Ishmael Covenant

by Terry Brennan

  “As we expected.” King Abdullah shook his head, the pencil-thin goatee that jutted from his chin punctuating every word. “I can understand their hesitance. But I thought David Meir could at least get it to the floor for discussion. Sad, if they miss this opportunity.”

  US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 19, 10:40 p.m.

  Mullaney found Cleveland in his office, sitting on a comfortably worn leather sofa and gazing into his fears.

  Thrown around inside the Mercedes during the crash, traumatized by the resultant gun battle, and then shaken to his soul by the disappearance of his daughter and the death of her maid, Cleveland was not only battered and bruised, but now he looked lost.

  Mullaney needed to do something to occupy Cleveland’s mind and keep him from slipping into shock.

  He walked over to the sofa and, as if he were lifting a baby from a crib, put his hand under Cleveland’s left arm. “C’mon, Mr. Ambassador,” said Mullaney, helping to lift Cleveland from the sofa, “let’s move to your study. You’ll be more comfortable there, and we’ll be just as accessible there if anyone needs to reach us. Levinson is on his way with a forensics team. I think we’d better get in touch with Washington first.”

  The telephone on the desk of Cleveland’s study was on speaker so both Cleveland and his security chief could participate in his call to the State Department. Mullaney was running cold water into a towel for the ambassador in the powder room off the study.

  “Atticus, I’m sorry to hear about your daughter,” said Evan Townsend, the US secretary of state. “If anyone can find her it’s Israeli security. But this is the second time in a month that you’ve been personally attacked. What’s going on?”

  Townsend was no fool. Mullaney came back into the study with the damp towel. Cleveland took the towel, as much to bide time as it was to wipe off his face, then laid it across the back of his neck. He needed to sharpen his mind and focus his thoughts on how best to answer his boss. And how much to divulge. He looked over toward Mullaney for support … advice … but all the RSO could give him was a shrug of his shoulders, lifting his hands, palms up. Big help.

  “Yes, sir,” Cleveland said toward the speakerphone. “You are right to ask why I’ve come under attack so often and whether there is something that links those incidents together. But so much has happened in such a short amount of time, I think we need to step back for a minute to get some perspective.”

  “All right, Atticus … I’m listening,” said Townsend.

  “First of all, Mr. Secretary, I’m not convinced that all the violence surrounding me is connected, particularly the embassy attack in Ankara. I don’t believe we’ve come up with anything to contradict the original intelligence reports that the attack in Ankara was directed at Kashani, not me or the embassy. It was another act of terrorism by the People’s Liberation Front, another attempt to destabilize or destroy Kashani’s government.”

  “We might have learned more,” said Townsend, “if the brother had survived his wounds or if Eroglu hadn’t arbitrarily sentenced Kashani’s driver to prison, where he was stabbed to death a week later. But I’ll accept, for now, that Kashani was the target. Wait … does the rest of this have to do with that mysterious package you told me about?”

  “What package?” It was another voice, one that Cleveland knew well … Deputy Secretary of State Noah Webster.

  Cleveland took a deep breath and then jumped in with both feet. “Yes, Mr. Secretary,” he said, addressing his response to Townsend. “I believe the package is the common thread to the other incidents—the car chase in Istanbul, the attack Mullaney and I survived on Highway One, and this apparent abduction of Palmyra. Secretary Webster, four days ago during my visit to the Neve Shalom Synagogue in Istanbul, the senior rabbi there asked for my help. He had a package that needed to be delivered to the chief rabbis in Jerusalem. He said the contents of the package would be of the utmost importance to the interests of the United States in the Middle East and that we should be the first to receive that information.”

  Cleveland glanced at Mullaney, who was nodding his head and gave Cleveland a thumbs-up.

  “I don’t have any concrete proof, other than the attacks themselves, but I believe it’s now clear that there is a widespread, ruthless, well-resourced organization determined to gain control of this package and its contents. I expect we’ll get a ransom demand soon … Palmyra for the package.”

  “So what’s in this package?” asked Townsend. “What does the message say?”

  “We don’t know the contents of the package or of the message. What I was told in Istanbul is that the package contains a 250-year-old message from a Talmudic scholar in Lithuania to the Rabbinate Council in Jerusalem. The rabbi at the synagogue in Istanbul believed the message was in a code that only the council’s scholars could break. Thus far, because of everything else that’s been going on, we haven’t had the opportunity to get the package to Jerusalem.”

  There was a prolonged pause of silence from the Washington end of the conversation. Cleveland took one end of the damp towel around his neck and wiped his face. The cool moisture heightened his alertness.

  “Atticus,” said Townsend, “what does this package and its message have to do with tomorrow’s anticipated announcement?”

  Cleveland grimaced, his head nodding. “I’ve wondered that myself, sir. It’s hard, often deadly, to believe in coincidences. But honestly, without knowing what’s in the message, I don’t think we can, as yet, link a centuries-old communication from one Jewish scholar to another with tomorrow’s potential peace announcement.”

  “Don’t get sidetracked, Cleveland.” It was Webster. “We”—he paused, as if he was shifting gears in his thoughts—“we’re all very concerned about your daughter’s safety.” Disingenuous condescension dripped from every word. “But we can’t lose our focus. We—you—need to find out what will be announced tomorrow.”

  “I’m more concerned about the possibility of a nuclear Muslim country—particularly Saudi Arabia—than I am about an Arab-Israeli peace,” said the secretary of state.

  Sitting on a sofa in his study, Cleveland glanced over at Mullaney, who was in a chair opposite. He smiled and raised his right hand in an okay gesture.

  “That’s been our focus as well, Mr. Secretary,” Cleveland responded, anxious to get the conversation away from the box. “The senior staff here all agree that a nuclear Saudi Arabia is a game changer we want to avoid. But Riyadh and Islamabad have developed close military and economic ties over the past four decades,” he added. “There’s plenty of indirect evidence of a weapons agreement. Pakistan deployed soldiers inside Saudi Arabia when they were needed to strengthen the kingdom’s defenses. And there is no question the Saudis bankrolled Pakistan with billions of dollars in financial aid, shipping them fifty thousand barrels of oil a day after Pakistan was slapped with international sanctions following their first nuclear weapons test. Then the Saudi’s cancelled the debt, keeping the Pakistan budget afloat and pouring millions of dollars of support into Pakistan’s nuclear weapons development.

  “Mr. Secretary,” Cleveland continued, not wanting to lose the floor, “I know some of our colleagues remain skeptical that Pakistan would directly sell or transfer atomic weapons to Saudi Arabia. There was a time when I thought the worst that could happen was Islamabad creating some kind of nuclear-defense umbrella with the Saudis. But now, with Captain Abbaddi’s warning, I’m inclined to believe the Saudis have called in their debts.”

  “Then the Jordanians are just as frightened of a nuclear-armed Sunni nation as we are,” said Townsend. “That is a valuable insight on the Jordanian position on the eve of what appears to be an Arab-Israeli peace. Any idea of when this transfer of weapons may occur?”

  Cleveland nodded to Mullaney.

  “No sir, but I’ve looped in Jon Lin. He’s got the FBI and the NSA working on it.”

  Cleveland could hear Secretary Townsend speaking to someone in the backgr
ound, but his words were unintelligible.

  “Atticus,” said Townsend, speaking into the phone, “this would be a national security disaster—on many levels if—”

  Noah Webster abruptly cut short Townsend’s words. “It’s already a disaster Mr. Secretary. Which leads me to wrestle with some grave reservations about the condition and effectiveness of the entire leadership team in Tel Aviv.

  “Ambassador Cleveland,” Webster continued, his voice smeared with sarcasm, “you’ve been there less than a day and there are bodies on the highway, bodies in the residence, your daughter missing, possibly abducted … and no information on this ground-breaking announcement tomorrow that promises to change the course of Middle East history. You haven’t even met with the prime minister. These are not the kind of results we need. We need information … we need infallible information about this announcement before it happens. That’s why—”

  “Okay, Noah,” Secretary Townsend interrupted. “Tone it down a bit. As you said, Atticus has been in country less than a day, and the world is coming apart around him. This is not the time to engage in fault-finding. Atticus knows what needs to be done, and he’s the right man for the job—regardless of the circumstances.”

  Mullaney felt the hint of a smile reach his lips and an attaboy ride through his thoughts, confirming his confidence in Townsend’s character.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Townsend continued, emphasizing Cleveland’s title, “I want to know how we can help you. Obviously, we need to teach Pakistan a lesson on how seriously the United States views the deterrence of nuclear proliferation. More importantly, if the Saudi royal family gets its hands on nuclear weapons, then we can certainly be assured that the radical Wahhabi clerics who freely preach jihadism under the protection of the royal family will exert direct influence on when, how, and against whom those weapons are used. If the Wahhabi clerics have their way, you and I both know the pecking order for where those weapons will be used—Iran, Israel, and the Great Satan, right here in our own back yard. We can’t allow that to happen, at all costs. Get us more information, Atticus … before it’s too late.”

  21

  US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 19, 11:25 p.m.

  It came upon him like an avalanche—a roaring, sweeping, overwhelming mass of failure that buried him under heaping mounds of regret and shame. Only once before in his life had Brian Mullaney felt this devastated: when he helplessly sat beside his father’s deathbed and prayed for an absolution that was impossible to receive.

  Mullaney’s father, Captain John Mullaney of the Virginia State Police, spent the final ten years of his life in an Alzheimer’s-induced coma. At first, as the captain began forgetting things or misplacing things, both other troopers and John Mullaney’s family needled him about growing older and losing it. Mullaney patiently took the ribbing, but he didn’t like it.

  John Mullaney was a compartmentalized machine. He went to 7:00 a.m. mass four times a week, served on the church council each Friday, and was an usher at 11:00 a.m. mass every Sunday. Every Friday was date night with his beloved Alice, and every Saturday was the time he devoted to his six children. Sunday, they all rested and watched football—the Redskins—no matter how bad the team.

  Monday through Friday, 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., he served the state of Virginia and did all in his power to protect the citizens put in his care. Mullaney was commander of Division VII of the State Police Bureau of Field Operations, centering on Fairfax County. Captain Mullaney had seen many opportunities to advance his career into the higher echelons of the service. But he knew any promotion would disrupt—perhaps destroy—his routine. And he was as addicted to his routine (a place for everything and everything in its place) as he was addicted to physical fitness and the necessity of good nutrition.

  Which made it all the more tragic when the symptoms became more prominent. Captain John Mullaney would sit on the edge of his bed at six thirty in the morning and ask his wife where he was supposed to be going that day. There were days when not only did he forget his keys, but he also forgot how to get home. It wasn’t long before Colonel Whitcomb suggested a paid leave of absence until the captain “felt better.” That time for his return to active duty never came.

  Soon he had trouble remembering his children’s names. While sitting in his worn-out but favorite recliner in his home’s family room he began to complain about how he needed to go home. The third time John Mullaney left the house in the middle of the night and started wandering the streets of Fairfax, the police found him two miles away, waiting for a bus while wearing his pajamas.

  But it was only when he became violent, when Alice felt threatened in her own home, that Brian and Doak stepped in and convinced the family a change was needed. Captain John Mullaney was admitted to All Saints Nursing Home.

  The captain continually deteriorated during his years at All Saints, moving from his own room to the assisted-living wing of the facility, and finally to a sickbed where over time his body curled into a fetal position and his mind was lost forever.

  Sitting by his father’s bedside on that last day, Brian Mullaney suffered through several levels of anguish. His indestructible dad was only a distant memory. Though he had tried for reconciliation many times, Brian was never forgiven for leaving his dad’s state police to join the US State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service. And now a Pentecostal Christian, something else his father struggled to understand and accept, Brian was fearful about his dad’s eternal salvation. During his life as a faithful and devout Catholic, Brian wondered, did his dad ever make that Romans 10:9–10 declaration: “That if you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved; for with the heart a person believes, resulting in righteousness, and with the mouth he confesses, resulting in salvation”? So simple, yet so necessary. Was his dad saved? Would he go to heaven?

  When his mom and sisters stepped outside to speak to the doctor, Brian got up and stood beside the bed, next to his father’s head. He leaned over and whispered into his dad’s ear. “Dad, I know your soul is still in your body at this moment, so I’m going to believe that you can hear me. And I know you can’t speak verbally, but if you can hear me, say these words with me. I believe God can hear you, even if I can’t … ‘God, I confess with my mouth …’”

  Two hours later, Captain John Mullaney’s soul left his body. And Brian Mullaney wept. He wept because unforgiveness was a curse that crippled his emotions even when it was buried in the deepest recess of his heart. He wept because of his loss. And he wept with the fear of failure, uncertain of his father’s eternal destination.

  And the avalanche of failure hit him like a roaring, sweeping, overwhelming mass of devastation, burying him under heaping mounds of regret and shame.

  At one point, Mullaney believed he had dug himself clear of the wreckage of that failure. Then came his split with Abigail … the separation from his daughters. Now, only a few months later, he was buried under guilt and shame once more. Was there no—

  “Brian?”

  Mullaney emerged from his thoughts and looked across at Ambassador Cleveland, whose face was as devastated as Mullaney’s emotions.

  “Are you all right?”

  There was a twitch in Mullaney’s lower lip, which he tried to catch before it spread. A quickening of his breath, heaviness in his chest. Not the time or place.

  “Mr. Ambassador.” His words stumbled over his unreliable lips. “I’ve failed you. I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t protect your daughter. Someone has died inside the residence. I … maybe …”

  A hand settled softly on Mullaney’s arm, and he looked up to see compassion and concern being offered to him as a gift of grace.

  “Brian, my friends call me Atticus. Please … call me Atticus,” said Cleveland. “And there is no failure here. We’re under attack. People get hurt in a fight. But this fight is not over. With you and Tommy, I wouldn’t want
anyone else fighting beside me. I trust you. I trust you with my life, and I trust you with Palmyra’s life. I did before today, I still do now, and I will tomorrow—no matter what the outcome. But this fight is not over. And I think we’re about to go on the offensive. I need you. I want you with me. Okay?”

  Mullaney opened his mouth to speak when the phone rang. The ambassador motioned for him to pick it up.

  “Yes?”

  “Brian, its Tommy. Meyer Levinson is here with his team … a whole bunch of nasty looking guys. They are itching to get to work.”

  Knowing some of the man’s history, Tommy Hernandez still wasn’t sure what to expect as he waited to greet Meyer Levinson, director of the operations unit of Shin Bet. What he got was a Moshe Dayan clone—the rakish Israeli general with the black eye patch who was one of the heroes of the sixty-seven war and the liberator of Jerusalem. Levinson nearly launched himself out of the arriving staff car, wearing the informal and ubiquitous khaki garb of the Israeli military and security services. Levinson was lean, muscled, coppered from the Israeli sun, and bursting with barely constrained energy. All that was missing was the eye patch.

  “Agent Hernandez,” Tommy said by way of introduction. “The ambassador is waiting for you in his office.”

  “Thank you,” said Levinson, shaking Hernandez’s hand.

  Levinson bounded up the steps of the residence two at a time, Hernandez in his wake. “If your team could wait in the reception area … no, right,” said Hernandez, hastily trying to guide Levinson in the right direction.

  When Meyer Levinson left the realm of academia, it wasn’t long before he morphed into the head of the intelligence and reconnaissance units of Shin Bet. From what Mullaney had told him, Hernandez knew that Levinson was a scourge to terrorists. When the first intifada started, Levinson’s field troops—operators—had a list of over four hundred wanted men. In two years, that number dropped to less than twenty. Fewer than half were in jail.