Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  Mullaney was fighting to keep his eyes open. Fighting to think through the mush that was his brain. Yeah … something formidable. Formidable enough that Cleveland had to go off the reservation and call in JSOC. Something …

  “What was that?” Rutherford’s voice snapped Mullaney back to consciousness. “What did you say about Cleveland and JSOC?”

  A rush of adrenaline flushed through Mullaney’s body, and he was instantly alert, awake … and alarmed. What had he said? Wasn’t he just thinking? Were those words also on his lips?

  “What’s Cleveland up to?”

  Mentally scrambling, Mullaney was frantic to shut the door he’d just opened. “Look, I told you I was exhausted, Richard. I can’t keep my eyes open or my thoughts straight. I must have drifted off to sleep again. I don’t know what I was mumbling. Shoot, I don’t know if I’m waking or dreaming. So just take no—no thanks—for an answer, okay? We can talk about the reasons another time, okay? Give Abby and the girls my love. Good night, Richard.”

  His heart beating like a Fourth of July fireworks finale, Mullaney reached over to the top of the bureau and tapped the red disconnect button on his iPhone.

  What had he done? Had he revealed the situation in Turkey … the mission that Cleveland was cooking up with the JSOC team?

  Dread flooded every cell of Mullaney’s being. A grimace twisted his face in anguish as he clapped his hands on both sides of his head, trying to deny what he knew was true. He had betrayed Cleveland’s confidence, broken his promises. And to Rutherford? Oh … God, help me!

  Mullaney fell back onto his bed. But this time sleep eluded him.

  18

  Washington, DC

  July 22, 8:22 p.m.

  The Golden Buddha Chinese restaurant was only five blocks away from the Truman Building, but it existed in a much less rarified atmosphere. On the border of George Washington University, the Buddha was primarily a cheap, take-out joint with paper menus. Its food was common and uninspiring, all of it infused with the overwhelming smell of frying oil. Even the air felt greasy. But it did have a corner booth in the back, dimly lit, alongside the always busy kitchen.

  Richard Rutherford had used the back booth before. A stone’s throw from the White House, a brisk twenty-minute walk from the action on Capitol Hill, the Golden Buddha was obscure enough to generally be safe for a meeting that needed to be kept quiet.

  Rutherford, seated deep in the booth, wasn’t wearing the imported suit of a billionaire banker. This evening he wore beat-up jeans, a burgundy L.L.Bean chamois shirt, and a Hoyas baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He looked like a tired worker at the end of a long day, picking at his steamed dumplings with little interest.

  On the inside, though, his anxiety level was just short of boil. Earlier that morning, Noah Webster had left Rutherford in shock. The deputy secretary of state was long a supplicant at Rutherford’s altar of wealth. But today he failed to crumble under Rutherford’s browbeating demands for action and results in their efforts to scuttle President Boylan’s nuclear deal with Iran. Instead, Webster launched his own preemptive attack, threatening to reveal not only the damning details of Rutherford’s decades-long collusion with former, now deceased, Senator Seneca Markham, but also rebuffing Rutherford’s request to bring his son-in-law home from Israel.

  The servant was trying to supplant the master. A southern gentleman, born deep in Georgia, Rutherford’s ancestors had bequeathed him a heritage of master over servant. Even though Webster’s hidden records could result in Rutherford’s conviction on a myriad of charges, the banker’s DNA—and his naturally pugilistic personality—was not inclined to yield to blackmail.

  It was time to start hitting back.

  Rutherford watched Nora Carson bypass the busy take-out counter on her way back to the booth. If there was one person in this world who knew where Noah Webster hid his secrets, it would be Carson. With red hair that fell to her shoulders in a cascade of curls and a trim, athletic figure, Carson was stunning. She was also ruthlessly ambitious and had sold her soul to Webster as soon as he joined the State Department. Rutherford was banking that Carson was now regretting that transaction.

  Carson stopped at the edge of the table without sitting in the booth.

  “Why am I here?”

  “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Ms. Carson.”

  “I don’t need platitudes, Mr. Rutherford. I need to know why it was so important that I meet you here”—she swept her hand toward the kitchen—“tonight. What do you want?”

  A ripple of resentment coursed through Rutherford’s body at Carson’s rudeness. But he needed to hold it in check. Rutherford leaned into the table, forcing his gaze upon Carson.

  “I want to help you, Nora,” he said. “I’m concerned about Noah. He’s seemed unusually stressed lately. And with Senator Markham’s sudden death, well … any indiscretion on Noah’s part could place each of us in a very vulnerable position. I want to help. Please”—he pointed to the seat in the booth—“join me.”

  Rutherford could see the distrust in her eyes, the hesitation in her manner. I don’t blame her, he thought. I wouldn’t trust me either.

  Carson slid into the booth as if she was having dinner with a python. She sat as far away from Rutherford as possible. And she knew two things: Rutherford was right about Webster coming unglued, and she was now at great risk and needed help and protection. What she didn’t know was whether her risk was greater with Rutherford or without him.

  “Forgive me for getting straight to the point,” said Rutherford. “Noah has all of the records of my dealings with Senator Markham, including those that skirted several federal laws. You already know that, I’m sure. But now he’s threatened to leak all of those records to the press unless I commit twenty million dollars to his dream of political campaigns.”

  “He thinks that blackmailing you will get him to the Senate?” A resigned laugh, lacking mirth, slipped from Carson’s lips. “If he tries to burn you, doesn’t he realize he’ll get caught up in the flames too? He implicates you, he implicates himself.”

  The smile that creased Richard Rutherford’s face froze Nora Carson’s heart. It was knowing and malevolent, and it made her skin crawl.

  “Do you really think Noah Webster doesn’t have an escape plan?” Rutherford shook his head. “Think about it. That’s why he has you, Nora, so conveniently close to everything he’s done. Who is the perfect fall-guy if the heat on Webster gets too severe? Why you, Nora—the trusted subordinate who committed all these crimes without his knowledge. Now with Seneca Markham dead, Webster can also plead that he was kept in the dark by the senator … that he was simply a loyal but innocent pawn in these nefarious dealings I had with the senator.”

  Carson fought to maintain a tough exterior, but she knew Rutherford was right. “He won’t get away with it.”

  “No, he won’t,” Rutherford agreed, “not in the long run. Noah’s wallowed in too much dirt. Some of it’s going to stick to him. And once the cover is off, who knows what an investigation will find. But you and I will already be behind bars, watching Noah’s demise from a distance. Personally, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail. And I think a beautiful woman like you might not enjoy ten-to-twenty in a women’s prison.”

  The world started closing in on Nora Carson. Originally she had thought George Morningstar was fishing around on his own. But perhaps it was just the opening skirmish in a battle that could consume her hope and turn her future into a train wreck.

  Looking down at the table, Carson’s voice was soft, the eyes of her mind on the picture of her future that Rutherford had just painted. “George Morningstar stopped in to see me recently. He was asking questions about Noah. And he was not subtle. He wanted me to know that he was looking.” Carson looked up just in time to see a flash of alarm cross Rutherford’s face.

  “Morningstar? I thought he was banished,” breathed Rutherford. “Why would he—”

  “Townsend,” said Carson. “I
t can only be Townsend. Morningstar was always close to the secretary of state, and his portfolio included internal investigations of the department before he was kicked into the basement by Webster. Yesterday I called Morningstar and asked him to meet me in Virginia. I wanted to find out what he knew … and what he wanted. Morningstar never showed up. That was the morning he died.”

  Only the banging of metal pots broke the silence. Rutherford was running the probability calculations through his mind. Morningstar was investigating Webster? And now Morningstar was dead. What else was happening that he didn’t know? He felt like shadows were closing in on him, but shadows with weight and substance. He could feel their pressing persistence. And an urgent conviction that Webster’s secret records needed to be destroyed.

  Rutherford was not a reluctant gambler. He went all-in.

  “There’s a way we can help each other, Nora,” he said, leaning into the table to cut down the distance between them. “I’m sure you know where Noah keeps his secrets.”

  Carson was good. She didn’t flinch. But for just a fraction of a second she dropped her gaze to the table. She knows!

  She wasn’t surprised when Rutherford revealed his true motives, but the realization was jarring nonetheless. I knew I couldn’t trust him. All he cares about is saving himself. He’s just as much the devil as Noah Webster … and almost as unhinged.

  Nora Carson knew her options were dwindling fast. But there was no safe harbor here. She pushed herself out of the booth and stood alongside the table, staring down at one of the richest, most powerful men in the nation.

  “You’re right, Richard,” said Carson, her boldness growing alongside her desperation, “there is a way we can help each other. You just haven’t come up with it yet. When … if … you come up with a plan that will protect us—both of us—from Webster’s wrath, call me. You have the number.” She started to walk away but stopped and looked over her shoulder at Rutherford. “And good luck trying to find out where Noah keeps his secrets hidden. They are legion. And only Noah knows them all.”

  Rutherford watched Carson maneuver her way to the front door, the human part of him admiring the way her smartly cut suit accented all of her best parts, the survivor in him calculating how much collateral damage would be required to guarantee his freedom. Carson had confirmed for him one critical fact: Webster had several harbors for his secrets. It would be nearly impossible to find and destroy them all. If Richard Rutherford could not erase Webster’s secrets, it was time to erase Webster.

  Before he left the booth in the darkened bowels of the Golden Buddha, Rutherford pulled out a disposable mobile phone and made two calls. The first was to a number in Miami. The man who answered was told to put the plan in motion. That was all. Richard Rutherford was about to disappear. And he was confident he would never be found, nor would his money ever run out.

  The second call was local. It was time to tie up all these messy loose ends. Rutherford recited the number of a secret Swiss bank account. Then he spoke two names: Noah Webster and Nora Carson. Silence those two and cover his tracks. He would miss his daughter, his granddaughters. But he would miss a lot more if he spent the rest of his life inside a jail cell. Perhaps if the prosecutors failed to make the connections, maybe someday he could reappear.

  Rutherford swiftly dismantled the phone. He would randomly deposit pieces of it in public trash cans over an eight-city-block loop. As he started to get up from the booth, his eyes fell on the barely touched plate of now-cold steamed dumplings and he realized how hungry he had become. He stabbed two with his fork, pushed them into his mouth, and walked out of the restaurant with every intention to vanish from the face of the earth.

  Walking briskly back to her car, Nora Carson started plotting her escape. Webster had a screw loose and was going over the edge. Now Rutherford seemed to be almost as rattled as Webster.

  She turned the corner at F Street and Twentieth Street—a container of pepper spray in her right hand, just in case—walked past the nearly full, sidewalk café tables of a Starbucks, and headed for the parking garage where she had left her car.

  Carson was always fully aware of her knife-blade existence, walking a very thin, sharp, and dangerous course that could leave her career and her life bloodied, damaged, and discarded.

  Carson walked past Rawlins Park, then turned left on E Street to the parking garage. The attendant was not in the closet-sized office. She looked around, but neither saw nor heard anyone. She walked up the ramp toward her car.

  For the last two years, with Webster as her cover, pursuing the ultimate goal was worth the risk—a Cayman Islands account that could soon afford to buy its own island. Not now. Now was the time to run. Get to the Caymans, grab the money, and disappear. The only question was how quickly …

  “Good evening, Nora.”

  She spun to her left, toward the voice that came from the shadow under the down ramp, her right arm outstretched.

  “Please don’t use that spray.” A shape moved within the shadow and stepped into the half-light. It was the man with the Panama hat. “I have a gift for you.”

  It had been years since she last spoke with this man, that time as Webster’s messenger. A shiver shuddered across her back, and warning signals rattled her already frayed nerves. People simply disappeared at this man’s bidding. She kept her arm extended, her index finger on the spray button. “What can you have that I would want?”

  The man held up a letter-sized envelope. “Your get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  Carson’s breath caught in her throat. This man could …

  “We’ve been doing business with your boss once again,” he said, his voice as quiet as the shadows were still. “You know we are discreet and effective in delicate circumstances where others might be … morally challenged, shall we say?”

  Her arm was getting sore. But she didn’t dare lower it. “You and your people are deadly efficient. I’ll give you that.”

  “Yes … but even we have our limits,” said the man. He lifted the envelope once again. “Webster is desperate. Desperate men make mistakes. Our connection to him could leave us exposed. This,” he said, tweaking the envelope, “is everything you need to put Noah Webster in a federal prison and leave a trail that will lead neither to you nor to us. And then you can take the money in the Caymans and buy yourself a life.”

  Carson was momentarily caught off guard by the man’s information. Her hand wavered.

  “Why? Why now? Why me?”

  She could only see the bottom half of the man’s face, the rest obscured in the darkness under the brim of his Panama hat. But she could see his mouth tense in a grimace.

  “Well, for one thing, I have daughters, Nora,” he said, a slight back-and-forth shaking in his chin. “We draw the line at children.”

  Carson was surprised, both at the confession and by the silence that followed. “And what is the other thing?”

  The man’s head tipped up. She caught a glint of light halo his eyes. “We also draw the line at assassinating sitting heads of state. Others have made that mistake and found that it’s bad for business. We don’t intend to follow in their footsteps. Here … what you planned to give Morningstar is not enough. What’s in here will bury Noah Webster, once and for all.”

  The man in the Panama hat placed the envelope on the hood of the car next to him. Carson gazed at the envelope. Was it bait? Was it a trap? She looked up. The man was gone, the shadows under the ramp empty.

  Carson lowered her right arm and took a deep breath to cleanse her rattled nerves. Then she picked up the envelope, tucked it under her arm, and turned to find her car. The envelope felt like hope.

  19

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 7:49 a.m.

  His mind seemed more fogged, in stall mode, after less than five hours of sleep. Walking down the corridor of the south wing, Mullaney was not refreshed or relieved. He was brimming with frustration and recrimination from his disastrous phone conversat
ion with Richard Rutherford.

  The words from his father flashed back through his mind. “Don’t be useless!”

  Mullaney felt worse than useless. He felt as if he had betrayed the one man who most deserved his respect and honor. How could he be so—

  He shook his head. Self-pity would be no help in facing the ambassador. Only the truth would help. And the truth, Mullaney believed, would cut Atticus Cleveland to his core. How could he be so—

  Palmyra Parker was rounding the corner from the corridor that led to the ambassador’s private quarters. Good timing.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Parker,” Mullaney said as he approached the corridor. “Is your father awake?”

  “No.” A hand was planted on Mullaney’s chest before he could squeeze past Parker. “And you are not going to wake him.”

  There was challenge in Parker’s stance and in her voice. A formidable bulwark. One he had to overcome.

  A torrent of words rushed forth from Mullaney’s anxious heart. “I’m sorry, Palmyra, but I have to speak to your father. Meyer Levinson is waiting for me out front, I’m not going to be here long and I need to speak to him. It’s very important. And …”

  The hand in his chest pressed more earnestly. “And no, you will not wake him, no matter how important it is that you talk to him.”

  “But …”

  “But nothing,” she insisted. “Is the building on fire?”

  Mullaney tried to summon up his most commanding presence.

  “Are there enemies at the gate, killers invading the grounds intent on murder?

  He stared at the green eyes that did not flinch.

  “Is President Boylan here to play a round of golf with Atticus?”

  “Palmyra … it is important.”