Ishmael Covenant

by Terry Brennan

  Before exiting the car, Cleveland put his hand on Mullaney’s arm. “Agent Mullaney, there must be someplace on this property where we can speak free of cameras or recording devices. You’ve been here the longest of any of us. Where can we talk?”

  Mullaney did a quick mental survey, knowing full well that he might not yet know the location of all the cameras or recorders. “Our best bet is the gazebo out by the cliff, overlooking the sea. Probably more private than anywhere in any of the buildings.”

  “Okay,” said Cleveland, “I’ll find Palmyra and meet you and Tommy in the gazebo.”

  “Just give us a few minutes to sign in with the duty officer and we’ll be there,” said Mullaney. “Is there anything we need to bring with us?”

  Cleveland was clearly agitated, anxious to get moving. He had a grip on the door handle when he turned to Mullaney. “If you have it, bring your faith with you, Agent Mullaney. You too, Tommy. You’ll need faith more than anything. We’ve got thirty minutes. Then I want to be on the move back to the embassy … or on the road to Jerusalem if Goldberg gets over his offense. Let’s go.”

  Ankara

  July 19, 4:48 p.m.

  Standing in the middle of Koyunpazari Street, the narrow, cobble-stone lane that wound its way farther up the mountain to Ankara’s ancient Citadel, Arslan Eroglu could look out over a panoramic view of the city, drinking in the sights of both ancient and modern Ankara. Off in the distance were the four spires of the majestic Kocatepe Mosque, elegant, elaborate spindles towering over the mosque’s double dome.

  Eroglu had tucked his car into a narrow opening at the corner of Karakus Street and walked down to the Gramofon Café. Though the café was a favorite destination, Eroglu had long ago abstained from hiking the long, uphill climb from downtown Ankara. But the manti and gozleme served by the Gramofon Café were as compelling as the café itself.

  The Gramofon Café was a local shrine dedicated to a nostalgic view of popular music and film, its walls plastered with album covers and photos and old records, its space filled with an abundance of antique, just plain old, and modern radios and record players. Elvis had a place, along with Bob Marley, and most of the Turkish pop artists of the fifties and sixties. Even the menus in the Gramofon Café were pasted onto old vinyl LP records.

  But it was the food of his youth that continued to draw Eroglu back to the Gramofon. He had just finished his meal of manti, the traditional Turkish dumplings made with ground lamb, and gozleme, a savory Turkish flatbread brushed with butter and eggs and cooked over a griddle. Eroglu’s favorite was gozleme filled with spinach, parsley, and Turkish white cheese.

  He sat at the table by the window, gazing down Koyunpazari Street, sipping a cup of warm tea, when his mobile phone rang. He recognized the caller’s number.

  “Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” said Eroglu, setting his tea cup on the bright blue-and-yellow tablecloth. “I hope …” Eroglu left enough money on the table to amply cover his bill, stepped outside and began walking toward where his car was parked as Noah Webster breathlessly filled him in on the Jordanian report of an imminent announcement and the speculation that was percolating from the Middle East to the halls of Washington.

  “This is truly disturbing news, Mr. Secretary,” said Eroglu. He stopped as he reached his car and rested one hand on the roof. “You are telling me there is an announcement coming tomorrow from the Saudi king and you don’t know what it is? An announcement that will … what were the words this security official used?” He could almost hear Webster wince through the telephone connection.

  “Our source said the raised threat levels and troop mobilizations would not result in armed conflict between the countries.” Webster’s voice sounded strained. “He said ‘a seismic shift of power and influence toward peace was about to take place’ … that an announcement was imminent that will change the world as you know it.”

  “Quite dramatic, this source,” said Eroglu as he opened the door and settled himself in the car. “And what do you think will be this announcement that will change the world?”

  “Some here believe the Jews and the Arabs will announce a peace agreement.” Webster dragged each word into the light like it was a concrete ship stuck in the sand. “That a Palestinian state will be part of the bargain.”

  Of course they would. King Abdullah is terrified of the Persians. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. “Seems reasonable, Noah … don’t you think? An Arab-Israel alliance? If true … if it ever becomes an actuality … a rapprochement between Jew and Arab will enrage the Persians and accelerate the attempts to unify Iraq and Iran, something we are both determined to prevent. It is a true game changer, for both of us.”

  Eroglu could almost taste Webster’s anxiety. Surely the secretary of state must be demanding answers. They would need to brief the American president. With what?

  “Arslan, you have the inside contacts to the halls of government in the Middle East and also to the dens of jihadists. You cultivate relationships with Jew, Arab, and Persian alike. Tell me, are these rumors true? I need solid information. I can’t afford to remain ignorant of what is transpiring between Riyadh, Cairo, and Tel Aviv.”

  Webster was desperate. So sad to hear him beg.

  “I must confess, my friend,” said Eroglu, savoring every word along with the view of the Citadel in the distance, “that I am as clearly in the dark on this development as are you and your government. What of your new ambassador to Israel? Cleveland is a man of many talents and far-reaching relationships. Surely your ambassador would know what is about to transpire, no?”

  “If he knew I wouldn’t be calling you,” snapped Webster. “He hasn’t even gotten his bags unpacked.”

  “Forgive me, Noah. But I thought the ambassador had his daughter with him to take care of his household and his belongings. Has Mrs. Parker arrived in Israel?”

  “Palmyra Parker is there.” Eroglu could hear the petulance in Webster’s response. “It seems she is already ruling in the residence, upsetting the staff with her erratic behavior. You would think Cleveland’s bags were spun from gold and filled with diamonds.” Webster’s voice paused. “What is your interest in Palmyra Parker?”

  “None, certainly,” said Eroglu. “I was only concerned for you, my friend, and about the dangerous level of your ignorance.”

  “Our ignorance, Arslan,” Webster snapped once more. “You are as blind on this possible alliance as I am. We need to know, Arslan. If the Arab states and the Jews come together in alliance, how will Tehran respond? Will an Arab-Israeli peace accelerate Iran’s pursuit of a nuclear deal and the lifting of those crippling sanctions? That is only one of the questions that President Boylan will want answered.”

  The tipping points of power between Saudi Arabia and Iran were many, thought Eroglu, the importance of each shifting like sand in the wind. For decades, the family Saud enjoyed substantial power and influence in the geopolitical realm of the Middle East, almost by default. The Persians had slumbered peacefully under the shahs, enriching the Pahlavi family while the nation remained impoverished. Iran was then riven by the Islamic revolution of the Ayatollahs and its military decimated by the vicious eight-year war with Iraq.

  In the meantime, Saudi Arabia assembled obscene wealth from a quirk of geology and used some of that abundance to purchase a modern air force and navy. But it was the fawning military umbrella provided by the oil-starved Americans that truly allowed the Saudis to reign with arrogant superiority over other Gulf nations.

  While the Saudi royal family bankrolled and encouraged jihadists of every stripe and their Wahhabi clerics reveled in every terrorist success, the rulers at the same time helped build an American airbase on its sand and supported the coalition’s wars against the deluded oligarch Saddam Hussein, happy to punish their ancient enemies, the Persians. The family Saud was a harlot, sleeping in two beds.

  But revolutionary Iran under the Ayatollahs had proven to be determined and relentless in its return to regional prominence.
The Islamic Republic was well on the way to building a powerful navy, was racing forward in its successful development of long-range missiles, and continued its inexorable resolve to develop and deploy nuclear weapons. Now the Shia brothers in Iran and Iraq were working together for the betterment of a new Persia. Almost as alarming, the Iranians were funneling just enough arms and money to the Houthi rebels in Yemen to make them a constant fear of the Saudis and a drain on their resources.

  While Iran ascended to the cusp of dominance in the Persian Gulf area, the Saudis were suddenly vulnerable. Oil prices had plunged on the worldwide market. American entrepreneurs, showing an unexpected tenacity, were sucking oil from shale, fueling the US to energy independence. Fearful that its destitute citizens, long lulled into latency by free schools, health care, and interest-free loans to buy homes or start businesses, might join in the call for revolution that had so destabilized the region, the royal family was forced to begin drawing on its vast cash reserves to keep the generous subsidies in place.

  And the apostate forces of the Islamic State—doctrinally devoted to neither Sunni nor Shia—filled the Saudis with horror, because of the savagery of their terrorism and the effectiveness of their methods.

  Iran was going nuclear—whether the world liked it or not. Now Saudi Arabia appeared determined to take the same step.

  “But this news of the Saudi king acquiring nuclear weapons from Pakistan is most worrisome,” said Eroglu. “True … a nuclear Arab state would prove to be a formidable deterrent to the ambitions of the Tehran mullahs, which would line up well with our ultimate ambition, to thwart this nascent Persian Empire before it has a chance to set roots. But even more critical to us, Mr. Secretary, is that a nuclear Saudi Arabia would turn the balance of power in the Middle East on its head. I don’t believe a nuclear Arab world will fit within our plans, do you?”

  The silence on the phone was telling … every second of it. Eroglu waited.

  “It would be a disaster,” said Webster. “If the Saudis get their hands on nuclear weapons, our misguided president will push even harder for this deal with Iran, thinking it will stop the Iranian enrichment program. He’s so blind to the truth. A deal with Iran will lift all the sanctions, have billions of dollars flowing back into Iran, and just accelerate their path to nuclear weapons.”

  Hmmm … yes. “Which would leave us with a nuclear Persia and a nuclear Islam,” said Eroglu. “Not a very promising recipe for world peace, is it Noah? I believe we must intervene in this process, Mr. Secretary. Intervene on both fronts.”

  Ogulbey, Turkey

  July 19, 4:48 p.m.

  He stood in the shadows of a darkened hulk of a building, its corrugated steel flanks rusting from neglect and only half its roof intact. Down at the end of the rubble-strewn loading dock of the abandoned warehouse, east of the intersection of State Roads 750 and 260, south of Ankara, Medir was supervising the loading of cargo into a resting convoy of trucks.

  The abandoned warehouse and its ramshackle outbuildings were hidden behind a low hill of hardscrabble rock and dust. Out of sight, just like the Turk.

  The Turk shifted his weight and rested himself against the warehouse door.

  When the trucks were loaded and the drivers huddled at the far end with their cigarettes and coffee, the Turk took a step from the dusk of the blackened doorway. Medir immediately turned away from the group and walked the one hundred meters toward the warehouse.

  Sliding back into the shadow, the Turk heard Medir’s approach … slow, wary. He watched, silently, as Medir stood just outside the shadows, peering into the shell of the warehouse.

  “The loading is complete, Master.”

  The Turk eased into the half-light.

  “Thank you, Medir. You have done well. Join me for a moment,” he gestured with his right hand, inviting Medir into the cavern of the warehouse. “There is something of extreme sensitivity about which I wish to confer.”

  Leading the way deeper into the shadows, the Turk pondered some information he’d just received. Events were moving more quickly than he anticipated. An Arab-Israeli détente could be seen coming for some time and would benefit his ultimate objective. But a nuclear Saudi Arabia? If true, it may require him to accelerate his time table.

  Would he need Medir now? Would these new developments make the smuggler more valuable to him in the future? Perhaps. But Medir knew much. Too much for the Turk to feel comfortable. It was no longer safe to leave the gunrunner as an uncontrollable risk. The Turk had only gotten this far by limiting his risks … ruthlessly.

  “All arrangements for this shipment are securely in place?”

  “Yes, Master,” said Medir, his voice tentative as they walked through the deep shadows of the warehouse. “We were able to find room for the extra crates that were hidden here. If I had known there was more than just the weapons, I would have arranged for another truck. But—”

  “Do your drivers understand the route?”

  The Turk’s interruption silenced Medir for a moment. The smuggler started to look up, but stopped himself before the Turk could connect with his eyes.

  “Yes, Master. Five-and-a-half hours to Adana. Stop at the truck depot just west of the city and wait for your contact. Then about another two hours of drive time should bring the convoy in the vicinity of Suroc, just north of the Syrian border. From there they will travel by night on the forgotten roads to reach the Peshmerga camp.”

  Medir paused, but the Turk knew he had more to say. “Master, altering the delivery route to the south takes the convoy through Adana, which is quite close to the American installation at Incirlik. It increases the risk. The old route would have been safer.”

  “And you are being handsomely compensated—perhaps exorbitantly—for shouldering the increased risk, are you not?”

  “Yes … yes,” Medir nodded.

  The Turk was now certain. The risk was too great. “Tell me, Medir, how is your family? Your wife and twelve children?”

  Walking to the right of the Turk, Medir slowed at the question, chancing a furtive glance. “They are well, Master.”

  They stopped alongside a dark shaft, dug deep into the foundation of the warehouse. The Turk turned to face Medir. “You provide faithfully for your family, Medir. You should be proud of yourself.”

  A draft from the darkened shaft behind him rippling up his spine, Medir’s eyes searched the concrete at his feet, fearful of looking into the yellow eyes of the Turk. Those eyes swam in a sea of mayhem. “Thank—

  “They will need your provision now.”

  Medir’s head snapped up as the Turk’s right arm reached out and grasped his left shoulder. A current of power, like white-hot lava, raced through Medir’s veins, scorching muscle and sinew. As the boiling of his blood closed on his heart, Medir frantically looked into the face of his killer. The Turk’s pale yellow pupils flared like an eruption on the surface of the sun. Medir’s forehead spouted dual fountains of red. The force of the impact drove Medir back two steps as his heart muscle melted into the cavity of his chest. The second step found nothing but air and Medir dropped into the blackness of the shaft.

  13

  US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 19, 5:09 p.m.

  “You’ll have to humor me on this one, Palmyra.” Cleveland paced back and forth across the gazebo, his suit jacket hung on the back of one of the chairs, the late-afternoon sun bathing the Mediterranean and forming a blazing blue backdrop to the visible expression of his inward anxiety. From the moment his daughter had driven out of the airport with that bag in her possession, Cleveland had been kicking himself for being foolish and shortsighted. What had he been thinking?

  “I want you out of this mess.” He stopped in midstride and swung his shoulders in Palmyra’s direction. “I had no choice at the airport, but you are now relieved of all responsibility for the package. Mullaney and Hernandez will transport the satchel to the Hurva Synagogue first thing in the morning and then it’s out of ou
r hair. Forgive me for pulling a dad thing, but I want it out of your hands. End of story.”

  Parker was dressed in black slacks and a short-sleeved, pale green blouse that gave her eyes the color of Caribbean shoals. Sitting on the edge of the gazebo’s railing, she let out a long sigh of exasperation. “But Dad, won’t Brian and Tommy need to be with …”

  Mullaney and Hernandez emerged from the path and entered the gazebo. “Be with whom?” Mullaney asked.

  “Be with him!” Parker threw up her hands. “That’s where you belong, right?”

  “Well … I …”

  Cleveland glanced at the watch on his wrist. There was so little time.

  “Here, sit,” said Cleveland, taking one of the chairs surrounding the table in the middle of the gazebo. “I’ve got a lot to cover in the short time we have, and I need you guys fully on board.”

  Mullaney was seated across the table from Cleveland, Hernandez on his right, and his daughter to his left as he launched into the events of that Tuesday that seemed like a lifetime in the past, not simply four days. “Tommy, the day we left the Neve Shalom Synagogue in Istanbul,” said Cleveland, leaning to his right, “I was not the target of the attack. The satchel I carried was the target.”

  A twinkle came to Hernandez’s eyes, a gift that Cleveland valued as precious. “Those guys were after the chocolate?”

  “Not exactly.” Cleveland spent the next ten minutes recounting his conversation with Rabbi Kaplan and describing the wooden box, and the metal box it protected. He was relieved that neither Mullaney nor Hernandez expressed any skepticism when he explained the history of the box and its contents, and he was grateful that neither of them flinched when he revealed the warning of the symbols on the lid of the box, the rabbi’s grave caution about the lethal nature of the box, and the rabbi’s belief that the message inside the box could be crucial to America’s future role in the Middle East.