The fingers at his throat disappeared, the diabolical red mist evaporated, and the Turk dropped back into the sodden bed, the skin of his face blistered, his clothes awash with perspiration. Utterly exhausted, the Turk collapsed into unconsciousness.
Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv
July 22, 11:15 p.m.
“It’s about time I heard from you, Atticus.”
There was no mistaking the stern rebuke in the words of Secretary of State Evan Townsend. And Ambassador Joseph Cleveland knew they were fairly deserved.
“I appreciated the text updates,” snapped Townsend, “but what in thunder have you been waiting for? I’ve got federal agents engaged in a gun battle in the streets of Amman. One of our own—your own—killed inside a blown-up building. And it takes you nearly eight hours to get on a phone and tell me what’s going on? I’ve got the Jordanian ambassador wearing me out about unregistered armed agents putting innocent Jordanian lives at risk. It’s a darn good thing the king is our friend or we—”
Silence. Townsend’s voice returned, none too pleased. “And now the ops center tells me there were earthquakes in Tel Aviv, but under only our embassy and the residence? Is that true? And I’m just now hearing from my ambassador? You’re stretching my patience pretty thin, Atticus. Your story better be good, or I just may have to—”
“Mister Secretary.” Cleveland’s voice was tempered, his tone insistent, as he interrupted his boss. “I apologize for the delay, but if you give us a few minutes, I believe you will fully understand. Honestly, Evan … it couldn’t be helped. It’s Gang of Four.”
Cleveland could hear the long, deep sigh on the other end of the connection. Gang of Four. They were the magic words.
Only thirty hours earlier, Secretary Townsend enlisted Cleveland, Mullaney, and Hughes to join him in a tightly knit group sworn to secrecy. The Gang of Four had the express mandate to track down what they feared was a traitor in the State Department. Evidence indicated a person in State’s higher echelons was sharing critically sensitive information that was reaching the murderous gang of thugs who had been relentlessly attacking Cleveland, his daughter, and Mullaney and his DSS agents.
Now Cleveland, Mullaney, and Hughes were huddled in an undamaged corner of the ambassador’s study, part of his private living quarters inside the residence. It was one of the few places in the ravaged building where a marine wasn’t standing guard with his weapon drawn. They were seated around a low, round, olive-wood table, Cleveland’s iPhone on speaker in the middle of the table.
“Tell me … fast,” said Townsend. “I have a cabinet meeting with the president in twenty minutes and I need to get over to the White House. And Atticus, I’m sorry I snapped on you. The ship of state is seriously leaking water over here, but it sounds like you and your people are in a war zone. I keep getting body counts. I’m sorry … tell me what you discovered.”
“It’s bad,” said Cleveland. “During the earthquakes, both the embassy and the residence came under attack—we believe it’s the same gang of terrorists. There are multiple casualties at each location and significant damage to both buildings. We should have a full casualty list within the hour, and we’ll find out more about the long-term viability of the buildings in the morning. We are in a war here, Evan. But that’s not the worst news.
“Ruth and Brian are here with me,” Cleveland continued, trying to fill each minute with as much information as possible. “They went to Amman at the urgent request of the Emir of Qatar. He told them King Abdullah holds no hope for Israeli ratification of the Ishmael Covenant but, rather, lusts after a transcendent, nuclear-armed Islamic empire. By the way, the Saudi nukes were intercepted. Somebody melted them on the docks of Gwadar, Pakistan. But Abdullah will try again. And personally I don’t believe the Persians will ever relent from their pursuit of nukes and their delivery systems. But there is a third ancient empire poised for resurrection. Evan, the emir said he has seen evidence of an imminent plot by some in the Turkish government to attack Incirlik and steal some or all of the nuclear weapons stored on the airbase.”
There was a silent breath. “God help us,” whispered Townsend. “Kashani is a fool if he thinks he can get away with—”
“Mister Secretary,” Hughes interrupted, “Kashani is a radical Islamic jihadist who thirsts for a reborn Ottoman Empire and the emergence of the last Mahdi. He doesn’t care. All that’s—”
“Okay … okay,” said Townsend, trying to quicken the conversation. “I can’t take this to the president or the cabinet on the word of the emir of Qatar. He held the US hostage for three hundred million dollars. Said he would not agree to the expansion of the Al Udeid air base unless we sold him another ten F-15 fighter jets in exchange. Then he changed his mind on the expansion once he got the fighters in his hands. He’s still dragging his feet on both the base expansion and payment for the F-15s.”
“Mister Secretary,” Hughes quickly jumped in, “there were reasons for that …”
“I hear you, Ruth, but there were three hundred million reasons why the emir should have kept his word,” snapped Townsend. “Look … I need solid, reliable corroboration before I can take this to the president. It’s just too—”
“Evan, there’s more,” interjected Cleveland. “The emir also informed Ruth that he has firsthand information that someone in our State Department is communicating directly with the same people in the Turkish government who are responsible for this plot to steal the nuclear weapons. It’s our guy, Evan.”
His psyche frayed and his emotions ripped raw by the terror-fueled anxiety of the last few days, Cleveland still felt sorry for the Secretary of State. He could almost hear Evan Townsend’s heart breaking through the connection.
“We need to find him … today,” Townsend’s voice was a whisper. “And I need to know—yesterday—if the emir’s assertion is true. We may already be too late.”
“Shouldn’t we alert the base commander?” asked Cleveland.
“No,” snapped Townsend, his voice like a thunderclap through the iPhone. “Not on the word of Sheikh Al Thani alone. His word is toxic around here. I need proof, Atticus, not hearsay. And I need that proof now! Hard facts, firsthand, from somebody I can trust. And we need a miracle. Pray, Atticus. Pray like you’ve never prayed before. But first send a flash report on the earthquakes to my cell phone so I don’t look like a fool in front of the president. I must go.”
There was a beep and the connection severed.
Cleveland looked up from the iPhone. Mullaney was holding out a thin laptop computer toward him.
“The flash report for Townsend,” said Mullaney. “I was working on it while you were talking. It’s bare bones, but it should be just what the secretary needs.”
“Send it,” said Cleveland. “Then we’ve got to listen to Evan. We’ve got to pray.” He turned to his right, where Hughes was sitting. “You are more than welcome, but you don’t have to …”
“No … I’ll stay,” said Hughes, turning her chair toward Cleveland and Mullaney. “Prayer sounds like the wisest course of action right now. Even to me.” She looked into Cleveland’s eyes. “How do we do this?”
10
Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv
July 22, 11:22 p.m.
“Father,” Cleveland began, his hands clasped and his forearms leaning on his knees, his head bowed, “we are exhausted … mentally, physically and spiritually … from the attacks upon us, from the death around us, from the anxiety building in us. We have enemies on all sides and apparently a traitor in our midst. We are tasked with the responsibility of protecting our country and all of its citizens abroad … and now tasked with finding this traitor.
“We’ve also been handed the responsibility for this box and the Vilna Gaon’s second prophecy that has been hunted by the agents of evil for two hundred years and which remains important enough that good men and women continue to be killed in its defense. Yet the prophecy is a riddle to us. What does it mean? We still have t
his lethal box that leaves bodies in its wake. What are we supposed to do with it or about it? Please protect Agent Mullaney into whose care it’s been passed.
“Father, we are grieving over all those who have lost their lives and fallen around us,” Cleveland continued. “Father, we grieve for Tommy, but we know he is with you and enjoying the fullness of your love in heaven. Tommy was close to our hearts, and we deeply mourn his death. But what about all those others who have died? We pray for all of them, for all of their families, all of their loved ones—those who died from the explosion at the Hurva, those who died from these unusual earthquakes, those who died during the numerous gun battles that have haunted us since the box came into my possession. And we pray for those wounded and injured in all of those incidents.”
Cleveland paused, not only to take a breath, but also to listen. Listen for any still, small voice that might be speaking to his spirit, in his spirit. Some word of direction or counsel. Then he continued.
“Father, you know our hearts. You know we need your help. What are we to do? And how are we to do it? We need your help to understand the words of the prophecy. We need your insight and discernment to see the full picture of the Gaon’s intentions, of your direction and how you desire this drama to play out to the end. Because, Father, we know you have a plan and a purpose at work here. A plan and purpose for the Gaon to write these prophetic messages, a plan and a purpose as to why they have been hidden so long—and why you are revealing them now. And we ask you, Father … please make known to us your plan and purpose.”
Cleveland’s voice softened. “This is not about us, Father. You have an awesome, eternal purpose in play here. We don’t fully understand the why, and we can’t see the how, when, or where. But we are honored and blessed that you have called us to join you in this purpose, that you have measured us as worthy … faithful to be obedient to carry out your purpose.
“So Father, please help us, show us, lead us. We are lost without you. We don’t know what to do. We need you, Father, to lead us into the fullness of your plan so we can accomplish your purpose. Please place your hand upon us and have the Holy Spirit guide us in our every step. And we pray this in the mighty name of your Son, Jesus. Amen.”
Cleveland took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and pushed himself back into his chair. Ruth Hughes was looking at him wide-eyed, incredulous, her lips slightly parted as if there were words waiting to be spoken. She started to speak, stopped, shook her head, then looked once more at Cleveland.
“That was beautiful, Atticus. But I don’t know if I could ever pray like that.”
The ambassador smiled. “You just did. All it takes is to open your heart to him and your words will follow. There’s no formula, Ruth. Only intimate sharing of one heart to another. And the remarkable thing is this … he talks to us in return. If you listen with your heart and your spirit, you can hear his words. That’s how we can know when we hear his answer.”
“You spoke … you prayed … as if he was right here in this room,” said Hughes. A look of awe and wonder filled her face. “With the intimacy of an old friend.”
Cleveland nodded his head. “That’s right. But he is more than an old friend. Through the atoning death of Jesus Christ, I am a son of God. He is my father, and I speak to him as a son speaks to a father, with respect and honor, but also with intimacy. And he is right here in this room. Listening to every word we prayed. We prayed, Ruth. Because you were here, you were part of that prayer, participating in lifting up that prayer. And he was listening to you too.”
Hughes was clearly beyond anything she had ever encountered before. She stared at the floor, shaking her head. Then she turned once more to Cleveland. “Did you hear anything? I didn’t … I don’t think I … but did you get an answer to your prayer?”
A smile as bright and inspiring as a late spring sunrise spread across the entirety of Cleveland’s face. “Well, I have some idea—”
A sharp knock on the door of the study interrupted him. Startled, slightly annoyed, Cleveland looked toward the door. “Yes? What is it?”
A marine sergeant stepped into the room. “Excuse me, sir. Please forgive the interruption. But there’s a call from Washington. Secretary Webster says he’s been trying to reach you, but you’re not answering your phone. He said it was urgent.”
Cleveland shot a glance at Mullaney, dread filling his heart and suspicion filling his mind. “Please put the secretary’s call through, Sergeant. I’ll take it in here.” Although certainly part of his job description, Cleveland didn’t expect Webster to be calling to check on their health or the condition of the embassy or residence. Every part of his intuition and experience were setting off warning signals. He turned to Hughes.
“Ruth, would you mind finding out where they’re keeping Rabbi Herzog and make sure he’s comfortable. And find out if he’s hungry or needs a place to sleep?”
Even though her impeccable suit still carried some dust from the earthquake, even though her normally crisp, white blouse was wrinkled and stained with perspiration, Ruth Hughes rose out of her chair with the confident bearing of someone secure in their own skin.
“Of course, Mr. Ambassador,” said Hughes. “And thank you. I don’t think I have the patience to sit here and listen to that weasel, Webster. Thank you for releasing me.”
When the phone rang, Mullaney thought he would take the hint and vacate the office also. He started to get out of his chair, but Cleveland reached out a hand to stop him.
“Please stay, Brian. But don’t speak. As far as Webster knows, I want him to think I’m here alone.”
Mullaney’s eyes narrowed, and his heartbeat increased.
“Yes,” said Cleveland, “I want a witness.”
Mullaney already had enough good reasons to want to put a significant hurt on Noah Webster. It was clear that Webster was Cleveland’s enemy. But a suspicion was growing in Mullaney that perhaps Webster was also the enemy they were seeking inside the State Department. Who else could it be?
But if Webster took off after the ambassador again …
“Thank you for the call, Mr. Secretary,” Cleveland jumped in as he picked up the phone. Cleveland held the microphone end of the receiver near his mouth, but turned the speaker end toward Mullaney so both of them could hear the secretary’s comments. “The staff at the embassy and residence will appreciate knowing you called about their welfare. But some of our staff did not survive the earthquake. I will—
“I know all about your staff, Cleveland, but it’s not about your staff that I’m calling … although if you and Mullaney did a better job at maintaining security for the mission to Israel I believe a lot of these casualties could have been avoided.”
Cleveland’s eyes shot daggers at Mullaney, clearly ordering him to remain quiet.
“Well, Mr. Secretary, I think …”
“You don’t appear to listen to your superiors, do you Mr. Ambassador? They call that insubordination, you know … refusal to follow orders. In the State Department, insubordination is a dismissible offense.”
Cleveland grimaced and shifted in his seat. He knew what was coming. “And what directive have I failed to follow?”
“Is Mullaney there … Hughes?” Webster snapped.
“I’m alone, Mr. Secretary.”
“Did I not tell you, specifically, to keep me informed about what’s going on in Israel? Me … not Evan Townsend. How is it you have time to call the secretary directly, but you don’t have time to keep your superior informed? How is it you can have bodies in the streets of Tel Aviv and I hear about it from Townsend’s errand boy and not from my ambassador?”
“But Noah—”
“And did I not tell you,” Webster continued without break, “to move heaven and earth to get the Ishmael Covenant ratified? And what progress have you made there? None that I can see. I thought my orders to you were clear, were they not?”
Mullaney watched with a sense of grieving, as Ambassador Cleveland sat up straighter in
his chair, pushed his shoulders back and recaptured the dignity of his stature as a revered, veteran ambassador for the United States of America—something that Noah Webster was trying to strip from him. “Yes, Mr. Secretary, your orders were clear. But David Meyer’s governing coalition is in tatters. At the moment, he doesn’t have the votes—”
“Excuses,” snarled Webster. “But even worse than that, where did you come up with this sophomoric fable about the government of Turkey plotting to steal nuclear weapons from Incirlik?” Webster’s voice was rising in pitch and intensity. “Are you deranged?” There was a loud crash on the other end of the call. Something big and heavy was just destroyed in Webster’s office.
The damage reports in Mullaney’s hands were twisted into a tight spiral, the outer sheets significantly shredded. If only he could get Webster’s neck in his hands …
“Is that the level of your intellect?” yelled Webster. “My barber has a better grasp on Middle East reality than you do. That a NATO member and a strategically of the United States would commit such an incomprehensible violation of its treaty obligations is ludicrous. Yet you take the word of a dishonorable desert jockey and then go over my head and pass this absurd rumor on directly to the secretary of state as a warning?”
Webster took a breath, but he wasn’t done. “Mr. Ambassador, the action you just took in contacting the secretary is gross incompetence and willful insubordination.” The words, and their implied consequences, hung in the air between Cleveland and Mullaney. In the following, momentary silence, it felt as if a firing squad was lining up. “I have lost confidence in your ability to effectively fulfill your sworn duty. I can’t officially recall you at the moment. That would prove too chaotic. But bear witness, Atticus. You are under notice of recall. One more failure of judgment—or one more attempt by you to directly contact Secretary Townsend—and I will yank you out of Israel so fast you’ll leave skid marks in your wake.”
Ottoman Dominion Page 7
