Ishmael Covenant

by Terry Brennan

  Thick, black-rimmed spectacles perched on his scimitar nose, a smile filled Faisal’s eyes as well as his face. “My father has spoken in substance to the leaders of Egypt, Jordan, Kuwait, Oman, and the United Arab Emirates. All are willing to sign a treaty and a mutual defense pact with Israel. I confirmed that personally before embarking on this mission.”

  “If you can deliver,” said Erdad, “well, this is an offer I’m confident Prime Minister Meir would seriously consider. What is your second point?”

  Faisal got up from his chair and stepped toward the only window. One of his bodyguards moved between the prince and the open glass before he could get very far. “Yes … thank you.” He turned back to the Israeli ministers.

  “My father, the king, said—and these are his words—‘I want to enter into a new covenant with our brothers in Israel. For too long have the sons of Jacob and the sons of Ishmael been in conflict with each other. It is time for Ishmael to reach out and offer a covenant of peace to his brothers. So as part of this Ishmael Covenant, we promise to assist Israel in constructing a new platform, an extension of Temple Mount, reaching out from the Eastern Gate in the Old City wall over the Kidron Valley. So that the Jewish people can finally build a temple on Temple Mount and restore ritual sacrifice to Israel.’”

  Erdad glanced to his left. Litzman, his arms folded across his chest, looked like he was being sold a lame donkey.

  “Why now,” said Litzman, “this covenant of yours will ignite a regional military conflict before we even get near peace. We—all of us—will have to take out Hamas. We will need to eliminate or neutralize Hezbollah. We will likely find ourselves in armed conflict with the Muslim Brotherhood at some point. And I believe we’ll all be at war with ISIS—sooner more likely than later. So why now, Prince Faisal? Why is this Arab confederacy ready and willing to stand up for Israel now? It’s got to be more than just the Palestinians.”

  Faisal returned to the table and leaned on the back of his chair. “Of course you are correct, Minister Litzman. This covenant offer is more than simply a desire for peace—though peace is what we truly desire. The Iranians are liars, and the American president is either blind or foolish or so desperate for a legacy …” He threw up his hands. “Well, it appears the West is determined to conclude a nuclear deal with Iran. But Iran will not stop its enrichment program. Deep underground at Fordo, or Natanz, or some still-secret facility, the Iranians will continue moving toward nuclear weapon capability. The sanctions will be removed, Iran will have billions of dollars in assets returned to them, and their oil fields will pump once again. And I’m sure you see the same thing we see—that the Shia brothers in Iran and Iraq are now allies instead of enemies. One of the Iranian generals on the ground in Iraq to fight ISIS said this is the start of a new Persia.”

  Looking first at Erdad, then at Litzman, Faisal pushed back from the chair. “Please, tell your prime minister that we … all of us … face only two possibilities. A nuclear-armed Persian Empire determined to annihilate not only Israel and the Jews, but the Arabs as well. Or a regional power, united by covenant, dedicated to protecting our freedom and committed to doing everything necessary to destroy Iran’s enrichment capacity and prevent the emergence of a new Persia. While there is still time.”

  4

  Baghdad, Iraq

  July 9, 8:14 a.m.

  Abdul Kafir’s bookstore and café was practically indistinguishable from the dozens of similar bookstores and cafés that once again lined Mutanabbi Street in the old quarter of Baghdad. Just off the intersection of Al Rasheed Street, Mutanabbi Street was the historic center of Baghdad bookselling, a street often referred to by locals as the heart and soul of the Baghdad literary and intellectual community. Named after the iconic, tenth-century classical Iraqi poet, Al-Mutanabbi, the street’s heartbeat was crushed in 2007 when a car bomb exploded, killing thirty people and wounding another one hundred—and destroying or severely damaging the majority of bookstores.

  This street of books was reopened in 2009, but it took years not only for the booksellers to reestablish themselves but also for the citizens of Baghdad to once again feel comfortable picking through its open stalls and musty smelling stores.

  Samir Al-Qahtani emerged from the glare of the early morning sun on Mutanabbi Street and strode purposefully down the main aisle of Abdul Kafir’s bookstore, his two bodyguards only two paces behind each shoulder. Al-Qahtani was tall, with wide, strong shoulders and rock-solid muscles from his wrists to his ankles. His dark hair cropped close to his scalp, Al-Qahtani was dressed in black slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt—a far cry from the military fatigues he favored as the leader of the Badr Brigades, Iraq’s infamous Shiite militia which was now a bulwark against the advance of ISIS not far to the west of Baghdad.

  Only two months into his new role as deputy prime minister of Iraq, Al-Qahtani was dressed for a more delicate but no less dangerous mission.

  With a nod of his head toward Abdul Kafir behind his wooden counter, Al-Qahtani forged past the small, smoke-filled café at the rear of the shop, through a bead-covered doorway, and up a flight of steps to a large room on the second floor. Sitting at a small table by a window, a cigarette in one hand, diminutive coffee cup in the other, sat Muhammad Raman, chairman of the Iranian Expediency Council.

  “Salaam aleichem, my brother,” said Al-Qahtani as he pulled a straight-backed chair up to the table. “Forgive my rudeness, but I have not much time.”

  “So I guessed, my brother.” Raman nodded his head. “Please proceed.”

  “Prime Minister Al-Bayati no longer has the ability to govern my country. His Sunni-dominated caretaker administration is a shambles. Parliament can’t even decide when to have their next meeting. Meanwhile, ISIS has overrun Tikrit, Fallujah, and Mosul with Iraq’s farce of an army running in retreat.”

  Al-Qahtani paused for a breath, Raman nodding in agreement. “Yes … and nature abhors a vacuum.”

  “We cannot wait for the next election,” said Al-Qahtani. “We do not have the time to build political power. So we must take that power. You need to know. You need to tell the council and be prepared.”

  “A coup?” said Raman. “The Americans won’t like that.”

  “To the devil with the Americans,” Al-Qahtani spat. “First we need to save Iraq—from itself and from ISIS. Then we need to join with our Shia brothers in Iran … form a new confederation and squash this rabble army of murderers and thieves.”

  Raman inhaled deeply, then flicked the glowing butt out the window. “When?”

  “I will be ready in ten days, two weeks at the most,” said Al-Qahtani. “Time to call more of the militia to arms, some to send west against ISIS, but the bulk of the brothers to station strategically here in Baghdad to control the city, the media … and the Americans. Very soon, my brother, we will need Iran to stand by the side of our new government. From there, we build the new Persia together.”

  Raman lifted his half-empty coffee cup. “To the new Persia, my brother. May she reign forever.”

  Istanbul, Turkey

  July 15, 10:40 a.m.

  Cleveland was surprised, and blessed, by the outpouring of heartfelt emotion he received from the Turkish government, its officials, and its people after the announcement of his impending transfer to Tel Aviv. Like any capital in the Middle East, Ankara—and this global crossroads of Istanbul—was a shifting bog of intrigue, half truths, hidden agendas, and outright deceit. It was a tough place to discern friend from foe, particularly in light of the very real cultural chasm between Western and Eastern thinking. Yet not only had he survived his three years as ambassador to Turkey, he had also forged some honest and lasting relationships with powerful people who valued integrity above personal gain.

  Regardless of the vibes, the threats coming his way from Washington, Cleveland was satisfied … no, encouraged … by a job well done. Then he heard a whisper in his spirit. Another job well done.

  “Thank you, Lord.”

&nbs
p; “What’s that, sir?” Tommy Hernandez glanced in the rearview mirror. Even though he was the senior agent and chief of the DSS security team protecting Ambassador Cleveland, Hernandez always drove.

  Cleveland looked up at his driver, a sideways smile creasing the left side of his face. “Sorry, Agent Hernandez. Thinking out loud.”

  Tommy Hernandez shot a quick glance to Jack Nelson on his right. “Praying again, eh, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Now the smile engulfed all of Joseph Atticus Cleveland’s face. “Yes, Tommy. You caught me once again.”

  “Well then, pray for me and Jack, okay? I’ll wager we need your prayers more than anyone else in this country. We have to live with Buster Brown for the next two years.”

  “Mr. Hernandez, Ambassador Brown is a fine man of character and integrity. I’m sure he’ll be a joy to work for.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Just as sure as my mother was a shot-put champion.” Hernandez cast another glance toward Agent Nelson. “Actually, my mother was a shot-put champion, so that’s not a very good—”

  “Keep your eyes on the road, please, Mr. Hernandez,” said Cleveland, his heart warmed by the banter and its sentiment. “We don’t want to lose our escort, or mow down a dozen Turkish nationals my last few days here.”

  “Yes, sir. Eyes on the road.”

  Cleveland settled back into the comfortable leather of the armored Crown Victoria. He was happy his official car wasn’t one of those fancy Lincoln Town Cars or an armored tank. A Ford was more his style. And he was comfortable in his style.

  Joseph Atticus Cleveland was old-school State Department. His thirty-plus years of diplomatic service to the United States were an advantage he sometimes wielded as a weapon but mostly as a tool. He was only the sixth African American this century who had been assigned to an ambassadorial level position in a country that was predominantly white. Following tours on three continents, Cleveland’s longevity on the diplomatic scene was a result not only of his legendary effectiveness at diffusing crises, but also because he had the character and integrity of a man who devoutly lived his Christian faith on a daily basis. The ambassador nourished the political savvy to harbor big secrets and barter big favors with sovereign leaders the world over. He talked to people others wouldn’t talk to and made good come of it.

  A widower, fifty-eight years old, Cleveland walked a lot when he had the time and the freedom, got on the exercise bike when he could. He was three years removed from a real scare—triple bypass. But he’d come back stronger. Sure he needed to lose a few more pounds, but he had good stamina, strong legs, and a bald head that gleamed like a setting sun. His shirts monogrammed at the cuff, he wore his Brooks Brothers suits with authority and treated his only daughter, Palmyra, like a queen.

  Palmyra. He would soon see his daughter for the first time in four months, since the funeral for her husband. She probably needed the company. Cleveland knew he did. The next few years would test his mettle. But first he had precious little time to wrap things up here in Turkey. He had a packed agenda today in Istanbul, including an invitation from Rabbi Moische Avi Kaplan, leader of the nation’s Jewish community and an ally and friend during Cleveland’s three years in Turkey.

  Neve Shalom Synagogue, situated in the old city once called Constantinople near the tip of the Golden Horn and the Bosporus Strait, was the central and largest Sephardic synagogue in Istanbul, currently home to the largest—but shrinking—Jewish population in the Muslim world. Originally invited in the fourteenth century by Sultan Bayezid II to emigrate from Spain to Turkey to escape the Spanish Inquisition, the Jewish population in Turkey flourished to half a million souls during the growth of the Ottoman Empire. But the last several decades witnessed an increase in Islamic fervor and a growing apathy among Istanbul’s officials that put the community on edge. Three recent terror attacks against the sixty-five-year-old Jewish synagogue of Neve Shalom didn’t help.

  The ambassador’s Crown Victoria was inching along the narrow, one-way, cobblestoned Buyuk Street from the direction of the square surrounding the Byzantine-era Galata Tower. What little parking might have been available was blocked by three-foot steel poles along both sides of the street.

  “I can pull into this small cutout across from the synagogue,” said Agent Hernandez, “but the guys behind us won’t be able to stop. The SUV will have to circle the block. Is that okay?”

  “That should be fine, Mr. Hernandez,” said Cleveland. “I don’t expect I’ll be that long.”

  Ankara

  July 15, 10:48 a.m.

  In the darkness to his right, outside the halo of light around his desk, the untraceable mobile phone rattled to life.

  “Yes?” said the Turk.

  “He is at the synagogue.”

  “Did he enter empty-handed?”

  “Yes.”

  “If he leaves with a package, your men know what to do.” It was not a question.

  The Turk placed the mobile back on the table in the twilight. And so it begins.

  Istanbul

  July 15, 10:49 a.m.

  Rabbi Moische Avi Kaplan was waiting just inside the iron gates. “So good of you to come, Mr. Ambassador. I truly appreciate your graciousness in meeting me here.”

  Cleveland and Rabbi Kaplan—with Agent Nelson in their wake—walked through the central part of the synagogue, beneath the massive round chandelier. “Your invitation sounded urgent, my friend. For you, it was the least I could do.”

  Seated in the rabbi’s office, Agent Nelson outside at the door, Cleveland declined the obligatory offer of coffee. “Rabbi, you look in distress.”

  Spreading his arms out across his carved wooden desk, the rabbi looked as if he were trying to get his hands around a vapor. “Atticus, my friend, I know you don’t have much time, but I have a great favor to ask and quite a story to tell. I’m concerned you may decline my request if I can’t explain myself fully or clearly. But I will attempt to be succinct.

  “You and I have spoken many times about the dangerous impact of Russia’s incursion into eastern Ukraine and its annexation of Crimea. We share the concern that, if not stopped, Russia not only wants to increase its influence but also its territory into the Mediterranean basin. But there are other implications to this current Russian aggression.

  “Over two centuries ago,” said the rabbi, “one of the greatest and wisest Talmudic scholars of Jewish history lived in Vilna, Lithuania. He was revered as the genius of Vilna—the Vilna Gaon. In the last years of his life, the Gaon received two prophetic messages from the voice of our Creator.”

  “I’ve heard about this,” said Cleveland, sitting forward in his chair. “Didn’t his great-great-grandson recently reveal the contents of the prophecies? Something about the Russians and the return of Messiah?”

  The rabbi nodded in agreement, but raised his hands. “Yes … but let me be precise. In March, the Gaon’s great-great-grandson, who is a member of the Chief Rabbinate Council in Jerusalem, revealed only the first prophecy. It reads:

  When you hear that the Russians have captured the city of Crimea, you should know that the Times of Messiah have started, that his steps are being heard. And when you hear that the Russians have reached the city of Constantinople, you should put on your Shabbat clothes and not take them off, because it means that Messiah is about to come at any minute.

  “We understand Christians are waiting for the second coming of Jesus,” said Rabbi Kaplan, “but for the Jew, our Messiah is yet to come. This message, written in a cryptic code that took months to decipher and has been a guarded secret for centuries, is a warning to the Jewish people that—with the Russians now in Crimea—our Messiah’s coming is at hand.”

  The rabbi folded his arms upon the top of his desk and leaned closer to Cleveland. “Atticus, if the Russian aggression were the only indicator, well, there may be some doubt about the validity of the prophecy. But more than most men, you understand the rapidly shifting geopolitical reality in the Middle East and the wave of chaotic
instability we are all riding. At this moment, any outcome is possible. If the Gaon’s prophecy is true, accurate—and knowing its source I have every reason to believe it is genuine—then we both know its implication. According to both Jewish and Gentile Scripture, the fulfillment of this prophecy is a signal that what is known as the end of days is upon us. Everything changes.”

  Cleveland’s heart was racing while his mind was methodically dissecting what the rabbi had revealed. Could they really be having this conversation?

  Trying to shake loose his conflicting thoughts, the ambassador studied the design in the rug at his feet. “You and I, Moische, we both know the clock started ticking in 1948 when the nation of Israel was created, fulfilling a prophecy that, in effect, turned on the countdown to the end of humanity’s days on this earth.”

  Cleveland looked across the desk at his host. “There have been wars and rumors of wars for thousands of years, other markers that are mentioned in the Tanakh and our New Testament—hurricanes and earthquakes and famines. And throughout the ages, many have foretold the coming of the end of the world, but they were obviously mistaken. It appears to be the height of foolishness, of pride, for a man to try to predict God’s timetable.

  “Yet”—Cleveland spread his hands wide—“yet I find myself looking at this world we’re in, at the state of this world we’re in, and wondering how much time is really left.”

  For years, Cleveland had found himself convinced that a new age was coming for the Christian church. For the first two thousand years of monotheism, the core of that “one-God faith” was in the covenant relationship between the nation of Israel and its omnipotent God, Yahweh. For the second two thousand years, the core of that faith rested in the church established by Jesus Christ and his disciples.

  Barely remembered in these modern times was that during the first three or four centuries of the church age, the Christian church struggled with its identity, evolving from a predominantly Jewish church—a synagogue of Messianic Jews—into an ethnically diverse community united by their belief that Jesus of Nazareth was in fact the Son of God.