Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  “By all livin’ thunder,” Edwards rumbled under his breath, “you’ve whipped up a wasp’s nest for sure. Your keister is in a deep world of hurt, Atticus.”

  Colonel Earnest Edwards was in his work clothes—the unofficial uniform of a JSOC unit commander: black army boots, camo pants, sleeveless black T-shirt with a unique patch on the left breast—Kandahar Whacker Club, the JSOC Rangers outfit from Afghanistan—and black baseball cap with the beloved “We Love the Night” Special Operations combined units patch. A well-worn, black leather bomber jacket was tossed over the back of his chair.

  Edwards, at fifty-years-old still rock solid in physique, devotion to duty, and loyalty to his men, slowly shook his head, peeled off his aviator sunglasses, and pierced Cleveland with a withering stare. “You’ve got an international disaster waitin’ to erupt around your ears. You’ve got a superior officer who apparently hates your guts and is blockin’ your access to the secretary of state. And you believe there is a traitor workin’ in cahoots with these yahoos in Turkey somewhere in the upper echelons of the State Department. You, Atticus, are sittin’ on top of a land mine with nowhere to go.”

  Cleveland felt the sting of Edwards’s litany. But it wasn’t all that bad. He opened his mouth to dispute some of Edwards’s claims, but the colonel held up a warning hand.

  “And”—Edwards leaned farther across the table—“I’m really afraid you’ve come here to personally enlist me into climbin’ on top of that land mine with you. Please tell me I’m mistaken.”

  There was no evading Edwards’s assessment or his conclusion. Cleveland was operating at a level of risk he had never before encountered during his thirty years of service with the State Department. And he came to Cyprus hoping there was some way to convince Ernie Edwards to sidestep protocol—that was a euphemistic way to put it—and release his Team Black against what Cleveland was certain was a deadly threat aimed at Incirlik and its inhabitants.

  At that moment, Cleveland was finally convinced that this part of his plan would fail. Internally, he smacked himself across the side of the head. How could he have been so foolish to think that Edwards would send his men on a perilous mission onto foreign soil without orders from his superior officer. No, there was only one way for Cleveland to prevent this disaster. And it wasn’t through intervention with Ernie Edwards.

  “I admit … it was foolish of me, but I was hoping …”

  Another halting hand came up. “Atticus, I fully get it. If you and your people are correct, the prospect for a devastatin’ loss of life in and around Incirlik is frighten’ly possible. If there are men crazy enough to release chemical weapons in such a heavily populated area—and I know they exist—then thousands of innocent men, women, and children will perish.” Edwards tapped the edge of his sunglasses on the top of the table. “Believe me, if it was just me I had to worry about, I’d be on a chopper to Turkey this very minute. But I can’t ask my men to go somewhere—to take on a mission like this in a foreign country—without the direct permission and instruction of General Claiborne … probably of the Joint Chiefs. Honestly, I wish I could help you.”

  Cleveland felt like a kid whose father stopped him from jumping out of a second-floor window into a four-foot high pile of leaves … kinda disappointed, kinda relieved. His smile was one of embarrassment. “I was hoping …”

  Once again, the hand. “That I might call the general … off the record, so to speak … and run the situation up the flagpole?”

  “Well, yes …”

  Edwards’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “Already did that … at the margins. I reached out to the general’s adjutant. Closer to me than a brother. He was stunned. Said there’s been absolutely no chatter about an attack on Incirlik. Said he would keep his ears open. Maybe he plants a seed. But his last words were clear. ‘Ernie … your guys are not the Avengers. Wait for orders.’ So we wait, Atticus. Maddenin’ as it is, we wait for orders. I’m sorry you came all the way out here for nothin’.”

  Reaching his right hand across the table, Cleveland shook his head. “Not for nothing, Ernie,” he said, wincing as Edwards’s fist engulfed his hand and squeezed it in a vice. “It’s just wonderful to see you again. Thank you for your patience and understanding … for not confirming that I’m an idiot. Give my love to your wife and daughter, okay? If I get any actionable intelligence, I’ll let you know.” Cleveland tried to release his hand, but Edwards would not let it go.

  “There is a hope we haven’t reached out to,” said Edwards. “Let’s pray, Atticus. It may be the most powerful thing we can do at the moment.”

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 10:10 a.m.

  McKeon didn’t answer his call. Mullaney left a message, then looked at the phone in his hand and wondered if it was damaged at the monastery.

  His makeshift office was crammed. He had asked Ruth Hughes and Palmyra Parker to join them … there was so much they needed to sort out. Hughes, Parker, and Herzog filled the chairs across from his desk, Levinson and Doorley standing against the wall.

  “First, what’s security like here? Have we shored up the—”

  His phone rang. He looked at the screen. Not McKeon. He tapped the speaker button.

  “Mullaney,” he answered.

  St. Archangel Michael Monastery, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 10:18 a.m.

  In his massive swivel chair, he felt like Star Trek’s Captain James Kirk on the bridge of the Enterprise.

  Poppy’s bulk was negated by the snappy maneuverability of the chair. But his Kirk-ness emanated from the swiftness of his fingers on the instrument panels at the end of the chair’s two arms and the way he could control a bank of his computer screens with either hand—simultaneously.

  Still, beads of perspiration rolled off Father Poppodopolous’s forehead and down alongside his pudgy cheeks. He was multitasking at high speed, running a sequential series of algorithms on his computers, the results on the screen for one computer flowing over into the data banks of the next computer, compounding the speed of its calculations. When Poppy watched the seemingly light-speed results flashing across the screen of the fourth computer … well, his finite mind had already been left far behind.

  For a moment he lifted his hands, stretched his joints, and reached for his mobile phone.

  “Mullaney.”

  “It’s Poppy,” he said, “but don’t get your hopes up. I still don’t have a translation of your fascinating little message. But I’ve got a moment here where I can take a breath, and I thought you might find this update interesting.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “Your guy, Rabbi Elijah Ben Solomon Zalman, was very definitely a genius,” said Poppodopolous. “The Gaon was famous for his knowledge of the Jewish Torah, was both prolific and accurate in his written commentaries on the law and the prophets. But his genius didn’t stop with Jewish scripture. Did you know he wrote a seminal mathematics textbook? Ages ahead of his time. There’s a copy of the book in the library at Columbia University. The university has images of the pages of the entire book up on Google. I was just looking at it a few minutes ago. The last time it was checked out was 1947. It’s printed in Hebrew, but it appears to have the Gaon’s original drawings and formulas included in it. And guess what? Our Gaon guy understood binary theory.”

  The monk waited for Mullaney’s amazed and appreciative response. All he heard was silence.

  “Listen, Father, we’re kind of …”

  “Binary theory?” Poppodopolous said, again disappointed in a lack of response from Mullaney. “Your Gaon understood computers. How they work. How the codes needed to be written.” Again, he waited.

  “He knew Unicode?” asked Mullaney.

  Finally.

  “No, not Unicode—at least I haven’t found any evidence of that,” said Poppodopolous, “but he was a mathematics genius too. He conceived of something very similar to Unicode. A common programming language. I’m running a diagnostic on the ent
ire book now, matching it against the symbols from our message. Nothing yet, but I think I’m on the right track. And there’s something else … I’m almost afraid to mention it.”

  There was a short intake of breath on the other end of the call. Father Poppodopolous could tell that Mullaney didn’t need any more on his plate. Oh, well … nothing ventured …

  “There is an emerging field called computer learning that is closely allied with artificial intelligence,” said the monk. “Not to get too technical with you, but this guy was all over AI and the power of algorithms. Do you understand the concept of the arrow of time?”

  Another pause. “I’m lost,” said Mullaney.

  “Okay, I’ll fill you in when I’ve finally cracked this beast. But I think you’re going to be surprised just how much this Gaon guy had under his bonnet. I’ll get back to you when I’ve got something.”

  “Okay, but you’ve got to hurry,” said Mullaney. “Rabbi Herzog and I almost didn’t make it away from your monastery alive. There was an ambush waiting for us. If Meyer Levinson hadn’t had his men trailing us for protection … well … I don’t want to think about that.”

  “My computers are running at warp speed, Agent Mullaney. And so am I. I’ll have an answer for you soon.”

  28

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 10:25 a.m.

  “So we’ve got all the breaches repaired,” said Doorley. “Thanks to Colonel Levinson, we have a team of electricians working on any power issues, much needed additional security agents from Shin Bet, and two communications gurus who are working miracles in getting our security apparatus up and running.”

  Mullaney breathed a sigh of relief. One problem seemed under control. “Thanks, Kathie. Good work.” He turned to Levinson. “And once again I’m in your debt, Meyer.”

  “I think the account is pretty balanced already,” Levinson responded.

  Clicking off items in his mind, Mullaney turned to Doorley once more. “So where’s McKeon and the ambassador?”

  “They left”—she looked at her watch—“about ninety minutes ago. Ambassador Cleveland said they were on their way to the embassy.”

  “Has anyone talked to them since? I can’t reach Pat on her cell phone.”

  To Ruth Hughes, it looked like Mullaney was about to blow a gasket. He pounded the Off button on the phone console on his desk, severing the call to the embassy.

  “Ambassador Cleveland is not at the embassy,” Mullaney thundered. “Neither is McKeon. Neither one has been seen since yesterday.”

  The tension level in the room had sharpened to a deadly edge.

  Cleveland was missing.

  RAF Akrotiri Air Base, Cyprus

  July 23, 10:28 a.m.

  The three DSS agents were seated together around a small table by the doors to the officer’s mess, but McKeon was pacing back and forth in the foyer, a cell phone plastered to her right ear and a scowl plastered to her face.

  Cleveland had put McKeon in a terrible position, and he regretted the impact his plan might have on her career. But … there was no other way.

  The ambassador walked through the doors, his escort moving as one to stay on his heels. “Any word from Brian?” Cleveland asked as he passed McKeon and trundled down the steps to the two waiting golf carts and the RAF airmen who were driving them back to the air terminal.

  “No,” snapped McKeon. “And I’m beginning to worry.” The golf carts jerked into motion and careened around a tight corner onto Jacaranda Drive, forcing Cleveland and McKeon to hold tight to the metal struts keeping up the roof. The force of the turn pushed Cleveland’s body toward McKeon. He slipped the jamming device into the pocket of her suit jacket.

  “I’ll call the residence when we get to the terminal,” said McKeon.

  The performance began. Cleveland squirmed in his seat as they snaked through a roundabout and onto Lightning Lane. He rubbed his stomach, grunting when the golf carts jolted to a stop at the commercial aviation terminal.

  McKeon looked sideways at him. “Are you all right?”

  Cleveland shook his head. “Don’t know. My stomach is rumbling around,” he said as they uncoiled from the carts, thanked the smiling drivers, and walked through the terminal doors. “Don’t know if it’s something I ate or the roller coaster ride we just endured.” They walked past an airman on security at the doors. “Where’s the men’s room?” asked Cleveland.

  One hand remaining on his weapon, the airman pointed to his left. “The loo is down the hallway, sir … to the left.”

  “Uuummmhhh.” Cleveland bent slightly at the waist. “Might be in there for a while,” he said over his shoulder as he walked quickly and turned left into the corridor. The men’s room was about halfway down the hallway. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being observed. When he came abreast of the door, Cleveland pushed it open and leaned in. As he hoped, there was a trash can just to the left of the door. He pulled the SIM card out of his pocket, tossed it into the trash can, and continued down the corridor. As his Google searches anticipated, there was an exit door from the terminal at its end.

  Watching Cleveland stagger around the corner, McKeon was battling conflicting emotions … respect the man’s privacy as his body ejected, one way or another, some foreign ingredient he ingested in the commissary, or send one of the DSS agents in with him and embarrass the suffering ambassador. She reached into the right-hand pocket of her suit jacket and pulled out her iPhone. She switched the phone to her left hand and tapped the “Find a Friend” app with her right index finger. There was Cleveland’s icon, halfway down the corridor, inside the men’s room … a clear signal from Cleveland’s phone. Shoot … what to do?

  One more glance at Cleveland’s icon, still in the same place, and McKeon slipped the iPhone into the left pocket of her suit jacket. Give the guy a break.

  NATO Surveillance Post, RAF Akrotiri Air Base, Cyprus

  July 23, 10:29 a.m.

  Ernie Edwards was chewing on the mangled end of an unlit cigar stub as he crossed the tarmac to the hanger RAF had assigned to NATO forces in the far, southern corner of the Akrotiri base. He was thinking of his orders. And he was thinking of several thousand women and children … American dependents … in harm’s way on the Turkish mainland. For the moment he had stuffed any possible career concerns into a back pocket of his mind.

  His pilot, a US Army Ranger and third in command of Team Black, stepped out of the shade from his airplane’s wing and moved toward Edwards.

  “Get Traynor on the radio,” growled Edwards. His second in command was back in Syria, overseeing the operations of Team Black. “Tell him to pull in every available asset from the Team and get them ready to move out ASAP.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “Incirlik,” Edwards said of the three-thousand-acre airbase on the eastern flank of Adana, Turkey, “just in case. Are we fueled up?”

  “Ready to go,” said the Ranger.

  “Good. Tell Traynor we’ll meet him at Incirlik and that I’ll call him with the details once we’re airborne.”

  He could cover a transfer of his men to another NATO base. Call it maneuvers or R&R. He could make it stand up. Just in case.

  29

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 10:29 a.m.

  Mullaney looked at Parker, sitting right in front of him, angry desperation erupting across his features.

  “I don’t know where my father is,” Parker said without prompting. “I thought he was at the embassy. You don’t think …”

  “I’ll get my men moving immediately,” snapped Levinson, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. “We’ll have …”

  “He’s not been abducted.”

  Mullaney turned slowly toward Hughes, understanding clearing the anger from everything but his eyes.

  RAF Akrotiri Air Base, Cyprus

  July 23, 10:29 a.m.

  Leaving the terminal, Cleveland marched straight ahea
d along Lightning Lane, about five hundred yards to Flamingo Way and the front door of Stephanos Car Rentals.

  Cleveland checked in at the desk using his US Diplomatic Passport—which elicited a momentary glance from the rental agent—and international driver’s license. He signed for the compact Ford, which was in a small lot alongside the rental office, and left the rental office just minutes after he entered. He wondered how much time he had. Cleveland got into the Ford, buckled in, and turned right onto Flamingo Way.

  DSS Agent Pat McKeon was staring intently at the door to the men’s restroom halfway down the corridor. She reached into the left pocket of her jacket to pull out her iPhone and check the app—and felt something else. She pulled them both out.

  Cleveland’s icon on her phone’s screen was in the same place, halfway down the corridor in the men’s room. He was there, but was he well?

  McKeon looked at the second device. And what the heck was this?

  She motioned to the agent on her right. “Get in there and check on the ambassador. Make sure he’s okay.”

  Her anxiety long ago had reached an apex—or so she thought. McKeon turned over the second device in her left hand. A black, plastic square. A small toggle switch on the side. Fear and fury burst up from her gut. Blast your eyes! She pulled out her cell phone … there were no missed calls; no messages from Mullaney.

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 10:33 a.m.

  “He flew to Cyprus to meet with Ernie Edwards,” said Hughes. She tried to keep her voice firm, although she now felt like a confessed conspirator. “He ordered McKeon and his DSS detail to go with him and demanded a ban on any outside communication.”

  The silence in the room had a heartbeat … a life of its own. Mullaney’s wrath.

  “How did he get to Cyprus?” He squeezed the words through clenched teeth.