The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies)

by Terry Brennan

  “Who? They all wanted the same man,” said Chief Justice Abraham. “They want you, Moishe.”

  This he didn’t expect.

  “They want you to end this madness. We’re not ready for a ground war. It’s you, Moishe. They all trust you. And Likud has formed a National Unity Coalition to give you their support—three-fourths of the Knesset signed up.”

  Orhlon was shaking his big, shaggy head. “But I’m not a politician.”

  “No, Moishe—and that’s a blessing. You are a man of character and integrity who is trusted on both sides of the Knesset. Lead us, Moishe, just like you lead your men. Go, do it now. Israel needs a man like you.”

  He held the phone in his hand for a long moment after the chief justice hung up. Unexpectedly, Orhlon now found himself commander of a nation, and not only of its military. He searched his mind for the right plan. Orhlon pushed the 0 button. He was talking before the voice on the other end could speak.

  “Open up a secure line to the White House. I want to speak with President Whitestone.”

  9:36 a.m., London

  Sometimes, paper felt more reassuring, more permanent and reliable. The computers were fast and the screens a technological marvel. But sometimes, you just needed to see it in print.

  Nigel Hunter held five pieces of paper in his hands. He would read one, move it from the front of the pack to the back, and read the next. He had completed this ritual three times and begun a fourth when the chairman spoke.

  “This is the end of the world.”

  Hunter tore his eyes from the ensnaring pages and transferred his attention to Lord Albert Alderson, chairman of HSBC Europe and board chair of the European Central Bank, the most polished gentleman Hunter had ever known. Not only did Lord Alderson dress as if he set the standards for GQ, but he also physically looked the part of a gracefully maturing man of means—tall, athletic, chiseled good looks, graying at the temples, always a smile, and never a hair, a button, or an emotion out of place.

  Now Nigel Hunter was really scared. Disheveled, in his wrinkled corduroy pants, Lord Alderson looked like a man hijacked from his breakfast. The chairman’s face was as ashen as the gray in his hair. And fear found a home in eyes that previously had never once doubted themselves.

  “Sir, what can we do?” he asked.

  Lord Alderson took the pages in his hands and crumpled them up into a large ball, pressed them together, and flipped them, underhanded, into a dustbin alongside his desk. “Nothing. There is nothing we can do. Greece will declare bankruptcy by this afternoon. Spain and Italy won’t be far behind. Those countries can’t print their own euros. The debt call is over a half-billion euro so far, it continues to rise, and there is not enough liquid cash in the entire EU to satisfy these debts. Not immediately, as is required. So the dominoes will begin to fall—Italy, Portugal—even France and Belgium are at risk. Once sovereign nations begin to collapse, there may be no end to it.”

  “But the EU won’t allow a continent to fall into bankruptcy, will it?”

  The touch screen on the chairman’s desk lit up with an incoming call. His eyes were on the photo of his family strategically located on a corner of his desk, the sunlit windows behind it to avoid glare. “There is no EU. Not after today.” He touched the screen, turning on the speaker. “Yes?”

  “Lord Alderson, it’s the Saudis.”

  Hunter recognized the voice on the other end of the conversation as that of the bank’s president. And it sounded panicked. “Abbudin must be responsible. The National Bank of Saudi Arabia somehow gained control of billions in euro debt. They’re calling it all. I’ve had two bank presidents text me already to say their banks were taken over by the Saudis this morning.”

  Lord Alderson picked up the pen lying on top of his desk and absently began tapping on the back of his hand. Then he spoke into the touch screen.

  “Transfer as much as you possibly can into our American accounts. But move quickly. We have less than an hour. See if you can salvage one to two hundred million.”

  Alderson’s voice was strong, but his finger quavered as he tapped the surface of the touch screen to end the call. Nigel Hunter’s hero stared at the top of his desk for a long, silent moment.

  “We are being conquered … invaded,” he whispered. “The Arabs will own Europe by the end of the week.” He tapped the touch screen once more. “Get me the prime minister.”

  4:49 a.m., Washington, DC

  Momentarily back in the Oval Office to complete some critical phone calls, Whitestone was surprised with how remarkably calm he felt. He stood leaning against the edge of the Resolute desk, while Bill Cartwright sat closer to the speaker phone on one of the sofas.

  “General, I join in celebrating this change in government, particularly with you at the helm,” said the president. “And I’m hopeful the Arab states will welcome your earnest and sincere promise to withdraw your troops from Lebanon. You are an implacable foe, Moishe, but a man everyone in the region trusts.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. But Hezbollah must stop the rocket attacks—today. Our nation and our leaders did not support what one misguided man tried to accomplish. And I’m ready to order our troops back across the border, but not until the rockets stop.”

  Whitestone looked across the short distance to Cartwright, his eyes asking an unspoken question. Cartwright nodded in assent.

  “There is, though, Mr. Prime Minister, the residual international outrage regarding the attack on the Iranian Central Bank. Radiation is still drifting down on parts of Tehran. And now we’re in a shooting war with Iran in the Strait of Hormuz. None of that is going to disappear with the Knesset’s moves, no matter how welcome.”

  The silence stretched for more heartbeats than Whitestone was comfortable with. He opened his mouth to make another argument—

  “Mr. President, you and I have known each other a long time,” said Orhlon, who first connected with Whitestone more than a decade earlier when the general addressed the megachurch Trinity Baptist near Dallas on the state of Israel’s security and his country’s gratitude to evangelical Christians who offered Israel their unwavering support. Whitestone was a deacon at Trinity who guided Orhlon during his visit and offered the hospitality of his Texas home. “So, Jon, this is not the time for veiled truths. You and I both know how deeply you and your military were involved in the attacks on Iran. I need your support, Jon, and Israel needs your support—publically.”

  Whitestone pushed himself off the desk, crossed the room, and sat on the sofa opposite Cartwright. “You have my promise, Moishe. We’ll stand by you. And the world will know it.”

  “Thank you, Jon. Now I’ve got to try to stop a war.”

  Cartwright, Whitestone’s newly appointed secretary of state, leaned back into the softness of the sofa. “Well, that’s a surprising change. Welcome … but unexpected. What about Abbudin?”

  Whitestone steepled his hands together and pushed his fingertips against each other. “I think our conversation with the king just took on a different flavor. We can get tougher, but we need Abbudin to exert some influence. If we’re going toe-to-toe with the Iranian military, then we need the Al-Uedid air base in Qatar reopened. And we need it now.”

  “I cannot answer for the sheikh.” Abbudin’s voice, coming from the speakerphone, sounded as slippery as oil. “His nation is in turmoil, as are so many others as a result of the misnamed Arab Spring. This spring has been nothing but disaster for the Arab people and our countries. All of us must be very careful.”

  Whitestone pushed the mute button.

  “Something’s wrong here,” he whispered, even though the microphone on this end was turned off. “This isn’t the same guy we’ve dealt with before.”

  Whitestone pushed the button again.

  “Your Excellency, the United States, Saudi Arabia, and Qatar have been steadfast allies for decades, helping to bring security and stability to all of our nations. Allies stand together, even when faced with opposition.”
r />   “Yes … well … times change,” Abbudin purred.

  Whitestone went rigid, like a hunting dog on the scent. His prey was coming into clearer focus.

  “Times change?” he repeated. “Is it possible, perhaps, that because times have changed that two pumping stations are destroyed on the same day, sending global oil prices to crippling levels … our military air base in Qatar is closed on the same day … and the Fifth Fleet is attacked in the Strait of Hormuz—all on the same day? Is that coincidence, or is more than the time changing?”

  No sound came through the speaker.

  Whitestone attempted to keep the power of this room from changing his nature. Really, he did. But at times …

  A man who ruled a nation of sand with the lowest literacy rate in the world was trying to play the president of the most powerful nation on earth. This president didn’t like being played. And the stock market would fall off the edge of a cliff tomorrow.

  An aide came silently into the room and handed an envelope to Cartwright as the president weighed his next words. He was about to speak when Cartwright raised a hand.

  “A moment, Your Excellency,” said Cartwright, handing a sheet of paper to Whitestone.

  The president scanned the sheet, glanced across the table at Cartwright, who was visibly agitated, and read once more, letting the implications sink in.

  “Your Excellency, in the last few hours the euro has become a worthless currency. Europe is essentially bankrupt. And the finance ministers of Spain, Greece, and Italy all agreed to the financial takeover of their economies by Saudi banks.”

  “I do not know, Mr. President. My cousin is in charge of the bank.”

  “Well, it might be wise to ask your cousin what he’s up to,” said Whitestone, trying to keep his anger in check. “Your cousin’s bank just called in over five hundred million dollars of sovereign debt. You are igniting a financial Armageddon that could destroy the economies of Europe. Abbudin, you can’t allow this to happen.”

  Whitestone immediately regretted using the king’s given name. It was an affront to the House of Saud to use a ruler’s given name without being given permission.

  “Mr. President.” The king’s voice had a new edge to it, sharper, dripping sarcasm. “Your nation and the nations of Europe have long relied on the largesse of other people’s money to support a lifestyle you could not afford. You are correct. Much is happening at the same time, including the aggression of your Fifth Fleet in the Strait of Hormuz, an Israeli invasion of Lebanon, and the massing of its warplanes to strike—again—our Iranian brothers. Apparently, this time, without your help.”

  Whitestone winced. He had hoped his complicity in the attacks on Iran’s oil, gold, and nuclear facilities would remain a secret, at least longer than this.

  “So do not lecture me about what I must do for you. Do not imagine you can demand me into obedience. I am not a puppet who dances at the end of your strings. In fact, I have that position reserved for someone else.”

  The atmosphere in the Oval Office crackled with tension, like heat lightning on a summer night. The king’s voice—softer, calmer—failed to break tension’s grip.

  “In such an uncertain world,” said King Abbudin, “it is the prudent and the wise who prepare for the unknown. My cousin, our nation, are simply preparing for the unknown. We have pumping stations to repair. More alarming is the fate of the Saudi economy if war closes the strait, if our pipelines are attacked, if our products cannot get to market. Laying aside a significant reserve of cash is the prudent thing to do to ensure the continued well-being of the Saudi people. And I answer to the Saudi people, Mr. President, not to you.”

  It was a coup. Whitestone knew that now—a worldwide economic and fiscal coup. And Whitestone finally knew his ultimate enemy. Without firing a gun, dropping a bomb, or invading a nation, the Arab world was about to crush Western civilization.

  A chill ran through the marrow of Whitestone’s bones, so deeply rooted only a walk on the sun would have warmed his soul.

  “You will find that we do not surrender,” said the president, taking off the gloves of protocol and pretense. “We drove you back into the desert once, and we will do it again.”

  A laugh from the pit rattled out of the phone.

  “When you have no heat in the winter, when your lights no longer work, when your silos lie barren and empty, when you have no fuel for your vehicles, what will you drive us with then? When your world reverts to the Dark Ages, you will come crawling, begging for bread. And we will watch you die, infidel. Allahu Akbar … Allah is greatest.”

  24

  Noon, Jerusalem

  The hospital was … well … not what Tom Bohannon expected, especially for the military. No drab, concrete slab exterior or mustard brown walls on the inside. The Augusta Victoria Hospital, on the southern side of Mount Scopus near the Mount of Olives, looked like a hotel from the outside because that had been its original purpose. The ubiquitous Jerusalem stone walls glittered in the late afternoon sun, set off by large windows looking out over the Kidron Valley to the Old City, but the hospital also benefitted from beautiful landscaping with hibiscus trees, running wisteria, and rosemary hedges flanking every walkway.

  Once inside, Bohannon wondered if he should be looking for a concierge desk. Tall, Herodian columns flanked the front door. Black granite floors and smoked-glass walls angling in toward the rear of the lobby framed the huge entryway. And off to the right, a massive atrium looked like a tropical forest with songbirds fluttering among the trees. Bohannon was startled when he heard a soft voice to his left.

  “Can I help you?”

  Turning to the sound, Bohannon was again surprised to find a young female Israeli soldier standing by his side, an iPad resting on her left forearm. Her standard fatigues fit like a designer suit; her hair was jet black and pulled into a bun at the back of her head. Though Bohannon wouldn’t describe her as beautiful, she had an arresting look—small and thin, high cheekbones, and mesmerizing brown eyes. He was still staring when she spoke again.

  “Are you here to visit someone? I’m Corporal Heim. Perhaps I can help you.”

  “Oh, yes … well,” Bohannon stammered, “I’m here to see a friend … Sergeant Fischoff. I’m sorry; I don’t know his first name.”

  The soldier gave Bohannon an appraising once over, turned to the iPad, and tapped the screen a few times. She turned back to Bohannon. “Your friend, but you don’t know his first name?”

  Regaining his composure, Bohannon could sense the wariness of the corporal.

  “We met under very unusual circumstances,” he said. “The sergeant and his squad were dispatched to find my wife and her friend. They were kidnapped. I happened to be in the Hummer when the orders came through. I know—it’s a strange story. But I was there when the sergeant was injured in the wreck. I helped pull him out. I just wanted to see how he was doing.”

  The corporal weighed Bohannon’s story. “Come with me, please.” She walked deeper into the lobby and around a reflective glass wall. As he followed to the other side, Bohannon was stunned to see a military outpost—a dozen fully armed Israeli soldiers in flak jackets, on their feet and constantly moving along the length of the wall. Others monitoring a bank of closed-circuit television monitors with an array of electronic equipment outside of Bohannon’s experience.

  “This hospital is a ripe target for attack at any time,” said Corporal Heim, answering Bohannon’s unspoken question. “Even more so today. Nearly one thousand Israeli soldiers are in this hospital, a significant number of them field officers, most of them unable to defend themselves. So there are two first-line goals for this hospital: one, protect it against any kind of terrorist attack and, two, give our wounded soldiers a special place that tells them how much we honor their service to the nation. One way we do that is to give them the best medical care possible. Another way is to have the most effective security possible. We want our patients to relax and recover. So we’re always on alert but s
eldom in sight.

  “For instance,” she pointed over her shoulder, “you underwent a full body scan as you walked between those columns, and what’s under the black granite floor will react if the weight on it exceeds 275 kilos within ten meters—the running weight of three men with weapons.

  “Please, wait in here.”

  “But how do—”

  Corporal Heim opened the door to a well-appointed but sterile office. Behind the desk sat an Israeli captain. “Please, sit down.” He motioned to a chair in front of the desk. Bohannon’s anxiety meter clicked up a notch as he sat before the captain.

  “Do you have your passport?”

  Bohannon pulled the small blue booklet from his back pocket and handed it to the officer.

  “Thomas Bohannon.” The captain looked up from the passport. “And you would like to see Sergeant Fischoff. But you don’t know his name. Is that correct?”

  Bohannon was about to answer when Corporal Heim entered the office and handed some papers to the officer. The captain scanned the pages, stopped, and read one section a second time. He looked up at Bohannon with a different expression on his face.

  “You appear to be quite a unique tourist.” The captain rose from behind the desk and came around to stand before Bohannon. “Thank you,” he said, extending his left hand to Bohannon. “Sergeant Fischoff would probably not be alive if not for you and his corporal.”

  Bohannon’s hand was crushed, but his anxiety had tanked.

  “Come. Let me take you to see the sergeant.”

  The interior of the hospital rivaled the entryway in richness of detail, and the number of nurses and doctors testified to Israel’s commitment to its military. The captain stopped at a large wooden door. “I’ll leave you to your reunion,” said the captain. “Please, stay as long as you like.”

  Bohannon pushed open the heavy door with his left shoulder and entered a bright room, muted by a curtain over a large window. There was only one bed—more comfortable looking than any hospital bed Bohannon had ever seen. He stood, uncertain, in the doorway until Fischoff turned in his direction. The effort that took was etched across his brow and reflected in his eyes, a slow, stuttering process that demanded all his concentration. But Fischoff offered a smile of welcome that warmed Tom’s heart.