“Do you think lacrosse sticks are weapons?”
“Sir?”
“Sorry, Cleveland.” Zimmer shook his head and pointed at the offensive binder. “Those fools at NSA drive me nuts. Ban lacrosse sticks from airplanes? Sorry … let’s start again.”
The general, short, thick, a buzz-cut fuzz on his head, rose from his seat and came around in front of Cleveland, leaning against the front of his desk, the bright light behind him. “I’ve known Judge Allord half of my life. Would trust him with my grandkids. The judge asked me to watch out for you. Told me you are a man who can be counted on to do the right thing … a man of character.” Zimmer folded his arms across his chest, obscuring the medals on his uniform, and tilted his head, looking askance at Cleveland. “Is that true?”
Blinded by the sun behind Zimmer, Cleveland’s mind scrambled for an appropriate response. “I …”
“Well, that’s why you’re here,” Zimmer continued. “You know what we do—we’re the link between the military and the other national intelligence agencies. We provide the boots-on-the-ground espionage that the boys in the suits can’t manage on their own. Twenty-five percent of the president’s morning intelligence briefing comes from information we gather.”
Zimmer stopped talking, but Cleveland didn’t know what the general was expecting to fill the silence. So he waited, runnels of perspiration soaking the back of his shirt.
“Right now, Barry Goldwater and Bill Nichols are up to their armpits in crafting legislation that will be the most sweeping change to military structure and intelligence gathering since World War II. We’ve got some operations running that might not fit under this new structure, operations we may need to bring to a close. And I need a man of character. Somebody that our DIA team can rely on. Somebody I can rely on. Is that you?”
Cleveland’s mouth opened, but no words had a chance to escape.
“Of course. Listen, Major Lee here needs your help. He’s taken on a mission of great sensitivity and importance to this nation’s security and its future. It appears we may have gotten ourselves too entangled with that madman in Baghdad. The major is bringing that situation under control, shutting that operation down. But it’s gotten too big for him to manage on his own. And it appears our window of opportunity to complete the mission is closing rapidly. He needs help.” Zimmer was a black mass surrounded by an orange aura. His shadow leaned toward Cleveland, and his lowered voice sounded like an invitation from the grave. “But Lee needs help he can trust.”
Zimmer lowered his hands to the edge of the desk and leaned even closer, his words one notch above a whisper. “There are times, Cleveland, there are missions so crucial to our nation that only men of the highest character have the courage to do the right thing, regardless of the consequences.”
Cleveland’s stomach suddenly hollowed, and a visceral fear rippled across his skin.
“Do you understand me, son?”
“Sir, I …”
“Do you have the courage to do the right thing?”
Across Cleveland’s mind flashed an image of a pen scratching his name on a contract that he hadn’t read. “If doing the right thing is to serve my country, uphold my oath, and to do my duty, then yes, sir … I have the courage to do what’s right.”
The shadow that was General Isaiah Zimmer’s body relaxed, but his voice remained conspiratorial. “Well, Cleveland, the true test of a man is often discerning between doing the right thing and doing what is right.” He stood up and extended his hand. “I’m sure Major Lee and I can rely on your loyalty to determine the difference. Welcome aboard.”
“Listen, Joseph … what I need most is someone I can trust to carry messages,” said Major Lee as they left Zimmer’s office. “It has to be done face-to-face, person-to-person. Verbal communication … nothing written. And I’ll need you to discern and interpret any nonverbal communication as well. It takes too much time for me to try and do it myself. But the communications are critical. I know it’s not much of a task, being a glorified messenger. But I can’t stress to you how important these messages are.”
Washington, DC
Nine Months Later
November 26, 1985
With each document fed into the shredder, Joe Cleveland witnessed his future being mauled and contorted into indecipherable garbage. Another damning invoice was rent to bits, and Cleveland imagined it was his MPA from Harvard that was being destroyed. More letters were shredded into the bin, and Cleveland mourned the death of his dream—a State Department career spanning the world.
“Don’t forget that box in the corner.”
Major Lee’s voice was nearly obliterated by the whirring gears of the two heavy-duty shredders destroying their work of the last year. His uniform jacket tossed over a chair, Lee didn’t look up or slow the pace of paper being pushed through his machine. A ribbon of sweat moistened the shirt along his spine as he hunched over the open file box, pulling out documents with no regard for order.
“Sergeant,” Major Lee called above the grinding motors, “don’t forget the box in the corner! We’ve got all the Cayman bank account information in there. And we don’t have much more time.” Lee glanced up at the closed door to his office … Cleveland standing just inside. “Joe, I told you to get out of here. This has nothing to do with you.”
Across the small office on the second floor of the DIA building on Joint Base Anacostia in the southern tip of the District of Columbia, the overweight sergeant pushed back from the heavy-duty shredder beside his desk. “This is crazy, Major. We’re never going to destroy all the evidence. Zimmer’s crazy.” Cleveland could hear the fear in the sergeant’s voice. “This secret is collapsing all around us, but we’re the ones who will be prosecuted for obstruction of justice. For God’s sake, Major, you know they’re just going to hang you out to …”
The light on the speakerphone began to flash red. “Major?”
Twisting his neck to the right, Cleveland stared at the blinking light.
“Yes?”
“They’re here. Three cars just pulled into the parking lot.”
The shredders momentarily muzzled, silence settled into the room with the certainty of a mausoleum. Major Anderson Lee, special assistant to the director of the defense intelligence agency, a decorated combat veteran, pulled himself to his full six-foot height and pushed back his shoulders. “Okay.”
Taking a deep breath, Lee crossed the room and picked up the bankers box in the corner, sat it on his desk, took off the lid and grabbed two handfuls of documents, holding one out to his sergeant. “Here … we do our duty until the end. We’ve been instructed to destroy it all. Let’s do our best.”
Cleveland’s emotions were contorted. No, Lee hadn’t told him the truth about their “mission.” It was only when the subpoena was released this morning that Cleveland had discovered that the money funding their clandestine operations in Iraq had been illegally diverted. But an American hero was about to suffer disgrace for following orders, and Cleveland’s heart was nearly as shattered as his hopes. “Major, please let me help.”
Lee snapped a half-turn to his left. “Joe … I told you to get out of here. You are not responsible for this operation, and if it wasn’t for the subpoena you still wouldn’t know the truth. Your hands are clean. Keep them that way. I don’t want to see your life destroyed before it really gets started. Leave! Go home. And don’t talk about this to anyone—anytime. Understood?”
The fatal moment was here. Lee had known what he was doing when he started down this path, long before Cleveland had been assigned to his office. Sure, Lee was only following orders. But the American military held a common standard—no excuses, only responsibility. And Lee had no excuses. Still … Cleveland grieved for his short-lived colleague.
“Yes, sir.”
Cleveland swept the room once more with his eyes.
“Get out of here, Joe. That’s an …” The large, heavy oak door closed on Lee’s final word.
Cleveland look
ed to his left, toward the elevators, but ducked quickly to his right, into the antechamber of a meeting room. He crossed the small, cramped room, its shelves stacked with overflowing binders and flanks of map drawers, and pushed through a small door into the closet he used as an office. Two steps to the far door. His ear against the door jamb, Cleveland listened. In the Sunday morning silence there were no footfalls on the marble stairs outside. He scanned the small room, wondering if he would ever be back. He never brought anything personal into this cramped space. But was there anything he should take with him?
No … you’re not even here. You’ve got to remember that … never even here.
Cracking the door half an inch, Cleveland looked out onto the empty landing. I guess there was a benefit in having a janitor’s closet for an office. He slipped through the door, closed it firmly and heard the click, then hugged the wall as he quickly descended the stairs. Fleeing. Like a coward. Leaving a hero behind to bear the responsibility.
13
Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv
July 22, 2014, 11:58 p.m.
“Two years later, at a DC meet-and-greet power party, Noah Webster stopped me in the hallway,” Cleveland remembered as he continued talking to Mullaney. “Senator Seneca Markham, former chair of the Foreign Relations Committee, was about to open hearings into Major Lee’s activities at DIA. I was on the cusp of reaching the Foreign Service. Essentially, Webster offered me a deal. He would keep my name out of the investigation … I would not be called as a witness. My entry into the Foreign Service would not be blocked. But I would be in debt to Webster until some future moment when he would call for payment.”
Cleveland stared off into the distance, perhaps trying to assess his future.
“Webster still has all the documentation, all the records of the DIA operation.” His voice had the faraway sound of his faraway eyes. “Should those records become public, I’m sure some law enforcement agency would at least investigate whether I was culpable of a serious crime … conspiracy or obstruction of justice. I have no doubt of my innocence. But the damage would be done by the investigation and the association. My career with the State Department would end.”
Cleveland paused, as if even the thought of scandal took his breath away.
When Cleveland finished his story, Mullaney was looking at him with the affection of a son. “There is so much I would like to say. The words don’t seem enough, but Mr. Ambassador, how do you think Jesus would have felt about what you did? About the situation in which you found yourself?”
Cleveland closed his eyes and composed himself to answer. “I think he would have been angry,” said Cleveland. “Angry with how I was manipulated into a circumstance I did not create, into an unethical—illegal—plot. And I think he would have applauded my loyalty.”
“And your honor,” Mullaney interjected, “you were a victim here, not a perpetrator. And no matter what Webster has in his safe, anybody with half a brain … sorry, sir … would see the truth clearly. Especially your children.” Mullaney waited a heartbeat. “I know I do.”
Cleveland tightened his chin, pressed his teeth into his lower lip. Mist glistened in his eyes. He reached out his right hand and gripped Mullaney’s bicep. “Thank you, Brian.” There was a catch in his throat. “Thank you so much.”
“Did Webster ever call in the debt?”
A smile crossed the ambassador’s face. “I almost wish he had. Once and done. Instead, for nearly thirty years, he’s reveled in reminding me of the sword he holds over my neck.”
Palmyra’s face … the faces of his sons … the face of his grandmother … flashed through Cleveland’s consciousness, each accompanied by a stab of pain. What would they think?
“Webster’s probably furious that another black man has earned more honor and prestige than he has,” said Mullaney. “I’ve always thought the man was a rac—”
“Brian.”
The ambassador spoke Mullaney’s name softly but with such power and urgency that Mullaney’s eyes shot up toward Cleveland. What Mullaney intended to say was apparently imprisoned in his throat.
Cleveland looked directly at Mullaney. He kept his voice low but urgent.
“Have you ever considered that Noah Webster may be the source of all our problems?” Cleveland asked. “Not just how he manipulated our transfers to Israel, to suit his own designs. But could Webster also be the traitor … the insider who’s sold us out to the Turks and is in some sort of collusion about this possible raid on Incirlik?”
His gaze never wavering from Cleveland, Mullaney nodded. “He’s my number-one suspect. And if I ever get my—”
“Brian …” Cleveland waited a beat to get Mullaney’s full attention. “I don’t have any evidence that Noah Webster has committed a crime. But I have ample evidence of the crimes committed against him.”
“What?”
Cleveland leaned back and pulled in a deep, cleansing breath before reconnecting with Mullaney’s gaze. “You can understand this, but you will never experience it … the reality of being a black man in America. Legal slavery ended in 1867, but racism did not. The myths of racial difference still plague us, shaped by slavery, yes, but reinforced by racial terrorism and legalized segregation.
“There was a reign of terror against people of color—the KKK, bombings, lynchings, racially motivated violence—for nearly one hundred years after the collapse of Reconstruction. That era of violently enforced racial hierarchy was profoundly traumatizing for African Americans … a legacy that continues today and is reinforced by random police violence against black men.
“The legalized racial segregation that followed Reconstruction was not simply an issue of inequality in schools,” said Cleveland. “African Americans were marginalized by daily humiliations and insults for decades. But segregation also left a lasting legacy of racial presumption: people of color were, and continue to be, constantly suspected, accused, watched, doubted, distrusted, presumed guilty, and feared. As a nation, we can’t escape our history of racial injustice. It’s a reality black people live with every day.
“While many people of color have thrived in this nation in spite of both inherent and unintentional racism, others have become bitter. Some have fought back … some have lost their way and succumbed to the demons of the past. Black men still suffer, but in many ways women of color actually have a much worse experience: fewer opportunities, lower pay, inferior education and health care, and at times even more debilitating presumptions than black men face. Believe me when I tell you that no black American, no person of color alive today, has escaped unscathed from racial injustice. We all carry the scars.”
Cleveland laid a hand on Mullaney’s arm.
“So Brian, please be careful how you apply labels. I have no respect for the man Noah Webster has become, no respect for the path he has chosen. And personally I would not doubt that there are serious crimes for which he is responsible. But neither of us know what demons Noah wrestles with each night. That’s not an excuse. Just a reality.”
14
Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv
July 23, 12:04 a.m.
Rabbi Mordechai Herzog, eighty-two-year-old former head of the Rabbinate Council of Israel, was ushered into the ambassador’s study by the marine sergeant. “We’ve tried to feed him; we’ve tried to get him to rest. But this rabbi just won’t give up, Mr. Ambassador. He said he needs to speak to you right away.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. That’s fine. We’ll just—”
Mullaney stood up from his chair, his iPhone in his right hand. “Excuse me, sir, but, since we have a break, can you give me a minute to make a quick call to Abby, to let her know I’m okay—that we’re all okay?”
“Of course, Brian. Go ahead.” Cleveland turned from Mullaney to the marine. “Sergeant, if Mrs. Hughes is still here, could you ask her to join us? Rabbi Herzog … let’s sit around this table. There will be more room when the rest of them join us.”
Mullaney stepped o
ut of the study into the formal living room of the ambassador’s quarters. The room was a shambles, but Mullaney found a fairly intact corner and hit the speed dial button for his wife’s phone.
Abigail Mullaney picked up between the first and second ring. “Brian … I’m so glad you called. I was starting to get anxious. We’re getting news reports of these earthquakes, but only …”
“Abby,” he interrupted, “There’s no other way to say this. Tommy’s dead.”
“Oh, dear God.” She breathed the words in reverence, like a prayer. But quickly snapped back to the present. “Brian, are you okay? I mean … are you hurt? I know you can’t be emotionally okay. Oh, God … Tommy. How?”
Mullaney bit his lip at the memory. No … no time now for emotions. “We were on an assignment in Jordan. We got ambushed. I’m okay … a few scrapes. But Tommy didn’t make it.”
He leaned up against a sofa that appeared to have slid across the floor, ran his left hand through his hair, looked at his watch. When was the last time he got any sleep?
“Brian … oh, Brian, my heart is breaking for you,” whispered Abby. “I wish I was there so I could hold you, comfort you.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. That will have to …”
“Wait … was it the same men?” Mullaney could almost hear his wife’s mind clicking into gear. “The same killers who attacked you and the ambassador before? They came after you in Jordan? Who are they?”
“I wish I had more answers. And I don’t have time to get into all the details. Ambassador Cleveland is waiting for me. But I just want to let you know I am okay. And well …”
“You don’t know when you’ll be home, right?” she asked.
Mullaney grimaced. Here it was again. He made a promise to Abby that he was coming home for good, to stay. And now this was another promise that he couldn’t keep … wouldn’t keep. “I’m sorry, Ab. I know I promis—”
“Stop!” Her word was sharp, but her tone was soft, loving. “Brian, I know you love me, and I know you love our daughters, and I know—with all my heart I know—that what is most precious to you is getting home as soon as you can and getting our family back together again. Don’t you ever doubt that I know your heart. But Brian, we’ll be home and waiting for you when all of this is over. And it won’t be over until you bring Tommy’s killers to justice. You and I both know that. You have never backed down from a righteous fight in your life. I don’t expect you to start now.
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