Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  The short corridor before him led to a closed door toward the back of the house. On his right, the one solid wall had a pocket door in its center, closed tightly.

  There was no sign of Kashani.

  His battered body suddenly aching for rest, Cleveland staggered into the great room to the nearest rattan sofa and lowered himself into an embracing corner of the cushions where he had an open view of the front door, the pocket doors, and the resplendent colors of the garden.

  Cleveland jolted. The sun was held hostage behind some thick clouds, deepening the gloom in a room that was designed to celebrate light. The long shadows were the only hint that he must have dozed off. A chill wrapped its arms around Cleveland’s shoulders, running down his spine. The smell of compost … decayed earth … replaced the perfume of the garden.

  Like the Red Sea parting, the pocket doors across the hall slowly slid open. Cleveland shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, but the sight didn’t change. Standing in the doorway was Arslan Eroglu, prime minister of Turkey, and not Emet Kashani, its president. Whatever Eroglu’s presence portended, Cleveland instinctively knew it would not be good. And there was this … feeling …

  “I am ever so sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Ambassador.” Eroglu walked across the entry corridor and entered the great room. He walked slowly, his body fairly immobile, his feet barely lifting from the lush carpets. It looked like he was gliding over the floor instead of walking on it.

  “I know you expected to meet with our president, but he has been beset by a severe illness.” Eroglu’s movement stopped about ten feet in front of Cleveland, who was still sitting on the sofa. “President Kashani implored me to meet with you in his place. It is good to see you once again.”

  While ambassador to Turkey for two years, his previous Foreign Service posting, Cleveland had innumerable interactions with both Kashani and Eroglu. Where he found the president a staunch Muslim, he also found a man of reason with a willingness to listen. But Eroglu? The prime minister was proud, vain, and unscrupulous. Cleveland didn’t trust him.

  But something wasn’t right. Eroglu’s voice was the same, but it was different as well. In the past, he had found Eroglu infuriatingly pompous in his speech. But today the arrogance was still there, the condescension, but it was … coated … polluted? … Each word that reached his ears had the feel that it traveled through a sewer before it entered his ear canal. Creepy. And disgusting. A sense of revulsion pushed Cleveland back farther into the cushions.

  “How is it I can help you, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Cleveland fought a tide of nausea as Eroglu moved closer. He forced himself to speak.

  “I need to speak to the president.” Cleveland felt like his words were coming from under water. “We are in possession of credible evidence that …”

  “Incirlik?” interrupted Eroglu. “You believe such nonsense? Is America’s State Department so gullible as to believe such cowardly rumors of a NATO ally?” Eroglu took another step forward. It was then, when he pulled his right hand out of the left sleeve of his suit jacket to point, that Eroglu’s odd posture finally registered on Cleveland—arms folded over his stomach, hands pushed inside the sleeves of his jacket. It was so very old-fashioned. He had never seen Eroglu …

  “Are you so arrogant,” Eroglu said in rebuke, “is the United States so ignorant of its treaty responsibilities, as to level such an accusation at my country?”

  Cleveland felt assaulted. The corruption coating Eroglu’s words now spread to a stench in his nostrils. The prime minister’s pointing finger seemed to have a power behind it. Cleveland felt it pushing against him. His thinking felt foggy.

  “How can you be such a fool as to believe these lies?” Eroglu took another step forward, his voice rose, his eyes widened. Mayhem filled his eyes. And a primal terror swept through Cleveland. His heart skipped a beat, and pain pounded against the inside of his temples. But worst of all, somehow, Cleveland felt his soul shiver.

  “You insult our character.” Eroglu was little more than an arm’s length away, his words an angry and threatening denunciation. “You demean our integrity. You treat us with contempt.”

  With a blinding certainty, Cleveland recognized two truths. He had never met this Arslan Eroglu before. And he was in mortal danger … not just to his life, but to his everlasting eternity.

  This is the Man of Violence.

  The frightening knowledge flooded Cleveland’s mind. His spirit cried out. God, help me! Caught in their vortex, Cleveland tried to divert his eyes from the one who was searching for his soul.

  Father … fight for me!

  The room was spinning. Those eyes of torment loosened Cleveland’s grip on consciousness. Terror gripped him. But he reached deep into himself, to hold onto himself. A word forced itself from his spirit.

  “Jesus.”

  It was little more than a mumble, a croaking whisper that barely cleared his lips.

  Eroglu fell back a step. His eyes widened, but now in trepidation.

  “Jesus.” Cleveland croaked. He desperately grasped onto the word. “Jesus.”

  “Stop!” Eroglu was no longer concentrating on Cleveland. He was struggling against something that seemed to be opposing him.

  Keep fighting, son of the King. Keep fighting.

  “Jesus,” Cleveland said on a burst of breath.

  “Stop!” shouted Eroglu. He threw up his arms and slammed his palms together with a resounding clap. “Stop!”

  And consciousness fled from Joseph Atticus Cleveland.

  Fairfax, Virginia

  July 23, 6:40 a.m.

  Though the house was comfortably cool from the central air, Abigail’s skin could feel the already piercing heat of the sun’s first rays as she walked past the kitchen windows. Raised in Georgia, she lived with the heat and humidity, but she didn’t like it. This day was going to be another scorcher. Summer counselors at their church’s day camp, her daughters would be wilted and irritable by the end of this day.

  “C’mon, girls,” Abby called up the stairs as she picked up the pile of mail she had absently tossed on the kitchen island when she got home the night before. “We need to be out of here by seven thirty.”

  Gutter cleaners … mosquito killers … basement repairs … one envelope after another got tossed into the trash can without a second thought. The “personal” letter from Mr. Basementy was in her fingers, on its way to doom, when her attention was seized by the envelope next in line. It was wrinkled, dog-eared at the corners, as if it had lived in somebody’s pants pocket before it hit the postal service. Its condition was not what had arrested her. It was the one word in the upper left corner. Morningstar.

  Mr. Basementy was banished to the trash, the other mail tossed back onto the island as Abigail Mullaney looked for the second time at the envelope in her hand. It was addressed to her. From George Morningstar? Abby’s anxiety ticked up a notch as she slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper. There was a thin memory stick at the bottom of the envelope. For a moment she forgot about the girls. The letter was typed … probably a computer printout.

  Abby,

  Please forgive me for involving you, but I couldn’t trust anyone at State with this information. I tried reaching Brian, but he didn’t answer his phone. I just sent him a short text, but I needed somebody else to know what I’ve discovered.

  Abby flipped over the envelope. The time stamp on the postmark was 8:33 a.m., yesterday, from Manassas, Virginia. But the letter would have been dropped at the post office some time before then … where was Brian then? Her eyes jumped back to the letter.

  Brian asked me to look into Noah Webster, try to find out why Ambassador Cleveland allows Webster to insult and abuse him without reporting Webster to the secretary. Brian also thinks Webster could be the one who altered Cleveland’s Situation Report before it got to the secretary.

  While quietly investigating Webster, I uncovered two situations that make me fearful
that Noah Webster may be one of the most dangerous men in Washington.

  First, about six months ago, I assigned Brian to investigate the IT department’s suspicions of unauthorized visits to State’s HR files. We found hints but nothing conclusive. And then Ankara happened, I got banished to the basement, Brian got transferred … end of investigation.

  In the last week I got a “read only” access to Webster’s email account at State and found that he was not only influential in having a young woman added to last year’s list of interns, but he also made sure she was assigned to Human Resources. When I found that connection, I asked a few questions in HR. Just after Brian was assigned to the investigation, the woman left one Friday afternoon and never came back. I dug a little deeper and found she was renting a condo in the exclusive Skyview Plaza. Either she was independently wealthy or she had some supplemental income to her intern’s salary.

  What I believe is that Webster paid this woman to scour the State Department HR files for dirt he could use to his advantage.

  After leaving the State Department, that woman disappeared without a trace. To me, her disappearance looks like professional work. Like she never existed. We may now know why Brian was expelled to Israel. He was getting too close for Webster’s comfort. But we have no clue what happened to the woman.

  The second situation could mean trouble for your father.

  Just before Webster joined the State Department, Senator Markham introduced him to your father. Everything I’ve found indicates that a deal was struck—if Webster could help prevent the millions of dollars in confiscated Iranian funds languishing in Rutherford’s banks from being returned to Iran, then Rutherford would finance Webster’s run for elected office. If true, that plot could mean serious jail time for all three.

  The other day, Senator Markham, who never had a problem with his heart, died suddenly from heart failure. That’s a technique also used by professionals.

  Everything in my gut is telling me that Noah Webster will stop at nothing—like eliminating his risks—to achieve his aims. It’s possible Webster may now see your father as a vulnerability. Your father may be in danger. And yes, I think you and the girls need to be careful too.

  All of the details, including some troubling contacts Webster’s had with the prime minister of Turkey, are on the memory stick in the envelope. But it appears the signs are pointing to Webster at the center of some kind of plot—of what I’m not sure. But I’m getting close.

  I’ve been cultivating Nora Carson, Webster’s right hand at State, and finally got her to agree to a meeting in a few hours. I think she knows where all the skeletons are located. With Markham’s suspicious death, Webster could be more dangerous than I ever dreamed.

  Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I didn’t want to be the only one with this information. Please, hold onto this until I get back to you. Maybe we can get Brian home sooner than you think.

  George

  Abby ran her eyes back to the top of the letter and tried to slow her racing heart while she read through it one more time. She was gnawing on the flesh of her right index finger, her mind flashing from one frightening thought to another, when her intense scrutiny of the letter was interrupted.

  “Mom? … Mom, are you all right?” Her daughter Kylie was standing beside the garage door. “C’mon, we’re going to be late.”

  33

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 2:23 p.m.

  “Yes,” snapped Mullaney.

  “Sorry, sir,” came the startled voice on his intercom, “but there’s a monk out front who says he must see you immediately. Father Poppodopolous?”

  For a moment, Brian Mullaney’s battered mind stalled, felt it couldn’t handle any more. But then … the message?

  “Sorry for snapping at you. Bring him down to my office. Thanks.”

  “Yes … I think I’ve figured it out.” Poppy was standing behind the chair Mullaney had offered him in his crowded office. Herzog was seated across from him, on the other side of the desk; Hughes in a straight-backed chair to his left; Levinson leaning against the back wall. “But first, I need you to consider something … something that will be vitally important if my conclusions are correct.”

  Mullaney shook his head and looked to the ceiling. “Father, we’re in the midst of a couple of crises here. No disrespect, but we don’t have a lot of time to be debating your theories.”

  Poppodopolous glanced over at Rabbi Herzog for support. The rabbi was clearly perplexed. No help there? Well how could he slow Mullaney down for a moment? How could he get his attention and keep it for as long as … if he didn’t understand, how could he believe?

  “Agent Mullaney, I don’t know everything that you’re facing at present, and I apologize for adding to your burdens,” said the monk, “but you need to listen to me. I am convinced that we are at the critical confluence where all that you’ve been telling me might finally make sense. The lynchpin between all that’s happened in the past and what must happen in the future. Please, bear with me.”

  Clearly in the midst of an internal battle, Mullaney opened his mouth to speak. But Rabbi Herzog reached across the desk toward the agent’s arm while he looked up at the monk.

  “You have the answer, don’t you.” It was a statement.

  A stillness permeated the room.

  “I believe so … yes,” said Poppodopolous.

  Herzog returned his gaze to Mullaney. “To this, I think, you must listen,” he said. “I believe Poppy may have uncovered the key, the purpose we’ve all been looking for.” He glanced up again at Poppy. “What is it, Poppy? What have you discovered?”

  A lifeline! Thank you, God. The monk seized his chance.

  “The Vilna Gaon has been directing this drama from the beginning …”

  “Yes … we know that … the messages and the box.” Mullaney’s tether was tight.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not making myself clear,” Poppy continued. “The last time we were together, you mentioned the name Bayard. Unfortunately, I did not ask at the time who this Bayard was, so I was knocked off my pins when Bayard showed up in my room at the monastery earlier today.”

  “Hmmm, yes.” Rabbi Herzog nodded. “My first encounter with Bayard nearly stopped this old heart from beating, Intimidating, he is.”

  “But why …” Mullaney stammered. “What was …”

  “A message.” Father Poppodopolous came around the chair and carefully lowered his bulk onto its center, shifting slightly to his left so he could look at both Herzog and Mullaney. “This Bayard,” he continued, “has he been a messenger in the past? That is one of the job descriptions of an angel.”

  “Yes,” said Mullaney. “Messenger, ally, protector. All of the above. He’s been in the middle of this battle from the beginning.”

  Poppy nodded his head. “In the middle I don’t doubt. But not the orchestrator of events. What I need you to understand is that not only did the Gaon instigate these events over two hundred years ago, but also what he set in motion in 1794 is still playing out today.”

  No one spoke. All eyes were on Poppodopolous.

  “Remember when I mentioned the arrow of time on the phone—everything moves forward?” he said into the silence. “Well, like the prophets of the Old Testament, through divine intervention, the Vilna Gaon was given two prophetic messages that have come to fruition in our time. Bayard clearly has an assignment to help move these prophesies forward, but it was the Gaon who set this game in motion, and the Gaon whose influence continues to be felt.

  “A few hours ago, Bayard revealed to me …” Poppy shook his head and lifted his hands palms up, the words he was about to speak sounding ludicrous in his own mind. “I don’t know if it was a dream or a vision, but I found myself watching an interchange between the Gaon and an angel. The Gaon gave Bayard something to deliver, but then he said to tell the monk—me, I imagine—to look for the simple answer.

  “A heartbeat later, I was back in my room, looki
ng at four computer screens whose searches had all concluded at the same place. And the light finally went on in this dull brain of mine. ‘Seek the simple answer.’” Poppodopolous scanned the crowded room. “We’re not talking about time travel here or bending the arrow of time. The Vilna Gaon is not going to walk in that door and take us all to lunch. But I can tell you this: the prophecy that was given to the Gaon, that Bayard has protected, that has been passed on for two hundred years continues to be revealed in layers and continues to direct our steps today.”

  There was silence, but Poppodopolous waited for the explosion.

  “That’s your theory?” The silver-haired woman in the banker’s suit wasn’t buying it. “Come on now, Father” she said. “That’s scientifically impossible. Nobody can warp time to engage the future. You’re telling us that a rabbi from two hundred years ago is pulling our strings today?”

  Poppy was about to answer when a distinctive ringtone rattled the room, snapping Levinson to attention. “Levinson,” he answered. His eyes opened wide as he listened. “Put it in motion,” he said into the phone as he turned to the door. “I’m on my way.” And he was gone.

  Poppodopolous looked around the room. “That was exciting.” Then he turned to his right to address the woman. “No, what I’m saying is that what the Gaon set in motion two hundred years ago is still in motion today. It hasn’t reached its conclusion, and we appear to be at the crest of its wave.”