Ottoman Dominion
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Praise for the Empires of Armageddon
“This roller-coaster thrill ride will keep readers breathless all the way to a nail-biting cliff-hanger, while the geopolitical premise is plausible enough to make anyone thankful that a sovereign, loving God ultimately holds our safety in his hands, as Terry Brennan portrays so well.”
—JEANETTE WINDLE, award-winning author of CrossFire, Veiled Freedom, and Freedom’s Stand
“A simply riveting action/adventure suspense thriller of a novel by an author with an impressive flair for originality and the kind of deftly scripted narrative storytelling style that holds the reader’s attention from beginning to end…. Especially and unreservedly recommended.”
—MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW
“A fantastic combination of thriller, historical conspiracy, biblical prophecy, and Middle Eastern complexity—and you’re never sure where the line is drawn between fact and fiction.”
—IAN ACHESON, author of Angelguard
“An engrossing ride into the dark world of political corruption that feels too close to home. In the epic unfolding of biblical prophecy, Ishmael Covenant catapults you across a landscape you’ve only imagined—on both a global and personal scale.”
—CHER GATTO, award-winning author of Something I Am Not
“Terry Brennan has done it again! This is an epic thriller. The stage is being set for the final parts of history.”
—GRANT BERRY, author of Romans 911
“Another great biblical prophecy/action novel from Terry Brennan. If you’ve wondered about the next big events in the Middle East, this book will give you a lot of food for thought…. Terry’s end-times work will pull you right in.”
—NICK UVA, Associate Pastor of Harvest Time Church, Greenwich, CT
“Amazing, awesome, powerful, anointed…. Will keep you turning pages and praying for the peace of Jerusalem.”
—MARLENE BAGNULL, director of Write His Answer Ministries
EMPIRES OF ARMAGEDDON
Ishmael Covenant
Persian Betrayal
Ottoman Dominion
THE JERUSALEM PROPHECIES
The Sacred Cipher
The Brotherhood Conspiracy
The Aleppo Code
Ottoman Dominion
© 2020 by Terry Brennan
Published by Kregel Publications, a division of Kregel Inc., 2450 Oak Industrial Dr. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49505.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.
Distribution of digital editions of this book in any format via the internet or any other means without the publisher’s written permission or by license agreement is a violation of copyright law and is subject to substantial fines and penalties. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.
Apart from certain historical facts and public figures, the persons and events portrayed in this work are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Quotations of the Aaronic blessing (Numbers 6:24–26) are from the New American Standard Bible® (NASB). Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. www.Lockman.org
Other Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™
Chapter opening photo by Meriç Dağlı on Unsplash.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Brennan, Terry (Novelist), author.
Title: Ottoman dominion / Terry Brennan.
Description: Grand Rapids, MI : Kregel Publications, [2020] | Series: Empires of armageddon ; book 3
Identifiers: LCCN 2020032842 (print) | LCCN 2020032843 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Christian fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.R4538 O88 2020 (print) | LCC PS3602.R4538 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032842
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032843
ISBN 978-0-8254-4532-3, print
ISBN 978-0-8254-7499-6, epub
Printed in the United States of America
20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 / 5 4 3 2 1
To my grandchildren: Jaclyn, Michael, Jack, Charlie, Zahra, and Khari. I am hopeful.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
United States
Brian Mullaney—Diplomatic Security Service (DSS) agent; regional security officer overseeing the Middle East; senior agent overseeing security for Joseph Atticus Cleveland, the US ambassador to Israel
Abigail Mullaney—Brian Mullaney’s wife; daughter of Atlanta-based financial giant Richard Rutherford
Joseph Atticus Cleveland—US ambassador to Israel
Palmyra Athena Parker—Ambassador Cleveland’s daughter
Tommy Hernandez—Former DSS chief for Ambassador Cleveland’s security detail in Israel; Mullaney’s best friend; killed in a gun battle with the Disciples in Amman, Jordan
Lamont Boylan—President of the United States
Evan Townsend—US secretary of state
Noah Webster—Deputy secretary of state for management and resources; oversees DSS
Nora Carson—Undersecretary for management; Noah Webster’s right hand
George Morningstar—Deputy assistant secretary for DSS; Mullaney’s former supervisor
Ruth Hughes—Political officer, US embassy, Tel Aviv
Jeffrey Archer—Cleveland’s secretary at the ambassador’s residence and the US embassy in Tel Aviv
Pat McKeon—DSS agent in Tel Aviv; interim head of Cleveland’s secretary detail after death of Tommy Hernandez
Kathie Doorley—DSS agent in Tel Aviv
Senator Seneca Markham—Former chair of Senate Foreign Relations Committee, now retired
Richard Rutherford—Billionaire Georgian banker and DC power broker
Israel
David Meir—Prime minister of Israel
Moshe Litzman—Minister of the interior of Israel
Benjamin Erdad—Minister of internal security of Israel
Meyer Levinson—Director, Operations Division, Shin Bet—Israel’s internal security agency
Rabbi Mordechai Herzog—Former head of the Jewish Rabbinate Council in Jerusalem
Father Stefanakis Poppodopolous—Greek Orthodox monk; computer hacker; code breaker
Turkey: Ottoman Empire
Emet Kashani—President of Turkey
Arslan Eroglu—Prime minister of Turkey
The Turk—Otherworldly pursuer of the box and the prophecy
Iraq and Iran: Persian Empire
Samir Al-Qahtani—Deputy prime minister of Iraq; leader of the Badr Brigades; orchestrates military takeover of Iraqi government
Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Jordan, and Palestine: Islamic Empire
King Abdullah Al-Saud— King of Saudi Arabia
Prince Faisal ibn Farouk Al-Saud—Saudi defense minister; son of King Abdullah
Sultan Abbaddi—Commander of the Jordanian Royal Guard Brigade, personal bodyguards of the king and his family
PROLOGUE
Washington, DC
April 4, 1987
Thin and straight like a Popsicle stick in a good suit, Noah Webster stood behind the sofa, a sentry on duty. His
eyes never fell to Senator Markham, seated in front of him and in earnest conversation with the chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. No, Webster’s eyes relentlessly swept the spacious but crowded room, looking for allies or victims. That was the breadth of his world … allies or victims. Not enemies. Senator Markham’s enemies were inevitably victims … victims of Markham’s power and influence. And Webster’s ruthless wielding of that power.
Across the room, standing behind one of the columns that flanked the entryway, Joseph Atticus Cleveland took the measure of Webster and recognized a merciless man unwavering in his quest for even greater power. Cleveland broke his gaze away, pivoted through the arched entry, and headed in the direction he hoped would take him to the kitchen and that incredible aroma of mango and sizzling garlic that was causing convulsions in his stomach.
“Cleveland, isn’t it?”
Turning toward the voice, Cleveland saw Noah Webster emerge from an overfilled dining room as the crowd parted like the Red Sea. His hand was held out, a handshake offering, expecting a response. “Noah Webster … Senator Markham’s chief of staff.”
Trapped … make the best of it.
“Joseph Cleveland. It’s a pleasure, sir. And I believe most of Washington knows who you are, Mr. Webster. It’s kind of you to introduce yourself. But my stomach is demanding I follow this magnificent aroma.”
Webster moved closer, his strong hand still wrapped around Cleveland’s fingers. The slippery sweetness of gardenia banished the mango and garlic back to the kitchen and nearly overwhelmed Cleveland’s outer veneer of composure. Inwardly, every warning siren was wailing.
Great-grandson of a former slave, Cleveland was thirty years old with the build of an NFL tight end, four years into his career with the State Department and well into the lengthy and demanding process of applying for assignment to the US Foreign Service, with aspirations to one day earn a senior consular post overseas. Perhaps Ambassador Cleveland?
“Thank you, Mr. Cleveland. The aroma is captivating, but my duty is to remain by the senator’s side should he need me,” said Webster, who glanced left, then right, before skewering Cleveland with a look of menacing power. “Joseph, are you aware that Senator Markham is about to open his investigation of Major Lee’s unlawful activities at the Defense Intelligence Agency?”
Noah Webster was thirty-one years old, the zen master of Washington politics, notorious within the Beltway. A striking black man—half Caribbean, half African-American, and self-consciously short—Webster was a formidable and forbidding force in the halls of DC political power.
Cleveland’s knees felt like the warm mud along the French Broad River that flowed through his homeland in the finger of western North Carolina—they were soft and sinking fast. The sting of acid reflux overwhelmed his hunger. Steady … remain steady. No fear. Please, show no fear.
“No, sir,” said Cleveland, his voice calm and his grip firm. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Yes … could be a nasty business.” Webster’s eyes narrowed, focused like laser-guided weapons. “You worked as liaison between State and the DIA, did you not? In Lee’s office?”
“For a short time.” Cleveland’s voice was steady, but his heart was racing.
For nine months of 1985, Cleveland was on loan to the Defense Intelligence Agency, the organization that provides boots-on-the-ground espionage across the wide spectrum of US military operations. Routinely, twenty-five percent of the president’s morning intelligence briefing came from DIA sources. Cleveland was assigned to a project run by Air Force Major Anderson Lee. His task was boring … insulting, almost. He was nothing more than an overqualified, highly paid messenger. Until November 26, when subpoenas were served. Lee and his boss, General Isaiah Zimmer, faced the possibility of indictments on illegally diverting Pentagon funding and obstruction of justice. Cleveland had been kept in the dark by Major Lee and was innocent of any wrongdoing. But scandal is a fickle mistress, often condemning the innocent and the guilty with the same brazen impunity.
Without releasing his grip, Webster moved closer and lowered his voice. “The senator knows you are innocent of any complicity in this crime, Joseph. But so often there is collateral damage, and others on the committee may not see, as clearly as we do, the distinction between being simply a messenger boy and a conspirator. I’m trying to convince the senator that you don’t even need to be called as a witness. We wouldn’t want to jeopardize your pending appointment to the Foreign Service, now would we?”
So there it was. The bait and the trap. Clearly Webster knew exactly what Cleveland’s responsibilities were and who he reported to at the DIA. True to his Washington legend, Webster was offering Cleveland a deal—a way out of possible trouble. But what did Webster want in return?
Cleveland tilted his bald head to the right, a question entering his eyes and his voice. “Is there some way I may be of assistance?”
Webster smiled, and Cleveland feared his knees would lose all control. If a smile could threaten annihilation, Webster’s smile was nuclear.
“Oh yes. You will be of assistance to me, Joseph.” Webster’s smile grew wider. “Or you will join Major Lee in a federal prison.”
Webster finally released Cleveland’s hand. He half turned back into the dining room but looked over his shoulder. “Enjoy your dinner, Joseph.” And with a nod of his head, Webster vanished into the crowd.
Cleveland placed his right fist in front of his lips, wrapped his left arm over his stomach and hurried off in search of a restroom. It was bad form to vomit in the midst of a reception for movers and shakers, for allies and enemies.
1
US Embassy, Tel Aviv, Israel
July 22, 2014, 9:02 p.m.
Brian Mullaney’s world lurched sideways. The floors and walls of the fortress-like United States embassy in Tel Aviv undulated like a drunken jellyfish. What looked, felt, and sounded like an earthquake had Mullaney’s internal threat monitors off the charts. Again.
In the last seventy-two hours, Brian Mullaney’s world had raced like an avalanche from the rational to the inexplicable. And through each of those hours, a rising tide of violence had haunted Mullaney’s every move—a pervading and relentless carnage that had claimed six American lives, including that of his best friend.
Now to his right, an eight-foot-tall armed angel hovered above the convulsing floor, and to his left, a terrified, bearded rabbi sat flat on the seat of his pants. But after what Mullaney had experienced the last few days, nothing came as a shock.
The angel, Bayard, pulled an immense, gleaming silver sword from the scabbard at his waist. The sword was suffused with light and thrummed like a chorus of heavenly voices; a stiletto sharpness was honed to its edge.
His wings flexing behind his heavily muscled frame, Bayard was prepared to go to war.
“We must hurry,” he said, looking toward where the door to Mullaney’s office had once stood. “Our enemies are here. They are pursuing the box of power.”
It felt as if every molecule in the building had a mind of its own and each was heading off in different directions. Mullaney’s office was twisted like a wet rag being wrung out … the corners of the room appeared to be melting … and the wall opposite was ripped apart.
Regional Security Officer for the Diplomatic Security Service, responsible for the security of all United States diplomatic personnel in the Middle East, Mullaney’s six-two frame was still lean and muscled at forty-four. A nineteen-year veteran of DSS, he instinctively placed a hand over his earbud and turned slightly to the mic in his lapel to give orders to his DSS agents and the marines guarding the embassy. “Lock down the building … mobilize all security … double the guard at each entry point and do a floor-by-floor, face-to-face accounting of all staff. Stay alert!”
Mullaney stumbled around his desk and grabbed the elderly rabbi, Mordechai Herzog, by the arm. “C’mon … you’re getting under the desk.”
“I don’t know if these old bones can squeeze in the
re,” said Herzog, the former chief rabbi of Israel’s Rabbinate Council, his eyes darting back and forth, watching the moving walls.
Mullaney pulled Herzog to his feet and emphatically moved him toward the desk.
From across the room, the armor-clad angel called through the groans of a building in torment. “Guardian … follow me when you can!” The air seemed to be shifting back and forth as much as the walls as Bayard’s form evolved from solid to amorphous to vapor. And he was gone.
Guardian. That was a new title Mullaney needed to absorb. Passed down through generations of rabbis for over two hundred years, the guardian’s responsibility was to protect and defend both the prophecy of the Vilna Gaon and the lethal box of power that contained it. Only minutes earlier, Rabbi Herzog had spoken the Aaronic blessing over Mullaney, transferring the mantle of guardian to the DSS agent.
Mullaney hadn’t fully grasped why he was ordained as the final guardian—Bayard had called him the last in the line of the Gaon’s appointed heirs. But after Bayard’s warning, he fully suspected that this earthquake was being used by the gang of Turkish terrorists who had relentlessly pursued the box from Istanbul, where it was brought out of hiding only seven days ago. Only the guardian, under the power of the anointing, could touch the box of power without incurring a horrible and instantaneous death. But Mullaney had no doubt that those same murderous thugs were now invading the embassy in order to raid the vault where the Gaon’s bronze box was currently secured.
Rabbi Mordechai Herzog was sprawled on the floor under Mullaney’s desk, desperately clinging to its legs, as the building continued to convulse in chaotic jolts.
“Follow him?” Mullaney squeezed out of his chest. “How can I follow him?”
Another violent eruption throttled the embassy, and a cascade of concrete crashed into the middle of the floor, missing Herzog and Mullaney by inches.
He looked at Herzog, who was still on the floor, squeezed under the desk, his frail legs pulled up underneath his body. “Stay here. You’re safe.”