As the sun rose the next morning, the Gaon of Vilna and his party mounted their mules and set off for Lithuania. Twisting awkwardly in his saddle, the Gaon cast a glance back to Rosenberg who stood silently in the doorway to his house. He breathed a sigh of relief. Now only one remained his responsibility. But the box, and the prophecy, would never be far from the mind of the rabbis of Konigsberg.
Konigsberg, Germany
November 8, 1938
Relentless, like a dagger carved from a glacier, the wind made a mockery of Dr. Hugo Falkenheim’s thin wool coat. It was a fashionable coat, well befitting the owner of the Konigsberg Pediatric Clinic, but poorly suited to the bitter blasts that ricocheted off the buildings on Synagogenstrasse. Holding down his hat, Falkenheim bruised his knuckles knocking feverishly on the heavy wooden door of the stone building adjacent to the Old Synagogue.
Driven more by urgency than the bone-rattling wind, Dr. Falkenheim pushed through the door, and its attendant, as soon as it opened a crack. “Forgive me, I must see the rabbi immediately.” Chairman of the Jewish Congregation of Konigsberg for the last ten years, Hugo Falkenheim often visited with Rabbi Lewin. Seldom had he arrived uninvited—never demanding an audience. But today was different.
Rapping once on the door to the rabbi’s office, Falkenheim burst in without waiting for a response, taking off his hat and shoving the door closed in his wake as a warning erupted from his lips.
“They are coming, Reinhold—tonight or tomorrow,” said Falkenheim, gasping for breath. “They are coming and they will burn the synagogues, all of them. We must get the box to safety. We may have waited too long, but it can’t remain in Prussia any longer.”
Reinhold Lewin, chief rabbi of the city’s Old Synagogue, turned in his chair to face Falkenheim, a look of doubt replaced by resignation. “Yours has always been a voice of reason, Hugo.” The rabbi got up and walked to the small window that faced the street. “You believe,” he said, turning back to the room, “the Nazis would do such a thing? Burn all the synagogues? It sounds barbaric—and insane.”
He had been loath to believe the report himself. But Falkenheim knew its source was impeccable. His bald head steaming in the warm room, he stepped alongside the rabbi and gripped his arm. “It is barbaric and it is insane, Reinhold. That is true. But it is also true that Hitler is fomenting a hatred of Jews that will only end in a pogrom, or worse. The Brown Shirts are coming. I know this for a fact. And they will destroy and burn not just the synagogues, but everything that is Jewish in Konigsberg.”
Falkenheim locked his eyes on the rabbi’s. “But not only Konigsberg, Reinhold. This atrocity will occur across all the land that is under the swastika’s shadow, all on the same night. We Jews are no longer safe here. And neither is that document. We must get it to safety.”
The rabbi bit his lip. He looked unconvinced. “And what do you propose?”
“I leave within the hour,” said Falkenheim, hoping his words would persuade the rabbi to action. “I will drive to Warsaw and then take the train to Istanbul. I have friends there. It is a strong, safe, and stable Jewish community. I know a place where the Gaon’s message will be secure until …”
“Until the day it is needed. Yes, I know.” Rabbi Lewin stepped away from the window, and away from Falkenheim, pacing across the small room he used as an office. “Five generations have closely held the Gaon’s secret. Five generations, father to son, entrusted with its safety here in Konigsberg. Since I have no son, the responsibility became yours and mine. But … perhaps this Hitler is the man of violence that legend tells us is in the prophecy.” He turned to face Falkenheim. “How are we to know?”
“Because the Gaon’s first prophecy is yet to be fulfilled,” said Falkenheim, his voice low but urgency in his words. “This is not the time for the prophecy to be revealed. But it is time for us to act, to protect the Gaon’s message.”
Lewin stepped toward Falkenheim and placed his hands on both shoulders. “May Adonai bless you and keep you; may Adonai make his face to shine on you and show you his favor; may Adonai lift up his face toward you and give you peace.”
Twenty minutes later, Falkenheim stood at the door to Rabbi Lewin’s office, a calfskin bag in his left hand.
“Thank you, Reinhold. Thank you for your courage.”
Rabbi Lewin shrugged his shoulders, his hands held palms up. “Eh, I should be the one thanking you,” he said. “For being a man of wisdom … and action. Be careful, my friend.”
Falkenheim rested his right hand on the rabbi’s arm. “I’ll be back, my rabbi. We must convince our people to escape this place, before it is too late for all of us.”
Lewin nodded his head then lowered his chin. “Hear O Israel …”
1
Fairfax, Virginia
April 21, 2014, 4:13 p.m.
Joy flooded Brian Mullaney’s soul. Released for a moment from the bondage of his memories and regrets, he basked in joy’s glorious freedom. So sweet. So rare.
“Are you here?”
Mullaney opened his eyes and glanced to his right where his brother, Doak, sat in one of the folding canvas chairs that are the ubiquitous havens for moms and dads at youth sports events across the country.
His hat pulled down and his jacket collar up around his ears, Doak Mullaney nodded his head toward the soccer field just below them. “I thought you liked this game.”
Brian turned his attention back to the soccer field where his girls were competing for their school, a smile curling the corners of his mouth and warming the outer reaches of his heart. “No … I love this game.”
“So stop snoozing. You might miss Kylie score a goal.”
“Not snoozing, little brother. Just happy.”
“Well, that’s about time.”
Keeping his eyes on the tangle of ponytails racing up and down the soccer field, Mullaney reached out and touched his brother’s arm. “I know … I’ll take it.”
The pine trees behind them captured some of the wind blowing through Lawrence Park. At six foot two and 225 pounds, Mullaney had the build of a football player. He wrapped his arms across his chest, pulling his wool coat closer, as much to keep the warmth in his heart as it was to keep the cold from his bones.
“I remember when they first started to play,” said Mullaney, “running around in a pack, all of them trying to kick the ball at the same time. The very serious looks on their faces as they tried to remember what their coaches told them. Then to see the growth, the maturing of their skills. The best part …” Mullaney inclined his head and shot a quick glance at his brother before returning his attention to the game. “The best part is watching them run—free and wild, abandoned to the speed and the thrill of the game. I sit here and watch them, and all the cares of the world lift off my shoulders. I’m free with them … uninhibited, running with them … the joy of being so full of life and oblivious to what’s out there beyond the park. It’s glorious.”
“Sounds like a religious experience,” said Doak.
“You’re almost right. You know—Yes! Great shot!” Mullaney was up out of his chair, his arms and fists raised above his head, so much a Rocky pose. “Way to go, Kylie!” he shouted across the field. “Way to go!”
“She hates that, you know.”
“All kids hate that, Doak,” said Mullaney, easing back into the chair. “And all kids love it and would wither away if they didn’t get it. It’s affirmation. We all need affirmation, right?”
“Well, I never—”
“Look at them, will you.” Mullaney pointed to the joyous scrum at the end of the field, hugging and jumping together, smiles as broad as the Potomac. “They love being part of a team. There is something about women and girls on a team that men just don’t share. Did you ever watch the women volleyball players in the Olympics?”
“Yeah, they—”
“They congratulate each other after every point—whether they won or lost the point. Get together for a group hug and encouragement. I think it
’s because they just love playing a game together. Sure, they want to win. Kylie and Samantha are fierce competitors, both desperate to make the playoffs. But they are also fierce teammates. And they love their team. I only felt that once. I helped coach a Little League Baseball team when I was in college … you remember, Phelps Insurance. Our kids were terrible the first year—really bad. Then they became competitive the second year. But the third year … all the kids still together on the same team … the third year we went undefeated.”
The score of the soccer game was still only 1–0 for Lawrence School, but the opposing Draper Park Falcons had an awesome front line, so Mullaney never took his eyes off his girls in the Lawrence green and white, wishing them on to another goal.
“Undefeated. That is hard to do in any sport, at any level,” he said. “You’ve got to be really good, and you’ve got to be lucky too. I’ll never forget those last few games. They were so intense and emotional. The head coach lost it one day and threw a baseball soaring over the opposing stands. Got ejected. Nearly got kicked out of the league. The kids were stunned … shocked. Then they laughed. They were having too much fun to let anything get in their way. Those kids loved each other for what they accomplished.”
Mullaney pointed toward the soccer field. “But that was nothing compared to what these girls experience. For them, team is life. It’s all about relationships. In a lot of ways, the game is only the vehicle to the relationships.”
“Until you get one game from the playoffs.”
“Okay … okay, that’s true. They love the game and they are driven to win. But it’s all based on their relationship together. I just love watching them. And at some level, I envy them for something I didn’t have—we didn’t have. Not with Dad. Not with other guys outside the service. That emotional commitment, that heartfelt camaraderie.” The words tumbled out of Mullaney without conscious thought. “Guys don’t go that deep. It’s the task, the game, the score. It’s not so much about the other people. That’s why I’m so grateful, so fortunate, to have Abby. She’s the only one …” As the significance of what he was saying fell from his lips to his heart, Mullaney’s thoughts left the field and looked inward. His last words were whispered, as if directed to himself. “And I’d be lost without her.”
The first half came to an end, and the girls huddled with their coaches on either side of the field.
Mullaney held up a thermos toward Doak. “Coffee?”
“No thanks.” Mullaney’s brother held his gaze. “You mentioned Dad. How are you with that?”
Brian Mullaney focused on the thermos. Nothing was going to ruin this day. The coffee was still hot, and the cup warmed his hand as he filled it. Stay in the moment. But that was so difficult when the past hit you with the bite of April wind.
“Which part—the part that he just died a week ago, or the part that he got lost in his mind for the last ten years, or the part where he never forgave me for leaving the force?”
“Yeah, that part,” said Doak.
Mullaney sipped his coffee, looking at the empty field and feeling as empty inside. Yeah, that part. John Mullaney, 1946–2014, Captain, Virginia State Police (Ret.). Left this earth in 2004 and never came back. Betrayed by his eldest son in 1995. Held onto his bitterness like it was a life preserver. And that’s probably what ended up killing him. Unforgiveness. And it was Mullaney’s fault. Yeah, that part.
“You know, Doak … sometimes you just need to grab hold of your own life and come to a decision about where you’re headed. Abby and I prayed long and hard to know God’s will about that choice. It wasn’t easy to go against tradition, go against Dad’s wishes. But we were certain it was God’s plan for me to join the State Department. It’s a shame Dad could never understand or accept that decision.”
The girls were running back on the field for the second half when Mullaney turned to his brother. “You know, it’s ironic. Or too sad to comprehend. You remember Dad’s favorite phrase when he was miffed?”
“‘Don’t be useless! Get up and do something!’” said Doak. “Yeah, how could either of us ever forget?”
Mullaney watched as the game progressed and his Lawrence School Crusaders increased their lead. But the joy was gone.
“Sad that he ended up the way he did, curled up in a fetal ball on a nursing home bed. I remember whispering in his ear that last day. ‘God loves you, Dad. And so do I.’ But he wasn’t there. He hadn’t been there for ten years. It would have killed him to know how it ended for him. Probably better …”
“Yeah, probably better,” said Doak. “Listen, I’ve got to report in. This one looks like it’s in the bag. Give Abby and the girls a hug for me and tell them I’ll do everything I can to be at the playoff game.” He stood up, stretching in his gray-and-black Virginia State Police uniform.
Mullaney felt a stab of remorse. “That bar looks good on you, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks,” said Doak. “Now if they would only get rid of these Smokey the Bear hats, I’d be fine.” He laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Be careful out there, Brian.”
Mullaney added his hand over his brother’s. “Be careful out there, Doak.”
Mullaney watched his brother walk up the hill toward his squad car. And he missed the Crusader’s last goal.
Washington, DC
April 23, 6:06 p.m.
Down the hall was his regular office. But it was empty tonight. Diplomatic Security Service agent Brian Mullaney was on a different assignment, picking up a shift in the operations center because he lost a bet. Georgetown going down to defeat in the first round of the Big East basketball tournament would do that.
In the home stretch of his forty-fourth year, Mullaney was naturally calm in demeanor, fluid and graceful in his movement, with ever watchful, knowing eyes. Doing this job he often felt older than his years. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes told one story, but the wisps of gray at the temples of his thick, black hair gave a more accurate statement. Walking into ops, he knew he was early. His shift as diplomatic security watch liaison officer didn’t officially start until six thirty. But it had been awhile since he was on duty in ops. Mullaney wanted to make sure he was up to speed.
The US State Department operations center—ops to everyone in the business—was a monitoring and information hub that essentially kept track of everything important that was happening in the world twenty-four seven. On the seventh floor of the Harry S. Truman building on C Street in the District of Columbia, ops was just down the hall—and past several armed guards—from the secretary of state’s suite and the offices occupied by State’s upper echelons of leadership. That is where Brian Mullaney belonged.
A nineteen-year veteran of the Diplomatic Security Service, Mullaney was adjutant to George Morningstar, the deputy assistant secretary for diplomatic security. Morningstar was a bigwig, two steps removed from the secretary of state himself, but a regular guy. Mullaney was blessed by the trust he and Morningstar shared. But tonight the lights in his office were dark, and Mullaney found himself in the middle of one of the most critical links in the chain of his nation’s security.
In many ways, DSS fulfilled a similar mission to that of the US Secret Service—protecting American ambassadors and consular staff overseas, in nations around the world. But DSS also set up task forces to provide security for things like the opening sessions of the UN General Assembly each fall in New York City, or for the Olympics and World Cup every four years. It also supervised security for the foreign diplomatic corps when those officials were on US soil. Lately, DSS had been deeply involved with international law-enforcement activities, hunting human traffickers and drug lords.
But it was overseas where DSS made its bones, protecting the thirteen thousand men and women of the US Foreign Service on assignment in other countries. Overseas was also where DSS agents were most at risk.
And ops was at the center of that mission. Teams of sixty-five—including forty-five watch officers—rotated on eight-hour shifts
to effectively manage the two hundred and forty-four telephone lines that handled three hundred forty thousand annual calls to ops. Live video feeds from nearly every US embassy and consular station in the world fed into a wall of television monitors, and ops staff members were required to maintain active, open lines of communication not only with the secretary of state, but also with nearly every level of the executive branch of government.
Mullaney wasn’t responsible for directing the activity of this sixty-five-person cohort. His job was to make split-second decisions in cases where American lives or property were at risk, to get those decisions right, and to communicate those decisions immediately and accurately to State’s top-echelon leadership.
Mullaney walked along the back of ops, past the gray cubicles with signs hanging from the ceiling announcing each person’s title, toward the watch commander’s desk. The further Mullaney stepped into ops, the sharper his focus became, and the more precise his thoughts. Just in case. Over the last fifty years, six United States ambassadors on foreign duty had been murdered by armed attackers. Every year over a dozen American overseas installations were attacked in one way or another. Crises didn’t happen every day … but sometimes it felt that way.
“I’ve got a report of an explosion at the compound in Ankara!” came a shout from one of the gray cubicles that spread out over the main floor of ops.
Mullaney bolted upright. Voices, adrenaline, and action all accelerated.
To his left, Senior Watch Officer Gwen DeBerry pointed to her deputy. “Locate the secretary, but hold off on the call for a moment.” She turned to the ops floor. “Pull it up on the monitors,” she called to the watch officer controlling the video feed. Mullaney scanned the wall as a number of screens faded and then refocused with views of the US consulate in Ankara, Turkey, from several different angles.
Ishmael Covenant Page 3
