Ishmael Covenant

by Terry Brennan

“Are you thanking God now?”

  The frustration and resentment roiling just below the surface of Mullaney’s defenses punched a hole in his heart. “Don’t start on me, okay?”

  “I’m sorry. My mouth sometimes does the thinking for my brain.” Hernandez turned sideways in the seat. “It’s just that, well, you weren’t doing that—thanking God—at your dad’s funeral. And Brian, I’m worried about you.”

  Mullaney took a deep breath. It was hard holding everything in, trying to keep it together when so many anchors in his life were being ripped out at the same time. “I don’t see how God can be involved in any of this. I’ve always done things the right way, Dad’s way.” Mullaney’s downcast eyes studied the design in the tile floor. “I’m an honorable man, trustworthy, honest. God’s supposed to protect honorable men, right?”

  Taking a blue paisley handkerchief out of his pocket, Hernandez held the question at arm’s length while he cleaned his sunglasses.

  “That’s a bigger question than we have time for right now, don’t you think?” said Hernandez.

  “Okay, then,” said Mullaney, pulling himself up to look squarely at his partner. “Let me ask you another question. What happened in Istanbul? I’ve read the report, but I don’t buy half of it. Something doesn’t add up. A Turkish terror cell waits until President Kashani is at the gate of the embassy to launch an attack? And Cleveland just happens to be in the line of fire? And less than three months later another unknown group attacks Cleveland and his escort in Istanbul, and the threat analysists are telling us there’s no connection? That’s the kind of head-in-the-sand analysis that got us Benghazi. Our investigators should be all over both of these incidents until we do find the connection. You were there. What do you think?”

  Hernandez grimaced as he tried to stretch the kinks in his body, the unforgiving chair giving him no help. “At this point, what I think appears to be irrelevant. I tried to give my opinion to Nora Carson, and she smiled but ignored me. Said it was local unrest with Kashani’s growing authoritarian rule. Right, and my next-door neighbor Santa Claus took a night job as the tooth fairy.

  “Listen, Brian, I think we’ve got a leak inside the department. They—and we better figure out who they are real quick—they knew Atticus was at the embassy when he was scheduled to be at Kashani’s Palace. And they knew the ambassador was heading to the synagogue in Istanbul long before he got there. And they knew what he left the synagogue with, which is why they tried to whack us when we left. We’ve got an enemy that is two steps ahead of us … and we don’t even know who that enemy is. That’s why I convinced Nora that I had to come here a day before Cleveland—so I could bring you up to speed and we could start planning our defenses.”

  As Hernandez paused to position the aviators back on his nose, Mullaney had an opening.

  “So what did Cleveland get at the synagogue that triggered the attack?”

  Hernandez slapped his hands down on his knees. “That, my friend, is a good question. And its answer is one the kind ambassador has declined to share with me, despite countless inquiries over the last three days. He walked into the synagogue empty-handed and came out carrying a leather satchel that he held so tightly I thought he was going to climb inside the bag. He wouldn’t let me or Jack Nelson touch it. He’s got marines stationed just outside the door of his office since the recent attack, so the bag’s either been in his hands or locked behind armed marines the whole time. Honestly, Atticus is so anxious to get to Israel I think he would have walked here days ago, but he’s obligated to do the ceremonial transfer of station with Buster Brown tomorrow morning and then the introduction to President Kashani. But the way he treats that bag, you would think it contained the launch codes.”

  “For our nukes?”

  “No, for Candy Land.” Hernandez shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands. “Who knows? All I can tell you is that Atticus accelerated his departure schedule to the bare minimum. I left the ambassador with a double guard and didn’t like it one bit. He wanted you and me to prepare for a trip into Jerusalem at the earliest possible moment. And he promised to fill us in completely when he gets here. But listen, I know tensions are high and things are already heating up around here. My gut tells me we’ll have little time for personal conversation. So let me get this out now.”

  Hernandez pulled off the sunglasses, turned to his left, and waited for Mullaney to look up. “Brian, there are an awful lot of people in all levels of the department—both lefties and righties—who know you and believe in you. You’re getting a raw deal here, just like Morningstar. You know it and I know it. I just want you to know I’m here for you. Anytime, anywhere, any way—you are the brother I never had, and I’ll never quit on you.” Hernandez lowered his voice. “But if you start crying, the offer’s off the table.”

  In a long litany of bad days, Tommy Hernandez brought Mullaney a ray of hope. And the knowledge that he wasn’t alone after all. His prayer life had evaporated, pushed aside by the growing anxiety on so many levels. He no longer felt close to God. So Tommy’s encouragement felt like dew in the desert.

  “Congrats, by the way,” said Hernandez. “RSO is a nice bump.”

  A grimace twisted Mullaney’s mouth, broadcasting the turmoil in his heart.

  The Diplomatic Security Service had the world divided up into regions. In each of those regions, individual DSS agents were under the authority of a regional security officer (RSO), a senior officer with higher rank and pay than individual agents. The RSOs were also granted a great deal of operational freedom and authority—the tools necessary to respond instantly to any threat in their region.

  He shook his head. “The title goes with the Israel posting. I wouldn’t call it a promotion, and it’s little consolation for banishment.”

  Mullaney got up, stretched his six foot two frame, and pulled the car keys from his pocket. “C’mon, we need to get cracking. You’re right … things are getting hot, fast. This morning we got word that the IDF was calling up a huge chunk of its reserves. We don’t know why, but I think we’ll keep you busy.”

  “Well, I’m glad you requested me to stay on the ambassador’s detail,” said Hernandez, grabbing his bag and getting to his feet. “Otherwise, I could have been steering a desk now, looking down the sites of a computer screen and going nuts. I’m not ready to retire.”

  “I’ve heard good things about Cleveland,” said Mullaney as they walked toward the exit.

  “You’re going to like Atticus,” said Hernandez. “Just don’t call him that to his face. He’s a man of character and integrity. You can always count on him to tell you the truth and to watch your back. In our business, you can’t get better than that.” He hesitated. “But there are times when it seems to me that he’s carrying some great weight, something that reaches to the depth of his soul. I want to reach out and hug him when I see it.”

  “Probably not a good idea.”

  Hernandez stopped in the middle of the busy terminal, throwing up his hands. “Hey … you should commune with your feminine side once in a while, right? Go with the emotions, you know?”

  “You should go to the psych team and get some help.”

  As Mullaney neared the exit, he turned to face Hernandez. “I’m glad you’re here, Tommy. I’m going to need you. Something has stirred up a hornet’s nest the last few days, and it seems like everybody is on edge. Besides”—Mullaney reached into his pocket, then held out his hand to Hernandez—“I owe you this twenty.”

  Hernandez took the twenty dollar bill and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “All right … let’s go find that Taco Bell!”

  Washington, DC

  July 18, 2:53 p.m.

  It was the kind of car he had once commanded—a long black Cadillac stretch limo with a stern-faced driver in front and blackened windows all around. The car radiated wealth, power, and influence—the three currencies of the nation’s capital. Currencies he had once enjoyed in abundance. Now? He was too proud to give up his pos
ition and too foolish to surrender to time and reality.

  Senator Seneca Markham spent more than forty years of his life in the intoxicating halls of Capitol Hill. Former chairman of the United States Senate Committee on Foreign Relations and a senior member of the Committee on Appropriations, Markham was more than simply one of Washington’s most powerful politicians. Before declining health forced his retirement two years earlier, Markham had lived the life of a feudal lord. His estates were the cotton fields of Alabama, his manor house an antebellum, white-columned beauty of the Old South, his vassals the uncountable thousands who had benefited financially from Markham’s undeniable reputation as a dealmaker.

  Now he was just an old man living beyond his means. A man whose debts were being called to account.

  The limo eased up to the underground entrance of the Savoy, high-priced condos on the edge of Washington’s downtown. The driver came around and opened the door for Markham … took his elbow to help him into the spacious back seat. Each day his body betrayed him even more.

  The welcome air-conditioning and the sumptuous leather upholstery embraced him at the same time.

  “Good afternoon, Senator.” The heavy southern drawl momentarily transported Markham back to his family home in Dooly County, the cotton king of Georgia. “I am truly grateful that you would allow me the honor of your company today.”

  The limo pulled out of the Savoy and turned left, toward central DC. To Markham’s left sat Richard Rutherford, chairman of the Georgia National Bank—his state’s largest bank—founder of the Savannah Roundtable, a monthly invitation-only gathering of Georgia’s most wealthy families and, for decades, Markham’s largest and most reliable campaign funder. Rutherford was a vibrant and strapping sixty-three-year-old financial dynamo who, from behind the scenes, had dominated and directed the state’s politics and government for more than twenty-five years.

  “Good afternoon, Richard,” said Markham, both of his hands resting on the top of his ivory-handled cane. “I appreciate the ride … and the time to talk. And how is your family, your daughter, Abigail?”

  “We are blessed, thank you for asking, Senator.”

  Rutherford had the looks of a Hollywood heartthrob, tall and muscular, his skin tanned and flawless, and his thick hair graying in dramatic sweeps that accented the ruddy gold highlights. Markham hated him for his health.

  “Martha is content with her church socials and bridge club in Atlanta,” said Rutherford. “Robert E. is prospering in Berlin. Honestly, I think he’ll soon end up owning half of Germany. And Abby? Well, it’s been glorious having Abby and her girls here in Washington the last two years.”

  “You and Abigail, it appears, have become the center of Washington society.” Markham turned his head to the left to give the coming compliment even more weight. “You must be very proud of your daughter, Robert. She is a delightful, beautiful woman … an honor to the Rutherford name.”

  Rutherford was nodding his head, but his eyes were staring into space. “Yes, Seneca … it’s been wonderful.” Like a man jolting awake as his train home was leaving his station, Rutherford gave a quick shake to his head and squared his shoulders. “But we have business to discuss and not much time to do it. You are on your way to speak to young Webster. How is our young man holding up? Can we still rely on his loyalty and commitment?”

  Ah, the language of political deals. Seneca Markham had made a living, and a small fortune, using words like loyalty as an incorrect but justifiable substitute for is he still in our control. Sadly, a small fortune wasn’t near enough to support the life of a feudal lord.

  “There is no reason to concern ourselves about Noah Webster,” said Markham. “He knows his future, and his freedom, are irretrievably intertwined with our purposes and good will. And he is a willing ally.”

  “Good, we need him.” Like a scythe through sugarcane, Rutherford’s voice took on an edge and urgency. “That fool Boylan is causing a great deal of concern among our friends, Senator. He appears determined to forge ahead with this handout to Iran.”

  “It is their money, Richard.”

  His chin tucked down to his neck, Rutherford slowly turned his head. He was looking down his nose at Markham, like a disappointed teacher in the wake of a foolish question. “Possession, Senator. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. It was the shah’s money anyway, which he got from us in the first place. Regardless. We both know the most important truth about those funds, don’t we, Seneca?”

  Yes … the most important truth. Money. But not only money. This was unencumbered money, a torrent of cash that remained mostly invisible. The Iranian assets seized by the government during the 1979 hostage crisis now hemorrhaged interest at an inconceivable rate, the clandestine flow of money that had at one time kept Senator Seneca Markham living in the luxury to which he had become accustomed but could no longer afford. And a flow of money that held great promise for Noah Webster’s ambition.

  “If we are forced to return Iran’s assets and lose the income from those funds,” said Rutherford, “all our lives will abruptly change for the worse. Senator, I would hate to see you destitute at this stage of your life.”

  Senator Markham squeezed the ivory handle of his cane, his knuckles turning white around his age spots. There was a time …

  “No, Seneca, my friends and I are honored to help you live in the manner and comfort you deserve. And we will continue to do so … if young Webster can prove his value. Please, ensure he understands just how important his effectiveness is to those of us who care for his future.”

  The car began to slow as it approached the river walk along the Potomac. Senator Markham attempted to push himself more erect … to regain some measure of dignity before he faced Noah Webster.

  “Oh … by the way, Senator. There is one thing you can do for me.” Rutherford’s words had morphed from sharp edged to sweet tea. “Perhaps you can bring my son-in-law back from his unwarranted banishment. It would make my granddaughters undeniably joyful to have their father back in Washington. I would be personally grateful if you could rescue Brian from that desert in Israel.”

  Senator Seneca Markham endured the pain in his hips and turned toward Rutherford. He nodded his head in agreement. “Very well, Richard. I will see what I can do.” The car stopped. In a moment the driver was opening Markham’s door. “Thank you for your kindness of bringing me here. I’m sure we will be speaking again soon. Good day, Richard.”

  As the driver helped Markham to his feet, the senator had a smile on his face. Rutherford had just made a deposit into Markham’s currency account of power and influence. Rutherford wanted his son-in-law home. Fine. Markham would put in a word … when it suited his time and his purpose. This was one ace he would not play until absolutely necessary.

  He walked along the Potomac promenade leaning on a cane, Noah Webster trawling to his right. Senator Seneca Markham’s body might be more feeble than it had been during his days on the Hill, but his mind and his will were as sharp as ever.

  He had a message to deliver to Webster. And he would deliver it with conviction and purpose. Much depended on his former pupil.

  “Seven hundred million dollars a year, and compounding by six percent each year—that’s a lot of loose change, Noah. Do you think we’re going to give it away?”

  A wide-brimmed fedora shaded Markham’s balding head from the summer sun. But his eyes still calculated the meaning of Webster’s every move as he shuffled along the shade-dappled promenade. “Don’t think our friends are concerned only with the money,” Markham cautioned. “Most of these men had their worldviews refined by the shah’s overthrow and the national angst of the following hostage crisis. Here … let’s rest on this bench.”

  Webster held Senator Markham’s elbow, steadying his former boss as he lowered himself to the green, wood-slat bench. The senator had been a dictator then, when Webster served as Markham’s chief of staff in the mid-nineties … but always a benevolent dictator when it came to Webster. Nearl
y two decades later, the senator still held Webster’s future firmly in his grasp.

  “It was only a few years after the shah was kicked out that Iran’s Islamic jihadist government was responsible for the murder of 241 marines in the bombing in Beirut,” Markham continued. “In the thirty years since, Iran continues to be identified as the world’s leading state sponsor of terrorism.” Markham turned to his right, his face in shadow under the fedora’s brim. “Our nation has three relentless enemies, Noah—Russia, China, and Iran. All three of those nations have a similar endgame … to replace the United States as the most dominant military and political power in the world. It is to our own peril if we choose to ignore that truth. Sadly, it’s something our president has conveniently forgotten.”

  There was little traffic on the Potomac in the afternoon heat, less on the promenade itself. Some bees buzzed in the background as the mere promise of a breeze briefly stirred the air.

  “It’s not just the money.” The senator’s rheumy eyes held a hundred-year gaze as he looked out over the river. “Our friends are dedicated patriots and fierce foes of our enemies. But make no mistake.” He turned to face Webster once again. “Two billion dollars in Iranian assets were frozen in American banks thirty years ago. That two billion sitting in American banks has gained over ten billion in interest over that thirty-year span. That’s a lot of money.” The senator placed his hand on Webster’s arm. “Richard Rutherford urged me to remind you that it’s more than enough to finance a successful run for the Senate in two years, more than enough to finance a presidential election bid in ten years.”

  Senator Markham waited while the words sunk in, but Webster’s dreams had already advanced down those roads.

  “ISIS is on the offensive in Sinjar Province,” said the senator. “Over three hundred thousand people, mostly Christians and Yadzikis, have been driven from their homes. We need to strengthen the Kurds and continue to push for a free Kurdish state as a bulwark against Iran’s plans for expansion. You cannot allow our president to give in to the Iranians. I don’t care how you do it, but block that Iranian treaty. If you want the support of our friends, Noah, you need to stand with them now. Before it’s too late.”