Rounding a corner, Mullaney saw Rabbi Herzog standing in the foyer of the embassy’s ravaged main entrance. His eyes were wide and staring into space, his hair disheveled, and his clothes rumpled from crawling around on the floor. He was standing next to the marine who had recovered him from Mullaney’s damaged office.
“All right,” Mullaney said into his phone as he came to a stop. “I’m on my way to the residence, and I’m taking Rabbi Herzog with me.”
“You’re going to have a tough time getting there,” Levinson warned. “There were street demonstrations—both for and against Meir’s government and the Ishmael Covenant—going on throughout the country, but a couple of the ones here in Tel Aviv have escalated into violent clashes since reports of these earthquakes started circulating. Why are you dragging Herzog with you?”
“Long story … not enough time,” said Mullaney. “But maybe you should join us. I guarantee you’ll be interested.”
“Then I’ll try to get over to the residence. But stay alert … and keep in touch. We’re not out of the woods yet.”
Mullaney turned to the station chief. “The police have blocked off the street. You need to secure the perimeter as soon as possible with our men. Use the marines to make a thorough sweep of the building to check on our staff and do a damage assessment. Call me with an update when you have one.”
He felt a hand touch his right arm. When he looked, Rabbi Herzog was staring at the large bag hanging from his left hand. The size of an oversized canvas boat bag, this heavy-duty style diplomatic pouch was made of leather, banded both vertically and horizontally for strength, with a hasp that came across the top and was secured by a heavy, brass lock that snapped into place and was flush with the surface of the bag.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked the rabbi, his eyes never leaving the bag.
The bag was heavy. Inside were two containers, one inside the other. On the inside was the deadly box of power, a two-hundred-year-old bronze box with kabbalah symbols hammered into its lid, protective home of the Vilna Gaon’s second prophetic message. Surrounding that bronze box was the egg-shaped blast container that Colonel Levinson’s Shin Bet bomb squad used for containment when the Gaon’s bronze box was recovered following a running gun battle in the Old City of Jerusalem.
“Yes,” Mullaney answered, hefting the bag. “And right now, I think the safest place I can keep it is right by my side.”
Mullaney eased Rabbi Herzog into the back seat of the embassy car, a slightly modified Lincoln with bulletproof windows and armored doors. “What’s the fastest route to the residence?” he asked the DSS agents in the front seat.
“North to Rokach Boulevard and then up the Namir Road—it’s more direct than the highway,” said the driver. “Probably about twenty minutes, depending on traffic.”
“You’ve got ten.”
The tires were smoking, the Lincoln flying up Ha Yarkon Street toward the first roadblock, even as the driver said, “Yes, sir.”
The commander and one of his men were standing in the midst of a small crowd that had gathered on the far side of Ha Yarkon Street, across from the embassy—those drawn by the sound of gunfire and not frightened off by the roiling eruptions that shook the embassy and undulated the ground at their feet.
“We should leave,” said a low voice at his shoulder.
“We wait,” said the man with the ponderous scar crossing the right corner of his face.
If I was him, thought the commander, I would want to reach the ambassador at the residence. His men had stolen three motorbikes that were watched over and ready on the promenade along the far side of the seawall. His third remaining disciple had recovered their car and was waiting north, beyond the street barricades. If he was correct …
An official-looking car skidded to a loud stop in front of the main entrance.
Out of the main doors came his prey … with the prize by his side! He was sure of it. In that fat leather bag.
“He has the rabbi,” said the voice by his shoulder.
“He has the box!” The commander spit the words into the salt-tinged air. “Quickly … I know where they are going.”
6
US State Department, Washington, DC
July 22, 2:36 p.m.
It was only days ago that Nora Carson was totally on board with Noah Webster and all his machinations for ever-increasing power. Though unpredictable and mercurial at times, Webster, her superior at the State Department, appeared to be Carson’s best chance for reaching her own desire for influence and riches. Washington, DC, was the capital of influence and riches, and Carson—always stunning in her pin-perfect power suits, her natural red curls falling over her shoulders—was determined to get her share.
But something unforeseen happened. Webster appeared to be coming unglued. The deputy secretary of state for management and resources, Webster spent decades getting himself in position to succeed in his final scheme—buying his way into the highest seats of elected office. During twenty-eight years as chief of staff to Senator Seneca Markham, perhaps the most powerful politician in DC, Webster had carved a reputation for himself: ruthless, heartless, relentless. Nothing was off limits and nothing stood in his way.
Two years ago, when Markham was on the verge of retirement, the senator force-fed the appointment of Noah Webster to his current post at the State Department. During his two years at State, Webster lived up to every unsavory aspect of his reputation.
So Carson wasn’t surprised when Webster fell into collusion with the prime minister of Turkey, co-conspirators to derail US President Lamont Boylan’s efforts to forge a treaty with Iran. Billionaire banker Richard Rutherford, Markham’s money pit, was keeping a closed fist on the confiscated Iranian billions locked up in his banks, money that had spewed forth hundreds of millions in untracked interest over the last thirty years, money Rutherford used to propel his own Machiavellian schemes for power. Money that Noah Webster was promised would overwhelmingly fund his run at a Senate seat from Virginia. If successful … well, who knew? That was Webster’s big gamble—how far, how high, could Rutherford’s nearly limitless pockets take him?
But Webster’s grand scheme suddenly appeared to be showing cracks. Two days ago, with the banker demanding the demise of the president’s Iran nuclear treaty or he would slap a lid on the flow of his clandestine funding, Webster reverted to extortion, threatening to make public Rutherford’s decades of illegal contributions to Senator Markham. A bad idea. Trying to bully the billionaire banker was as healthy as juggling rattlesnakes.
Then this morning, Webster lost his most formidable ally. Seneca Markham was found dead in his DC apartment.
Her boss—her partner in crime?—was playing a very risky game. And the odds were beginning to go against him. Which was not a good thing. Because Webster’s reputation for ruthlessness was well earned. And Nora Carson suddenly found herself in a much more precarious position. Over the years she helped Webster execute several schemes that skirted the edges—perhaps overstepped the boundaries—of both ethics and law. A risk-reward equation she was willing to take at the time, as long as Webster exercised the level of power that would hopefully fill her off-shore bank account and shield her from potential harm.
Power that increasingly seemed in jeopardy.
Walking down the fourth floor corridor of the Truman Building in Washington, home to the State Department, arbitrarily summoned to Webster’s office once again, Carson was beginning to wonder if she had saddled the right horse. And she was beginning to sweat.
Then there was George Morningstar.
Did Webster know about Morningstar?
Until recently, George Morningstar was the deputy assistant secretary for diplomatic security. Extremely competent, well-liked, Morningstar got too close to Webster’s deal with the Turkish prime minister, which got Morningstar banished to a do-nothing job in the bowels of the Truman Building and his right-hand at DSS, Brian Mullaney, bounced out of Washington and into Israel.
Now it appeared that Morningstar, previously the overseer of internal investigations at the State Department, was discretely asking questions about Webster’s tenure at State, quietly turning over rocks. Yesterday, Morningstar stopped at her table at the Washington Grill and handed her an envelope. The envelope contained records that hinted to a shady financial link from Rutherford to Markham to Webster and a very preliminary and tenuous outline of what Carson knew were Webster’s most nefarious schemes.
George Morningstar was on a hunt. Webster was his prey. And anything that threatened Webster’s future threatened Carson’s future as well.
So in the pre-dawn hours, Carson called Morningstar and told him they needed to talk immediately. She was desperately looking for a way out. Now walking down this corridor in the Truman Building, she had never been more frightened. Morningstar failed to show up this morning at the remote diner in rural Virginia—and Nora Carson was working very hard to control her rising panic. What were her options? Who could she trust? And what would that trust cost her?
One of Webster’s more ludicrous compensations for his height was the raised dais at the far end of his office, close to the windows that looked out upon Washington’s splendor, upon which his desk sat in throne-like dominance. As Carson entered, wary and anxious, the wannabe king was seated at his throne. What does he know?
Namir Road, Tel Aviv
July 22, 9:37 p.m.
The Namir Road was a long, flat, palm-tree lined, six-lane street through an upscale neighborhood of Tel Aviv. At this time of night, the shopping malls were closed, most people were home, and the traffic was light.
Doors locked according to DSS protocol, the diplomatic pouch sitting on the floor between Mullaney’s legs, the Lincoln shot up the Namir Road like a heat-seeking missile. Until …
They had nearly reached the intersection with Einstein Road, just to the west of the Tel Aviv University campus, when the driver throttled down dramatically. “Trouble, Brian.”
Mullaney looked out through the windshield. Up ahead, closing fast, the intersection of Einstein and Namir Roads was a tumult of people, a swirling knot of humanity, rimmed on four sides by Israeli police cars, their blue strobe lights flashing. “Stop by one of the police cars,” said Mullaney. “Let’s see if we can we get through.”
“I don’t like this, sir,” said the driver. “That’s a lot of people.”
“Right … but I don’t want to lose time and go back unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Slowing to a crawl, the driver pulled alongside the nearest police vehicle as Mullaney lowered his window and offered his credentials to the officer who turned in their direction.
“Meir must go,” chanted the assembled voices. “Meir must go!”
“Any chance we can get through?” asked Mullaney. “I need to get to the ambassador’s residence immediately.”
The Israeli police officer looked at the credentials, looked up at Mullaney’s face, then turned and looked over his shoulder. “Captain!”
“There are two ways they would likely go,” said the driver as the commander threw himself through the open door of the car and into the front passenger seat. “Either the Ayalon Highway or up the Namir Road. At this time of night, I would travel the Namir Road. More direct.”
“Go!”
The police captain looked tired and bored. With Mullaney’s credentials in his left hand, he swept it out toward the milling mass of people, some carrying placards, that flooded the intersection and the roads leading into it. “You see this? This is an explosion waiting to happen,” said the captain. “There’s probably five hundred people crammed into that intersection, and they probably have five hundred differing opinions about this peace treaty … some protesting, some celebrating. If I try to drive a wedge through that group to get your car …”
“Brian …”
Mullaney looked away from the police captain at the sound of the driver’s voice. Through the windshield he could see that the tide of the mass protest was heading in their direction, like a wave building to its crest.
“This is not good,” snapped the captain. “Keep those people …”
But the wave was breaking, protestors washing around and through the policemen and their vehicles, rapidly surrounding the embassy’s Lincoln.
“We look too official,” said Mullaney, as the first fists started pounding on the car’s hood, placard sticks slapping against the roof, a multitude of hands initiating a rocking that was picking up intensity.
“Meir must go! … Meir must go!”
The captain and his officer turned toward the crowd, their arms outstretched, trying to stem the tide, the captain calling for more officers.
“Meir must go! … Meir must go!”
“Go faster,” hissed the commander.
“We’ll get stopped.”
“Go faster! If we can catch them on this road … what’s that?” Up ahead he could see the blue flashing lights … then the sea of people spilling out of the intersection … then … “Stop! Pull over!”
Now that ten, nasty-looking Israeli police officers ringed the Lincoln, the banging stopped, the rocking stopped … but the chanting got louder.
“Meir must go! Meir must go!”
And the throng crowding around the embassy car refused to budge.
The commander, one of his disciples at his back, inched his way through the shifting, shouting, chanting crowd that surrounded the black car like a caravan engulfed in a sandstorm. He got to within two rows of protestors, but the people were packed tightly around the car, pushing up against the arms of the policemen who were failing to keep order. Jostled from side to side, he caught only glimpses of the people inside the car. The old man was in the rear seat, on the far side. But his enemy was just in front of him.
The man who killed his father. The enemy of the Exalted One. His enemy. Hate rippled off the commander like heat waves shimmering across the summer desert, his malignant eyes riveted to the man on the other side of the window.
“Meir must go! Meir must go!”
“We could slide a bomb under the car … be done with it,” said the soft voice from behind him.
“No …” he hissed. “We are unleashed to render death upon their heads, but we were also dispatched to retrieve the box. And the box is also within the car. But”—he pushed against the bodies in front of him—“I want his blood on my hands.” He reached behind him for the gun carried by his disciple. His prey was looking forward, the left side of his face visible only on an angle. The commander leveled the wrath of his vengeance like laser beams through the window of the car.
“We’ll go. Let us go,” snapped the driver.
Mullaney reached forward and rested a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “It’s breaking up … we’ll be out of here soon. Don’t get jumpy. We don’t want anyone hurt.”
Settling back into the seat, Mullaney felt heat rising on the left side of his face. He raised his hand to his cheek … fever?
Beware! Look to your left.
At the sound of Bayard’s voice, Mullaney snapped his head to the left. There, engulfed in malevolent focus, was a young man with Middle Eastern features, dressed in black, the fury of his eyes boring into Mullaney’s skull. Tall, clearly muscled, a livid pink scar carved from his right ear across the top of his forehead, just under the hairline, the man was trying to push his way closer to the car. He was reaching behind him for something.
“Look …” Mullaney’s warning was cut short as the car burst forward.
“Clear!” shouted the driver, muscling the car along an open corridor the police had finally cleaved through the crowd.
Mullaney tried twisting his head, but the car hurtled through the intersection, leaving the crowd—and that vision of unrestrained rage—quickly dwindling in their wake.
The words that burst from the commander’s mouth were Turkish, but their foul intent was clear as they were hurled after the fleeing car. He turned abruptly, knocked down a young
man and woman who stood in his path, and, once clear of the dispersing crowd, broke into a sprint toward the place where his car was parked, the engine running.
7
US State Department, Washington, DC
July 22, 2:44 p.m.
Noah Webster’s pulse was slamming against the walls of his arteries, adrenaline coursing through his blood in a torrent. Even though the covert operators he had hired were outrageously expensive, Webster knew from experience how unearthly effective they could be. That he had received no updates on their surveillance of Richard Rutherford or Abigail Mullaney was disturbing.
And now Markham was dead. Webster wasn’t fool enough to believe the initial speculation of a heart attack. Senator Seneca Markham’s heart was as strong as a horse. The reports of an apparent heart attack chilled Webster’s spine. All his suspicious senses were screaming that Markham didn’t die of natural causes. So then … what? Or, who? And where was Rutherford?
Too many pieces. Too much could go wrong. Too much at stake.
The world around him was gathering speed, hurtling toward a conclusion he knew was still very much in doubt. If he made a mistake now …
I will not fail. I will not falter.
But now he needed every ally he could find. Or frighten.
Carson entered his office. Her steps were … hesitant.
Webster kept his eyes on the papers atop his desk. They were blank. But Carson would never know that. He sharpened the razor’s edge of his voice, hoping to draw blood. “It’s a very short walk from your office to mine,” said Webster, his voice hushed. He lifted his left arm and glanced at his watch. “Forty-seven minutes. A new record for sloth. The events of the world will not wait for you, Nora. And neither will I.” He looked up and captured her gaze. “Can I depend upon you, Nora?”
Ottoman Dominion Page 4
