Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  Nora Carson may have been three years younger than Noah Webster, but she was just as calculating and ruthless in her desire for the higher levels of power and riches that were the currency of Washington’s elite. With the well-sculpted body of a trained athlete, long folds of curly, red hair falling to her shoulders, and arresting jade eyes, Carson was a stunning woman who used her model’s good looks as an asset at every opportunity. But Noah Webster never allowed himself to dwell on her beauty. What Webster really needed from Carson, besides a willing accomplice, was someone close enough that—if his plans were thwarted—he could frame for all his crimes.

  “That’s a question I would ask of you, Noah,” Carson responded. “Markham’s dead … your protector and your link to Rutherford. Where does that leave us? Our plans for the future?”

  “We don’t need Markham anymore,” said Webster. “We have Rutherford … and I have Rutherford within my control. I have enough proof of Rutherford’s secret dealings to put him in jail for three lifetimes. Our path is still the same. The off-year election for the Senate seat from Virginia. Then use every secret I’ve uncovered, every debt, every threat of scandal I can muster to—like Markham—build a career in the Senate. Get rich. And exercise a level of power and control that will make me unstoppable.”

  The dream. Just speaking the words of his dream filled Webster with a euphoric optimism and fueled his passion. It was a singular passion.

  “It’s right there for the taking, Nora. All those years wheeling and dealing favors for Markham, being his bag boy for the phantom millions that flowed into and out of his office. There is quite a list of elected officials who will wholeheartedly endorse a Noah Webster Senate campaign—or they will risk joining Rutherford in a Federal penitentiary. No … the dream is the same, the plan is the same.”

  And Webster was certain that the result would be the same. One day he would have all of Washington in the palm of his hand as Markham once had. His eyes burned, not with passion, but with revenge.

  “Then it’s payback time,” Webster whispered. “I won’t be a benevolent dictator like Markham. There will be a day of reckoning. For every racist insult, for every joke, for every humiliation. I will take their money, and then I will take their dreams and squash them in the dust.”

  It took all of Nora Carson’s discipline and determination to stand steady and unwavering under the brunt of Webster’s impassioned words. Thunderheads were roiling in her stomach, droplets of perspiration running down along her spine. What was happening?

  This was new for Carson. She thought she understood Webster’s drive for wealth, power, and position and his desire to transcend what was the reality for most black men in America, the racism and unconscious bias that still permeates so much of American society. But this … this sounded more like vengeance, like the vendetta of a sick and twisted mind. Was Webster losing it? Going over the edge?

  Carson felt a new level of fear. She kept her voice neutral, her tone calm. “Not everyone is a racist, Noah. I think you’ve … well, you’re not the only black man to feel discrimination. And women are discriminated against all the time. You know that. It’s not just you.”

  Webster jumped to his feet behind the desk on his raised platform. His eyes were wide and staring, the veins in his neck like taut cords, straining against his skin.

  “You talk to me about racism? You feel discriminated against, Nora? You feel at risk? Now you know what my world is like,” seethed Webster. “It’s a world where I will never be your equal, simply because of the color of my skin.”

  Years of pain, fear, and anguish bubbled to the surface, threatening Webster’s grip on self-control. He saw fear in Carson’s eyes, alarm at his outburst. Not now … don’t you lose it now. He forced air into his lungs, pressed down on the fury that thundered in his heart. Unclenched his fists.

  Webster compelled himself to sit in the chair behind his desk, fold his hands, and lay them on the top of the desk, his eyes never leaving Carson’s face. He coerced his lungs to breathe. Then he demanded that they breathe again. And again.

  His voice came out calmer, quieter, but with no less vehemence.

  “Do you know about the talk, Nora? The talk every black father or mother has with their sons as soon as they can understand? How to respond to a police officer so you can walk away free, or at least walk away with your life. How to survive the racism that will confront them in school, at work, in their neighborhoods. How to hold onto your dignity when your character or competence is not only questioned but ridiculed.”

  His words decreased in volume as they increased in passion.

  “The talk is when I decided I would not back down. That I would beat the white man at his own game. That I would take the white man’s power, and his money, with one end in mind. To pay back every insult four-fold, to bring suffering to those who have humiliated me. And to grow in wealth, influence, and authority. I will have beaten the talk, Nora. Then no one can touch me.”

  As Webster leaned into his desk, closing the distance with Carson, a memory he had stuffed deep into a hidden place flooded his mind.

  When he was at Harvard, a senior from Alabama—Beau Clanton—made his life a hell on earth. They were on the crew team together—Webster the coxswain in a sweep oar eight and Clanton the stroke. Clanton sat face-to-face right in front of Webster and would whisper degradation with every sweep of his oar so no one else could hear him. Call Webster an educated ape. Tell him to go back to the jungle. Call his mother vile names.

  One morning before dawn, Clanton took a single out to get in some fast laps. Webster watched from the side of the boathouse. Nobody else was around, and a mist lay heavy on the river. After his first lap, while Clanton was coming back upriver, Webster jumped in a coach’s skiff and intercepted him where a bunch of trees were overhanging the river. When Webster got near, he called Clanton’s name. Webster came alongside and, as Clanton turned, Webster hit him in the back of the head with an iron bar … crushed his skull.

  Webster pulled Clanton’s body out of the boat, tied it under his, and rowed far down the Charles River. He weighted the body and let it sink to the river bottom, far from where Clanton’s boat would have grounded. His body was never recovered. Presumed drowned.

  In the few seconds it took for the memory to consume him, Webster felt the same rush of adrenaline as when he had slammed the iron bar into the back of Clanton’s head. He could feel the hate rising once again, the fury of humiliation. He must have channeled that hate toward Carson because when his mind returned to the present and his eyes focused, Carson’s eyes were wide. Fear pulsated in her pupils.

  “Are you worried, Nora?”

  She slowly shook her head back and forth, the red curls sweeping over her shoulders. But her eyes were closed, her lips pushed tightly together, her face set in a hardened grimace—signs of resigned frustration that Webster could read easily. “I’ve been worried ever since you coerced me into altering Joseph Cleveland’s Situation Report to the secretary,” Carson admitted. “I’ve felt like there was a bull’s-eye on my back ever since. And frankly, Noah, I’ve wondered who was going to drive an arrow into the bull’s-eye first—you or someone determined to take you out.”

  Now that was an alarming answer. How far had Carson strayed from the fold?

  “Many have tried to take me out,” said Webster. “None have succeeded. Including George Morningstar.”

  Ahhh. Carson’s eyes broke away at the mention of Morningstar’s name. So a traitor in my midst.

  Now the death stroke.

  “Yes … such a shame, though,” Webster whispered. “They found George Morningstar’s car at the bottom of Bull Run this morning.” He paused for effect. “Morningstar’s body was still in the car.”

  Carson looked as if he had slapped her across the face.

  “Yes, Nora … think well whom you will serve. Do we remain friends, or do you have new friends? Remember, my enemies become my victims. And my victims rarely survive. Which are y
ou?”

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 22, 9:56 p.m.

  Mullaney’s credentials got their car through a roadblock and onto the street that fronted the residence. But there was no way to get their car near the main entrance. The driveway that curved up to the front door was impassable—huge craters surrounded it with spewed rocks and gravel, the gate to the driveway blocked by a parking lot of police vehicles and ambulances, all with their lights flashing. They pulled to the side of the street and Mullaney jumped out of the car, the diplomatic pouch, unwieldy as a collection of bowling balls, grasped tightly in his left hand. The wound on his head from the gun battle in the streets of Old Tel Aviv screamed in rebuke, but Mullaney ignored the pain and sprinted for the front entrance.

  As their car drove away from the embassy, Mullaney called every mobile phone in his residence directory. Only the head chef had answered. He was hiding in a walk-in cooler. And all he knew was that there was still shooting outside. That seemed like an eternity ago. His mind fought against fear as he came closer to the building.

  Pat McKeon was just inside the main entrance in the middle of a huddle of DSS agents. McKeon and Kathie Doorley were instructing two agents, emphatically pointing to the southern wing of the residence, two others awaiting their instructions, when Mullaney ran up the steps behind them. McKeon shook herself and faced her boss.

  “Cleveland, Mrs. Parker, and Mrs. Hughes are safe and unharmed,” she said. “During the fighting we got the ambassador, his daughter, and Ruth into the safe room with a squad of heavily armed marines. They were just escorted back up to the ambassador’s study—that room was the least damaged in his suite. We’ve just completed a sweep of the building. We got the last one about five minutes ago. Kathie and her squad cleared the south wing and the living quarters, we cleared the north wing, the marines are sweeping the basement, and the police are securing the perimeter.”

  Mullaney waited. McKeon would know what Mullaney wanted to hear … how many casualties? How many dead?

  “I don’t know how many,” she said, shaking her head. “But we got hit hard. We’ve got wounded all over the compound. Some EMTs just showed up and are teamed with the marine medics, doing the best they can. But it’s not going to be good.”

  One of the DSS agents from the Lincoln brought Rabbi Herzog through the front door as Mullaney took a half step forward and put his right hand on McKeon’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Pat. We all got hit hard. This has been a terrible week. But we’ve got to keep our focus … keep doing our job.”

  McKeon nodded her head and took a deep breath. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

  Mullaney looked around at the building’s damage and glanced out the front door through the bulletproof glass, cracked but still intact. It was a fitting image of the current security condition of the US ambassador’s residence—cracked, damaged, but still holding together.

  “You and Kathie come with me … and bring the rabbi. The first thing I’ve got to do is check on the ambassador.”

  With McKeon on his left, Doorley on his right, and Herzog and a trio of DSS agents in his wake, Mullaney convened a very mobile security team meeting as he maneuvered toward the ambassador’s private quarters.

  “There’s no time to make this official—we’ll take care of that later,” said Mullaney, as he moved hastily but gingerly over the shards of shattered tile floor just inside the residence’s main entrance. “Pat, you will take over for Tommy as interim head of the ambassador’s security detail.” He glanced to his left. “You will stick to him like glue. Got it?”

  “Thanks, Brian,” said McKeon. “His shadow won’t be as close to him as I will.”

  “Good.”

  He glanced to his right. “Kathie, you take point for security here at the residence. Find the construction schematics for the building ASAP and bring them to the ambassador’s study. But first, gather every able-bodied staffer who can swing a hammer, pull out all the plywood we have in the maintenance shack, and start nailing closed every break in our perimeter. And I want a structural engineer and a construction crew—all cleared by Israeli security—in here first thing tomorrow morning … or sooner. Call Meyer Levinson at Shin Bet and tell him what we need. Use Jeffrey Archer to help you with the phones if necessary … wait!” Mullaney stopped at the edge of the reception area. “Do the phones still work?”

  “The landlines are still functional, and all the wireless networks are up and running,” said McKeon. “But … Brian … Jeffrey Archer was killed in the earthquake. The ceiling fell on him.”

  Mullaney closed his eyes. Too many bodies. How much more? He shook himself back to the moment.

  “Okay … twelve-hour shifts. Nobody gets a day off,” said Mullaney, as he turned to his right and into the south wing. “And nobody’s allowed to get sick. Got it? We need every hand on deck. And Kathie … ask Meyer if he can spare us some contract security agents … ex-IDF. We’re already short-handed, and I want to double the guard on every shift.”

  Mullaney stopped at the marine checkpoint and locked door leading into Cleveland’s private quarters and turned to face his new leadership team. “Choose your second-in-command and let me know who you’ve selected. Questions?”

  Pat McKeon was a veteran Diplomatic Security Service agent. Her dark hair was cut short, her brown eyes piercing, and she had the athletic build of a triathlete. By reputation and experience, solid and reliable, McKeon had atoned for an earlier lapse in judgment with her selflessly heroic actions during the gun battle in the Nitzanim Reserve that saved Palmyra Parker’s life. In her mid-thirties, McKeon gave off the aura of a warrior.

  Kathie Doorley had earlier served with Mullaney in Jordan for two years. Even though she was seven years younger than McKeon and with her curly hair and soft blue eyes could pass for a school teacher, Mullaney had no hesitation putting Doorley in charge of the building’s security. She was tougher than half of the male agents in his corps. Several years back she had lost two fingers of her left hand to a mail bomb and, following rehab, spent twenty-four months wrangling with the State Department to get reassigned to field work.

  Mullaney looked into two pairs of eyes that were anxious but ready. Prepared. Determined.

  “We can do this … you can do this.” Mullaney’s voice was less commanding, more comforting. He needed these two to know that he had faith in them. “Follow your training and your instincts. You are both exceptional agents. You are ready for this.” He waited for a question … some sign of hesitation. There was none. “Okay. I’ll find you as soon as I’m done with the ambassador.”

  8

  Baghdad Convention Center, Baghdad, Iraq

  July 22, 10:13 p.m.

  Samir Al-Qahtani, only two days removed from overthrowing the fairly elected government of Iraq, was not Superman.

  Rock solid at six foot five, 250 pounds of muscle, his dark hair cropped close to his scalp, Al-Qahtani dwarfed the fighters of the Badr Brigades, Iraq’s infamous Shiite militia. A professional soldier, ruthless, loyal only to his faith and his Shia brothers, even Al-Qahtani’s legendary strength and stamina were beginning to erode under the stress-filled days and sleep-deprived nights that followed on the heels of the coup he orchestrated with his battle-hardened militia. He needed some sleep.

  The halls of the Baghdad Convention Center, home to Iraq’s parliament—the Council of Representatives—and its government, were finally quieting as Qahtani turned off the lights in his office at the end of another grueling day. He walked through the outer reception area and could see the shadows of his Badr bodyguards through the smoked glass of the office door.

  “Has the allegiance of your heart changed so much in less than two weeks?”

  Al-Qahtani tensed and spun on the heel of his combat boot, his warrior’s body quivering with barely restrained aggression as he stared into the dark shadow in the corner of the room.

  “Have you forgotten your Shia brothers so quickly and turned your back on our
years of support?”

  The taut knot at the back of his neck softened as he recognized the voice. Al-Qahtani reached out to the lamp on the desk to his right.

  Muhammad Raman, chairman of the Iranian Expediency Council, the Muslim clerics who were the actual rulers of Iran’s Islamic theocracy, was reclining comfortably in a cushioned chair. In Tehran, Raman’s appearance would have been unremarkable. Slight of build, he was dressed in plain black robes, a round, black, pillbox hat on his head and a long, bushy white beard projecting from his chin. For years, even during the despotic rule of Saddam Hussein, Raman had played the role of banker—the conduit through which Iranian military and financial support flowed into the hands of the Shia militias who opposed the Iraqi dictator. Al-Qahtani owed much of his success to Raman and the mullahs of Iran.

  “You shouldn’t hide in the dark … you could get hurt that way,” said Al-Qahtani, shifting his weight to lean against the edge of the desk. “I won’t ask how you got in here, and I won’t ask why you’re here. The deal with Turkey has nothing to do with you or with the loyalty of the Badr organization to our common goal of a unified Persia. You shouldn’t allow a little theater to get you upset.”

  Raman shifted in his chair and leveled a piercing stare at Al-Qahtani. “You are in power for twenty-four hours and your first official act, yesterday, is to sign an agreement with Turkey for the establishment of a Kurdish homeland? Have you forgotten who your brothers are? Has it slipped your mind how you have come to find yourself in such a position? Was it the Turks who provided the money and weapons to supply the Badr militia? The Ayatollah asked me personally what madness had gotten into your mind. The Ottomans have no love for you nor for the Persian people. And there will be no portion of Iran sacrificed for a so-called Kurdish homeland. We think you have made a grievous error, Samir.”

  The warrior in Al-Qahtani struggled to escape, to reach across the room and grab Raman by the throat and squeeze him to within an inch of consciousness. Instead, the self-proclaimed prime minister of Iraq turned his shoulders to the wall on his left, upon which hung a huge map of his country and the surrounding nations. His gaze remained fixed on Raman.