Ottoman Dominion Page 11

  Despite the apparent enormity of the conflict he had witnessed, Mullaney felt invigorated. He felt ready for battle. “We have time,” he whispered.

  Mullaney fully emerged to see Levinson and Herzog seated across the desk from him, Herzog nodding and smiling, but Levinson looking more than a little concerned.

  “Brian,” said Levinson, “you’re starting to creep me out.”

  “Sorry, Meyer, it’s been a long day.” And he didn’t have any other answer to give. He turned to Herzog. “Rabbi, what have you made of the two lines of symbols at the bottom of the Gaon’s prophecy? They look similar in style and structure. Letters, or symbols, or ciphers of some kind of communication. Is there any clue in Hebrew text, or kabbalah, or an ancient Semitic language that the Gaon might have accessed?”

  Herzog was shaking his head. “At a loss, I am. Nothing in my experience resembles such a thing as this.”

  Levinson caught Herzog’s gaze and held it. A pregnant stillness, like the air before a storm, filled the room.

  “I also was thinking of Poppy,” said the rabbi. “Why to you I wanted to speak. Didn’t you put him in jail?”

  Laughter burst out of Levinson as he lifted his hands, palms up. “I’ve tried … several times. But Poppy is confounding. Lucky for him, we know there is no evil intent in Poppy, nothing malicious. He’s just … curious. A cyber explorer. There are times when he pushes the limits of my patience and the law, but he always seems to have more to offer us than we can refuse. His skills have done more to protect our infrastructure than harm it, which he barters for my continued mercy. But yes, he’s the one man I think who could help us.”

  Some unspoken communication was going back and forth from Herzog to Levinson, but at this time of night, working on very little sleep, Mullaney’s patience was evaporating quickly. “Okay … so who is this Poppy, how do we find him, and how can we get him to help?”

  Levinson turned to Mullaney. “Stephanakis Poppodopolous—hence, Poppy—is a Greek Orthodox monk assigned to St. Archangel Michael Monastery just north of here, along the coast. He’s a remarkable scholar and theologian, student of ancient languages, and a gifted code-breaker with a prodigious memory. Unfortunately, Poppy is also an unrepentant and inveterate computer hacker. He’s brilliant but indiscriminate. And a few of his escapades have almost earned him time in prison.”

  “What saved him?” asked Mullaney.

  The sly smile of a conspirator creased Levinson’s face. “Let’s just say he volunteered to help Israeli Intelligence with a few very sensitive situations where we needed to break through encrypted firewalls without being noticed. And he still owes us, but I think the pursuit of these strange symbols would be a quest he would take up on its own merit.”

  “Good,” snapped Mullaney. “Let’s go …” He looked at the watch on his wrist. Oh, is it really this late?

  “I don’t suggest we rouse the monastery at one in the morning,” said Levinson. “They are early risers. I’ll call first thing in the morning and see if I can get you an appointment. I don’t expect it will be difficult.”

  Washington, DC

  July 22, 6:43 p.m.

  Noah Webster, rail thin and barely cresting five-six in height, paced back and forth in front of his office windows. The sun was well past its apex, but its heat was still pouring in through the windows, warming one side of Webster’s moving body, then warming the other side as he turned and retraced his steps. His head down, his right hand in a fist pounding a rhythm on his thigh, Webster’s unscrupulous mind was gathering facts and calculating angles on multiple levels at the same time—building, assessing, and discarding one possible plan after another.

  Senator Markham was dead. Webster’s voluminous, hidden records of shady political dealings still had the power to ruin a career. But did his threats diminish substantially with the former Senator’s demise? Were all the years he spent as Markham’s right hand and hatchet man now wasted time and effort? Power fled quickly in Washington. Perhaps all of the favors and promises Webster brokered in Markham’s name were just as dead as the senator. There was likely no succor to be had from that quarter. No … it was likely that those debtors would now become his enemies. Out for revenge.

  Secretary of State Townsend was already withering in his open and obvious contempt for Webster. Two years ago, Townsend was apoplectic when Markham made his final maneuver before retirement. Markham forced Webster’s insertion into a senior and critical position at the State Department, deputy secretary of state for management and resources, which brought the Diplomatic Security Service under Webster’s command. Even though his appointment was long-ago confirmed and deputy secretaries were not dispatched arbitrarily, Webster knew that if some of his illicit activities became public knowledge, they would surely get him fired, perhaps indicted. Webster could only deduce that his tenure at the State Department had a limited and shortening life span.

  And now those ambitious but witless Turks—Kashani or Eroglu, or both—were apparently prepared to unleash a mad scheme that not only threatened NATO’s security and unity, but—if successful—could also bring the Middle East to the brink of nuclear confrontation.

  How could Cleveland discover this plot and Webster be totally blind to its existence? Had he grossly misread Arslan Eroglu? Was Eroglu, his coconspirator to bring down President Boylan’s planned Iranian treaty, really duplicitous enough to withhold from Webster such a desperate and dangerous gambit? If true, did Webster possess enough influence that he could force Eroglu to abandon this perilous plan? And how exposed was Webster, the middle-man in a funnel of money from Rutherford to Eroglu?

  Grappling with questions for which he had no answer, Noah Webster turned an about-face and paced back along the windows that looked out over Washington’s power centers. He didn’t see anything outside his tortured mind. No matter how he juggled the facts or twisted the possibilities, Webster was forced to acknowledge his tenuous grasp on the future for which he had sold his soul. A spear of dread pierced his heart as he imagined life in a jail cell instead of life in the senate. His risks were legion, and his dominion was dwindling. He was playing a hazardous end game that he no longer controlled.

  Then there was Rutherford, the billionaire banker. Webster stubbornly held on to a dwindling hope that Rutherford would be compelled to fund his political aspirations. But how dangerous was Rutherford? Had Senator Markham become a liability and outlived his usefulness? Webster suspected that Rutherford could be responsible for Markham’s untimely death. Did that mean the twin threats Webster held over Rutherford’s head—loss of the Iranian funds now in Rutherford’s banks and the ample evidence of illegal dealings between Rutherford and Markham that Webster kept hidden in secret vaults—would no longer effectively coerce the banker’s compliance?

  “I’ve waited so long,” he mumbled as he paced, drumming his fists into his thighs. “I’ve worked so hard.”

  Thud.

  He could feel the bruises in his bones. “I’ve risked so much.”

  Thud.

  The throbbing pain in his legs finally stopped his strides but not the blood pounding through his arteries. “I will not fail!” An empty boast into an empty room.

  Thud!

  His breathing labored, he pondered his options. He was left with few. Erase all evidence of his collusion with Arslan Eroglu … somehow stop the Turkish plot against Incirlik … and control Richard Rutherford. But his time was running out and his enemies were increasing. Everything he had dreamed of, longed for, sacrificed so much to attain … all of that was in jeopardy. Cut and run? No, he was long beyond retreat. Now was the time for courage, for bold action. To offset his growing risk with equally drastic action. Something that would stop the men who now threatened everything.

  Webster pulled a burner phone from the lowest drawer in his desk and dialed a number that was becoming too familiar. It was only eight hours ago that he had ordered total surveillance on Richard Rutherford from this organization. He was becoming
a regular customer of the man in the Panama hat—another point where he was vulnerable but left with few options. At least this man and his organization were top-flight professionals, specialists in black ops, who operated well under the radar of international law enforcement. Arslan Eroglu was now an even greater danger. He needed to act.

  “You are impatient,” said the voice. “We have no information on Rutherford yet. Our operatives have only just moved into position.”

  “The mission has changed,” said Webster. “I want you to put Mullaney’s daughters under surveillance as well. And I want them to know it. I want them to think their lives are threatened.”

  “You are asking us to increase our level of risk tenfold.”

  Webster waited for more, but the voice was silent. In that silence, Webster knew the dollar amounts were spinning higher and higher. “And I want Rutherford to know it. And I want Rutherford to know that his granddaughters’ safety is in my hands.”

  “It can be done, for a …”

  “And I want you to assassinate the prime minister of Turkey,” Webster said calmly, as if he was ordering a hamburger. “And that needs to happen in the next twenty-four hours, if possible.”

  There was no objection from the voice on the phone. Only a pause.

  “Do you have one million dollars?” asked the voice.

  “Put Richard Rutherford’s granddaughters at risk and I’ll have two million dollars. If necessary, we’ll use his own money against him. But you must act soon.”

  Tel Aviv

  July 23, 1:58 a.m.

  “This better be good,” said Hughes. “I’ve lost more sleep in the last two days than I have in the last two years. Why are you keeping me awake?”

  Hughes, the US embassy’s political officer, was walking along the seafront promenade that extended down a long stretch of Tel Aviv’s popular beach area. The night was heavy with moisture from the Mediterranean Sea, a vast, black expanse cloaked in darkness to her right. To her left was a problem.

  Boris Vassilev was the cultural attaché at the Russian embassy to Israel. Over the last forty years of service to Mother Russia, Vassilev had filled many positions and carried many titles in far-flung capitals around the world. His duties, however, always remained the same. Spying for the KGB and, after the failed 1991 coup attempt against Gorbachev, its successor, the Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR).

  Hughes had first run into Vassilev in 1988 while she was the corporate counsel and board member of Aramco, the former oil partnership between Saudi Arabia and the big three American energy companies—Exxon, Texaco, and Mobile—which the Saudis took over completely in 1980. She met Vassilev at a party thrown by the US embassy in Riyadh, when he carried the unlikely title of undersecretary for tourism at the Russian legation.

  Vassilev’s long tenure with KGB and SVR was testimony to the fact that he seldom made a mistake, either in how he conducted his espionage or in who he cultivated or blackmailed in the Politburo. Hughes was one of his mistakes. During a dinner meeting she arranged in 1990, Hughes plied Vassilev with a limitless flow of vintage champagne. At the end of the night, Vassilev clumsily tried to both seduce Hughes and recruit her into the service of the KGB. She got it all on a mini-recorder. And Vassilev became her eyes and ears on the wildly vacillating effectiveness and output of the Russian petro-chemical industry.

  When Hughes was invited to join the US State Department, she kept Vassilev in her back pocket … just in case … an asset she had exercised only a few times over the last two decades.

  But this was trouble. This time Vassilev called Hughes and nearly demanded to speak with her at once. So here they were, both in their mid-sixties, walking down the promenade as if they were lovers on a late-night date. But Hughes did not like what she was hearing.

  “The labyrinthine depth of Turkish politics and power are unexplorable from the outside,” Vassilev assured Hughes, “but we are confident of a few things. First, Turkey is double-dealing with both Iraq and Israel. Prime Minister Eroglu has offered the same carrot to both nations—unlimited fresh water. With ISIS carving up his country and his illegitimate coup still a bit shaky, Al-Qahtani jumped at the offer, even though it cost him land to form an independent Kurdistan.

  “But the Turks are going to betray Al-Qahtani and his Iranian backers,” said Vassilev. They came to a bench overlooking the sea. “Come, let’s sit for a moment.”

  “The Turks are finally going to get in bed with Israel?” said Hughes. “That’s logical, but it was a long time coming.”

  “Yes … once the idea of a Kurdish nation takes root in the United Nations, Turkey will scrap its promises to Iraq and enter into a water-for-natural gas treaty with Israel. You know the pipelines were started years ago and the project only lapsed over that Marmora incident.” Vassilev turned to look at Hughes. “Our source has read the language in the proposed treaty. Very interesting. In addition to the water-for-gas treaty, Eroglu inserted a clause allowing a Turkish consortium to build an upscale mall on the Mount of Olives. Strange that. And as far as we can discern, the Israelis have not yet expunged that clause. It remains in the treaty.”

  Hughes’s mind was exploring all the nooks and crannies of this new treaty idea. “Eroglu’s been a busy boy,” she said. “What does our closet jihadist, Kashani, think about playing nice with Israel?”

  Vassilev held Hughes’s gaze for a long minute. “Funny you should mention that. It appears that Eroglu is pulling many of the strings of the Turkish government these days and not President Kashani. We’ve known Kashani was pliable, but it seems he’s given his prime minister a nearly free hand in some matters. Our source tells us Eroglu is flexing that hand and growing in power.”

  For many disparate reasons, Hughes was getting uncomfortable—and nervous. Had Turkey suddenly become an adversary and not an ally? And Vassilev was winning hands and gathering chips with all this critical information. He would want something in return.

  Vassilev stirred on the bench and started to get more animated.

  “I’m sure your CIA and its excellent network got wind of the incursion onto Pakistani sovereign soil?” he asked. “Somebody covertly melted a bunch of nuclear weapons that were bound for the Saudis. Very clever. We thought you did it. You may have thought we did it. We were both wrong. It was the Turks. Eroglu dispatched a corps of Turkish commandos to take out the nuclear weapons before they could ship.”

  This was not good.

  “Yes,” Hughes conceded. “We knew about that action.”

  “Hmmm,” Vassilev purred. He was enjoying his moment. “But what you might not know, my dear, is that it is Eroglu’s hand that is on the plot to steal your B61 nuclear bombs from the Incirlik Air Base. An attack that is planned for just after midnight on the twenty-fourth … less than twenty-four hours from now. An attack that has already been delayed once by a fortuitous windstorm, which is still blowing.”

  Vassilev allowed the information to drift on the damp, sea breeze. His smile could have greased a pig.

  “What do you want?”

  Triumph entered his eyes. “Why, I want you, my dear. In my back pocket. Finally, you owe me. And believe me … I will collect.”

  17

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 2:36 a.m.

  “Do you want me to squash that termite?”

  Ruth Hughes, arms akimbo, had her clenched fists pressed against her hips. For the alpha dog in Hughes, the next step was to eviscerate the assistant secretary of state and throw his entrails to a pack of coyotes. From the firm set of her chin, her pressed lips, and the scowl of determination that filled her face, Mullaney had no doubt in his mind that she could pull it off.

  Three of the “Gang of Four”—Cleveland, Mullaney and Hughes—sat in the ambassador’s temporary office. Cleveland had just conveyed to Hughes the essence of Noah Webster’s latest and most virulent threat as they tried to figure out their next move … especially if Webster had effectively cut off their communicatio
n with the secretary of state.

  “No, Ruth … we’ll leave that particular problem for another day,” said Cleveland. They sat in the corner of the smaller, more cramped office, three hard, uncomfortable chairs around a small round table. “We don’t need to fight a battle in Washington. We need to find allies to fight a battle on the ground in Turkey.”

  After Ruth’s meeting with Boris Vassilev, they now had confirmation that a plot to seize the nuclear weapons at the NATO Incirlik Air Base in eastern Turkey was ready to be implemented. Vassilev even told them when the attack was expected to be launched. But where could they go for help?

  With each passing minute, Mullaney’s frustration and anger increased. “Even if we managed to bypass Webster and reach Secretary Townsend,” he said, “would the word of a KGB spy carry any more weight than the Emir of Qatar? Would Townsend feel confident enough to take these allegations to the president?”

  “I doubt it,” said Hughes. “Townsend still sees this plot as a rumor. And for him, this rumor is incendiary. If true, it would rip the guts out of the eastern flank of NATO and turn the entire Middle East into a nuclear time bomb. Townsend will demand rock-solid confirmation before he sticks his neck out for this one, probably firsthand corroboration, not hearsay.

  “So who are we going to call … the French?” snarled Hughes. “They have two non-combatant observers at Incirlik. The Italians? The Spanish? The—”

  “The good guys,” interrupted Cleveland. “The best good guys. I have a close friend who commands one of the special operations task forces for JSOC.”

  “Impressive,” said Hughes. “I knew you had a lot of connections, Atticus, but to have some pull with the most elite and the most invisible special ops corps in the US military arsenal goes beyond my expectations. But you’re right … this is what we need. A force that is highly trained, deadly efficient, seldom seen, prepared to strike any time, nearly anywhere in the world.”