Ishmael Covenant

by Terry Brennan

  When the second intifada broke out in the fall of 2000, it was Levinson who formed the cross-departmental warfare groups who were famously effective for destroying large numbers of imminent threats in short order. Now it looked to Hernandez as if Levinson was ready to go to war once more.

  “What was that cryptic comment Townsend made about the Pakistanis?” Mullaney asked as they waited for Levinson to reach Cleveland’s office. “We’ve known about their nuclear weapons program for more than twenty years. What punishment does he have in mind? And why—”

  As soon as Meyer Levinson burst into Ambassador Cleveland’s office, Tommy Hernandez in tow, Mullaney’s hope began to rekindle. He was out of his chair in a breath, his hand crushed in the viselike grip that was Levinson’s handshake. “Hi, Meyer … thanks for coming over.”

  Levinson released Mullaney’s hand, patted him on the shoulder, then turned to Cleveland. “Mr. Ambassador. I regret the reality we face, but it’s a pleasure to meet you. You have been a staunch friend of Israel, and we appreciate your support. I intend to repay your faithfulness today.”

  Cleveland offered Levinson a seat, but he refused. “Thank you, but I won’t be here long.” He planted his hands on the edge of Cleveland’s desk and leaned in. “We have video of your daughter as she entered the outdoor market. The stalls are too cramped for us to get any decent visuals in there. Your men and ours have both searched the market. We know she is no longer there, but I have no evidence of her leaving.

  “So we know where she isn’t,” said Levinson. “I’ve got nearly half my Tel Aviv staff working every possibility to find out where she is. And we’re good at this, Mr. Ambassador. We’ll find your daughter. Now”—Meyer turned toward Mullaney on his left—“when you invited us to come in, you said something about a body. How can we help?”

  Rehovot, Israel

  July 19, 11:54 p.m.

  She fell down the basement steps when she was six. She was back there in her dream—sitting on the cold, concrete cellar floor, her jeans torn at the right knee, her mind a bit foggy, momentarily uncertain how she had gotten here from the kitchen, just now beginning to identify the things that hurt.

  Her mother would come to her rescue in a moment, fearful but meticulous in her examination, and she would discover the gash on the back of Palmyra’s head.

  Palmyra sat on the basement floor, waiting for her mother to hold her close, then pick her up and carry her back up the stairs. They were headed to the hospital … what was the name of that hospital? Not to worry. Her mother knew. And mother would be here. Soon, mother would be here.

  It was the light that hurt.

  There, just over her left eye. So bright. So close. The light hurt.

  Like being hit with a wave in the ocean, Parker’s body registered the cold. It penetrated to her bones.

  Where was her mother?

  Parker tried to look up the stairs to see if her mother was coming. But she could barely move her head. And her eyes must be closed.

  It was when she couldn’t move her hands that Palmyra Parker’s mind and body once again joined together in the same place and time.

  And she knew her mother was not coming to her rescue.

  22

  US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 20, 12:20 a.m.

  For a moment, Mullaney thought the residence itself was taking a deep breath. It was as if a great gulp of the air in the building was drawn in and then a collective sigh of relief exhaled as the staff was informed that the preliminary examination could detect no evidence of disease or contamination in the death of Haisha, the maid. But that news did not dispel the escalating apprehension about the fate of Palmyra Parker and the still unknown cause of the maid’s bloody demise.

  While Cleveland’s chief of staff, Jeffrey Archer, was meeting with the staff members one or two at a time to reassure them of their safety—and remind them of the confidentiality oath and non-disclosure agreement they signed before becoming employed at the residence—Mullaney and Cleveland stood at a side door with Meyer Levinson as a Shin Bet team dressed in anti-contamination suits rolled the plastic-encased gurney with the body of the maid to a waiting ambulance.

  “So that’s all you’ve got for me?”

  Levinson was clearly not buying Mullaney’s claim of ignorance as to the cause of Haisha’s death. But even with his previous history with Levinson, in his official role as regional security officer for the US Mission to Israel, Mullaney agreed with Cleveland that keeping the story of the box and the Vilna Gaon to themselves was the right course of action at the moment. So the door to the closet was closed when Levinson and his team first inspected the body.

  “There was sudden onslaught of multiple, severe traumas in this woman, so we can be fairly confident she did not die of some exotic, tropical plague,” said Levinson, clearly fishing for more information. “Even Ebola takes time to manifest. But something triggered this explosively fatal event … which occurred about the same time the ambassador’s daughter went missing. My skeptical mind-set makes it hard for me to believe there is not some connection, eh?”

  “Director Levinson,” said Cleveland, “I’m sure you and your team will be able to help us determine if there is some connection between Haisha’s death and Palmyra’s disappearance. But right now, we are as mystified as you are. I wish there was more we could tell you.”

  Levinson’s right hand was tapping out a rhythm on his thigh as his head nodded. But there was doubt in his eyes. “I wish you could tell me more too.” Levinson drew out the silence like an unspoken question. Neither Mullaney nor Cleveland flinched.

  “All right then.” Levinson made no attempt to hide the hard, calculating look he gave first to Cleveland and then to Mullaney. “I suggest you sweep the parts of the residence the maid frequented—and your quarters in particular—for any trace of a poison … just in case.” Then he surprised them.

  “When was the last time you slept?” he asked them both. “Look, this is going to take a little time, and there is nothing either you or I can do until we get some better information. My suggestion? Get some rest. I have you on speed dial, and you’ll know as soon as we find out something. You’re not going to be any good to us, or to yourselves, if you’re walking around like zombies. Sleep while you can. You’ll probably need it.”

  Rehovot, Israel

  July 20, 12:47 a.m.

  The dawning came into her darkness with a rush. The back of her head felt heavy, weighted down, hard for her neck to keep upright. She was seated on a chair, which registered before she realized her eyes were covered, something tight wrapped around her head, only the sharpened shards of light from above her left eye making any inroads into the darkness that enveloped her. Both her hands and her feet were restrained, her hands behind her … She could feel the chair, her feet simply immobile.

  Her head throbbed, pulsating pain to nauseating heights, but the cold assaulted the rest of her body, a frigid ache that lasered through her bones and brought tears to her eyes.

  Don’t move. Don’t speak. But her body would not obey. Her muscles issued a groan from deep in her chest, her head lolling to the right.

  Sounds. In the distance. Scuffling.

  Where … the market. She was in the market, her pita overflowing with hummus and chopped vegetables. A child called to her from the shadow at the side of a stall. She leaned down … she leaned down … then what? Then she was here. Oohhh, so cold.

  “Ahhh … you’ve come back to us.” Something was dragged along the floor in her direction. Perhaps a chair. She could smell him—lilac and orange. He was close.

  “Your resurrection has made Hamid a very happy man,” said the voice in front of her. It was rough edged, but there was also something liquid about it, the way his words slithered through his lips. “Had you succumbed to his very clumsy blow, it would be Hamid’s future which would now be in doubt. A dead ambassador’s daughter is of no value to any of us.”

  Fingers gently touch
ed the scalp at the back of her head. Lightning erupted inside her skull, bouncing off the bone of her cranium and searing back into her brain. The scream that started in her chest and throttled through her throat slammed to a stop against the cloth stuffed into her mouth.

  “Hamid … please … more care,” said the voice in front of her. “Forgive us … I only want to ensure that the bleeding has stopped.”

  Parker fought against the pain, the cold, the urge to vomit. She focused her will to quiet her heart, to gain some return of self-control. She needed to stay alert, conscious.

  “We need to cut her hair.” This voice was behind her, another man, speaking in Turkish. His voice was deep, graveled by tobacco, and angry. Brutish. “She’s still bleeding.” Palmyra felt her hair being moved to the side. “We need to get something against it to stop the blood.” Then he swore in his native tongue.

  Parker tried to speak—please, don’t—but all that came out was “Pluumff urtt.” Vile tasting threads got caught on her tongue then slid down her throat. Don’t touch …

  “Forgive us, Mrs. Parker,” said the slithery voice. “We need to stop the bleeding. Please hold still.”

  Fingers touched the back of her head and a supernova of pain exploded behind her eyes, blinding her senses to everything except the agony that sliced through her brain. Parker felt the scream rasping against her throat, but with nowhere to go, its echoes increased the torment raging inside her head. Hands grabbed each of her shoulders like Amazon constrictors, holding her steady. The fingers moved a fraction, multiplying the torture, and consciousness fled like a banshee at sunrise.

  23

  US Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 20, 12:53 a.m.

  Even though the door to Cleveland’s office was open, Mullaney knocked on it anyway.

  “Come in, Agent Mullaney … and please, close the door behind you.”

  Ambassador Cleveland’s battered body was tucked into the corner of his battered, brown leather sofa, to the left of the door. He laid the book he had been reading into his lap as Mullaney sat in the leather chair opposite him.

  “Your quarters were checked and cleared, sir,” said Mullaney. “There’s nothing in there to be afraid of.”

  “Hmmm.” Cleveland’s heart clutched at the image of Palmyra that came to his mind. “Nothing except memories,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Sir?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just an old man struggling with faith in the face of crisis.” Cleveland looked over at Mullaney and tried to force a smile to his face. “You know, Brian, it’s often said that faith isn’t true until it’s tested. And I certainly feel like I’m being tested now. This last week … I don’t know … it’s like God has put me in a wringer, squeezing me to my core. I’ve been looking in here for solace,” he said, lifting the book in his lap. “It’s my great-grandfather’s Bible.

  “Did you know that my great-grandfather was a slave in North Carolina?”

  A question registered on Mullaney’s face and he appeared ready to speak, but his eyes dropped to the Bible in Cleveland’s hands. He looked at it with reverence, as if it were the Magna Carta. “No, sir, I did not. You must be awfully attached to that Bible.”

  Cleveland leafed through the pages. The Bible was large, its cover thick and heavily weathered from years of use. But it was plain. No gilt edges. No fine binding. Leather, worn and wearied by time, but still holding firm. Much like me.

  “There are many notes from my great-grandfather written in the margins of this Bible,” said Cleveland. “He was a man whose faith was tested too. Lost his wife. Separated from his children for ten years until he was freed by the Union soldiers. Then he went back and rescued them from the hell they were living in. Do you know what he wrote in here, before he was freed … before he found his children? Here … I’ll read it …”

  Cleveland raised the book closer to his eyes. The notes were old and faded. “He wrote it here, in the margin to Ezekiel 37”—he glanced at Mullaney—“the chapter about the valley of dry bones and how God breathed new life into those dry bones, so that they lived once again.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mullaney, nodding his head. “I know that passage well.”

  Atticus Cleveland knew his limits were being stretched, his emotions a bubbling cauldron just beneath the surface. But as his heart yearned for word of his daughter, it was also blessed by this honorable young man who was so willing to serve. Even if it cost his own life. Cleveland took a deep breath to hold his feelings in check. “Good man, Mullaney. Good man.”

  The ambassador looked down at his Bible. “So my great-grandfather wrote this in the margin: ‘Fear is something we teach ourselves. It can be unlearned.’ Isn’t that remarkable?” He glanced for a moment at Mullaney. “He was a slave for the first forty-three years of his life. His wife was actually murdered and his children abducted while he was working for his last owner. After he was set free, he slept in barns and under trees for six months while he was searching for his children.”

  Cleveland rested the book in his lap once more. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. A vision of his great-grandfather rose up in his mind and he felt that catch in his throat, that quiver in his chin that often led to tears on his cheeks when he thought of this man who spoke to him nearly every night. His teeth pressed down on the inside of his lip as he tried to regain his voice.

  He opened his eyes. Mullaney was waiting. “You know, Brian … I’m scared,” said Cleveland, barely hanging onto his control. “I’m so frightened about Palmyra—where she is, what she’s going through, if we’ll ever get her home—I’m so frightened I don’t know if I can think. I don’t know if I can breathe. Yet we must, right? There’s no choice about thinking or breathing. It’s just part of who we are as human beings.”

  Cleveland hefted the book in his hands. “There’s no choice about faith either. Once you decide, once you put your hope and trust in a God who sacrificed his own Son to pay the blood debt for my sins, once you do that, faith is your life. Without faith, there is no life. Brian … I don’t know how other people do it. How do they survive the tragedy that we all experience in life without faith in a fair and loving God? I don’t know. All I know is that I would be lost … totally lost … without the words in this book, both my great-grandfather’s and my heavenly Father’s.”

  Mullaney was looking down at the floor, as if his shoes held some precious truth that he was trying to grasp.

  “You know, sir, it’s interesting how time changes your perspective on life, on the past.” Mullaney’s voice was low, almost whispering, as if his words were really thoughts that had leaked from his memory and dripped on the top of his shoes. “For most of my adult life I’ve struggled with the emptiness and disappointment of what … who … my dad wasn’t when I was growing up. Never held me close to him, in his arms, said ‘I love you.’ A lot of years, regretting that I was never affirmed by my dad.

  “One night, about three months ago, not long before he died, I was sitting in his room at the nursing home. Holding his hand. Talking to him about the past. Out of nowhere, a memory invaded. It was summer. The family was at a lake for a day outing. I was seven … eight … I can’t remember. The lake had a sand beach. An area of shallow water near the shore was marked off by ropes attached to wooden pilings.

  “I don’t know how it happened. I was just messing around in the water by myself, probably dreaming up stories of pirates, when my foot reached for the bottom. But there was no bottom. And I couldn’t swim. I went down once. Came up gasping. Went down again. Came up terrified, thrashing around, sucking in air, desperate. Somehow, I got a hand on one of the wooden pilings, dug my fingers into the wet wood. I had a moment … when the terror broke … and my eyes reached out to the beach.”

  Mullaney shook his head, as if his mind were still measuring the memory, sifting its importance.

  “And there was my dad, galloping into the lake. He was wearing a bathing suit, but he still had his shirt on.
There was a newspaper in his hand. And he was still wearing his shoes—brand-new, brown leather shoes that flashed their spit shine against the water churning under his charging feet. I don’t know … it seemed like he reached me in two strides. If there were lifeguards, they had no time to react. My dad barreled through the water, grabbed me in his arms, held me close. ‘I’ve got you,’ he said.

  “He carried me back to the beach, sat me down on the blanket. Looked me in the eyes and asked if I was all right. Then, as if a light had just gone on, he looked down at his shoes. ‘Brand-new.’ It was all he said … or at least all I remembered of the incident.” Mullaney looked up at Cleveland. “But in that moment of regained memory, Mr. Ambassador, all that I felt were his strong arms around me, the safety of being held against his chest, his words in my ear … ‘I’ve got you.’

  “As you were speaking of faith,” said Mullaney, “that moment flashed again in my memory. All these years, I was regretting the lack of something that was never lost. Now, when I think of my dad, I think of him with his arms around me. Keeping me safe. Saving my life. My only regret is that it took me so long to regain faith in my dad. In his love for me. There were an awful lot of days I could have used that faith.”

  His emotions were so raw, his fear so close to the surface, Cleveland was wrestling to maintain control. But Mullaney’s story touched him, brought comfort to his heart, hope to his thoughts.

  “I need the strength of my faith now … more than ever.” Cleveland laid the Bible on the low table between them and faced this young man who was quickly becoming quite important in his life. “Fear is something we teach ourselves. Tonight … right now … I’m choosing not to fear.” Cleveland shook his head and pushed back his shoulders. “Now … is there something I can do for you? Was there a specific reason you stopped in?”