“Second, if he listens to me, perhaps I can convince him to open the door to Edwards’s Task Force Black. It would be a lot better for Kashani if this plot could be stopped before it got started. JSOC’s team could come in, snuff out the threat, and be gone without a trace, leaving no knowledge of this disastrous plot within Turkey.
“Third, if the worst happens, if the attack on the NATO base takes place, if nuclear weapons are threatened—or stolen—what do you think the international response will be? Turkey and Kashani’s government will be square in the middle of a firestorm. But if I’m there, in country, working directly with Kashani in trying to thwart this attack, capture the perpetrators and their weapons, even if something unthinkable happens, Kashani is off the hook. He’s seen as a good guy, an ally. And there’s no threat of retaliation against Turkey. That’s just pragmatic politics.
“But if I don’t get to Ankara as soon as possible, then Kashani is on his own … probably under the influence of Eroglu … and we have absolutely no chance to avert this catastrophe.”
Hughes got up from her chair, walked over to a sideboard, and poured herself a glass of water. Cleveland could tell she was processing, taking the time to think. With the half-filled glass still in her hand, she turned back toward Cleveland.
“Okay … you convinced me,” Hughes said. “But how do you plan to pull this off? It’s not easy for an ambassador to go AWOL.”
Cleveland smiled. “Step-by-step,” he said. “And that was step one … getting you on board with me. Because I’m going to need your help, Ruth. I need a covert ride to Akrotiri Air Base to meet with Ernie Edwards. After that, you don’t want to know.”
St. Archangel Michael Monastery, Tel Aviv
July 23, 8:28 a.m.
Mullaney placed an envelope on the table in front of him as he sat in a chair. His finger tapped on the envelope. “This is why we’ve come,” he said, “but first I need to give you some background.”
The monk leaned against his forearms on the edge of the table and clasped his fingers together. “I can already tell I’m going to enjoy this,” he said, raising his right eyebrow and tilting his head in anticipation. “Shoot.”
Over the next few minutes, Mullaney retraced the history as much as he could recall: a quick lesson on the Vilna Gaon; the two-hundred-year-old-prophecy he wrote in 1794 that was only revealed recently; the story of the Gaon’s second prophecy and the deadly metal box that protected it; how Ambassador Cleveland had been drawn into the story, gotten Mullaney caught up in its mysteries, and been pursued by a murderous cadre of Turkish zealots who had apparently followed the box from Istanbul and were still trying to destroy the Gaon’s prophecy and gain control of the box, at any cost.
“Rabbi Herzog’s son and the Rabbinate Council successfully deciphered the code of the second prophesy just before explosions destroyed the Hurva synagogue, but both the box and the message survived. So we know what the two prophecies say, even though we’re not exactly sure what they both fully mean. But there were two lines of symbols at the bottom of the second message that none of us has been able to decipher. Rabbi Herzog and Colonel Levinson thought you might be able to help since you’re … a …
“A code breaker and unrepentant computer hacker, right?” said Poppodopolous, a grin stretching across his formidable face. “Who sometimes even stays within the law, right? That’s how I first ran into Levinson … or more accurately, how he ran into me. I was testing out a new setup to see how deep it could run. I had cruised through the Knesset’s backfiles and reports on the IDF’s war games results, when there was a knock on my door. It was Levinson and a snarling Shin Bet squad who were ready to throw me into the dungeon of no return. But it was also Meyer who kept me out of jail when I agreed to help with deep web counterespionage. So yes, I love to break codes. What’s inside the envelope?”
22
Cankaya Palace, Ankara
July 23, 8:27 a.m.
Prime Minister Arslan Eroglu passed through the massive doors leading into the president’s private chambers in the Cankaya Palace, acknowledged by the ceremonial guards standing sentinel at the doorposts but essentially ignored by the plainclothes security personnel who lined its hallways. Throughout the time their party had ruled the government of Turkey during the previous decade, Prime Minister Eroglu had been President Emet Kashani’s closest and most trusted advisor and confidant. Though absent much of the past few days, Eroglu was a well-known fixture of the palace. But if the creature who now occupied Eroglu’s body had been visible to the guards, the prime minister would never have made it close to Kashani’s private quarters.
Having assimilated all of Eroglu’s capacities, including his memory, while taking ownership of his body, the Turk walked purposefully through the outer receiving rooms and into the study where he knew he would find Kashani.
“Arslan … where have you been?” There was a faint challenge to the president’s question and the accent of petulant umbrage. “You’ve been unavailable more in the last two days than you have in the last ten years. The Iraqis are asking almost every hour when we’re going to open up the dams on the Euphrates. They see the Kurds taking steps at the United Nations to codify our commitment to an independent Kurdistan but no water reaching their farms. Why haven’t the dams been opened?”
The Turk stopped in the middle of the floor and bowed to the president. “Good morning, Mr. President. I hope you are well.”
Kashani looked over his shoulder toward Eroglu, a perplexed look on his face. “Are you …”
“Yes, I have come to speak to you specifically about our agreement with the Iraqis,” said Eroglu. “I believe the time has arrived for us to abandon our agreement with Baghdad and reveal our arrangement with the Israelis. The Iraqis can watch their rivers turn to sand.”
Kashani crossed the floor to stand in front of the prime minister, crowding his personal space. “I think you have gotten your priorities confused, Arslan,” said Kashani, staring down his nose and punctuating each word with a nod of his head, as if he were lecturing a laggardly student. “We have the Persians where we want them.”
The Turk focused Eroglu’s eyes on the president and pushed back against his attempt at intimidation.
Kashani blinked, startled, and took a step back. Wrinkles of doubt furrowed the president’s brow. Brusquely he turned away and sat in the corner of a leather sofa against the wall, near the door to his bedroom. He tried to look like a man in control.
But the Turk continued to press against Kashani’s will.
“We have long planned for this moment, Arslan. The UN Security Council is unanimously in favor of an independent Kurdistan,” Kashani said with a wave of his hand, as if the gesture put a stamp of validation on his words. “The agreement with Iraq creates a bulwark for us between Persian ambition and any hopes they may have of western expansion.”
“Iraq is not important now,” said prime minister Eroglu’s body, his words echoing the strength of a command. “The treaty with Israel is imperative. The future hinges on Israel. You must announce the treaty while Meir still has a government that can make it a reality.”
Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv
July 23, 8:29 a.m.
For Cleveland, the direct approach had always been the most effective. So he held the disposable burner phone in his hand and punched in the private number Kashani had graciously given him while he was the United States Ambassador to Turkey for two years. First, he sent a text message, so Kashani would know who was calling his private number.
“Mr. President, this is Joseph Cleveland. I need to speak to you, privately, about a crucial matter. I will call you in a few moments using this same phone. Please accept the call. I cannot overemphasize the urgency of our conversation.
“Remember, I’m the one who got you tickets to the Neil Diamond concert in Washington.”
Cleveland shrugged his shoulders. “Well, at least now he’ll be certain it’s me,” he said to Hughes. “Let’s see if h
e bites.”
He laid the phone on top of his desk, but almost immediately it buzzed an incoming message. Cleveland checked the screen.
“My wife was delighted with the seats. I’m here.”
“Bingo!” said Cleveland. And he made the call, with the phone on speaker.
“Good morning, Atticus,” said the voice. “I would make polite small talk but, from the tone of your text, we must, as you say, get down to business. What is so urgent?”
“Thank you, Emet, for taking the time. I’m here with Ruth Hughes, my political officer in Tel Aviv. And I’ll come right to the point. Mrs. Hughes and I have received independent, corroborating reports that Turkish nationals—perhaps Turkish military, perhaps Islamic jihadists—have placed in motion a plot to steal some, or all, of the B61 nuclear weapons stored on the Incirlik Air Base.”
Cleveland wasn’t surprised that there was a period of silence on the other end of the call. His allegation was shocking. In some ways, incomprehensible. Kashani would need a moment to get his head around both the statement and its implications. But the silence didn’t last very long.
“That is totally absurd,” Kashani blurted. “Who has been feeding you these lies?”
Cleveland sifted Kashani’s response through his understanding of the Middle Eastern mindset. It was a denial, but not a categorical denial. Kashani was evading the issue. Why, he didn’t know. Not yet.
“At the moment, who, how, when we got this information is immaterial,” said Cleveland. “The important thing, at least to us, is that we trust our sources and that both sources reported the same facts: there is a plan, in motion already, to attack Incirlik and steal nuclear weapons. And you’ve uncovered nothing of this plot?”
Again, a pause. “One moment.”
There was the sound of voices, a conversation in the background. Cleveland looked at Hughes and raised his eyebrows in a question. Vassilev had warned them that Eroglu was increasingly pulling the strings in Kashani’s government.
“Mr. Ambassador,” said Kashani, his words ringing with umbrage, “Prime Minister Eroglu is here with me this morning. I can tell you directly, we have no knowledge of any such plot against the NATO base or the weapons stored there.”
Across the room, Ruth Hughes threw up her arms in frustration at Kashani’s sidesteps.
“I didn’t expect that you would.” Cleveland tried to keep his tone neutral. “But in my country as in yours, there are factions, radical groups, unseen forces that can operate without the government’s knowledge or approval. You can’t control everyone or be conscious of what every group is up to. Even groups you might fundamentally agree with.”
“Jihadists, you mean,” Kashani snapped. “You know I do not agree with many of the policies or practices of our NATO allies, and yes, I have become more favorably disposed to the grievances of my more fundamentalist Muslim brothers. But an attack against NATO? Only a madman would conceive such a plan. Someone is deceiving you. Or I am a blind fool.”
St. Archangel Michael Monastery, Tel Aviv
July 23, 8:32 a.m.
Mullaney pulled three slips of paper from the envelope and passed the first one across the table to the monk. “This was the Gaon’s first prophecy, kept hidden by the Rabbinate Council for over two hundred years and revealed four months ago by his great-grandson.”
Father Poppodopolous quickly scanned the paper:
When you hear that the Russians have captured the city of Crimea, you should know that the Times of Messiah have started, that his steps are being heard. And when you hear that the Russians have reached the city of Constantinople, you should put on your Shabbat clothes and not take them off, because it means that Messiah is about to come at any minute.
“Right … the Messiah message. I remember the announcement. It still has some people jumpy, including my bishop. And?”
“This was the second prophesy that was deciphered only two days ago.” Mullaney looked at the words that had upended his life and passed the paper to the monk:
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.
“Huummmph,” grunted the monk as he viewed the second prophecy. “Just as the Ishmael Covenant was signed, eh? That’s interesting. And who’s this Man of Violence?”
“We don’t know,” said Mullaney, “but I have a hunch he’s the man behind all of the attacks that have surrounded the message and the box since it left Istanbul in the ambassador’s care. He …”
“Wait!” interjected the monk. “You said this guy and his gang were after the message and the box, right? So why did they blow up the Hurva? Why take the risk of destroying both the box and the prophecy when it’s obvious that’s what they’re still after?”
Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv
July 23, 8:32 a.m.
Cleveland’s voice stiffened. “Our sources have told us that those behind this scheme are planning to disperse chemical agents into the air around Incirlik.”
Now Kashani offered no response.
“There are nearly two million Turkish citizens in the area around Adana,” said Cleveland, “thousands of innocent women and children living on the base itself. If these reports are true, and we have high confidence they are accurate, hundreds of thousands of lives are at risk. And if the plan is to use chemical weapons, the attackers would need proper training and equipment. They would have to be professionals.”
“Perhaps the Kurds?” offered Kashani. “The PPG could be behind a scheme like this, a scheme to drive a wedge between Turkey and the rest of NATO.”
Cleveland jumped at the opportunity. “Which is why I’m calling,” he said. “If you agree, I’m on my way to Ankara. Off the record … off the radar.”
“What? You …”
“You need me standing with you, Emet. Between the two of us, we can figure out what is going on … is it only rumor, or is there really a clandestine plot that could throw the world into turmoil? If we find a plot and you need outside support, our countries can work together. But most importantly, if something terrible were to happen, the fact that you and I were both employed in an attempt to avert any attack would keep you and your nation in NATO’s good graces and protected from any retaliation.”
“Wait.”
The voices on the other end were still muted but sharper. Kashani and Eroglu were in conflict over Cleveland’s involvement. He couldn’t hear them clearly, but Cleveland could tell that Kashani and Eroglu were engaged in spirited discussion on their end of the call. Only one word came through … “Enough!”
When Kashani came back to the call, his tone was less belligerent. “I do not believe these reports,” he sighed. “But …”
Cleveland understood the meaning of the but. One of the most unsettling realities that all Turkish presidents lived with was the ever-present potential of a military coup against any leader who fell out of favor with the Turkish generals. Since 1960, there had been four military takeovers of the Turkish government, another unproven coup attempt that took the lives of many of the government’s leaders, and plans for three other coups that failed to materialize. Kashani, all Turkish presidents, survived on a knife’s edge.
“What do you want me to do?” Kashani asked.
Bingo!
Cleveland knew what he needed from Kashani. It was one part of the trip Agent Pat McKeon would not be making.
23
St. Archangel Michael Monastery, Tel Aviv
July 23, 8:35 a.m.
“We wondered about that too,” said Mullaney. As he sat there, cataloging thoughts, assessing emotions, probing for the truth and the way, Mullaney felt a quickening in his heart … a stirring in his spirit. It was like, well … it was like the day of his graduation from the State Police Academy in Virginia, the day he swore his oath of allegiance to “serve, protect, and defend” when he joined DSS. Day
s when he was on the cusp of a great, new adventure, but also days when he was fulfilling his destiny, his purpose. Today felt like that kind of day.
At this moment, that rising tide of destiny and purpose infused Mullaney with energy, strengthened his resolve, and opened his mind to … well, he wasn’t quite sure. But he felt like he had just pinned on his badge and strapped on his gun belt. He was more than ready to go into battle. He was looking forward to it.
“Look,” he said, spreading his hands before him, “we may not understand it, but we know we are in a battle with the forces of evil—whoever those forces are. And for only God knows why, we have been enlisted into this supernatural fight, at least for this part that is occurring at this time, here on earth. Our best guess is that our enemy’s original plan was to prevent the second prophecy from being deciphered and revealed. Now it’s certainly possible that these agents of evil have been trying to destroy both of these prophecies since the Gaon first wrote them down. Could be why they were both hidden for so long. Our enemy wants to steal them or destroy them, one way or another.”
“Then,” said Poppodopolous, shifting his significant weight in a relatively insignificant chair, “why didn’t they stop, give it up, when the first prophecy was revealed in March? Game over, right?”
Mullaney jumped at the question, shaking his head. “No! Game changed! Now there was an urgency to prevent the Gaon’s second prophecy from becoming public knowledge. There’s something in that second message our enemy didn’t want revealed. Some clue that will help us try to thwart their plans here. And even though the second prophecy has been deciphered, they still remain violent and deadly in their opposition. Why is that?”
Ottoman Dominion Page 15
