Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  “The rabbi forced me,” said Levinson, as the smile migrated to his entire face. “He said we couldn’t let you leave without saying good-bye. Besides … he needed a ride.”

  Without a word, Mullaney swung his attention back to Rabbi Herzog, who was grinning ear to ear. “Left us abruptly, you did,” said Herzog. “No chance did you give me to thank you.” The old man’s face clouded for a moment. “Thank you for avenging the death of my son and the rest of the rabbis at the Hurva Synagogue. You brought them justice, I think.”

  Mullaney had become very fond of the old rabbi. “I was only doing—”

  “No … wait.” Herzog pushed himself closer and put his right hand on Mullaney’s arm. The smile was gone. “Meyer and I are here on very serious business. I found something in the ruins of the Hurva, something that could change Israel’s position in history, something that could turn this world upside down. And I want you to take it with you, back to Washington, and give it to the people who will know what to do with it.”

  Mullaney closed his eyes. It’s not over? “Meyer,” he said, turning to Levinson, “isn’t this something you can take care of here?”

  A somber frown on his face, Levinson was rapidly shaking his head. “Oh no. I don’t think it’s possible. The rabbi and I believe you are the only one appointed for this task. Listen …” He looked past Mullaney to the rabbi. “Show him, Mordechai. Show him what we’ve discovered.”

  The elderly rabbi pushed himself up straight and squared his shoulders. Slowly, he ran his eyes around the terminal. Turning to Mullaney, he pulled a black bag into his lap, started to open it, but stopped to once more face Mullaney. “Promise me, you must never to leave this out of your sight until you can deliver it to the right people.”

  Mullaney felt a growing anxiety.

  “Promise me,” urged the rabbi.

  “Okay … okay. I’ll keep it safe.”

  With another furtive look around the terminal, Herzog reached deep into his black bag. Mullaney jumped when Herzog’s entire body shivered violently. The rabbi withdrew his hand slowly.

  In his right hand was a snow globe. Inside the globe was the word Israel, a star of David, and a street scene. Herzog turned the snow globe upside down, then brought it back to normal. “See, it can change Israel’s position … and it turns the world upside down.”

  Rabbi Herzog was giving Mullaney a triumphant smile. Levinson slapped Mullaney on his back. “See … you are the only one who can give this to the people who will know what to do with it.”

  It was beyond Brian Mullaney’s comprehension. He didn’t think he still had it in him. But he cracked up. The more he looked at Herzog’s grinning face, the harder he laughed. The rabbi held out the snow globe in Mullaney’s direction. “Here. The weight of the world is once more in your hands.”

  And the three of them sat in the coffee shop, laughing like schoolboys at a stupid joke, ignorant and uncaring about any eyes that were turned on them, wondering how grown men could get so carried away over a cheap, gaudy trinket.

  Mullaney was on his way to clear security for the flight to Dulles International Airport in Virginia. His boarding pass was in his right hand, the snow globe in his left.

  “That’s an impressive going-away present.”

  Mullaney turned, the smile still on his face. “It is, but I’m not sure it will clear security. Sad if it ended up in the trash.”

  “All I brought you was this lousy newspaper.” Joseph Atticus Cleveland held out the International New York Times. “Something to get you up to speed on life back in Washington.”

  Mullaney ignored the newspaper. He stepped close to Cleveland, threw his right arm around the ambassador, and hugged him tight. “I’m going to miss you, Atticus.”

  Cleveland flipped the newspaper into a nearby chair and wrapped Mullaney in a bear hug. “I miss you already, Brian.”

  They stepped away from each other. Palmyra Parker was behind her dad. Pat McKeon, Kathie Doorley, and two other DSS agents were twenty feet away. Mullaney nodded in their direction. “We made a good team. Thanks.”

  Cleveland looked at Mullaney as a father looks at his first born going off to college. “Have you made a decision?”

  “Not yet,” said Mullaney. “Too much, too soon. I’ve got to get home, hug my kids, talk to Abby, and pray for God’s guidance.”

  “Secretary Townsend really wants you to stay. I think he feels … well … he’s got a lot to make up for. And he needs you. Evan’s taking a beating in DC, especially after they found Webster’s body in the airport parking lot. He needs some people around him he knows he can trust. Like you.”

  “I hear you, Atticus. But this time, it needs to be a family decision.”

  Cleveland nodded his head. “Wise choice. But listen, whatever you decide, you’re not getting away from me.”

  “You’re not getting away from any of us,” Parker interjected. “We’ve got a big dining room table at our house in Arlington with plenty of room for you, Abby, and the girls. You’ve become like family, Brian. And family, we keep close.”

  Mullaney handed the snow globe to Parker. “Can you look after this?” Then he glanced at his watch. “Gotta go.”

  “I know, son,” said Cleveland. He stepped closer. This time the bear hug was more … desperate. “Be careful out there.”

  54

  Fairfax, Virginia

  August 2, 9:13 p.m.

  That Secretary of State Evan Townsend had a car waiting for Mullaney at Dulles was a kind gesture. Brian had told Abby he would take a cab. He wanted his homecoming to be at home.

  Now he stood on the sidewalk and looked at the pre-war, center-hall colonial they called home. During the twenty years working his way up through State’s Diplomatic Security Service, Brian and Abby—later their daughters—had lived in many places. Seldom did those places feel like home. This one did. This was their home, where they decided to put down roots, where all the two-year assignments to out-of-the-way countries would stop. They had lived in fancier places, bigger places, much smaller places. But this was their place.

  He understood completely why Abby had said no to his last transfer. He had promised her a home, this home, and that they would never move again, that Kylie and Samantha could stay in the same school with the same friends—well, they’d see how that developed. Mullaney wasn’t able to live up to that promise. Noah Webster had sabotaged those plans when he bum-rushed Mullaney to Israel under an unwarranted cloud of suspicion. Perhaps it was pride, but Mullaney wasn’t about to quit his career while under a cloud. So Abby and the girls had stayed here, Brian had gone off to Israel—and all hell had broken loose.

  He shook the memories out of his brain. He was home. That was the only place he wanted his thoughts to rest.

  Mullaney was halfway up the path when the front door flew open and two bodies with pendulum ponytails burst into the yard. Kylie was the oldest, but Samantha was the fastest. It was Samantha who threw herself into her daddy’s arms and Kylie whose flying leap body-slammed them all into the grass. Mullaney hoped his wound hadn’t opened … but he didn’t care. He breathed in the scent of their hair, was buried under an avalanche of kisses, and couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

  He was home.

  Kylie had his carry-on in her right hand, her left hand holding firmly to Mullaney’s right. Now conscious of his wounded shoulder, Samantha held Mullaney’s elbow as both girls tugged him through the front door, each of them asking questions he had no chance to answer.

  Abby stood in the hallway, the light behind her sending dancing flames through her auburn hair. She still possessed the heart-stopping beauty and sensual sizzle of the young woman he first held in his arms twenty years in the past.

  The girls stopped chattering at the same moment, looked at their mom, glanced at their dad, and released his hands.

  They met in the middle, Brian’s good arm wound around Abby’s waist, pulling her closer, Abby’s longing fingers entwined in Brian’s hair. It
was awhile before they came up for air.

  “Mooommm! Really?” It was a mock complaint from Kylie, but a whistle for a timeout, nonetheless.

  Their lips parted. Their eyes met. Their passion vented like steam. Abby leaned her head and rested it on Brian’s shoulder. “I’ll welcome you home later … upstairs,” she whispered. She pulled her head back, looked in his eyes, and ran her fingers over his cheek. “It’s so good to have you home.”

  The girls were helping Abby in the kitchen. Airplane food had done little to slake Mullaney’s hunger.

  His brother, Doak, was sitting opposite him in an identical armchair, flanking the fireplace in the den. Mullaney had walked his brother through a ten-cent tour of his nearly four weeks in Israel, most of which Doak already knew, and Doak was filling in Brian about how Abby was holding up since her father’s body was found in the Potomac.

  “Do you think we’ll ever figure the whole thing out?” asked Mullaney, keeping his voice low in case anyone was listening.

  “Doubt it,” Doak responded in kind. “That Webster and Rutherford were in cahoots with Senator Markham, that’s clear. That Webster got entangled with Eroglu and the Turks—trying to sabotage the Iran nuke deal so Rutherford wouldn’t lose all that money in his banks—that’s clear too. And it’s pretty clear that both Rutherford and Webster knew time was running out on them. Seems like they were both getting ready to disappear. But …”

  Mullaney nodded. “Yeah, but … but Rutherford’s burned body is found in a burned car in the Potomac, and Webster’s strangled body is found in the back of a plumbing van in a Dulles parking lot. They died within hours of each other, within ten miles of each other.”

  Only the clock on the mantle disrupted the silence as the brothers each toyed with their thoughts.

  “In spite of everything, I feel sorry for Richard,” whispered Mullaney.

  “What?”

  “No, really, I do,” Mullaney said. “I mean, my heart breaks for Abby, Kylie, and Samantha. They are the ones really feeling the loss. But Richard … there’s a man who had everything—and I’m not talking about his money. A daughter and two granddaughters who loved him, thought the world revolved around him, and he threw that most precious gift away for what? More money? More power? And he ends up at the bottom of the Potomac. It’s a sad transaction if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, but who did it?” Doak responded. “Were they both killed by the same person or persons? And why … what were the killers covering up? The clues, the forensics we have on either case are slim to none. Whoever did these jobs, they were very good.”

  “Which leaves us with who and why and no answers,” said Mullaney.

  Silence descended for a moment. “No answers … That reminds me,” said Doak as he reached down and picked up something from beside his armchair. He reached across the distance to Mullaney with an envelope in his hand.

  “What’s this?”

  Doak stretched further. “Take it. It’s from the superintendent.”

  The superintendent … the highest-ranking member of the Virginia State Police, Mullaney’s former employer before he joined the State Department. Mullaney stared at his brother, not at the envelope. “The boss? What does he want from me?”

  “It’s not what he wants from you,” said Doak, shaking the envelope in Mullaney’s direction, “it’s what he wants to give you.”

  “Now I’m really getting worried.”

  A tidal wave of words, drama, and posturing spilled out of the kitchen and into the den as Abby and the girls brought in a tray of food, glasses, and a pitcher of iced tea. Abby stopped, and the girls stopped with her, when she saw the envelope Doak was trying to hand to Brian.

  “Do you know what’s in it?” asked Brian.

  “Yeah … I do. They’re offering you Dad’s job—commander of division seven of field operations. Kinda cool, I think. You would be headquartered right here in Fairfax County.”

  Mullaney heard a rattle and crash behind him as dishes slipped off Abby’s serving tray and collided with the floor. His breathing deepened. His heart skidded a little from one beat to the next. He knew the department wanted him back. He had gotten those signals. But this—Dad’s job?

  He was trying to sort through so many emotions, wasn’t sure how to respond, when he noticed the other item that Doak had lifted into his lap. “What’s that?”

  55

  Fairfax, Virginia

  August 2, 9:32 p.m.

  Doak stood up. He laid the envelope on an end table beside Brian’s chair. Then he brought the other item in front of him. It was a gray metal box, about the size of a shoebox, with something on the top that Mullaney couldn’t make out.

  “You were already in Israel when I got this,” said Doak. “One of the custodians chased me down. It’s for you.”

  Doak reached out and held the box in front of him. For a moment, Mullaney had a flashback to Israel, a stab of adrenaline. But … no, Doak was holding it. He was okay. This was different.

  Mullaney took the box from his brother. On its top was the decal of the Virginia State Police. Under the decal was stenciled the name John Mullaney. Captain was added later, after his name.

  “In addition to his locker in division headquarters,” said Doak, “which got cleaned out after he left active duty, Dad also had a storage trunk in the headquarters’ basement. Nobody realized it was there until a few weeks ago when custodial decided to clean and rearrange the basement. The trunk was full of old uniforms, service manuals—all the stuff Dad accumulated during his decades with the force. But on top of it all was this box.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “You should look,” said Doak.

  Wondering if he had the anointing for this task—wandering down a very painful paternal memory lane—Mullaney flipped up the clasp on the box and opened the lid. Immediately, Brian knew what was in the box. He glanced up at Abby, who put down the tray and came over to stand behind his chair. Mullaney picked up one of the newspaper clippings that filled the box to capacity. It was from his sophomore year in high school, when he had first been elevated to varsity. In his first game, he scored two touchdowns and also played linebacker. The story was something about another Mullaney joining a long line of stellar athletes at Fairfax High. He rifled through the collection of clippings and pulled out another … a photo of the day, as president of the student council, senior Brian Mullaney, was introduced to the mayor and … ta-da! … John Riggins, recently retired running back of the Washington Redskins and MVP of Super Bowl XVII. Brian’s dad had run a highlighter over Brian’s name and that of John Riggins.

  Mullaney pulled out another, then another. All of the clippings chronicled Brian Mullaney’s life, from grade school sports to honors and promotions with the Virginia State Police. Mullaney’s throat grew thicker, his breathing more labored. Abby placed her hand on his shoulder.

  All those years, Mullaney had labored under the impression that he had never measured up to his father’s expectations. He felt like the personification of John Mullaney’s favorite epithet: useless! Brian never knew …

  Stuffed down along the side of the box was an envelope. Mullaney pulled it out. The only thing written on the outside was one word: Brian.

  It was a struggle to keep the tears from flooding his eyes and the regret from tearing at his heart.

  The envelope wasn’t sealed … never had been. As if John Mullaney was planning on adding to its contents. Brian pulled out some folded sheets of paper. And his world turned upside down.

  For my sweet son, Brian …

  “Oh, Brian,” Abby gasped from behind, her arms now clasped around his chest as she leaned on the back of the chair. “Oh, thank you, Lord.”

  I was never raised with the love of a father, never taught how to express love as a man. I was taught how to be proud and arrogant; how to be demanding and critical. I am so deeply sorry for that.

  But I am so proud of you …

  Splotches of tears began to dot the
paper.

  … All you’ve done and the fine man of character and integrity you’ve become. That would be enough … to love you for what you’ve done and who you are. But as my time seems to be slipping away from me, it’s more important for me to tell you this. I love you because you are my son—flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, heir of my heart, the best part of me. I wish I had the courage, or the faith, to believe I could say these things to you personally. I don’t know if I could get the words out right.

  So I thought I would at least write these things down, to tell you that I love you beyond what words can say. And I can leave you with this, a father’s blessing that I recently found. I think it’s in the Bible:

  “The Lord bless you, and keep you. The Lord make His face shine on you, and be gracious to you. The Lord lift up His countenance on you, and give you peace.”

  Mullaney stared at the words of the Aaronic blessing. He felt the warmth of a hand upon his face, the whisper of a voice in his ear. It was Bayard’s voice. Mullaney glanced up, looked around the room. There was no angelic presence. Only a father’s blessing. Mullaney not only felt the cover of protection but also the fulfillment of affirmation.

  He turned the pages over in his hand. There were three, typewritten on each side. John Mullaney had a lot to say to his son. As Brian turned over the pages, another newspaper clipping fell into the box. Mullaney picked it up and opened it. It was a story from the local paper about John Mullaney’s son Brian, who had left the Virginia State Police to accept a commission in the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service. In the story, the secretary of state was quoted: “It’s an honor to have a man like Brian Mullaney, a man of character, integrity, and exemplary service with the Virginia State Police, join the Diplomatic Security Service. You know what the first thing Brian said to me when we offered him this position? ‘My dad will be proud.’”