He had two competing objectives: (1) get face-to-face with Emet Kashani in Turkey and attempt to stop the planned attack on Incirlik, and (2) get a JSOC team on the ground in Turkey with the capacity, if necessary, to eliminate the plotters and the threat before a catastrophe unfolded.
Cleveland knew he was on his own, flying solo, in trying to accomplish both of those objectives.
Colonel Edwards would be waiting to meet with him in the officer’s mess of the RAF Akrotiri Air Base when he arrived on Cyprus. Cleveland knew he had only one chance to get Ernie Edwards on his side—tell him the truth and all the truth. He planned to unleash an impassioned plea to convince Edwards to activate a JSOC mission to save tens of thousands of lives at Incirlik. Edwards was a man under orders, yes. But he was also a pragmatic warrior in defense of his country and a committed Christian in service to his God. Edwards, Cleveland hoped, would see and understand. Whether he would order his men into defense of Incirlik … well, that was one part of the equation Cleveland would have to leave in God’s hands.
Despite his hopes, Cleveland didn’t really think Edwards would move without orders. Not an incursion onto foreign soil. Which would leave Kashani. But getting himself to Turkey under the radar might be even more difficult.
Cleveland was hunched over his iPhone as the Gulfstream G450, the second-fastest private jet in the world, streaked above the Mediterranean. The ambassador was once again scrolling through the internet. He had already booked an online ticket from Ercan International Airport in Northern Cyprus—the internationally unrecognized sliver of Cyprus still controlled by Turkey—using his own name and personal credit card. Now he made the online connection with Stephanos Car Rentals, right there on the Akrotiri base, just south of the commercial air terminal, and reserved a car.
Cleveland glanced out the window of the Gulfstream as the shadows of puffy white clouds dappled the blue surface of the Mediterranean, but his thoughts were far from the scenery. He quickly surveyed the small cabin. No one was paying him any attention. Good.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket to make sure the jammer was still there. Then he turned his iPhone on its side and found the hole that identified the SIM card tray. He took a paper clip that he had opened and slowly pushed the arm of the paper clip into the hole. It only took a moment for the tray to pop open and for Cleveland to drop the SIM card into his other hand. He pushed the empty tray back into place and slipped the SIM card into the pocket of his jacket alongside the jammer.
Cleveland hadn’t been in the Foreign Service for thirty years without learning some things. Like how DSS security would hack the “Find a Friend” app on an ambassador’s iPhone, go through a couple of quick steps, and use that app to track the ambassador’s location. They would even hide the “Find a Friend” app when they were done. But he wasn’t going to allow that to happen today. His phone’s SIM card not only contained his identity, phone number, and contacts, but also transmitted his location. The SIM card was not going with him to Turkey.
Too bad about Agent McKeon. She was a good agent … reliable. This was going to be another black mark on her record, but there were more lives at stake than just one agent. And if he had any political capital left at the end of this escapade, he would spend it all to ensure McKeon wasn’t punished for his willfulness.
He casually surveyed the cabin again. No eyes were on him. Good. Now it got harder.
Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv
July 23, 10:00 a.m.
Not only did Meyer Levinson, commander of the operations division of Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security agency, have the stature and swagger of the dynamic Moshe Dyan, b
ut he also had the well-tanned bald head. As the Shin Bet driver pulled up in front of the ambassador’s palatial but severely damaged residence, Mullaney wondered if Levinson has consciously adopted the khaki shirt and shorts to enhance the image. Regardless, Levinson was standing on the steps of the residence, his ever-present riding crop slapping a steady rhythm against his thigh.
Helping Rabbi Herzog out of the car, Mullaney could feel a presence at his shoulder. He turned his head, expecting Levinson. Instead, it was DSS agent Kathie Doorley. “Are you … the rabbi … injured?” Doorley asked.
Mullaney shook his head. “No, we’re fine. What’s the situation here? Is security …”
“You’ve been out of communication,” said Doorley. “McKeon’s been calling repeatedly, trying to reach you. And …”
“Awwww.” Mullaney reached inside his jacket and withdrew his cell phone. The ringer was still switched off. He clicked the switch on the side. “Turned it off when we were being pursued. What did McKeon want?”
“Don’t know. She wouldn’t say. But some guy who said he’s Father Poppy has also been calling for you.”
“Poppy?” chirped Herzog. “Has he discovered something?”
“Let’s get inside,” said Mullaney, taking Herzog’s arm and assisting him up the front steps. “We’ve got a lot to sort out. Hello, Meyer. C’mon and I’ll give you a report on what happened as we walk.”
RAF Akrotiri Air Base, Cyprus
July 23, 10:03 a.m.
They were sitting in a far corner of the nearly empty officer’s mess, hard against a window that looked out over the green playing fields of the Akrotiri school in the center of the air base, cups of coffee in front of both and a plate brimming with hummus, fresh pita, and three piles of unidentifiable, different colored, mashed something. They were at least trying to maintain the appearance of a social visit.
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