Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  But the woman to Poppy’s right made up for any fashion consciousness lacking in the monk. Her short, silver hair styled to perfection and framing her face, Ruth Hughes literally emanated a radiance that shed at least a decade from her age and warmed all those at the table. Hughes wore an arctic-blue, sleeveless dress with a seafoam green shawl draped over her shoulders. The blue in the dress set off fireworks in Hughes’s ice-blue eyes, and the shawl drew attention to the marvelous, glimmering pearls around her neck.

  But as dazzling as Hughes’s presence was to the assembly, the surprise member of the ensemble and true center of attention sat to her right. David Meir, former prime minister of Israel as of earlier that morning, looked more relaxed than Mullaney had ever seen him—black collared shirt, a black sweater tied over his shoulders and hanging down his back, and well-worn blue jeans. Without the weight of a nation on his shoulders, Meir looked like the university professor he once was and planned to be again.

  Mullaney looked around the table. They had been through so much, individually and collectively. Their worlds had turned upside down. But here they were, sitting in a quiet garden, in a palatial, safe, and peaceful setting, being served an exquisite meal.

  “Peace seems like a lifetime ago,” said Mullaney. “Yet now, here, we slip into it like a favorite old shirt that feels like we’ve never left it.” His eyes fell on Cleveland again. “Almost seems like a sacrilege. A lack of respect … lack of reverence … for those who didn’t make it here.”

  “The poor you will always have with you,” said Cleveland, paraphrasing Scripture. “But I think it’s also true of regrets. Things we wish we could change. Things we wish had never happened. All the if onlys in our lives.”

  “But regrets, if onlys are all in the past,” Hughes interjected. “It’s an awfully sad and lonely place to live—the past. We’ve been born, created to live in the present.” Hughes looked down at the clean plate that was put before her, as if examining her own reflection. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Only God lives in the past, the present, and the future, all at the same time. We’ve been created to live in the present. Not to endlessly grieve the past or constantly fear the future. Live today well. Live today with honor. Let God take care of the rest.” She looked up and a girlish smile of embarrassment crossed her face. “I’m starting to sound like Atticus.”

  “You,” Cleveland jumped in, “could do worse, my dear,” Cleveland looked to his left, reached out his hand, and placed it on David Meir’s wrist. “How does it feel to live in the present, David?”

  While Cleveland and Mullaney had been in Turkey, Meir had forced the Israeli Knesset to call a vote on the Ishmael Covenant. After days of political wrangling—nothing ever got done quickly in Israeli politics, with dozens of political parties and constantly evolving power bases to mollify—the vote was finally called yesterday, at Meir’s insistence, and the treaty he had hoped would bring peace to Israel for the first time in its short history was soundly defeated. That vote was the death knell for David Meir’s government. This morning he had scheduled a general election in sixty days and promptly submitted his resignation.

  In the few hours since, a caretaker government repudiated the “fresh water for natural gas” treaty that Meir’s government had been negotiating with Turkey. An easy call. Turkey was in a state of crisis.

  In a matter of hours several days ago, Turkish President Emet Kashani was found in his bed in a coma. Not only was Kashani still unconscious and incapacitated, but his coma was so severe it was as if the man was dead. The crisis expanded when Prime Minister Arslan Eroglu could not be found to take the reins of the government. In fact, Eroglu remained missing after eight days, with no clues to his whereabouts or fate.

  Into that vacuum, Turkey’s military leaders gladly pushed their way.

  Meir took the linen napkin off his lap, twisted it in his hands, and pulled it hard, apart. Then he snapped it.

  “That was my life,” he said. “Eight million people, over six million Jewish souls, always living on the edge of annihilation, their fate—and the fate of all who live in Israel or visit here—resting squarely in my hands. Honestly, I doubt whether the Saudis would have honored their promises on the covenant. Abdullah is a treacherous deceiver. But Israel had an opportunity to call Abdullah’s bluff. When we had a chance to finally ensure peace for our nation, safety for our children, we threw away the covenant and peace with our neighbors because we grieve for the past and fear the future.”

  Meir took his napkin, folded it neatly in half, then quarters, and laid it on the table and smoothed out any wrinkles. “That,” he said, pointing at the napkin, “is my life today. Clean, neat, at rest. To be honest, the present is very refreshing. The covenant is gone, and I’ve let it go.

  “But I’m more distressed about losing the water-for-gas treaty with Turkey,” Meir continued. “That treaty was a win-win for everybody, with nothing in between. But,” he said, picking up the napkin, flicking it open, and laying it on his lap, “international treaties are no longer my concern. So yes … I’m at peace. Though my nation isn’t.”

  52

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 31, 8:27 p.m.

  When the waiter placed a salad in front of Father Poppodopolous instead of a sizzling steak, his disappointment was proclaimed by a pronounced rumbling in his prodigious stomach. He looked across the table at Cleveland. “Please forgive a poor monk who subsists on monastery food, but … how many courses are we to expect tonight?”

  Cleveland smiled. He had survived the ordeal in Turkey with little more than physical scratches—though his spirit and emotions were profoundly shaken. He was a grateful man. Tonight was a time to indulge in a celebration.

  “I’m confident you will be more than satisfied at the end of the evening.”

  Poppodopolous beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.” He dug into his salad with a vengeance. “It seems,” he said with a mouthful of greens, “that all of us have sidestepped the likelihood of a nuclear confrontation in the Middle East—at least for the moment.”

  It took Cleveland an instant to circle his mind around the rapid-fire events of the last few days. Somebody, and it had JSOC fingerprints all over it, delivered a clandestine strike force into Baluchistan Province and destroyed Pakistan’s nuclear factory—and escaped without a trace.

  Two days ago, the alliance between Iraq and Iran was drawn ever more tightly together when the Badr Brigades of Samir Al-Qahtani, backed by Iranian artillery, armored vehicles, and air support, opened a major offensive against ISIS positions in western Iraq and northeastern Syria. The presence of such a massive invasion force operating so close to its border caused the junta ruling Turkey to order a vast military buildup along its eastern border.

  And yesterday, as the Israeli Knesset gathered to vote on the Ishmael Covenant, a group of ultraradical Wahhabi clerics stirred up an enormous demonstration through the streets of Riyadh, the chanting mob denouncing King Abdullah for offering the Ishmael Covenant peace treaty to Israel. This morning the size of the ongoing demonstration had doubled, to nearly 150,000 Saudis. Abdullah’s reign actually looked endangered.

  A lot of growing conflict all around Israel. But nobody was lobbing nukes at each other.

  Cleveland’s mind scrolled through a Rolodex of the events since he entered Israel as its ambassador less than two weeks ago: the gun battle on Highway One; his daughter’s abduction; the deadly earthquakes that shattered only the US embassy and his residence, which were followed by bloody incursions by the disciples of the man with yellow eyes; and that nightmare in the bowels of the building on Alitas Street in Ankara. All triggered by the prophetic messages of an aged rabbi in Lithuania over two hundred years in the past.

  Cleveland marveled at the hand of God in the lives of men and was thankful for God’s unwavering battle against the powers of evil in both the natural and supernatural realms.

  “By the grace of God,” Cleveland said. “Only by th
e grace of God.”

  Throughout the conversation, Palmyra Parker’s eyes had been on Mullaney, who sat across the table from her. He sat there nursing the wounds of battle—with his left arm in a sling, an orthopedic operation on his tendons awaiting him back in the States; a bright red wound on his scalp; and that thousand-yard stare of a warrior who is remembering all those who gave their lives in the battle against evil. It was not happily ever after for Brian Mullaney. He had too many letters to write, too many phone calls to make, too many good men to mourn.

  And then there was Noah Webster, vanished off the face of the earth, indictments piling up as the breadth and audacity of his crimes continued to be unearthed.

  Even Mullaney’s impending return to Washington, to his wife and children, with accolades and commendations waiting for him instead of the manufactured disgrace that had orchestrated his removal … even with all that, there was no triumph, or celebration, or joy on his face.

  He became aware of the silence around the table, looked up, and was arrested by Parker’s gaze.

  “We’re all going to miss you, Brian.”

  He just stared at her in return.

  “But I am … we are … very happy for you that you are going home to Abby and your daughters,” Parker continued. “As long as my father behaves himself—”

  “Highly unlikely,” said Cleveland.

  “As long as he behaves himself, I’m confident his safety will be ensured by Pat McKeon and her DSS agents. But … I’ve never known anyone with your courage and loyalty. We owe you much more than our thanks. We owe you our lives. And I, for one, will be eternally grateful.”

  Mullaney felt all the eyes on him. They expected a response. He gave them one.

  “Excuse me.”

  And he got up, left the table, and vanished into the shadows of the garden.

  His prayers had turned to tears, and back to prayers again, when Cleveland found Mullaney on the bench along the path to his bungalow, his home in Tel Aviv. The ambassador crossed the path, sat down on the opposite end of the bench, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. Mullaney waited, but Cleveland said nothing.

  So Mullaney continued his prayers. He had already fought through the tortured ones—his long lament for the devastating loss of his best friend, Tommy Hernandez. His battle against the self-pity that came on the heels of the guilt and responsibility he felt for all the DSS agents who had lost their lives, all the children who had lost their fathers. The gnawing hurt that he could have—should have—done something else, something different, and maybe all those lives would not have been lost, all those families would not have been shattered.

  He didn’t believe all the fine words that were said, the laudatory call from the secretary of state, even the empathy and encouragement from Meyer Levinson. It was his fault. Maybe he was—

  “It’s not your fault.” Cleveland’s voice was as soft as the breeze off the Mediterranean.

  Mullaney looked to his left, but Cleveland had not moved, was not looking at him. The ambassador’s hands were still clasped and resting on his knees, his head still bowed. Then he spoke, to his Father, not to Mullaney.

  “Father, I pray for my friend, my son, Brian, and I ask you to bring truth to his heart and peace to his soul.”

  Mullaney felt Cleveland’s prayers like a hug.

  “Holy Spirit, help him to reject the lie that the enemy is trying to torture him with, that it’s his fault, that he let us all down. Father, please reveal to Brian the truth of his steadfastness and determination. Reveal to him the admiration and honor all of us, all of his men and women, feel toward him … how proud they are to serve with him, how confident they are not only in his selfless leadership but also in his integrity and courage. Father, speak to your son and confirm to him how much you love him just as he is … who he is … a mighty man of God, a warrior of your kingdom, heir of all creation.

  “Yes, Father, but more than anything, please fortify in Brian your vision of him, that the words of identification, affection, and affirmation that you spoke to your Son, Jesus, are just as valid for your son, Brian … ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.’”

  In the silence, only the leaves in the trees rustled. Tears once again welled up in Mullaney’s chest and spilled out of his eyes. Cleveland put a hand on Mullaney’s knee.

  “I miss Tommy too,” said Cleveland. “Not as much, not in the same way you do. But I miss him with all of my being. I ache for his loss. I ache for the loss of all those I didn’t know as well but who selflessly gave their lives in the service of their country. In service of me, really.”

  Cleveland stood up, started out to the path, hesitated, and turned around. “I hurt and grieve from the pain, but I don’t own it, Brian.” The ambassador’s voice ratcheted up a notch in authority and passion. “Their deaths, the reign of terror that engulfed us for so long, is not my responsibility. It’s not mine to bear. The enemies of good, the enemies of our country, the enemies of peace are responsible for the deaths of so many good men and women.” Cleveland stepped toward Mullaney, stabbing his right index finger into the air. “They will take that burden to their judgment. Not you, Brian!” He turned his finger toward Mullaney. “Not you, and not me. You are a hero. That is the only label that has a right to hang on your heart.”

  Cleveland turned on his heel and marched back up the path.

  Not for the first time, Mullaney thought, I’ d go to war with that man.

  “You already have gone to war with him.”

  Mullaney knew that voice. He looked left and right … swept his eyes across the sky. In a small copse of trees to his right, the rustling leaves began to shimmer and glow, the light swimming and then forming, growing, becoming. Bayard, angel of God, stood once more before Mullaney.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” said Mullaney, a little unsettled as to the purpose of Bayard’s return. Then he remembered and felt foolish. “Thank you … for everything. For saving my life, Cleveland’s life, so many others I probably don’t even know about. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the rules of engagement for angels. Zapping all the bad guys before this started would have been … well … thank you for all that you did for us. I don’t entirely know who, or what, we faced in that house on Alitas Street. But I’m confident that neither Atticus nor I would have gotten out of there with our lives, with our souls, without your intervention.”

  A thought occurred to Mullaney. It startled him. But it also made sense.

  “You, or one of your pals, have been standing guard at my house, haven’t you? You’ve been watching over my family while I’m over here.”

  A beatific smile that lit up the heavens spread across Bayard’s face. He stepped closer and got down on one knee so he could face Mullaney eye to eye. “Yes, since the moment you accepted the anointing, one of the brethren—at times, myself—has been stationed by your door. It has been our pleasure. The sweet hearts of your wife and daughters have blessed us.”

  For a moment, the apprehension returned. “So … why are you here?” Mullaney wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Your task is complete. This time is complete. Do you recall when Rabbi Herzog spoke to you about the time of the Gentiles … when the time of the Gentiles is complete then the end of time may begin?”

  Mullaney nodded, now his apprehension spiking. “I remember. Not sure if I understand it all, but I remember. Are you saying that we are now in the end of time?”

  Bayard shook his head. “No, not as you imagine it. There is a time for this world and a time when this world, in its present form, will come to an end. In that respect, finite man has been walking in the end of times since Adam and his wife left the garden.”

  Bayard pushed himself to his full height. “The Creator of all wants you, faithful servant, to know that the times of the Gentiles is not yet complete. Jerusalem is not about to come under the sword. The days are not yet finished. And you will have time … time to watch yo
ur daughters grow and prosper. Time to spoil your children’s children and go to their weddings. Time to inherit all of the riches of this world that our Father wishes to place into your hands.”

  He stepped closer. “But this time, your time, has come to an end. The anointing of the guardian I must remove from you. The time and the purpose for that anointing, and the lethal power it harnessed, has passed. But …” Bayard moved to within arm’s reach. His eight-foot body and furled wings towered over Mullaney. “The anointing of God I leave with you, the anointing on your life.”

  Bayard stretched out his arms and placed his hands on the sides of Mullaney’s head, his wings unfolding and wrapping Mullaney within their furls.

  “We remove the mantle of guardian from this man’s life. We release him from the responsibility of Aaron’s anointing.”

  Bayard lowered his hands and rested them on Mullaney’s shoulders. “No one will be able to stand against you all the days of your life. As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you … Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

  53

  Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv

  August 2, 7:45 a.m.

  Sitting in a coffee shop in an empty corner of Ben Gurion’s international departure terminal, Brian Mullaney was looking for a diversion completely different than anything he’d experienced in the last month. He pulled a Travel Yahtzee game out of his carry-on for thirty minutes of mindless entertainment before he made his way to the gate. He could do his thinking on the plane to Washington.

  He was trying to parlay three fives into five on his third roll when he felt two bodies sit on opposite sides of him. He glanced left. Rabbi Mordechai Herzog was wiping perspiration from the inside band of his wide-brimmed, black hat, a crooked smile on his face. He glanced right. Colonel Meyer Levinson, head of Shin Bet’s Operations division, had his legs crossed, tapping his riding crop against his thigh, the same crooked smile on his face.