The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies)

by Terry Brennan

  Fischoff’s left hand was toying with the huge bandage on his neck, his eyes on some distant thought. He turned back to Bohannon. “Where are you going?”

  In spite of the incredible nature of his story thus far, Bohannon knew the next few moments would be the most difficult, and the most critical.

  “Iraq.”

  Fischoff opened his mouth and raised his hand, but stopped. “No, I don’t think I want to know. You’ve got a way in, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t want to tell the government—yours or mine—or ask for their help, because …”

  “Because I don’t want any interference, and I don’t want any leaks,” said Bohannon. “The Prophet’s Guard has been one step ahead of us, like they know what we’re going to do before we do it. The news reports are saying there was a mole in the Israeli government. We don’t want the Guard waiting for us when we get there. Sergeant, you are one of the few people in this country I can trust.”

  The sergeant grimaced and shook his head. “What do you need?”

  As Bohannon laid out his request, Fischoff’s expression never changed, never wavered. “I think if we’re successful in this quest, we’re not going to have the luxury of taking a leisurely stroll back to Jerusalem.”

  “So, if necessary, you want me to get you out of Iraq and across the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan illegally. You want me to help you select the best way to cross Jordan, and you want me to lay out a way for you to get back into Israel without going through one of the border crossings. That’s it?”

  Bohannon felt a bit foolish as he heard Fischoff recite back his request. But, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Well, not just me,” he said. “Me and the team—Joe, Sammy, and my wife, Annie.”

  The sergeant threw up his hands and laughed out loud. “Are you kidding me? Your wife? Didn’t she just suffer enough? You want to take her across a thousand kilometers of desert populated only with bandits and snakes?”

  “No,” said Tom. “I’d never do that to my wife. No … Annie is the one demanding that we go. In fact, she’s pretty critical to what we’re hoping to do. I don’t want to tell you too much, but Annie’s got the contacts we’ll need once we get inside Iraq and the justification for why we’re there. And she’s more determined than any of us to see this crazy episode of our lives come to an end. Between you and me, I also think she’s hoping to find a way to deliver some payback for Kallie Nolan’s death.”

  Silence filled the room. Fischoff glared at Bohannon with a fiery intensity, and Tom wondered if he’d just committed his greatest blunder. The silence stretched to the point where Bohannon was ready to walk out.

  “Get me the pen and paper on that table,” said Fischoff. “I like you, Bohannon. And I think you’re on a mission that is way beyond your ability. I like that, too. You remind me of my father.” He started writing on the tablet. “Call this number. Ask for Ithzak. Take what he gives you. Then leave the rest to me.”

  “But … how …”

  “You saved my life, Tom. I owe you. Don’t worry. Listen to Ithzak. Do what he says, and we’ll get you home.”

  25

  10:25 a.m., Washington, DC

  “You’ve been busy, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  Whitestone sat at the head of the large table in the Situation Room, bunkered deep under the White House, Cartwright to his right, cabinet members and the Joint Chiefs spread around the cluttered table’s circumference, Israel’s Moishe Orhlon on the phone. The aides tried, but they couldn’t keep up with the accumulated coffee cups and discarded briefing papers that grew in piles on the table’s interior. Smoking had been banished from this room many disasters before, but the stale cigarette smell lingered in spite of the strong coffee and high anxiety.

  “There was no time to waste, Mr. President.”

  “Hezbollah appears to be holding to its word. The rockets have stopped?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. It seems as if Nazrullah and his thugs were stunned by their government’s overthrow in Lebanon,” said Orhlon. “Where were they to turn? The Syrian army is an empty shell. President Al-Musawi hangs by a thread. And with the Iranians so focused on their own myriad crises, who would have suspected the sudden eruption of the Arab Spring in Tehran? It appears that massive popular demonstrations against Ghorbani and the Ayatollahs are filling the streets of Tehran and other Iranian cities. The pillars of Hezbollah’s power have crumbled. The threat to our north is silent—for now.”

  Cartwright fussed with an empty coffee cup. “Mossad has been very successful, Moishe. My congratulations on moving so swiftly and effectively.”

  Whitestone pointed to the flat screens on the wall opposite him and gave a thumbs-up signal.

  “Not possible without the help of your operatives recently creating an opposition party in Lebanon, Mr. Secretary.”

  “And a lot of money.”

  “It comes in handy at times, yes.”

  Whitestone leaned in and propped his elbows on the table. “Are we ready for the final step, Moishe?”

  “The final, and the most satisfying, yes. Mossad’s agents have invested years preparing for this day. I wasn’t sure it would ever come. Abbudin will regret his deception about the destruction of Saudi oil production.”

  “We have the map up on the screens now,” said the president. “Where will your men hit them?”

  “Ras Tanura refinery—their largest,” said Orhlon. “I thought it only fair that we also hold the king to his word and make sure the pumping stations at Al Jalamid and Ash Shu’bah were destroyed. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that King Abbudin was less than truthful. In an hour, those pumping stations will actually cease to exist.”

  “Good,” said Whitestone. “Admiral Marrin? Are we prepared?”

  A white-haired sailor with perfect posture, Admiral Robert Marrin, chief of staff of the US Navy, sat at the middle of the table, wearing his full dress blues. The left side of his uniform jacket was fully armored with ribbons and medals. “The Fifth Fleet has effectively destroyed the Iranian navy. All of its major ships are either crippled or at the bottom of the Persian Gulf. Our new weapon systems performed exceedingly well. We’ve inflicted devastating losses on the small SWARM attack boats. Any remaining have fled back into Iranian bases or hideouts of their own. And we’re hunting those down. But we’ve suffered staggering losses, sir. The results of our war games were accurate to that point. We’ve suffered significant losses from both Iran’s new, low-flying, ground-to-sea missiles and the sheer number of the small attack boats.”

  Admiral Marrin picked up a sheet of paper in front of him, but he didn’t need to read it. The facts were sewn into his soul. “Carrier Strike Group Eleven was hammered. The Nimitz suffered heavy damage from missile strikes. The destroyer Warren P. Lawrence and the frigate Vandergrift both sunk. The Higgins and the Ponce”—he glanced at the president—“taking water, status uncertain. The British destroyer Dragon so badly damaged she may not make it back to port. Over three thousand casualties, nearly twelve hundred sailors dead or missing. And some incredible acts of heroism. But we’re still in fighting shape, sir, and more than capable of fulfilling our next mission. Our battle groups have formed around Carrier Strike Group Ten and have made way for the Saudi coast. Nothing will leave Saudi ports without our permission. Particularly their tankers. And no help is getting in.”

  “Very well. Bill, are we ready on the ground?”

  “Yes, sir. Our men are operating with the local Mossad agents and the three most influential opposition groups in Saudi Arabia. Today those groups will join together for a massive rally. Our people will make sure the rally quickly becomes a people’s revolution that will sweep through Saudi Arabia—an uprising of impoverished Saudis that effectively threatens the reign of the family Saud. It will start in the coastal cities and then move inland to Riyadh. We figure three to five days before Abbudin will be forced to abdicate. We’ll be there to help set up a provisional government—we’ve alre
ady selected the cabinet. Then we hit the Salafist clerics and the Al Qaeda cells.”

  Silent during the discussion, Prime Minister Orhlon cleared his throat. “Ah, no offense, Mr. Secretary, but is there any fear that Al Qaeda could move into—”

  A naval aide ran into the Situation Room, commanding everyone’s attention, leaned over Admiral Marrin’s left shoulder, a yellow sheet in his hand, and whispered into the admiral’s ear.

  Marrin closed his eyes and nodded his head. He looked up the table, and his gaze locked directly on the president. Whitestone felt his blood freeze.

  Andy.

  “Mr. President, I regret to inform you that your son has been missing in action for the past several hours. We’ve hoped for a more definitive report.” He raised the yellow sheet from the table. “Lieutenant Andrew Stone’s body was recovered from the Persian Gulf twenty minutes ago. I’m sorry, sir.”

  No privilege. He didn’t even want to use his real name.

  The world twisted. An unrealized pain rose from some dark place deep in his being. His vision blurred, and the sound of an avalanche echoed in his ears.

  Orhlon’s voice rose from the speaker, breaking the reverent silence that shrouded the room.

  “Jon … I am so deeply sorry. He was a wonderful young man.”

  The president of the United States returned to the present, to the men sitting around the table, to the duty his countrymen had entrusted to him. Thousands of other sons and daughters had died that day. Thousands more might die if their commander in chief was distracted by his personal emotions. He needed to ignore the pain in his chest and focus. And he needed to call his wife. The pain ticked up a notch.

  “Jon …” It was Orhlon again. “I swore I would get revenge for Lukas Painter’s murder. Abbudin has been at the root of it all. Now we can both take the steps necessary to fully bury our dead.”

  26

  5:43 p.m., Jerusalem

  In 1988, Annie Bohannon was a promising photographer for National Geographic when she took one of the most iconic cover photographs in the history of the illustrious magazine. The Kurdish Rebel was the image of a young woman of the peshmerga guerrillas—rebels under attack by the government forces of both Turkey and Iraq—her baby boy perched on one hip, her Kalashnikov automatic weapon perched on the other. The young woman looked boldly into Annie’s camera with world-weary, piercing emerald eyes and the riveting cover image catapulted Annie’s career.

  A year later, when she learned that the young woman had been executed by an Iraqi general—primarily because of the notoriety of the NG cover—Annie had laid down her cameras and walked away from her career. Just three weeks ago, determined not to be left behind when the team returned to Jerusalem, she reached out to her former photo chief and asked for a new assignment. Annie promised her former boss another blockbuster cover image, this time from the refugee camps outside the Old City, where thousands of Jews and Palestinians lived side by side in a tent city as a result of the destruction caused by the earthquake that split the Temple Mount in two. It was an assignment she had failed to complete.

  She was staying with Kallie Nolan in her Jerusalem apartment when they both were kidnapped by agents of the Prophet’s Guard. Ultimately, Kallie was murdered and Annie was rescued. Now, two days after Kallie’s memorial service, Annie was on the phone once more with Vince Kasper at National Geographic. She knew there was an NG crew already in Iraq, documenting the pillaging of Iraq’s museums and ancient sites in the chaos following Saddam. If she could persuade Vince … this could be the perfect cover for their entry into Iraq.

  “Do you think he’ll go for it?” asked Deirdre as Annie held the phone in her hand, digging up the courage to make the call.

  “I hope so. Tom barely had to get the words out before Alex Krupp offered one of his corporate jets to get us there. And Latiffa Naouri is already working on our documents from the Baghdad end through the Iraqi Antiquities Commission. If the sergeant will help us figure out a way to get home, that leaves Vince. If Vince doesn’t come through, I don’t—”

  “If Vince doesn’t come through we can always try Larry, Moe, and Curly.” Rizzo was building a tower out of playing cards. “Otherwise, we’re gonna be out of ideas when Tom gets back. There, the Tower of Babel—Rizzo-style.”

  Annie took a deep breath and punched in the familiar numbers, the connection almost instantaneous.

  “Hi, Vince … it’s Annie. Listen … yes, thank you, it was very frightening. I know you did, and I appreciate it. But listen, I’ve got a favor to ask. It’s a big one, and I can’t tell you why, but I’m sure it will be worth—

  “No, we’re not coming home—at least not yet,” said Annie. “We’ve uncovered some information that explains why people are still trying to get their hands on what we have or force us to tell them what we know, information that changes everything, including our plans. But we need your help.”

  “Sure, Annie,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Just tell me what you need and, if it’s possible, it’s yours.”

  “Thanks. Do you still have that crew recording the decay of Saddam’s rebuilt Babylon?”

  “Yeah, they’ve got about another week’s work before they wrap up.”

  “I need that crew, Vince.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. Vince was a friend, but he wasn’t a fool, and operating the crew in Iraq was costing National Geographic thousands every day. Annie could almost see Vince mentally calculating both the fiscal impact and the risk he was taking with his position.

  “It will be worth every minute of their time,” Annie said. “Listen, I can’t tell you exactly what we’re after. If we’re right and find what we’re looking for, it’s going to make for an incredible story that will capture headlines all around the world. And it will be exclusively yours.”

  “Now you’re talking. I trust you … and your instincts. You haven’t steered me wrong yet. Tell me. What do you need?”

  “The crew will be waiting at the Baghdad airport,” said Annie. “We’ll set up camp near Hillah, sixty miles south of Baghdad, about five miles south of the ruins of ancient Babylon. But we’ve got them for no more than a week, that’s all Vince can cover—unless we find something more concrete.”

  “Do you really think we can look like a documentary television crew?” asked Rizzo. “I don’t know anything about television except for Amazing Race.”

  “And Barney,” said Joe.

  Rizzo waved the back of his hand toward where Rodriguez was sitting with his wife. “Funny man. If you took the time, you’d realize there’s a lot you can learn from Barney.”

  “Like how to dress?” Joe needled.

  “Like how to count to ten, Brillo-head.” Rizzo got up from the table and walked into the kitchen as his tower of cards collapsed.

  Annie felt a pang of compassion for Rizzo. She saw Joe steal a quick glance in Deirdre’s direction.

  “I think we’ve got the old Sammy back with us again,” he said in a low voice.

  Annie’s compassion turned red. “I think you better be careful,” she snapped. “He’s still the old Sammy, but he’s a wounded and damaged Sammy who’s trying to show us a brave face. He’s emotionally brittle, and he could shatter at any moment.”

  Joe turned to face Annie head-on. “Sure, he’s hurting,” he said. “But I don’t think applying kid gloves is the best way to treat Sammy right now. He’s tough—tougher than you may realize. And the way to help him through this—I think—is to help him be the tough Rizzo that he is at heart. Needle him and let him needle you right back. Get his combative juices flowing again. Sure, his heart is broken. He’s grieving. But he’ll stay broken and grieving if we don’t challenge him. He can go through the eight phases of grief when we get home, but right now we need Sammy ready to fight.”

  “You’ll all need to be ready to fight, I’m afraid.” Rabbi Fineman was picking up the playing cards, trying to rebuild Sammy’s tower.

  Annie
could see the concern on his face. “We know it will be dangerous,” she said.

  The rabbi slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think you do,” he said. “You are venturing into the most unstable geography on earth, and probably the most deadly. Syria is in the throes of implosion—there is no government control in half the nation, and Al-Musawi thinks pouring poisonous gas on his own citizens is the way to maintain the legitimacy of his rule. Lebanon is still in the grip of a terrorist organization with scores of rockets pointed at Israel. Hundreds of thousands of refugees are fleeing over every border to the point that national boundaries are obscured. And there’s a naval battle going on in the Persian Gulf that might already be a third Mideast war.

  “Westerners are not only viewed with suspicion in Arab nations, but they are often harassed and threatened by mobs of Islamists. Saddam may be gone, that war may be over, but ISIS has overrun nearly one-third of the country and they are cutting off the heads of people they don’t like. You won’t be that far from the fighting. It may be a simple thing to get into Iraq, but with what you’re seeking, it will be much more difficult to get out.”

  8:12 p.m., New York City

  Secretary of the Treasury Robert Gephart walked down Maiden Lane with the confidence and aplomb of a man who used to own the real estate upon which his soft, Italian calfskin loafers walked—which he did. Once. Once, the movers of Wall Street shook at the mention of his name. Now, operating in service to the president he admired and supported, Gephart no longer owned, officially, the power he once held at Lehman and Bear Stearns. Not legally, anyway.

  At the tiny dot of a park called Nevidon Plaza, Gephart turned left on William Street and stopped in front of an ornately carved wooden door. There was no number at the entrance, no name on the three-hundred-year-old Federal-style building.

  Sunday nights in the Financial District of Manhattan were as quiet as Coney Island in January. Gephart knocked once, looked over his shoulder at the empty street, and entered the darkened building as soon as the door was opened.