Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  “Find Tommy’s killers, Brian. Bring the wrath of God down upon their heads. Just, please, stay safe out there, okay?”

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 12:20 a.m.

  It was well past Rabbi Mordechai Herzog’s normal bedtime, but he didn’t know when sleep would next be possible. His life had been a blur since Bayard came to visit him while he sat next to the dead body of his son. Bayard … the angel. His mind still struggled to grasp the reality of that unreal visitation.

  But the angel had drawn him into the midst of this otherworldly conflict, and now he was caught up in its maelstrom. A metal box with a kabbalah warning on its lid and a sentence of excruciating death for the unanointed who touched it; earthquakes that ravaged only two buildings in the entire city of Tel Aviv; determined and desperate terrorists who threatened all their lives; ancient prophecies in elaborate codes with undecipherable symbols. His grieving for his son, Israel, was devastating to his heart, palpable and debilitating. But the grieving was shunted aside for now, as he was enticed into this mystery that was delivered into his hands and could change the future and threaten the lives of millions.

  And now he labored under an urgent demand that he deliver a critical message to the United States ambassador to Israel. But who was he to tell this man what he must do? What authority did he have that … ?

  “Thank you for coming to visit with us, Mordechai. Have you met Ruth Hughes?” Cleveland’s tone was welcoming. Herzog’s dread began to dissipate. He shook hands with the serious-looking woman in the business suit. “I believe you have something important to share with us, Rabbi? Would you like to wait until Agent Mullaney returns?”

  Herzog shook his head and bucked up his courage. “No thank you, Mr. Ambassador. At length have I spoken already to Agent Mullaney. I do not wish to intrude too long on your time. Brian can fill you in with more details if necessary. But some perspective allow me to give.

  “The first prophecy of the Vilna Gaon, revealed earlier this year, was a declaration, a herald that predicted Messiah would soon come upon this earth. The Gaon’s second prophecy, which was decoded by my son and the Rabbinate Council, was a warning that the prince of this world, the evil one, and his demons were conspiring to prevent the coming of Messiah—or the second coming of Jesus, as Christians believe. The second prophecy read: ‘When the times of the Gentiles is complete, when the sons of Amalek are invited to the king’s banquet, beware of the Anadolian—he walks on water to offer peace, but carries judgment in his hands. His name is Man of Violence.’

  “My belief it is, and I shared this with Agent Mullaney, that the time of the Gentiles’ rule over Jerusalem has ended. Our prime minister, the leader of Israel, has broken bread with the sons of Amalek. Entered into a covenant, he did, with the same people that God ordered Moses to wipe off the face of the earth. Amalek is in the tent.

  “And now,” Herzog continued, “this Man of Violence, who carries judgment in his hands, upon the scene comes. At the same time Ishmael desires to divide the land of Israel, a state of Palestine to create. But the book of Joel the prophet warns that any who try to divide the land God gave Israel will be condemned and punished in the valley of judgment. We are in …”

  Herzog hesitated as Mullaney came back into the room. “Explaining, I was, what we know about the Gaon’s second message,” said Herzog as Mullaney took a seat at the table. The rabbi turned back toward Cleveland. “This second message, like the first, is clearly a prophetic warning. Messiah is coming, as the Gaon’s first prophecy revealed. And if the time of the Gentiles is complete, as I believe, then the second prophecy confirms the first. Not surprising, then, the ruler of this world has unleashed the full fury of evil to prevent Messiah’s coming … or his return as others believe.” Herzog turned his full attention upon Mullaney. “Only you, Brian, the last of the Gaon’s heirs, stand in the way. Anointed and called, you are, to defeat the plans of the devil.”

  Mullaney’s eyes were closed, his head swiveling back and forth in denial. “But why me?” he asked again. “And what role does Bayard play … what do the angels have to do with all of this?”

  “Angels?” blurted Hughes. She sat up straight in her chair and swept her eyes around the table. “Are you kidding me? Are we really talking about angels? Real angels?”

  Herzog reached out a hand in Hughes’s direction, a grandfatherly grimace on his face. “I know … difficult it is to accept. But I have spoken to him. Agent Mullaney has spoken to him. And he, Bayard, has been protecting the words of the Gaon for over two hundred years. But that is not the important point. It is—”

  “We’ve got angels, and it’s not important?” said Hughes. “I … I’m stunned. Perplexed. Probably in way over my head here. But okay, let’s just say for the moment that the angels are not important. What is?”

  Herzog nodded. He reached into the pocket of his black jacket and withdrew a slip of paper, passing it across the table so Hughes could see it. “What is important are these last two lines of symbols from the Gaon’s second prophecy.”

  “What are they?” Hughes looked around the table. “What do they mean?”

  “We know not what they are nor what they mean,” Herzog admitted. “And that is our quest.” He turned toward Cleveland. “And that is my message to you … the message I was dispatched to give you, a message I heard in Bayard’s own voice, a message he told me was an answer to your prayer. He said your prayer was heard and repeated in the throne room of God. You, Mr. Ambassador, must allow Agent Mullaney to fulfill his mission. And his first task, it is, to discover the meaning of those symbols. That is what Bayard said to Brian and me earlier tonight … that in order to understand the message we need to understand the box. In order to understand God’s ultimate plan and purpose, in order to fulfill his part in God’s plan, Agent Mullaney must decipher two things—the meaning of these unusual symbols and the meaning of the box of power. There is a monumental battle taking place right now between the forces of good and evil. Why, I know not, but Agent Mullaney’s assignment is crucial to fulfilling God’s plan. You, Ambassador, must release him from his duties so that he may pursue his destiny.”

  “I still don’t understand,” said Hughes. “Or maybe I just don’t believe what I’m hearing. Brian is the key to the climactic battle between good and evil? Really?”

  “None of us understand it, Ruth,” said Cleveland. “Who could? Not fully. But of one thing I’m convinced: I may not fully understand what’s happening around us, to us, but I do believe the rabbi just presented me with the answer to my earlier prayer. Now I know what I have to do. So I have one question for all of you.”

  Cleveland looked around the table. “How do we find out what those symbols mean?”

  To his left Rabbi Herzog lifted his hand. “An idea I have.” He turned to Mullaney. “You said you expected a visit from Colonel Levinson? Tonight … er … today?”

  Mullaney glanced at his watch. “He should be here in the next thirty minutes or so. I’m heading over to my office to check on the status here and at the embassy. If you would like to speak to him, I’ll let you know when he arrives.”

  “Excellent,” nodded Herzog. “I can’t promise I’ll still be awake, but I’ll try.”

  15

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 12:50 a.m.

  Looking up from the heart-rending casualty list—five dead, seventeen wounded—and the daunting, preliminary damage report on the residence, out of the corner of his eye Mullaney saw movement at his door. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn that legendary Israeli general Moshe Dyan had just stepped into his office. Wearing the informal and ubiquitous khaki garb of the Israeli military and security services, Meyer Levinson—director of operations of Shin Bet, Israel’s relentless and effective internal security division—was lean, muscled, tense, and bursting with energy. Bald, coppered from the Israeli sun, a riding crop in his right hand, the only thing Levinson was missing
was Dyan’s signature eye patch.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” said Levinson, who leaned against the back of a straight chair in front of Mullaney’s makeshift desk. He looked down at the papers in Mullaney’s hands. “And we’ve got to find and crush these …” Levinson stopped himself with a sigh. “How many, Brian?”

  “Three agents dead, plus two embassy staff,” recited Mullaney, the words failing to encompass the enormity of their loss, “including the ambassador’s secretary. Seventeen wounded or injured from the earthquake or the gunfight … three critical. Don’t know if they’ll make it.”

  Levinson was shaking his head. “Too many, Brian. Too many good men and women.”

  Mullaney had developed a close relationship with Levinson years earlier, when both were stationed in Washington and they discovered a shared passion for the Chelsea Football Club. Educated to be a scientist, a theoretical physicist, Levinson was recruited out of academia into Israel’s security apparatus and built a stellar reputation rooting out terrorist cells and leading counter-terrorism operations in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. It wasn’t long before he earned elevation to director of the operations division of Shin Bet, the most prestigious and active branch of the anti-terrorism service—the home of fighters and warfare groups that were a scourge to Israel’s enemies. At the outbreak of the first intifada, the Palestinian uprising against Israeli occupation from 1987 to 1991, Levinson was handed a list of four hundred targeted terrorists. In two years, that number dropped to less than twenty. Fewer than half were in jail.

  “I don’t know why this gang of terrorists has brought this war to our doorsteps,” seethed Levinson. “But I promise you this. They will pay for these attacks … blood for blood. It’s gotten personal.”

  Mullaney looked long and hard at his old friend. He fully understood Levinson’s fury … it mirrored his own. But they could not allow the desire for revenge to distract them from their first duty—protecting the people still under their care. “I have no doubt a day of reckoning is coming, Meyer. And it’s getting closer. I need to bring you up to speed on a number of things.”

  Even though it was only four hours—but felt like four days—it was difficult to keep a summary short and to the point. Mullaney guided an incredulous Levinson through his encounter with Bayard, his acceptance of the anointing and the role of guardian, and a quick review of what they knew thus far about the second prophecy and the two lines of undeciphered symbols the Gaon included at the bottom of the message.

  “Is Rabbi Herzog still here?” Levinson asked.

  “The rabbi? I think he’s down in the kitchen getting something to eat,” said Mullaney. “Why the rabbi?”

  “I’ve worked with the rabbi several times—and his son after him,” said Levinson. “I’ve got an idea and I want to bounce it off him.”

  “Okay.” Mullaney reached for the phone and put in a call to ask Herzog to come to his temporary … maybe longer than temporary … office.

  “While we’re waiting,” said Levinson, “I’ve learned a few things about our enemies that might interest you.” The colonel finally moved around to the front of the chair and sat down facing Mullaney. “This group calls itself the Disciples and, as we suspected, they are primarily Turkish nationals. We got some information out of the guys we captured at the Nitzanim Preserve, but not much. They wouldn’t tell us anything about their structure, or who or where was their leader.”

  “I sure would like to cut off the head of this beast,” mumbled Mullaney.

  “Makes two of us,” Levinson replied. “But it’s a big beast. According to our guests at Shin Bet headquarters, the Disciples are a vast organization. They’ve got operatives around the globe. Primarily here in the Middle East, but one guy admitted the Disciples even have operatives in the US.”

  Mullaney sat back in his chair. “How many can there be? How many are left? We’ve killed or captured, what, a dozen? More if you include the body count in Jordan. How many more can there be here in Israel?”

  From the long silence that followed, Mullaney knew he didn’t want to know the answer.

  “The one guy that would talk, I asked him that question,” said Levinson. “He just looked in my face and smiled. Ran chills right down my spine. A big, bright smile. And he says, ‘There is no end, no limit, to the power of the Disciples. We are endless. And we do not stop.’ You know what, Brian? I believe him. This is evil incarnate that—”

  There was a rustle of commotion at Mullaney’s door. Standing there, looking a bit disheveled and very weary, was Rabbi Herzog, wagging his finger at a beefy, berated marine. “An old man, a matzo, and a cup of tea can’t get by without being disturbed? The time, do you know what is?”

  The marine pointed into the office. “Time for you to meet with Agent Mullaney, sir.”

  Startled, Rabbi Herzog turned and looked into the office. “Oh.” He shot a glance back, over his shoulder, at the marine. “Told me, you could have.” Then he swiveled his body and entered the office. “Hello, Colonel … you are just the man I was hoping to see.”

  Gocuk, Turkey

  July 23, 1:02 a.m.

  Bayard stood, wrapped tightly in a cloak, among others of his kind amidst the trees on a wind-swept hill nearly two kilometers from the warehouse complex to the east. But even at that distance, he could clearly see every movement around the buildings.

  Below him, across a dry plain, men were moving in the stillness and shadows of the bleak night, a frigid north wind blowing down out of the far mountains. Several of the men were dressed entirely in black. To a normal, mortal man the images would be illusory, vague against the metal walls of the warehouse. But this angelic being watched each movement precisely as the men shuttled back and forth from the warehouse to three large trucks. The trucks were stenciled with the logo, name, and contact number for Mirwan’s Produce, supplier of tomatoes, cucumbers, and hummus to the dining halls spread across the vast Incirlik Air Base, only fifty kilometers to the east.

  Turkish National Police Colonel Fabir Matoush—shorter, rounder, giving out the orders—stood to the side. Commander of the Adana district surrounding Incirlik, Matoush was directing the other men as they hefted wooden crates out of the warehouse and deposited them into one of the waiting trucks. The crates contained weaponized chemical agents, a more effectively lethal form of Sarin gas. Enlisted by his cousin, Prime Minister Arslan Eroglu, Matoush and the elite assault team he handpicked from his command were to unleash the lethal gas at the airbase and steal away with truckloads of the B61 nuclear weapons stored at Incirlik.

  A second man, also dressed all in black, came and stood beside Colonel Matoush.

  “This is an accursed wind,” he said.

  Bayard, his cloak snapping in the wind, could hear each word clearly despite the distance.

  “How can such a wind be blowing for these many days at this time of year? There is never wind in this season.” He looked at his commander. “It is a bad omen.”

  Colonel Matoush slouched against the side of the warehouse and shrugged his shoulders. “We cannot control the weather.”

  “But it would be madness to release these weapons into the wind. None of us would escape. And our mission would be a failure.”

  The fat man in charge turned slowly to his left. “It is not ours to question,” said Colonel Matoush. “We’ve been given our orders. They are clear. We get the canisters in place tonight and tomorrow night. And we release the gas from the canisters just after midnight on the twenty-fourth.” Then he looked up at the sky. “Perhaps the wind will cease by then.”

  The other angelic beings standing on the hill looked in Bayard’s direction. He pushed his left arm out from under the cloak, lifted his hand, and cupped it toward the north. “Come, north wind,” called Bayard. And he swept his cupped hand down across the dry plain, pushing it out toward the complex of warehouses in the distance.

  A steady, strong blast of icy wind roiled out of the snow-capped mountains hundreds
of kilometers to the north, accelerated across the plain, and slammed into the warehouses, the vans, and the men in black.

  Colonel Matoush stumbled against the wind, then was blown into the side of the warehouse. “Allah, the Merciful … curse this wind!” he screamed.

  On the windswept hill, the being in the cloak smiled. He looked into the stars. “Praise you, Lord.” Then, as a great, dark cloud formed in the north trying to block the wind, Bayard joined his brethren, cupped his left hand, and swept it once again over the plain. “Come, north wind.”

  16

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 1:10 a.m.

  Mullaney felt a cold wind strike his body as he sat behind his desk, and an image imprinted itself on his mind, blocking Levinson and Herzog from his consciousness. Bayard was standing on a hill, his left hand raised into the sky.

  “Are you alright, Brian?”

  Levinson’s voice brought Mullaney back to Tel Aviv, back to the residence, back to this temporary office.

  “You look as if across your path some evil walked,” whispered Rabbi Herzog. “What did you see?”

  Where he had been, what exactly he’d seen, Mullaney did not know.

  “I was on a hill. There was a frigid wind blowing. Bayard was there fighting,” Mullaney whispered, the vapors of the vision slowly clearing from his mind.

  And he had heard Bayard’s familiar voice. “Do not fear, my son. He who is for you is greater than he who is against you. You have time … we will protect the innocents.”