Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  Ever the investigator, Mullaney could feel the excitement of the hunt rising in his spirit.

  “We know that touching the bronze box that contained the Gaon’s second prophecy was almost instantly fatal for anyone without the anointing of the guardian,” Mullaney continued. “Most of us thought it was the prophecy message itself that triggered the lethal zap. But once the original parchment from the Gaon was taken out of the box by the rabbis at the Hurva, touching the box still led to a gruesome death.”

  Even as the words left his mouth, there was an awakening of understanding in Mullaney.

  But Poppy was first to put the idea into words. “You’re saying the box has power.” It was a statement, not a question. “Even though the message is no longer held within the box, the box itself has the power to kill. So …”

  “They’re after the box,” said Mullaney, almost as if he was speaking to himself. “They want the power of the box. They must think they can harness its power, use it for their own purposes.”

  “Wait,” blurted Herzog. “It kills, I think. Anyone who touches that box his own death warrant is signing.”

  A memory pierced Mullaney’s thoughts. “Except for one thing,” he said. “Bayard told us that any mortal being who touches the box will die. Well, what about an immortal being? An evil immortal being? Perhaps …”

  “Eh … reconsider that, I would,” interjected Herzog. “The Philistines were none too thrilled once they captured the Ark of the Covenant. Something about boils. Without the blessing, maybe the box they can have, eh?”

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 8:37 a.m.

  Even in the absence of any official announcement, in the wake of Tommy Hernandez’s death in Amman, Jordan, all of the Diplomatic Security Service agents on the duty roster at the US ambassador’s residence in Tel Aviv began calling Pat McKeon Boss and treating her with the respect and deference owed to the person in charge of the ambassador’s personal security detail. She was interim in title only.

  McKeon was in her mid-thirties, athletic in build, and wore her dark hair short—less fuss. She was an inch short of six-feet in height and carried herself with the confidence gained from several DSS rotations into challenging conditions. She was solid and reliable by reputation and rarely made a mistake. Four days ago, she made one that could have ended her career. She allowed the ambassador’s daughter to leave the residence without a DSS agent at her side. Palmyra Parker was abducted by these Turkish terrorists, held captive, and only rescued after a raging gun battle amongst the sand dunes of the Nitzanim Preserve along the Mediterranean.

  But that midnight firefight was where McKeon had redeemed herself. Automatic weapons were still firing from multiple locations when McKeon charged into the midst of the battle and fought her way into the back seat of the SUV carrying Mrs. Parker. It was training, determination, and character that launched McKeon into the rescue attempt, not an attempt to save her job. This was her job. Parker was her responsibility.

  Now Parker’s father was McKeon’s responsibility. And Ambassador Joseph Cleveland was not making her life any easier. Cyprus? Now?

  “Right,” said Cleveland. “Put together a team and we’re leaving in five minutes. Mrs. Hughes is coming to the airport with us. She’s tapped into her business world connections and arranged a private jet for our use.”

  “Yes, sir,” said McKeon. “But I’ll need to reach Agent Mullaney first and let him know you’re planning an immediate trip outside Israel. He may not agree with those plans—at least not until he’s here to go with us.”

  McKeon stood inside the door of Cleveland’s temporary office in the south wing of the residence, trying to sort through the directive she’d just been given by the ambassador. This trip was awfully sudden, particularly after all that the ambassador—all of them—had endured over the last several days. Brian wouldn’t be happy.

  Cleveland stood behind the makeshift desk, an imposing figure, his frame leaning toward McKeon and his eyes transmitting a clear message of authority.

  “I understand,” he said. “But you need to understand this. In five minutes, we will be leaving for Ben Gurion, whether Mullaney is here or not. DSS works for me … not the other way around. We’re flying into the RAF base at Akrotiri, and it’s critical I get there as soon as possible. Mullaney or no Mullaney. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” said McKeon, her anxiety unquenched but her duty clear.

  “There will be room for yourself and three other agents on the airplane,” said Cleveland.

  “Okay. I’ll assemble a team and have your car and our escort at the front door in five minutes.” McKeon turned and left Cleveland’s office, pulling out her mobile phone as she stepped through the door. She tapped the speed dial for Mullaney.

  He is not going to like this.

  This had been Cleveland’s greatest fear, the weakest link in his escape plan … getting out of Tel Aviv without Mullaney putting a stop to it. He had hoped to browbeat Agent McKeon into quiet compliance, but not surprisingly, that didn’t work. She had tried to reach Mullaney several times, so far with no success. Was this divine intervention?

  Just prior to their departure for the airport, as if on business, Cleveland entered the security office of the residence. Lying on top of the unoccupied desk was McKeon’s quickly scribbled report to Mullaney, alerting him to this unexpected trip to Cyprus. A report that now was stuffed into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  St. Archangel Michael Monastery, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 8:43 a.m.

  “And there’s another question.” Poppodopolous gestured across the table. “Why the Aaronic blessing? Why that seemingly innocuous language as a way to protect the guardian from getting zapped? There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of other, more powerful warnings or promises or protections throughout the Bible. Why were these words chosen?”

  Rabbi Herzog sat to Mullaney’s left. He was leaning forward in his chair, totally engrossed in the conversation. “The Aaronic blessing, Poppy, is anything but innocuous.” Herzog, glancing back and forth between Mullaney and the monk, looked wounded—as if someone had declared his uncle Eli was a Black Sea pirate.

  “Not that long ago in the valley of Hinnom outside Jerusalem, a burial cave was uncovered,” Herzog explained. “Inside the cave were found two silver amulets from the seventh century. For hundreds of years, amulets have been thought to contain magical powers to prevent evil. These two amulets each had the Aaronic blessing etched into their surface.”

  The monk shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, I concede that Aaron’s blessing has been perceived as protection for centuries. But the question we should consider is why? And what does it tell us that the Aaronic blessing was chosen to protect this lineage of guardians from the lethal power of this little box?” The monk shifted in his chair to look at Herzog. “Rabbi … this is your territory. I’m sure you understand this a lot better than I do.”

  Herzog reached out with his right hand, resting it on the left arm of Poppodopolous. “Such a kind man,” he said with a smile. “Father Poppy probably knows more about the Talmud and the traditions of Judaism than I do. But …

  “When Israel was in the desert after the exodus,” Herzog explained, “the blessing of Aaron was spoken over the entire people of Israel each morning. The Levite priest Aaron, Moses’s brother, would stand in the doorway of the Tent of Meeting, lift his hands, and speak the blessing over the entire people. It was believed at the time that Aaron’s blessing had independent power that could be let loose into the congregation by the reciting of his words.

  “But the funny thing about the blessing is that it is a singular blessing … it’s not plural … it’s not for the massed assembly. It’s for each individual person standing there. It was a blessing that each Israelite was expected to take upon themselves, personally.

  “And the wording,” said Herzog, “is powerful. ‘The Lord bless you, and keep you …’ The word keep in Hebrew not only meant to guar
d or protect. It represented an image of a corral of bushes with long, sharp thorns that shepherds would use to surround their flocks at night to keep them safe. It’s a powerful word of protection. And ‘the Lord lift up His countenance on you …’ The word lift has the connotation of the Lord lifting you up in his arms, holding you above his head, and smiling up at you. Again, another powerful image of protection.

  “So surprising it is not, that the Gaon invoked the power of heaven as protection through the use of the Aaronic blessing,” said Herzog. “And my mind believes that invoking a covering this powerful was not only the means of protection, but I believe it was also a key to when the box itself was to fulfill its purpose … protect it and the guardians until it was time to put the box to work.”

  24

  Cankaya Palace, Ankara

  July 23, 8:44 a.m.

  The Turk was considering his options even before Kashani disconnected the call. So the American ambassador was coming to plead his case with Kashani. Well, perhaps it would not be Kashani he met with. The Turk had a vision of the box in his hands … and Cleveland in a coffin. So be it. He would harness the power of the box and focus its power to achieve his own desires. Then no one could defeat him. No one.

  Kashani leaned forward, his hands on his knees, defiance lacing his words.

  “You, Arslan? You tell me I must? Who do you think you are speaking to, Mr. Prime Minister? Don’t mistake our years of cooperation as a sign of weakness or as permission to pursue your own agenda. There is only one agenda. Stop the Persians. Rebuild the empire. Syria is a failed state, where anarchy reigns. Soon our troops will pour across that border, slicing through western Syria, bringing the ancient region of Assyria back into the nascent Ottoman Empire. It is the beginning of—”

  “It is the beginning of a new order,” Eroglu interrupted. The Turk took a step toward where Kashani was sitting. The president saw Prime Minister Eroglu approach. He did not see the malevolent yellow eyes of the Turk behind the mask, eyes that beckoned to bedlam. “The fulfillment of an ancient dream, yes … but not your dream.”

  President Kashani jumped to his feet. “It is not for you to say—”

  Eroglu’s left hand came up from his side, its fingers splayed out wide. From a deep, primeval well of torment, the Turk generated pulses of power from the tips of his fingers to the neurons of Kashani’s spinal cord. As if he was the host of a smoldering volcano, Kashani’s body tensed then shuddered involuntarily, spasmodically twitching as it desperately fought against the forces invading his very DNA. Then pain leaped from the fingers of the Turk … diabolical shards of torture that flayed Kashani’s nerve endings and drove his flailing limbs in disparate directions.

  Emet Kashani, President of the Republic of Turkey, fell back onto the leather sofa, his face a contorted portrait of anguish, his eyes wildly searching for hope. There was none.

  The Turk sent another pulse of power through his fingers, a laser of molten energy that fried every synapse in Kashani’s brain. Terror fled from Kashani’s eyes, but so did all consciousness. He was alive. His body still had breath. But there was no one home.

  Arslan Eroglu’s husk stepped closer to Kashani’s limp carcass. He spread both arms over the motionless frame. The Turk inside Eroglu, now brimming with newly absorbed power, spoke words the earth had never heard before. Kashani’s body lifted off the sofa. As if he were docking a spaceship by remote control, The Turk guided Kashani’s body into his private bed chamber and held him hovering over the bed. At a twist from Eroglu’s head, the cover and sheet were thrown back. The Turk lowered Kashani onto the bed and brought the covers back in place.

  “They will find you in a coma, and so you will live with the dead,” snarled Eroglu, “suspended in the realm of darkness until I call for you once again. But in the days to come, I will be the one who will rule the Ottomans.”

  The Turk glanced around the room. He walked to the corner and turned on a small table lamp, casting just enough shadowed light so Kashani’s body was visible. He closed the door on his way out, passed through the president’s study and the reception rooms, and stopped as he crossed the threshold leaving Kashani’s private quarters. He turned to the dark-suited man by the door, the lead agent in the president’s personal security team.

  “President Kashani is not well,” said the voice of Arslan Eroglu as he pulled the door shut. “He’s running a fever and is fighting a migraine headache. He has taken some medication and is sleeping. And he has ordered me that he is not to be disturbed until he awakes.”

  The agent turned, glanced at the door, and then back to Eroglu. “Perhaps I should—”

  “Perhaps?” snapped Eroglu’s voice. “Follow your orders. Let the president sleep, and don’t disturb him until he wakes. Understood?”

  Without waiting for a reply, the Turk led Eroglu’s body farther into the palace. There was much to do—ratify the treaty language with Israel, ensure the raid on Incirlik was successful. But most importantly, prepare for Ambassador Cleveland’s arrival, and the great good fortune it brought him.

  There was a venomous smile on Eroglu’s face and a deepening tint of yellow to his eyes. The end is near.

  St. Archangel Michael Monastery, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 8:46 a.m.

  “So I think our enemy still sees some threat in the message itself,” said Mullaney, “but it also appears they now realize the box has significant power of its own, perhaps in the kabbalah symbols hammered into its lid. I still think they want to destroy any of us who have seen the message of the second prophecy. They don’t want that message to become public knowledge. But I also think they now want the power of the box. And I think that brings us to this third slip of paper.”

  Mullaney once again looked at the symbols on the slip of paper, shook his head, and pushed it across the table to the monk.

  Father Poppodopolous stared down his nose, through the lens of his glasses, at the paper on the table. Then he pushed it under the light and leaned over the table to take a closer look. Mullaney was waiting for a magnifying glass to pop out of his cassock, but the monk sat back in his chair and looked at Herzog and Mullaney as if they had both started speaking in Lithuanian.

  “Do you know what Unicode is?” the monk asked.

  “Something to do with computers?” Herzog replied.

  “Yes … something,” said the monk. “In the early days of computers, each computer language or program had its own system for how characters and numbers were encoded so they could be computed or displayed. How a d is created on the computer screen, for example. None of the different languages were the same, not in English, and certainly not around the world. It was several years before somebody got the idea that computers should utilize the same character encoding system … that how a d is created in one system should be the same way a d is created in another system. And for our purposes, that somebody invented Unicode.”

  Mullaney sat there, waiting for the monk to say more. He had to be going somewhere with this explanation. But Father Poppodopolous folded his arms over the large cross that hung from his neck, nodding with satisfaction. “And … ?” asked Mullaney.

  “And,” said Poppodopolous, “when I look at these symbols you’ve laid before me, what I’m reminded of is Unicode.”

  Mullaney’s mind was spinning like a transmission with a broken gear, trying to absorb and understand what the monk had just said but getting stuck each time where the gear had teeth missing … Unicode in 1794?

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand either,” said Father Poppodopolous, “I’m just telling you what I see here. Your Lithuanian genius is using symbols that closely resemble some of the symbols of Unicode. Obviously, they are not Unicode. But they are something. His intention is to send us a message. Just as ways were found to decode the previous prophecies, there must be a way for us to decode these lines of symbols. So give me some time and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “Time, I th
ink, is something we may not have a lot,” said Herzog.

  “He’s right,” agreed Mullaney. “The pace of this conflict has accelerated, and it keeps accelerating more with each passing moment. We’ve just had a devastating earthquake at the US embassy and a second major earthquake eight miles away at the ambassador’s residence—and nothing in between—which would seem to be physically impossible. So it appears that our enemies are getting more determined and more desperate.”

  “Fine … give me some time, maybe a few hours. I’ll call or send you an email to let you know how I’m progressing. If you can send me the original messages before they were decoded, that might help. Maybe I can come up with an answer sooner.” The monk reached for his phone. “Let me get Brother Jerome to come and show you the way out. It can get pretty confusing.” Poppodopolous pounded out a text on his phone then turned back to his guests. “But there is one thing I can tell you now.”

  “What’s that?” asked Mullaney.

  The monk pulled the third slip of paper closer to him and tapped his finger on the two lines of symbols. “Regardless of what the previous messages have told you, regardless of their importance or uniqueness, this one,” he said, “is the most critical. My intuition and experience tell me there is something here that is the key, the culmination, the reason for all that has gone before. If we don’t solve this riddle, gentlemen, I think the level of violence you’ve experienced thus far will seem like a picnic on a clear spring afternoon compared with what is about to befall us. This time I think it won’t just be an isolated earthquake at the embassy and residence. This time, I think the whole world may be shaken.”

  25

  St. Archangel Michael Monastery, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 8:59 a.m.

  Disoriented by Brother Jerome’s head-spinning traverse through the narrow, dusky corridors of the monastery, emerging into the morning sun of Tel Aviv hit Mullaney like a lightning strike. Momentarily blinded by the intense brightness, Mullaney blinked away the assault on his eyes as he tried to focus on the open-air passageway that spread before them and led to the street.