Ishmael Covenant

by Terry Brennan

  Rolling his Montblanc pen between his fingers, Meir slowly counted to ten, giving Erdad a chance to breathe.

  “Benjamin … how long have we known each other?” asked Meir, already knowing the answer.

  “Since we were children on the kibbutz … about a million years ago,” said Erdad.

  “And what are the three most important things that you know about me?”

  Erdad smiled, and a soft laugh escaped his lips, the tension in his body vanishing.

  “One—you love your country. Two—you love your wife,” said Erdad. “Which one you love most, I don’t know. Perhaps they go hand in hand. And three—you are the most skilled politician in Israel. Otherwise you would not still be sitting in that chair.”

  Fastidious and impeccable, David Meir wore expensive, well-tailored suits and remarkable ties that were bold and bright without being garish. His attire, everything about him, was calculated to remove him as far from the heat, dirt, and monotony of that kibbutz as was humanly possible. He worked hard at being an educated gentleman. He worked harder at being an effective politician. In a politically fractured country like Israel, both were critical.

  Meir pushed himself closer to his desk and laid down the pen, now focusing his attention directly on his old friend. “Benjamin, do you think this Ishmael Covenant will be accepted … ratified … by the Knesset?”

  Erdad’s posture straightened, as if he were coming to attention. “I don’t think it’s likely, sir, no.”

  “Would it be a good thing for Israel to ratify the covenant … to make peace with the Arabs?”

  There was a moment’s reflective pause as Erdad considered the question. “I believe it would be a good thing for Israel to make peace with its neighbors,” he said, “but I am not sure if it would be the right thing for Israel to commit to this covenant. We will need to read it first.”

  David Meir picked up the dozen sheets of paper sitting on his desktop. “It’s here. I’ll share it at the cabinet meeting. But I agree with you. We do need to pursue peace. Whether this is the peace we need to pursue, I’m not sure. But I can tell you one thing, Benjamin.”

  Meir rose from his chair, stepped around his desk, and rested on its front edge, facing Erdad. “At all costs, Israel must appear as if we are pursuing this peace with sincerity and determination. On the world stage, we have no other option. I don’t know if this is the right peace or if this covenant can survive the Knesset. But we must try wholeheartedly to make this peace, or something like it, a reality. And the first step, my friend, is to have the prime minister’s cabinet unified in accepting and supporting this peace offer.”

  “Good luck with that,” Erdad mumbled.

  Meir nodded his head. “More than luck, Benjamin. An hour ago I offered Herzl and the Shas Party the responsibility of overseeing the construction of a new Temple if this Ishmael Covenant is ratified. So Shas is on board. And our new minister of education will be a member of Yesh Atid, so our most liberal brothers are on board. With the support of Shas and Yesh Atid, Benjamin, to the world the Israeli cabinet will look unified when the Arabs make their announcement tomorrow. After that … well …”

  Meir turned and pushed the button on his telephone. “Rebecca, have you received any word from Ambassador Cleveland? He should have been here by now. And please call for a cabinet meeting at eight this evening. Thank you.”

  18

  Highway One, Israel

  July 19, 7:48 p.m.

  Mullaney had pulled the phone from his right ear and was punching in a number already loaded into his speed dial … Parker’s mobile phone. After five rings, the automated voice asked if he wanted to leave a message at the beep. “We were attacked on the road to Jerusalem. Your dad’s beat up a bit, but generally okay. Where are you? We’re concerned. Call me.”

  An ambulance followed closely behind the police cars. Two EMTs jumped out, and the police directed one to the wounded agents and the other to the limo.

  Mullaney stepped out of the way as the tech eased into the car and began checking Ambassador Cleveland’s vital signs. Since the Mercedes had dual bucket seats both front and rear, there was no comfortable way to get Cleveland to lie down.

  His eyes flashing back and forth between the ambassador and his phone, Mullaney pulled up his contacts, scrolled to the entry labeled “Levinson, Meyer,” and then pushed the phone icon. The call was answered in the midst of the first ring.

  “Hello, Brian. I’ve been waiting for your call. What’s your condition?”

  “Hello, Meyer. Ambassador Cleveland is banged up pretty good, but nothing fatal. But Meyer, I need your help.”

  “Of course. What can I do?”

  During two of his tours back in Washington, Mullaney had built a close relationship with Meyer Levinson, who was, at the time, a senior operative of Shabak—or Shin Bet—Israel’s internal security arm. Levinson was the agent in charge of security for the Israeli embassy in Washington. A Syrian Jew, Levinson was raised in a scientific family. Trained in theoretical physics, on a track for a professorship at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Levinson was plucked from academia by the Israeli Security Services and quickly advanced through the ranks of Shin Bet. Mullaney and Levinson had two things in common—their devotion to the hope of democracy and their passion for the Chelsea Football Club. It was while rooting for Chelsea during the FA Cup tournament that Mullaney and Levinson ran into each other in the Airedale sports bar in the Columbia Heights section of DC. A deep friendship was spawned under the blue-and-white lion of Chelsea.

  Levinson was now director of the operations division of Shin Bet, the most prestigious and active branch of the anti-terrorism service—the home of fighters and warfare groups that pursued Israel’s enemies with a relentless determination to eliminate threats before they could strike the Jewish homeland or its people.

  Whether exposing terrorist rings or providing intelligence for counter-terrorism operations in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip or personal protection of senior public officials, for most of its history Shin Bet generally carried out the tasks of safeguarding state security with little publicity or fanfare.

  If anyone could help Mullaney find Palmyra Parker, it was Meyer Levinson.

  “I’ll give you the background later,” said Mullaney, “but right now we need to find the ambassador’s daughter, Mrs. Palmyra Parker. She left the residence about two hours ago to visit the open air market nearby.”

  “In the Shmu’el Tamir Garden,” said Levinson.

  “Yes. She is not answering her mobile phone. With this attack on the ambassador, we’re concerned that she may have also been a target. We’ve dispatched two teams of DSS agents from the residence to search for her on foot and by car. But …”

  “But if these were professionals,” Levinson continued, “we both know that Mrs. Parker is already long gone—either being held for ransom in some dark hole or, well …”

  Mullaney knew where Levinson was going. But they were words he didn’t want to hear or speak.

  “My assistant is already forming a team to start working on the tapes,” Levinson said, referring to the ubiquitous network of video surveillance cameras that Shin Bet maintained and reviewed throughout the state of Israel. “We should have some information from the videos shortly. And I contacted our watchers as soon as we got word that the ambassador was under attack … forgive me, Brian. You do know that we have agents watching the US embassy and the residence twenty-four seven, correct?”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  “I was speaking with the team leader when you called. They saw a woman leave the compound, but she had a scarf over her head and was dressed like a worker. I’m sorry, Brian, but they are not yet familiar with the new residents. I will call you back as soon as we have more information. Please let the ambassador know: we will find her.”

  “Agent Mullaney?”

  Brian looked up. The EMT was pushing himself out of the back seat of the Mercedes. The tech turned aside to
a police officer. “Please get the stretcher from the back of the ambulance. I can’t treat him here.” He returned to Mullaney. “Werner.” He extended his hand. “The ambassador needs to go to a hospital so he can be effectively examined …”

  “I’m not going to any hospital.” Cleveland spoke from the back of the car, his renewed voice loud, clear, and final. “Not now!”

  Werner pulled in a breath, shook his head, and went on as if Cleveland hadn’t spoken. “Right now, he’s stable and there doesn’t appear to be any damage that is life-threatening. He’s got a couple of cuts that need to be stitched and a nasty bump on his head that has probably caused a concussion. In the short term, those I can deal with here. The problem is, I can’t tell what’s going on inside. There is a good chance of internal injuries—for you and for the other agent, as well. All three of you should go to the hospital for observation and testing. You, I want to check out as soon as I’m done with the ambassador. Oh, by the way, you’re wise-guy sidekick dislocated his shoulder. We pulled it back into place. It’s functional but will be sore.”

  “What about the other agents?”

  Werner nodded his head. “Lucky, there. Two with gunshot wounds, nothing critical. One of the guys, the bullet shattered his ankle. He’s going to the hospital too.”

  Werner was about five foot four, with a riot of sandy-colored hair exploding from his head in all directions. He was built like a boxer, steady on his feet and firm in his determination. Mullaney could tell he was well trained and accustomed to people following his direction.

  “IDF?”

  “Reserve,” Werner said about the Israel Defense Forces. “I did three tours of active duty in and around Lebanon.”

  Mullaney knew about Lebanon, how the Israeli military was throttled and decimated by the Hezbollah militia, forced into a humiliating retreat after the 2006 invasion by the IDF.

  “Lebanon, that was tough duty,” said Mullaney. “Glad you survived. But no disrespect, Werner, I gotta tell you that the only people going to the hospital are you and the agent with the shattered ankle. We’ve got work to do.”

  Werner smiled, a signal to Mullaney that he understood. “Yeah, that’s what I expected. Let me get the ambassador to the ambulance and get him stitched up and then we’ll get you on your way. But that car of yours? It’s pretty awesome, but it’s not going anywhere either. You guys need a lift?”

  “Thanks, Werner, but we’ve got a squad with vehicles on its way. Should be here by the time you finish with the ambassador. Let’s get him on the stretcher.”

  19

  US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 19, 10:15 p.m.

  By the time the convoy of embassy vehicles raced into the driveway of the ambassador’s residence, the battery to Mullaney’s mobile phone was nearly shot and his ear was almost as sore as the rest of his bruised body. Both he and the ambassador had been on the phone nearly nonstop during the high-speed return to the residence. While Cleveland was fruitlessly trying to wrest information from the Israeli prime minister, Mullaney had been badgering both the duty officer at the residence, Pat McKeon, and Meyer Levinson at Shin Bet with urgent requests for updates. Their answers were the same—nothing yet.

  McKeon was waiting on the steps of the residence as the cars came to a halt. Mullaney was barely out of the car door when the duty officer grabbed him by the arm and led him off to the side. “Listen, Brian, I’ve got to talk to you before we get inside.”

  There was an edginess to McKeon’s words that prompted Mullaney to focus fully on the duty officer. “What is it, Pat?”

  Pat McKeon was in her mid-thirties, athletic in build, and, by reputation and experience, solid and reliable. “First, it’s my responsibility that Mrs. Parker left here without an escort. It’s my mistake and I’m sorry about that. But this is not about Mrs. Parker, not directly,” said McKeon. “And I didn’t want to tell you this while you were in the car.”

  Two agents were helping Cleveland out of the car and steering him toward the entrance. McKeon ran her hand through her thick dark hair, a grimace on her face.

  “When we went into the ambassador’s quarters looking for Mrs. Parker,” said McKeon, “well … the first time … we were doing a quick sweep through the entire building. When we couldn’t find her, we doubled the team and did a more exhaustive search. Agent Barnes found the maid who cleans the ambassador’s rooms. She was inside one of the closets in Mrs. Parker’s suite.” McKeon sighed. “She was dead. She was lying on her back in the closet with her mouth open. Brian”—she put her hand on Mullaney’s arm again—“she was bleeding from her eyes. Her tongue was black and swollen, and her hair was falling out.”

  Mullaney turned abruptly and looked at the receding form of Ambassador Cleveland, a cold, clammy, invisible hand turning his guts into a knot.

  “It’s okay,” McKeon tugged Mullaney’s attention, “the agents are taking Cleveland to his office, not his quarters. There’s a corpsman there to check out his wounds.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  “Still in the closet,” said McKeon. “We’ve quarantined the area. Nobody touched the body, and the marines aren’t allowing any access. We put a plastic tarp over her and got out of there. I didn’t know … was she contagious? I didn’t know …”

  “That’s okay, Pat,” said Mullaney. “I wouldn’t have known what to do at first either. Keep Cleveland in his office, and let’s go take a look.”

  The two marine guards quickly stepped to the side as Mullaney and McKeon walked into the entry alcove for the ambassador’s quarters. A heartbeat passed before one of the marines, his hand gloved, reached for the knob on the door to Palmyra’s suite of rooms.

  “On the right,” said McKeon.

  Mullaney moved to the open door of the closet. Moving boxes were stacked on either side. A brown, plastic tarp covered part of the floor. He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and lifted a corner of the tarp. The maid was lying on her back on the hard tile floor. Even though she looked just as McKeon had described, a rush of bile seared Mullaney’s throat, and he swallowed hard to keep it in place. The woman’s face was frozen in mid-scream. Her mouth was open, and a thick, black tongue jutted out from a corner. Only a few wisps of gray hair were still attached to her scalp, the rest scattered across the floor. But most unsettling were her eyes. Fear and panic were etched in the wide-open gray pupils staring blindly at the ceiling. From the corner of her eyes, rivulets of blood had run down her cheeks, into and over her ears. Her skin looked like the ashes from an old fire.

  Mullaney gently replaced the tarp. “Video?”

  “Nothing inside the closet,” said McKeon. “From one of the cameras in the bedroom it sounded like something fell and she bent over to pick it up and put it back. An instant later there was a dull thud. No cry for help.”

  “When?”

  “Video feed tells us it was about fifteen minutes after Mrs. Parker left the residence.”

  Mullaney ran his eyes around the inside of the closet. As he panned right he found the leather satchel on a high shelf, in the right corner of the closet, just above the dead woman’s body.

  Did Palmyra …

  He pulled out his mobile phone and made another call to Meyer Levinson.

  “Nothing, Brian,” Levinson said before Mullaney could speak. “I’ll let you know …”

  “Meyer, it’s something else,” said Mullaney. “We have a body here at the residence. One of the maids. In Mrs. Parker’s suite of rooms. And her death was …” Mullaney paused. “It was unusual. I need forensics and hazmat here ASAP, the works. If you can, you’d better come here and get a look at this yourself. I don’t think it’s contagious, but we better not take any chances.”

  “How is this connected?”

  “I’ll fill you in when you get here, Meyer, tell you what I know. But the stakes for Palmyra Parker just jumped through the roof.”

  20

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  July 19, 10:
31 p.m.

  Prince Faisal entered his father’s private study as a two-minded man. He was confident and unfailing in his duty to his family. Still, he did not enjoy lying to people outside his family … people he respected and who respected and trusted him. But this task was more important than keeping the respect of others outside Saudi Arabia. This task was about survival: the survival of his family, the survival of his country. And he would not fail, no matter who he needed to deceive. Faisal only hoped that dealing with the announcement of the covenant would hold the world’s attention while he and his father achieved their ultimate goal.

  If the Ishmael Covenant worked—if it brought peace—fine. It would help.

  But the family Saud’s hope was not written on some sheets of paper. His family’s future was being assembled in Pakistan.

  King Abdullah sat at his desk, a large pile of papers to his right. He would take one, read it, sign it, and lay it on a growing pile of papers to his left. King business. He looked up as Faisal approached.

  “What of the Israelis?” the king asked, short-circuiting Faisal’s attempt at greeting.

  Faisal stopped in the middle of a sumptuous gold-and-black Persian rug. He bowed from the waist. “May the king live long and prosperous … Inshallah.”

  “Yes … yes,” snapped the king. “What of the Israelis?”

  Faisal stepped closer to the desk. Though he was certain they were alone, there was no need to risk loud speech. “Prime Minister Meir cannot control his cabinet. There are too many negative voices around the table. He will make every effort to bring the covenant before the Knesset, but I doubt he will succeed. They just don’t trust us.”