Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  John Mullaney had run a highlighter over that part of the story. He had underlined the last quote. And had written in the margins, “It grieves my heart that you would leave the force, because I will miss you desperately. But you will soar at DSS.”

  At that moment, the dam on the wellspring of Brian Mullaney’s heart shattered, the regret, guilt, and shame he had carried so long exploded into vapor, and his lonely longing for a loving father was banished forever from his life. The tears cascaded down his cheeks like Niagara’s famous falls, and his body wracked in heaves with the weeping of the soul. But Brian Mullaney’s heart was soaring. Through the tears, he saw something on the inside cover of the box. It was in John Mullaney’s handwriting. “Be careful out there, my son!”

  Abby buried her head into the crook of his neck, her tears soaking the collar of his shirt. “Oh, Brian!”

  Mullaney couldn’t read any more … not now. He was awash with a newfound emotion, the blessing of his father’s affirmation.

  And once again he heard a voice that he recognized. “This is my son, whom I love. In him I am well pleased.”

  Brian Mullaney was home.

  EPILOGUE

  Alitas Street, Ankara

  August 3, Noon

  Except for one oil lamp burning above his head, Assan sat in the dark, on the stone floor of the red room, the wall at his back. He had lost all sense of time. He had sat there for a day … or for a month. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

  And he didn’t know what to do. Or where to go. His whole world lay on the stone altar of sacrifice not four feet away. Cold. Lifeless. Gone.

  At the rare time he considered it, Assan assumed he would simply die here in this room. At some point, his body would cease to function without food or water. He didn’t need much. But he would not survive on nothing.

  Within him, fury raged. Long ago, he had sold his soul to the prince of darkness for a greater infusion of the power of the occult, to which he had already surrendered his life. More power to rule in this world, to seize for himself the things that would satisfy his lust. He became apprentice to the Turk, whom he thought represented the epicenter of power and dominion, to learn how to exercise the dark arts at his command. But all he had become was a slave.

  Across the ages his power, like his body, shriveled from atrophy. His heart was still as black, but power? He was impotent. And now the vicarious power of the Turk was vaporized.

  He had tried every conjuring, chanted all the words of the dark lords he knew, but the Turk did not resurrect as he had planned.

  But Assan’s bargain had been struck. All those ages ago, he had received the overflow of evil he desired. But was robbed of his opportunity to wield it. Now he would pay the eternal price.

  Assan recalled the bone-chilling scream of the Turk just as Arslan Eroglu’s body exploded into subatomic particles. That wail was the harbinger of the endless days during which Assan would endure the torture of the eternally lost. He raged against the injustice but was powerless to change it.

  He shivered. Not because it was cold.

  Assan gazed once more at the lifeless symbols painted on the walls of the red room. He was free from the Turk’s control, free to make his own choices. But where would he go? Whom would he serve? How long before torment claimed him?

  It was Assan’s recurring lament. He had nothing else to fill his mind. Perhaps he should end—

  It was only a perception, the slightest change in the atmosphere around him. Was the oil lamp burning brighter? He looked up at the stone altar of sacrifice.

  Two yellow eyes were staring back at him, the mayhem of all that is wicked and condemned swirling through the pupils like frenzied gray clouds in a hurricane. And Assan’s lust for dark power was reborn in the maelstrom of the resurrected eyes that burned into his forsaken soul.

  Fairfax, Virginia

  August 3, 5:15 a.m.

  A moonbeam shuddered, as did a window on the western side of Brian Mullaney’s home. The molecules that once comprised a solid wall began to sway and shift. Through what appeared to be an impenetrable mass, a shape slowly materialized. Shards of moonbeam danced across the crown of a silver helmet.

  Soundless, effortlessly, like fog floating across a moor, Bayard moved through the room to the two chairs facing the fireplace. John Mullaney’s metal box of memories rested on the seat of the chair to his left. Bayard knelt down, placed his hands on the box and raised the lid. While his left hand lifted up the stack of documents inside the box, Bayard’s right hand slipped under the belt that supported his sword and scabbard. He withdrew a small, leather pouch and slid it under the stack of documents in the box.

  The box was closed and Bayard’s form was beginning to intertwine with the molecules of the wall when he heard a sound beside him, coming down the stairs.

  It was impossible to sleep. Too excited to be home. Too jet-lagged. Too normal after all he’d been through. Just couldn’t get comfortable.

  Brian Mullaney padded into the den in his fleece-lined moccasins, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, his iPhone in the back pocket to catch up on the sports pages. A mug of hot tea was steadied in both hands.

  He sat in one of the chairs by the fireplace, sipping the tea and enjoying the quiet, wrapped in the cocoon of home. It felt safe.

  Mullaney put the mug on a side table and reached for his iPhone. But he noticed the metal box resting on the other chair. He reached over, picked it up, and settled back into his chair.

  He felt the same rush of joy and regret wash over him as had earlier. What an amazing gift from his dad. What a heartbreak that they never had a chance to share it together. He opened the box and starting leafing through the clippings. Too many to see adequately.

  Mullaney reached into the box and pulled out the whole pile of clippings so he could go through them more carefully.

  In the bottom of the box was a flat leather pouch. Curious, he picked it up.

  It was more like a leather envelope. On the flap side, the envelope was sealed with stamped wax. Nothing on the front.

  He slipped his finger under the seal and broke it. Inside the envelope was a thick, brittle piece of paper. He turned it over. Something was written on it … three lines … the ink faded and cracked, but still legible:

  Brian

  Ačiū

  Elijah ben Solomon Zalman

  His heart racing, Mullaney pulled out his iPhone and googled Ačiū. Thank you in Lithuanian.

  A dark shape emerged from the deep shadows under a vast oak tree on Mullaney’s lawn, starlight igniting tiny glints of sparks from a silver breastplate. Through a wide, side window of the house, Bayard could see clearly. A smile brought joy to his eyes as astonishment washed across Mullaney’s face, the Gaon’s final message in one hand, the leather pouch dangling from his fingers.

  With the delivery, Bayard knew his assignment was completed. Still, his immortal heart felt the same emotions as any created man. He experienced a deeply rooted affection for this man of courage and faith, just as he loved the Gaon for his devotion to God and determined stand against the agents of evil. They, all of them together, had fought the good fight. Now, he experienced the bittersweet caress of good-bye.

  Well done, my good and faithful servant.

  Bayard glanced up at the stars. “Thank you, Father.”

  As he retreated into the shadows, the molecules at the edges of his form beginning to dance and morph, Bayard looked through the window once more. “The Lord bless and keep you, Brian.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “A cord of three strands is not quickly broken” (Ecclesiastes 4:12).

  Or easily broken. Or easy to overcome.

  I’m blessed to be in the midst of a cord of three strands … the covenant relationship I have with my wife and with our God. That tripart covenant relationship is the source of my life, the joy of my moments, the hope of my future. Our God, the Creator, gave me the gift of writing. My wife, Andrea, gave me the gift of time to write. And
both have been cheerleaders in my corner as I’ve tried to properly exercise that gift and fulfill its calling.

  I don’t feel worthy of either of them. They willingly enter into my blackest days of doubt to bring comfort, encourage me to stay the course when I falter, and whisper to me “well done” when the last stroke is written. They offer me grace. And I am so much richer for it.

  Thanks to our daughter, Meghan, who is always so brilliant in finding ways for me to escape from the corners into which I’ve written myself. I’m grateful for my agent, Steve Laube, who has helped me become more of a professional. And none of the six books that bear my name would exist without the faith, support, and editorial excellence of the staff at Kregel Publications in Grand Rapids: managing editor Steve Barclift, editors Becky Durost Fish and Joel Armstrong, and marketing manager Katherine Chappell. Also thanks to the three Kregel editors who made it all possible: Miranda Gardner, who opened the door in 2008; Dawn Anderson, who guided the long development of The Jerusalem Prophecies; and Janyre Tromp, who believed there was a diamond in the early versions of Ishmael Covenant and who kept on polishing until the Empires of Armageddon was a cord of three solid strands.

  In the previous two books, I’ve thanked Pastor Nick Uva of Harvest Time Church in Greenwich, Connecticut, who first introduced me to the Vilna Gaon, and to Tina Heugh of Bonita Springs, Florida, who permitted me to use her mother’s name, Ruth Hughes, as one of the pivotal characters of the series.

  I must acknowledge the insight I received from reading Bryan Stevenson’s book Just Mercy and his thoughts about the impacts of racism in our history and in our present. Stevenson believes America’s worst thinking about justice is “steeped in the myths of racial difference” and points to “four institutions in American history that have shaped our approach to race and justice”: slavery; the domestic racial terrorism that plagued black people following the Civil War; legalized racial segregation, racial subordination, and marginalization; and disproportionate mass incarceration of people of color. And I must thank those who are close to my heart who helped me, hopefully, give appropriate and adequate voice to the realities of living as a black man in America.

  Some of the ideas about angels and their assignments came from listening to online sermons of Pastor Bill Johnson of Bethel Church in Redding, California.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  With this third book, Ottoman Dominion, the Empires of Armageddon series is concluded. But before we get into some of the real events, real places, and real people that are woven throughout this novel, I want to offer you a reward for getting this far.

  There are two free opportunities available only to readers of the Empires of Armageddon series:

  Who is the man in the Panama hat? What is his story? I’ve written an exclusive short story called “Under the Radar” that reveals the origins of the man in the Panama hat and his organization.

  In addition, I’ll send you a monthly email post that will expand upon, with greater detail, one of the topics in these author’s notes.

  If you’re hungry to know more about the man in the Panama hat or more about the elements of reality woven into the plot of Ottoman Dominion, just send me an email at terrbrennan@gmail.com and I’ll respond right away with these two special free offers.

  Thanks,

  Terry

  A Personal Note: My wife, Andrea, and I were married in 1979, more than forty years ago. Some years after our marriage, it’s so far back I can’t remember exactly when, we started to pray together in the morning before the day started and at night before we went to sleep. We don’t make it every day or every night, but we try. At some point over the years, we began the morning prayer and ended the night prayer by me praying a blessing over Andrea—our version of the Aaronic blessing: “May the Lord bless and keep you; may the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; may the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.”

  When I started writing this series and had to come up with an anointing to protect the guardian from the lethal effects of the box of power, of course I thought of the Aaronic blessing. Wouldn’t that be cool?

  What I didn’t know was all the history around the Aaronic blessing, how it was administered over the people by Aaron and the priests who followed him, or the depth of the meaning and power of the blessing itself. I was particularly touched by what I found out about the last phrase—“may the Lord turn his face toward you …”—that the Hebrew words depict a father lifting his child up above him, at arms length, and smiling up at that child with all his heart.

  The dispensing of the Aaronic blessing, and the power of that blessing, became an integral element of the plot for the entire Empires of Armageddon series.

  The first book, Ishmael Covenant, was released by Kregel Publications on February 18, 2020. Nine days later, Christian singers Kari Jobe and her husband, Cody Carnes, got together with the pastors of Elevation Church in North Carolina for a songwriting session. During that meeting, they composed a new song, “The Blessing.” Yup, you got it. The Aaronic blessing. (I doubt they had a chance to read Ishmael Covenant by then.)

  They debuted the song in a worship service at Elevation Church’s Ballantyne campus on March 1 and released the live video on YouTube on March 6. And it took off like wildfire. Here’s a link to the YouTube video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zp6aygmvzM4.

  In the first two weeks, the video on YouTube had three million views. In less than a month, it was being sung by church congregations around the nation. At the end of May, it had fourteen million views on YouTube.

  On March 6 I had the aortic valve in my heart replaced in a procedure at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. I was released from the hospital the next afternoon (I’m fine, by the way). One week later, New York City and the rest of the country were shut down by the COVID-19 pandemic. And our people and our nation were in desperate need of a blessing and hope.

  Coincidence? Perhaps. But I prefer to consider it part of God’s plan for this time. What does it mean? I have no clue. But I’m anxious to find out. Stay tuned!

  While Ottoman Dominion is a work of fiction, several plot elements are based on fact.

  On the back cover of his 2015 book, Relentless Strike, journalist Sean Naylor writes: “Since the attacks of September 11, one organization has been at the forefront of America’s military response. Its efforts turned the tide against al-Qaida in Iraq, killed Bin Laden and Zarqawi, rescued Captain Phillips, and captured Saddam Hussein. Its commander can direct cruise missile strikes from nuclear submarines and conduct special operations raids anywhere in the world.”

  The organization? The Joint Special Operations Command is the United States’ super-secret military organization that during the past decade has revolutionized counterterrorism, seamlessly fusing intelligence and operational skills to conduct missions. JSOC is arguably the most potent tactical force on the planet and has performed incredible feats of skill and combat creativity.

  JSOC is comprised of over four thousand men and women from the four major armed services. Time and again, the JSOC operations units have proven themselves to be the elite “tip of the spear”—the best trained and most effective members of the US military establishment, engaged in the most highly classified actions around the world. It has assimilated into one formidable strike force, the best operators from the five Special Mission Units of the US Special Operations Command: the army’s 1st Special Forces Detachment (Delta Force, Task Force Green), the 75th Ranger Reconnaissance Company (Task Force Red), the navy’s Special Warfare Group (SEAL Team 6, Task Force Blue), the army’s Intelligence Support Activity (Task Force Orange), and the air force’s 24th Special Tactics Squadron (Task Force White), as well as America’s most secret aviation and intelligence units.

  In Relentless Strike, Naylor reveals how an organization designed in the 1980s for a very limited mission transformed itself after 9/11 to become the military’s premier weapon in the war against terrorism.

  The Dip
lomatic Security Service is the federal law enforcement and security division of the US State Department. DSS agents are unique in that they are both members of the US Foreign Service, charged with protecting diplomats and embassy personnel overseas, but also armed law enforcement officers who have the authority to investigate crime and arrest individuals both at home and in collaboration with international law enforcement overseas. With nearly twenty-five hundred agents here and abroad, DSS is the most widely represented law enforcement agency in the world. DSS also provides security for foreign dignitaries in the United States, for the annual meeting of the United Nations General Assembly in New York City, and during the Olympics. Descriptions of the State Department’s ops center in the Truman Building are accurate to the best of the author’s resources.

  Descriptions of the US embassy and the US ambassador’s residence in Tel Aviv are accurate to 2014, before the US embassy was officially moved to Jerusalem in 2018. The US ambassador to Israel did host an enormous, annual Fourth of July party, where over two thousand guests sprawled over the grounds of the residence and feasted on iconic American delights from McDonald’s, Ben & Jerry’s, and Dominos.

  The story of the Vilna Gaon—Rabbi Elijah ben Shlomo Zalman (1720–1797)—is accurate in all of its historical elements. He was the foremost Talmudic scholar of his age and a renowned genius in both sacred and secular learning. The story of the Gaon’s prophecy about Russia and Crimea, revealed by his great-great-grandson in 2014, is true and led many to believe that the coming of the Jewish Messiah was near at hand. The Gaon did attempt three trips to Jerusalem from his native Lithuania; the last one, only a few years before his death, ended prematurely in Konigsberg, Prussia. The story of the Gaon’s second prophecy is a product of the author’s imagination.