Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  That was enough! Mullaney twisted in his chair to look directly at Cleveland, fury erupting through his mind and body, a blast of earthy rhetoric poised on his lips. But Cleveland slapped an iron grasp on Mullaney’s wrist, and the pressure of the ambassador’s fingers burned through Mullaney’s flesh. The fury in Mullaney’s heart was reflected back at him through Cleveland’s eyes. The ambassador roughly shook his head. No!

  Cleveland turned and looked at the phone in his hand as if it was a dagger thrust into his heart. “I serve at the pleasure of the secretary of state and the people of the United States,” said Cleveland, his words sounding like an epitaph.

  Mullaney heard a muffled laugh from the other end of the conversation. It sounded like the mocking welcome of the gatekeeper to Hades. “You know what I can make happen in a heartbeat. I still have all the documents in my safe. You’ve had a nice career, Joseph. Too bad it will end with disgrace as your legacy—unless you become invisible and silent. Understand?”

  Prime Minister’s Office, Jerusalem

  July 22, 11:37 p.m.

  “Kahlon can have the government if he wants it,” snapped David Meir.

  The prime minister of Israel, tired and cranky from a long day of political arm wrestling and military brinksmanship, was squeezed into the corner of a cushioned patio chair in the middle of his official residence in the center of Jerusalem. Called Beit Aghion, a square, blocky building covered in Jerusalem stone, the prime minister’s residence was located at 9 Smolenskin Street in the upscale neighborhood of Rehavia, well away from the government complex containing the Knesset building and his office.

  Meir had taken his two closest supporters, Moshe Litzman, minister of the interior of Israel, and Benjamin Erdad, the minister of internal security, into the small, open-air patio in the hopes that he wouldn’t wake his family at this late hour. But Litzman and Erdad were almost as argumentative with him as the leaders of the left-wing political parties Yesh Atid and Labor—both pushing for the two-state solution of the Ishmael Covenant—and their polar opposite leaders in the ultra-right-wing Jewish Home and Shas Parties—who railed against giving up any parts of Israel to establish a Palestinian homeland.

  “You’re going to hand the government to Kahlon without a fight if you push for a vote,” Litzman said of Avi Kahlon, leader of the Labor Party. Litzman was sitting close by Meir’s right side, his voice low and clipped but still full of urgency and fear. “Kahlon has already built a left-wing coalition powerful enough to sweep you out of office with a no-confidence vote. He will take you down. And Liberman of Shas is trying to build his own coalition, promising everyone the moon if they join up with him. One way or the other, left or right, we’ll all be shown the door.”

  “But the gas-for-water treaty with Turkey has nothing to do with the covenant, which I’ve said one hundred times today,” Meir insisted.

  “And … it … doesn’t … matter,” snapped Litzman, stabbing an exclamation mark at the end of each word. “Bring anything up for a vote in the Knesset—anything—and our enemies will turn it into a referendum on the covenant. And there is no solution on the covenant. Instead of bringing the left and right together, since it has something sacred to each side, the Ishmael Covenant has only ripped our governing apparatus further apart. It’s almost as if Yesh and Shas can’t abide peace.”

  His political opposition would condemn Israel to endless conflict with her Arab neighbors and the Palestinians. Bad enough that Hamas ignited running gun battles in the dusty streets of Gaza and that Hezbollah was relentlessly raining rockets across the northern border of the country. But now with the first real possibility of peace for Israel in its seventy-year history, petty politics looked to prevent him from ensuring the safety of Israel’s future generations. What a wasted opportunity. But Meir was as determined as he was distraught. Regardless of the consequences—and he knew they were real—he would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least try to bring peace to his people … whether they liked it or not.

  “Listen, my friends,” said Meir. “It may appear that there are as many options open to Israel as there are points of view, but I can tell you there is only one option for me. I must try for peace. For our children, I must try for peace. What good would—”

  The colonel in charge of Meir’s security at the residence entered the patio and walked directly to the prime minister’s side. “Vigdor Limon is here. He asks for a moment.”

  It was rare for the director of Mossad, Israel’s international intelligence agency, to come to his residence, especially so late at night. Meir knew this would not be good.

  Limon was old and stooped, bald headed and stout, leaning on a cane as he slowly crossed the patio. He declined a chair.

  “Mr. Prime Minister … gentlemen … I’ll be brief,” said Limon, the raspy tone of a lifelong cigarette smoker scraping an edge to the words. He held up a manila folder. “In here are all the details for you to review if necessary. But I’ll give you a simple summary.

  “Three ancient empires,” said Limon, “are poised to resurrect themselves—the Persians, the Ottomans, and the Islamic Arabs. All of them once occupied essentially the same slice of the earth—ours … and the rest of the Middle East. All of them want and are plotting to recapture what they believe still belongs to them. And all of them plan to use nuclear weapons to exert their power. There is a race to see who will get there first. The Persians, we know, are avidly pursuing a weapon and delivery system. We have uncovered information that a faction of the Turkish government is hatching an imminent plan to steal some of NATO’s nuclear weapons at the Incirlik Air Base. And we have verified reports that King Abdullah has issued an urgent, second request for nuclear weapons from the Pakistanis.”

  The Mossad director looked carefully at all three men in turn, then moved his gaze back to the prime minister. “Sir, the Ishmael Covenant is a sham. The Saudis have no intention of honoring the covenant. Abdullah’s intention is a nuclear-armed Islamic Caliphate. He is as much a fundamental, Islamic jihadist as Kashani in Turkey and the Ayatollah in Iran. They all want our land and they all want us dead … nuclear cinders in a scorched desert.” Limon held out the manila envelope toward the prime minister. “Sir, ratifying the Ishmael Covenant is a death warrant.”

  11

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 22, 11:43 p.m.

  A nuclear detonation threatened to blow Brian Mullaney’s restraint out through the damaged walls of the residence and clear across half the Mediterranean. His Irish was up, his defenses were down from lack of sleep and endless tension, and he was more frustrated than a lottery winner with a lost ticket.

  The call ended, and Mullaney jumped to his feet, his fists balled into tight knots that drove fingernails into his palms. He took two paces across Cleveland’s study, wheeled around on the ambassador, and was about to launch a broadside, vilifying Noah Webster and berating Cleveland for his timid weakness in the face of such contemptable threats.

  But just before he let fly with a stream of invective, Mullaney caught sight of Cleveland’s face. And immediately he understood what Tommy Hernandez told him about Cleveland so long ago … wait, that was only four days ago. “‘But there are times when it seems to me that he’s carrying some great weight, something that reaches to the depth of his soul. I want to reach out and hug him when I see it.’”

  Joseph Atticus Cleveland—after three decades of exemplary service in the United States Foreign Service, not far from nomination by the president for the celebratory and coveted title of Career Ambassador, honored and respected by kings, presidents, and prime ministers worldwide—looked like a man who had lost his hope and self-respect. This was not a time to pounce. It was time to be a friend.

  Mullaney went and grabbed his chair and pulled it closer to Cleveland, placing a hand on the ambassador’s arm.

  “Mr. Ambassador … sir.” Mullaney kept his voice quiet, soft, soothing. “I’m ready to explode. I would beat Noah
Webster to a pulp if he was in front of me right now. But I look at your face and I know there is some burden you are carrying, some weight that only you understand, which is the reason behind why you allow that snake to treat you with such disrespect. Shoot … to attack you with threats he has no authority to issue. Webster can’t recall you from the field. He doesn’t have the right or the power. Only the secretary can make that decision.

  “But even so, Webster has no right to insult and demean you with such cruel comments. And,” said Mullaney, “I keep asking myself why … why would a man like you, a man of character and conviction, a man of action and courage, allow a slimeball like Webster to get away with such emotional abuse?”

  Cleveland was vacantly gazing down at the floor beneath his feet, as if searching for some understanding.

  “Mr. Ambassador, please, let me help you. Let me in. Tommy once told me he saw a great weight pressing against the depth of your soul. But he didn’t know what to do about it. Please, Atticus, let me help you. Whatever it is, you can’t carry this thing by yourself anymore. And Webster’s got to be stopped.”

  Cleveland’s eyes didn’t move from the floor. And his voice sounded like it was coming from the depth of the sea. “You think I’m a man of character and conviction, a man of action and courage? Perhaps in my old age. But when I was younger, I was also a man who found himself on the wrong side of doing what I thought was right. I was innocent of any crime but would have supported those who committed the crimes had I known about them. If the truth came out and I was held accountable, I could be charged. It wouldn’t stick, but the scandal would end my career in disgrace. It would crush my children, embarrass them before the world. I … I don’t think I could bear the look in Palmyra’s eyes if that day were to come.”

  It didn’t take an investigator’s experience to see the truth beneath the surface. Cleveland had made some terrible mistake early in his career, and Webster had the evidence … evidence he was using to bully and blackmail Cleveland into silent compliance. Mullaney’s inner fury toward Webster increased ten-fold. But it was his friend, the man he admired more than any other, who needed his compassion and concern right at that moment. Webster could wait. His day would come. To help his friend, Mullaney drew from the depth of his own painful experience.

  “Mr. Ambassador, when you carry secrets deep inside of your heart and spirit for a long time, they get buried, but they don’t get solved. There were some secrets I carried for decades in my life, experiences that wounded me deeply, things of which I was ashamed. And as long as they lived in that dark, deep corner of my heart, they helped to define who I thought I was. I was always looking at my life through the lens of those failures, so I thought I was a failure. I was building my self-image based on the guilt and shame and lies of my past.

  “Then I met a guy at our church. We used to get together on a regular basis for breakfast and to share what was going on in our lives. One day I told him about the things that had happened to me in the past, the things I was ashamed of, the wounds and circumstances and situations that I had buried deep in my heart. He asked me a profound question. He said, ‘What do you think Jesus felt about what happened to you? If Jesus had been there at that very moment, what would Jesus have done … what would he have said … what would he have felt?’”

  Cleveland half-turned his head to the right, his eyes leaving the floor but not quite meeting Mullaney’s gaze.

  “When I visualized the truth,” Mullaney whispered, “I realized that Jesus would have been angry with what happened to me, not angry with me. His heart would have been breaking for my heart, just as my heart was breaking. He would have protected, defended, and encouraged me to look at the truth. The truth that Jesus loved me then just as much as he loves me now. He can’t love me any more or any less. And that he would have been outraged at what I experienced.”

  Mullaney waited, but Cleveland moved no farther.

  “I am not the man I thought I was for such a long time,” said Mullaney. “Now … understand … I still have my issues. There is emotional turmoil I’m still trying to sort through, particularly about my relationship with my dad and resurrecting my relationship with Abby. But the past, that past is dead. I’m not that man anymore. And I’m not going to live in the prison of lies that old man built for me. That prison is not a place of safety. It’s a place of loss and a place of lies.”

  Mullaney pushed himself around in front of Cleveland, forcing the ambassador to look into his face. “Sir, whatever happened in the past, that is not the man you are. Palmyra loves the man that you are. I’m sure your sons love the man that you are. We all have mistakes and failures in our past. If we let the past define us, then we’re stuck living in the past. But you have a present that is more real than anything that could have happened in your past … if you decide to live here, in the now, in this moment. Please, don’t let Noah Webster steal from you the truth of who you are.”

  Cleveland’s eyes searched Mullaney’s face, a desperate but uncertain hope finding no place to rest. “But you don’t know what happened. You don’t know what Webster knows.”

  “Then tell me.” Mullaney’s words carried the urgency of his heart. “Tell me. Get it out. Bring the lies out of the dark and let’s deal with them.”

  Wavering … grappling … contending … Mullaney watched as Cleveland battled with the demons of his past. For what seemed to be a long time, the outcome was in doubt. Then hope rose as Cleveland’s eyes cleared. The ambassador pulled in a long breath.

  His voice was an ether in the stillness, a vapor of whisper. “When I was in my second year at the State Department, still trying to qualify for the Foreign Service, I was offered an opportunity …”

  12

  Washington, DC

  February 12, 1985

  Tragedy came into his life wearing a smile and the uniform of an air force major.

  Joseph Cleveland, three bulky files tucked under his left arm, held steady by his right hand, moved like a gazelle running in a herd. His empty stomach dictating thoughts of lunch, Cleveland rapidly navigated through the crowded corridor on the ground floor of the State Department Building, headed for the commissary.

  “Cleveland, glad I found you.”

  Blocking his way was his boss, Norman Fieldstone, assistant secretary of political-military affairs, and a grinning poster-boy for the all-American airman.

  “Cleveland,” said Fieldstone, pulling Cleveland to the side of the corridor, “I’d like to introduce you to Major Anderson Lee.”

  Trying to keep his file folders from spilling into the human current, Cleveland managed to accept Lee’s handshake, as solid as the spread-eagle insignia on his jacket. “Major Lee, I—”

  “Here,” Fieldstone tugged on Cleveland’s sleeve, steering him into an empty alcove away from the busy corridor. “Major Lee is assigned to the Defense Intelligence Agency,” said Fieldstone. “He came to me for help on a project he’s shepherding over at DIA, and I thought this might be a good learning experience for you. I want you to help Major Lee in any way you can.”

  Cleveland felt a tangle of emotions—surprise, because he was in his second year at State and only three months on Fieldstone’s staff; encouragement, that he was earning a reputation for reliability; excitement, at doing something more than research and study.

  “Thank you, sir,” Cleveland said to Fieldstone. He turned to Major Lee. “I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”

  “Excellent,” said Lee. “I’ll see you at the DIA office first thing Monday morning.”

  Without another word, Fieldstone and Lee turned and melted into the moving throng in the corridor. And Joseph Atticus Cleveland wondered what he had just agreed to.

  Joe Cleveland was twenty-five years old and only two years out of Harvard. Cleveland was proud of his academic achievements—the undergrad degree from Howard University that he earned in between waiting tables and working as a gardener and the masters and law degrees in political science from Harv
ard that he had sweated blood over to complete. His great-grandfather born a slave in North Carolina, Cleveland revered his accomplishments as a living testament to his family—honoring the sacrifice and aspirations of those who had endured to give him life. The CIA tried to recruit him twice during his days at Harvard. But he nurtured and protected his contacts at CIA even after he decided to sign up with the State Department.

  It wasn’t long after he joined the State Department that Cleveland applied to the Foreign Service in the consular track. He scored exceptionally high marks in his Foreign Service Officer’s Test and his FSO and personal narrative were now being reviewed by a panel of veteran Foreign Service Officers, the Qualifications Evaluation Panel. Cleveland was hoping this new assignment to the DIA might accelerate the lengthy and laborious application process to the Foreign Service.

  Cleveland didn’t have to wait or knock. Major Lee was waiting for him at the entrance to the DIA director’s office. “Welcome,” said Major Lee, maneuvering Cleveland past the director’s secretary, “General Zimmer is looking forward to meeting you.”

  During his years at Harvard, Cleveland had spent a lot of time in rooms such as this. Aged oak in carved squares covered the walls, except for the wall-length bookcase and the eight-foot-high windows behind Zimmer’s desk that were flooded with sunlight. At Harvard, this office would be the domain of a department chair, a man—probably—of significant age and formidable academic influence. Here, behind the flagship of a desk, sat a man who could wield and direct inestimable military power. Same clout, different sphere.

  General Isaiah Zimmer was waving a hand at the seats in front of his prodigious desk. “Mr. Cleveland, a pleasure. Please, gentlemen, take a seat.” Looking back down at the binder atop his desk, Zimmer let out a sigh and slammed the binder shut.