Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  The Turk turned away from Cleveland’s motionless body. Over and over he had tried, and failed, to access Cleveland’s mind, invade and capture his thoughts, find something to use to his advantage. Well he had the ambassador. That would be enough.

  “Bring me his phone. This is one call the Irishman will accept.”

  Assan, a wraith in a dark cloak, moved from the shadows, the ambassador’s iPhone in his gnarled hand. “It does not function, master.”

  Without a word, the Turk held out his left hand and took the phone from Assan. He then leaned over Cleveland’s body and picked up his right hand. The Turk wrapped Cleveland’s fingers around the phone. He closed his yellow eyes and began chanting. Within moments, the screen was illuminated, the entry code bypassed, and Cleveland’s contacts displayed. The Turk tapped on Brian Mullaney, tapped on the speaker icon, and listened as the call rang at the other end.

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 2:52 p.m.

  Still sitting on top of his desk, the phone rang and rattled to life. Mullaney looked at the display screen in disbelief.

  Cleveland’s number?

  He tapped the green icon and pulled it to his ear.

  “Mr. Ambassador?”

  It was as if oxygen had left the room. Herzog, Hughes, and Poppodopolous each sucked in a quick breath. They looked at Mullaney as if he was about to announce a million-dollar sweepstakes winner.

  “Oh … I’m afraid not.”

  The voice coming through his phone chilled Mullaney’s heart and polluted his hearing. He felt as if some being was whispering to him from inside a tomb. Unconsciously, he reached for a spiritual weapon. God, please help me!

  Mullaney’s mind sped through several scenarios.

  “But you have his phone.”

  “Yes,” slithered a sibilant breath. “And I also have the ambassador himself. Perhaps you would like to ensure his safe return?”

  “Who is this?”

  There was an agonizing pause. Mullaney scrawled on a piece of paper and pushed it toward Hughes. Parker! Hughes scuttled out of the room.

  “I am your worst nightmare.”

  Undiluted fear raced through Mullaney’s flesh and bones and flooded his mind.

  “Across the span of time I’ve been called many things. I believe you know me as the Man of Violence. An apt but thoroughly incomplete description. More importantly, you have something I want. I have the ambassador. Bring me the box and Cleveland lives. Any delay … deny my request … in addition to taking Cleveland’s life, I will take his soul. And not only will he live the rest of his days in anguish as I torture his daughter and those he loves, but he also will spend all eternity in torment and fire.”

  Mullaney’s fear erupted into fury. “I will find you,” he seethed, “and I will kill you.”

  “Hmmm … a difficult task on either count. But tell me, Agent Mullaney, are you willing to condemn Cleveland’s life and his eternity to agony? Is that what you want? Is that what you would like to explain to his daughter … to the secretary of state? Is the box that important to you?”

  Within the riot of emotions that thundered through Mullaney, a center of peace beckoned to his spirit. Was the Gaon … Poppodopolous … right? Was this his mission?

  “Be here within three hours, with the box, and Palmyra’s father lives.”

  Mullaney looked up as Hughes, maternally holding her hand, hurried Palmyra Parker through the door to his office. Parker looked devastated.

  “Where are you?”

  “Ankara. Get to Esenboga International Airport. When you arrive, my disciples will lead you to me. You will come alone. You will bring the box. I will see and know. If you try to deceive me, I will tear out the ambassador’s eyes. If you are late, I will begin to dismember the ambassador’s body, piece by piece, every ten minutes.”

  “How do I—”

  The phone connection was severed.

  Mullaney was furious with himself, with McKeon, with the situation. And especially with this madman who now appeared to have Cleveland in his grasp. The only saving grace was that Parker didn’t hear any of the conversation, particularly the final threats. Still … if any of so many things had happened differently, Cleveland would not be in such mortal danger.

  Ruth Hughes guided Palmyra Parker to a chair to the side of Mullaney’s desk and kept a welcoming hand on her shoulder as the DSS agent appeared ready to erupt.

  “I told you he would do this one day,” seethed Mullaney.

  Parker watched him closely. He was angry. Angrier with himself than with her. Still, she should have seen it coming.

  “He’s known Kashani a long time,” she said, “long before he was appointed ambassador to Turkey. They bonded while serving on the Izmet earthquake relief effort, Ninety-nine I think it was. Politics and religion are quickly laid aside when over seventeen thousand have been killed and thousands more are at risk of losing their lives.” She looked into his tortured face. “I’m sorry, Brian. I didn’t … there were no clues. And he never mentioned anything to me. This must have been a hastily concocted escapade. I thought he was at the embassy … I’m sorry.”

  Mullaney turned to face Parker, his countenance softening.

  “Not your fault,” he said. “If I hadn’t turned my phone off, Atticus would never have gotten out of Israel. I can only imagine what Pat McKeon’s been through. Her messages as your father ordered her to the airport were more and more desperate for my direction. I’m the one at fault here.”

  Fault … Fault! How could this man ever think he was at fault for the tragedies of the last week? If it hadn’t been for Mullaney, well, both she and her father would have been dead long ago. He’d risked his life—risked everything …

  “You won’t believe me when I tell you … but you are the least at fault of anyone in this nightmare. But let’s leave that for another time.” She got up and stood in front of Mullaney. “What are you going to do?”

  Mullaney pushed back from his desk and his manner became all business. For a flash, a spark of dread filled Parker’s heart. US policy was clear: no negotiations with terrorists. Even when lives were at risk.

  “The first thing is to make sure that your father isn’t somewhere else, safe and sound instead of in the clutches of this monster. The second thing to do is call the secretary and get him up to speed. The Brits are scouring Akrotiri, going over surveillance video. McKeon and two agents are on their way to Esenboga, and I’ve ordered another half-dozen DSS agents from the Ankara embassy to the airport, just in case, waiting for Atticus to get off that flight from Ercan.

  “I’ll put in a call to Colonel Edwards, who was the last to meet with him. But we have no idea if, or how, he got off Cyprus, or how he could get to Turkey so quickly. If he isn’t on that flight, ditching his tracker at the air base sure makes it look like he had some kind of a plan for escaping Cyprus and getting to Ankara. But we don’t know for sure—not yet—whether he’s even in Turkey. And I’m not giving up the box on a hunch. We need to be sure.”

  Parker pulled in a deep breath. Mullaney’s methodical approach gave her hope, calmed the storm in her stomach.

  “And the third thing … I need to figure out a way to get to Ankara, just in case.

  “In the meantime, I’ve got DSS agents and informers trolling the back streets of Ankara, looking for any signs of these Disciples or their leader. Worse comes to worst and we believe Atticus has been captured by this Man of Violence, then the first thing we demand is proof of life before we make any move.”

  That made her shudder.

  Mullaney turned his full attention on Parker. His voice was like sharpened steel. “But you can be assured of this, Palmyra … I will get your father back here safely. I promise you that.”

  Then he turned to Hughes. “We need to call the secretary … without Webster getting involved or stirring up a media frenzy.”

  Hughes looked at her watch. “Let me make a call. I think I know how to get the secret
ary’s attention without raising a lot of red flags.”

  Rabi Khanina Street, Old Tel Aviv

  July 23, 3:04 p.m.

  He was leaning against the side of the Joshua’s Bakery van, pouring a bottle of water over his head to wash away the gunpowder smell, when an out-of-breath officer rushed to his side.

  “Colonel, we found this in the hand of one of the dead guys inside,” the officer said, holding up a smudged cell phone. “Before the screen went dark, we could see that he had made a call … he hadn’t hung up on his end yet.”

  Levinson spun on his heel and called toward a knot of soldiers who were patting one another on the back. “Yoshi! Over here. I need your magic.”

  37

  US State Department, Truman Building, Washington, DC

  July 23, 8:06 a.m.

  Evan Townsend sat in a comfortable leather armchair in his place of refuge, a small anteroom to his office at the State Department, off limits to most and as private as any secretary of state could expect. But he was overwhelmed by dread as he disconnected the call from his wife. He was reminded once again of both Ruth Hughes’s influence and her discretion. But the unorthodox call to his wife could only mean really bad news. He scrolled through his contacts list and tapped a finger on Hughes’s number. He was not surprised when Brian Mullaney picked up.

  “Agent Mullaney,” said the secretary of state, preparing himself for something tragic, “give my compliments to Ruth … that was artfully done. Now this can’t be good. What are we facing?”

  Townsend heard a deep sigh from the other end of the connection. He closed his eyes and steadied his heart at what must be coming next.

  “Ambassador Cleveland is missing.”

  Physically and emotionally, Townsend winced at the thought. Mentally, he was already weighing probabilities.

  “Missing … what does that mean?”

  “Honestly, Mr. Secretary, at this moment I’m not certain,” Mullaney admitted. “About four hours ago Ambassador Cleveland flew to Cyprus and met with the head of a JSOC strike force.”

  “Incirlik? He’s that sure?”

  “Yes, sir. But while Cleveland was in Cyprus, he ditched his security detail.”

  “Wait … he went out of the country and you weren’t with him?”

  Evan Townsend knew he would learn a lot about Brian Mullaney in the next few seconds.

  “I take full responsibility, sir,” Mullaney said without hesitation, “I should have been there. But here’s the problem. We don’t think the JSOC commander would send his men into Turkey without ironclad orders. Cleveland probably didn’t really think that either. We believe Ambassador Cleveland’s ultimate plan was to get to Turkey, talk personally with President Kashani, and try to put a stop to this Incirlik attack before it got started. We were chasing him down when we got a call.”

  “Now I’m worried,” whispered Townsend.

  “Yes, sir. We haven’t yet been able to confirm Cleveland being in Turkey, but … we got a call. A ransom demand. The caller was using the ambassador’s phone to make the call. It appears possible Cleveland’s been abducted by the leader of this same gang that’s been attacking us here in Israel.”

  Secretary Townsend took a few heartbeats to absorb and assess Mullaney’s information. Not the time to ask questions about how this abduction was possible. There would be time for that … after. “Why only possible?”

  Now it was Mullaney’s turn to take a moment. Townsend waited.

  “Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “The guy called on Cleveland’s phone … that’s not good. But it’s possible Cleveland is sitting somewhere on the Akrotiri base drinking a cup of coffee. It’s possible he’s not in Turkey. It’s possible he’s still safe. We’re running down every possible lead right now, just to be sure.”

  “What do you think?”

  There was a deep sigh on the other end of the call. “I think Atticus tried to do this on his own. And now I think our enemy has him.”

  Mullaney’s assessment rang true to Townsend. “Atticus has always been a doer—when everything is on the line, Atticus doesn’t delegate. He acts. I’m not surprised. What do they want?”

  Townsend listened as Mullaney gave him a rapid and concise update about the Gaon’s prophecies and the box of power. “And where is this box of power now?”

  “Not twenty feet away—locked in a safe room,” said Mullaney.

  “What do you need from me?”

  Mullaney’s response was out before Townsend completed his question.

  “Orders for Colonel Edwards and his Team Black … stop the raid on Incirlik and help me rescue Cleveland. It was Edwards who Cleveland met with on Cyprus before he pulled his disappearing act. I know JSOC has a team ready to move, but I doubt Colonel Edwards is going anywhere without orders.”

  “What about the box … the ransom demands?”

  “Before time runs out, we make the exchange. With all due respect … with or without the JSOC team’s support, I’m heading to Ankara to surrender the box. It’s my—”

  “Help me out here, Brian,” Townsend interrupted. “First, you know our national policy … we don’t negotiate with terrorists. And second, you’ve warned me about the deadly power of this box. It’s Cleveland’s life, I understand. But do you really think it’s wise to put that kind of power into the hands of a gang that is so ruthless and bent on destruction?

  “Look,” Townsend pressed, “if I can get Ernie Edwards a green light, why not let JSOC take care of rescuing Atticus. That’s what they’re trained for. Then there’s no question about negotiating or paying a ransom and there’s no risk of the bad guys getting the box.”

  Townsend waited. He could sense Mullaney measuring his response.

  “Two things, Mr. Secretary,” said Mullaney. “The first is that this whole ordeal here is not only a flesh-and-blood fight. There’s a supernatural, spiritual battle being waged over the box at the same time.”

  “I get that,” said Townsend.

  “Well, sir,” there was a pause, “it would take too long to explain, and I don’t know if I could explain it clearly enough even if I had the time. It wasn’t my plan or my doing, but I’ve been drawn into this supernatural battle, and responsibility for the box has been passed down to me. The box is powerful, yes. But we are also fairly confident that the box is a weapon prepared specifically for this battle we’re fighting right now. And—you will have to trust me on this—I’ve been instructed to give the box to our enemy, to hand it over in return for Cleveland’s life.”

  There were a handful of questions Evan Townsend wanted to ask, but he didn’t think the answers would help him come to a decision. Clearly, there were forces beyond his control or comprehension in conflict here. Townsend was a believer, a man of faith. He believed he understood what Mullaney was saying. He stepped out in faith.

  “Okay … what’s the second thing?”

  “Sir, I took an oath to defend the United States—its people and its property. You are my ultimate boss, so I act at your direction. But Mr. Secretary … and I don’t intend this to be insubordinate … my first responsibility is to the ambassador. To rescue him and protect him, no matter what.”

  Townsend could hear Mullaney take a breath.

  “I feel like I’ve failed Atticus repeatedly in the short time I’ve been here. I don’t intend to fail him today. It’s both my duty and my responsibility to rescue Ambassador Cleveland. I intend to fulfill that duty, hopefully with your permission. And I’m hoping you can find a way to get Edwards a go signal. I sure would like to have him at my back. And yes, sir, I believe the threat to Incirlik is real and imminent. A lot of people, Americans and others, will die if we don’t take action.”

  Entrapped by a cyclone of urgent events over which he had little control—not so uncommon in the secretary of state’s job—Townsend had enough wisdom and experience to know when the time for consideration had passed and action was required. It was time to act—and time to pray his ac
tions weren’t too late.

  “I’ll call the defense secretary as soon as we hang up. Colonel Edwards should have his orders for both missions in thirty minutes or less. I pray we’re not too late. And Brian … I’ll be praying for you too. I doubt I fully understand what you’re walking into, but I believe you’re putting your life at risk also. Please … be careful out there. And bring Atticus home.”

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 3:15 p.m.

  It wasn’t the exact moment Evan Townsend disconnected from the call. Perhaps two or three seconds. But it didn’t take long before the enormity of the risk and the weight of responsibility hit Brian Mullaney like a riptide that pulled his confident words under a thundering sea of doubt.

  Did he really know what he was doing? Was he seriously intending to put the box of power into the hands of a malevolent and murderous fiend? It was so clear, so simple when he was speaking to Secretary Townsend. But now fear and uncertainty haunted his every thought.

  Mullaney scanned the room, looking for help. “How can we be sure this is the right thing to do? If we get this wrong, not only could Atticus lose his life, but then this personification of evil would possess the box and perhaps control the power that resides in it.”

  “Or the power that comes from the kabbalah symbols that were hammered into its lid,” said Rabbi Herzog. “That warning remains … it hasn’t changed, just because the message is no longer inside. Remember”—he turned to Mullaney—“Bayard told us that we needed to understand the box. That in order to fully understand the message of the second prophecy, we needed to understand the message and the purpose of the box.

  “But he also said the meaning was not kabbalah,” Mullaney remembered. “The meaning is not what’s on the top of the box.”

  “Then what is the meaning of the box?” asked Hughes. “How can we know?”

  Father Poppodopolous stood up and walked over to the reinforced diplomatic pouch which contained both the blast container and the Gaon’s metal box. “Well … what about this,” he said and turned to the others in the room. “Has anyone ever looked at the bottom of the box?”