Ishmael Covenant Read online

  The main gate of the embassy was a tangle of concrete chunks and twisted steel. Hooded men in the street were firing what looked like rocket-propelled grenades and automatic weapons at the embassy’s defenders. Bodies lay on the ground on both sides of the gate.

  “Make the call,” DeBerry said over her shoulder. “Heavily armed attackers at the main gate in Ankara. More to come.”

  Mullaney was at DeBerry’s side in two strides. “Who’s that on our side—marines or Turks?”

  DeBerry shook her head and broke away from the feed to face Mullaney. “Turkish contracted agents, I believe. I haven’t seen any marines yet. Probably getting the embassy staff to safety. But my biggest concern”—she looked up as another blast assaulted the embassy gate—“is that we don’t know where the ambassador is. He had a meeting scheduled in the city this morning. We were not yet alerted about what time he planned to leave. So he may be on the streets or in-house. We don’t know yet. And Tommy is there too.”

  Mullaney turned his attention back to DeBerry at the mention of his best friend’s name. Tommy Hernandez and Mullaney went through DSS training at Quantico together and remained close even as their placements took them to far-flung outposts worldwide.

  “I’ve got the incident process checklist started,” said DeBerry.

  No time … stay focused …

  “Can you check to ensure the comm protocol is instituted?”

  “Sure …” Mullaney looked at the screens and the firefight lighting up the dimness of early dawn at the embassy’s main gate. “I’ll be right back.”

  With half a dozen long strides, Mullaney entered the soundproof communications room at the rear of ops where the voice, video, and data recorders were kept and monitored twenty-four seven. Stuffing his anxiety for the moment, Mullaney raced through the communications protocol with the watch officer on duty. “Okay, looks good.” He turned to give the watch officer a thumbs-up, but the agent was on a secure phone that he now shoved in Mullaney’s direction.

  “It’s the ambassador.”

  In a heartbeat Mullaney was across the floor. “Mr. Ambassador? Brian Mullaney. DSS … Are you safe, sir?”

  US Embassy, Ankara, Turkey

  April 24, 6:17 a.m.

  “We’re good at the moment, Mullaney,” said Joseph Atticus Cleveland, US ambassador to Turkey. Cleveland swept a quick glance around the underground bunker filled with frightened embassy staff and edgy, armed marines. “All the embassy staff members are secured in safe havens with marines on guard. Sounds like a terrible fight going on out there. Who’s winning?”

  “Hard to say at this moment, sir, but the bad guys have yet to gain entry to the compound. Things are pretty brutal around the main gate right now. We’ve got local reinforcements on the way.”

  “Mullaney? You’re George Morningstar’s adjutant, right? Hold a moment …”

  Cleveland inclined his ear toward the chief of his DSS security detail. Underground and as secure as they were, the reverberating sounds of explosions still shattered the silence in the bunker. “Okay … Listen, Mullaney, I’m informed you are a man we can rely on.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So Tommy wants you to know that you still owe him twenty bucks on the Final Four.”

  Ops Center, Washington, DC

  April 23, 11:18 p.m.

  Mullaney laughed to himself. The scuttlebutt on Ambassador Cleveland was simple; he was a solid, stand-up guy who was very rarely shaken. “Yes, sir. Tell Tommy to keep his mind on your game. The money will be waiting when he gets home.”

  There was some muted conversation on the other end of the line. “Okay,” Mullaney could barely hear Cleveland’s voice. “Give me some space for a moment … Mullaney, you there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’s the secretary?”

  “Geneva, sir. Deputy Secretary Roberts is in California, but Deputy Secretary Webster is on his way.”

  “Okay, but somebody needs to hear this … just in case,” said Cleveland. “Our plans changed here this morning. Original plan was to head into the city to meet with the Turkish president. That got switched in the early hours of this morning. President Kashani was coming here.”

  “Sir?”

  “An agent was looking out the window when this started. As the president’s motorcade was pulling through the main gate, a vehicle drove up from the opposite direction and detonated just outside the gate, followed closely by a van that unloaded a whole swarm of heavily armed guys. This was a coordinated assault on the main gate of a US embassy facility. Somebody knew about the change in plans, Mullaney. Somebody knew Kashani was coming here. Get me?”

  Mullaney glanced over at the communications watch officer, who turned away from the other phone with a puzzled look on his face. “Yes, sir,” said Mullaney. We’ve got it. And it’s on the recorder. What’s happened to Kashani?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Cleveland. “Before we were hastily escorted into the safe rooms, one of the staff took a quick look out the window. There are some charred and mangled vehicles by the gate, some of the motorcade still in the street. Hard to tell who belongs to what, but the attackers are firing into the embassy grounds.”

  “Sounds like Kashani probably made it into the compound,” said Mullaney.

  “I don’t know,” said Cleveland. “Now, look … it’s getting a little warm in here, and we certainly would like to get some breakfast. But get some people out here quickly and help those guys outside. It doesn’t sound too good for them from where we’re sitting.”

  “Our guys are on the way, Mr. Ambassador. Sit tight.”

  “Oh, we’re not going anywhere, Mullaney. Not just yet. Okay,” said Cleveland, “we’ll keep the line open … as long as we can. Thanks, Mullaney. Good man.”

  US Embassy, Ankara

  April 24, 6:20 a.m.

  “Roger that.”

  Tommy Hernandez, DSS chief of security for the ambassador and the embassy, turned away from his shoulder mic toward Cleveland. “Three of the guards are down.”

  “How many attackers?”

  Hernandez shook his head. “Don’t know, sir. But the captain is taking half of the marine detachment to add firepower at the front gate. The rest are staying to guard …”

  An explosion rocked the compound, bigger than the one that started the attack.

  “That is not good.” Hernandez got up off the bunk where the ambassador was sitting, pulled his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun close to the body armor on his chest, and joined the marine sergeant flanking the door. He looked at the frightened faces in the hardened room. “Find something to get behind, to protect yourselves.”

  Their safe haven wasn’t soundproof. Ambassador Cleveland and his staff could hear the incessant rattle of automatic weapons and the occasional explosion. So once again he walked around the small room, touching a shoulder here, whispering comfort there. Cleveland didn’t know what was going on outside, but he knew how to be a leader that others willingly followed.

  Without warning, the gunfire stopped. It was as gut-wrenching a moment as when the first explosion detonated and their orderly world unraveled.

  Cleveland turned toward the door. “Tommy?”

  Hernandez had his head cocked to one side, over the mic on his shoulder, as if that would make it easier to hear the voice on the other end. “Roger that. We’ll wait for you.” He stood up straight. “Five attackers … all dead. None of them penetrated the embassy’s perimeter. President Kashani’s motorcade was halfway through the gate when the first explosion hit. Kashani’s vehicle made it inside. He’s okay. But we’re not going anywhere yet. Some Turkish military just showed up. A bunch of them are escorting Kashani back to his palace at warp speed. The marines are going to sweep the compound, and the remaining Turkish military are going to secure the streets and make sure there aren’t any more surprises out there.”

  Cleveland’s chin dropped to his chest. “Thank you, Lord.” When he looked up, several head
s were nodding in agreement. “Tommy … what about our guards?”

  Hernandez flexed his chin and shook his head. When he spoke, it was a whisper that carried thunder. “Three of our guards are dead. Two more are badly wounded. “Four of Kashani’s security detail were killed in the first explosion. The marines are okay. The captain will give us the all clear when they know it’s safe.” He looked at the ambassador. “Looks like we dodged a bullet today, Mr. Ambassador. God is good.”

  Ops Center, Washington, DC

  April 24, 12:57 a.m.

  Noah Webster, deputy secretary of state for management and resources, was realistic and sensitive about two things ever since he went to high school—his height and the color of his skin. The needling he took about being short was blatant harassment, defeated somewhat when a growth spurt pushed him to five nine during his senior year. But the prejudice and discrimination he endured as a black man was more subtle, though no less real. Webster never outgrew his resentment of the constant discrimination against a black man in a white man’s world.

  But Webster fed on that resentment. He converted his anger into a catalyst that drove him not only to excel in the classroom and on the athletic field, but to prove himself better than—superior to—all the white kids who had looked down at him and treated him as if he were someone … less.

  Webster may have been slight in stature, but he was tall enough to project command and require obedience. Since the Diplomatic Security Service and the State Department’s operations center were directly under his authority, Webster stood in a small office in the rear corner of ops, surrounded by a cohort of his key staff. The postmortem of the Ankara attack was well underway. A new watch team was on duty in ops, the earlier crew split into several segments as the debrief was rigorously pursued in rooms throughout the Truman building.

  Watch Liaison Officer Brian Mullaney leaned against a desk in a corner of the room, alongside his boss, George Morningstar, deputy assistant secretary for diplomatic security.

  “Paul, please get Secretary Townsend on a line in my office,” said Webster, referring to Secretary of State Evan Townsend. “I’ll be there in moment.” Nodding to his executive assistant, Webster turned back to his waiting staff. “I want a draft press release on my desk in five minutes. Ryan, alert the press corps we’ll have a press conference”—he looked at his watch—“at fourteen hundred hours. Lydia, get CIA on a line and find out if they had any hints of a threat in Ankara. And Paul, wait, see if you can reach Ambassador Cleveland and get an update on him and the staff.”

  “Mr. Secretary,” Morningstar interrupted, “as of eleven forty our time, the ambassador was safe and secure and so were all the embassy staff. They were all in safe havens with armed security during the attack. Mullaney talked to Ambassador Cleveland in the middle of the action and he was fine. But there is something …”

  Webster was always disciplined and calculating, a survivor in the jungle that was Washington. Every move, every word, had a purpose and a message. He turned slowly to his right and faced Morningstar, cutting short his sentence. Webster’s words were silken and spiked. “Mullaney spoke to the ambassador?”

  It never failed to give Noah Webster a thrill when he could wield power. A delicious iciness embraced his heart, bringing the hint of a smirk to the corners of his lips as he allowed Morningstar to dangle on the implication of his question.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Morningstar did not appear flummoxed. Hmmm … unfortunate. I’ll have to try harder next time.

  “Mullaney was on duty as watch liaison officer when the call came in. During the conversation, Ambassador Cleveland expressed his concern that the attackers may have received some inside information about President Kashani’s change of plans. Cleveland was scheduled to meet Kashani at the palace this morning, but that changed at the last minute. It appears the attackers knew that Kashani and the ambassador were at the embassy and not at the palace.”

  “And the ambassador relayed these concerns to Agent Mullaney?”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary.”

  Within his chest, a lance of dread pierced Webster’s heart. For a fraction of a second, doubt coated his confidence. Was he in danger? He was deep into a clandestine, unsanctioned, high-stakes play with the prime minister of Turkey, a scheme he was certain was in the best interests of the United States. But a scheme he was also certain must remain a secret.

  “All right. We’ll deal with that. But for the moment, I want our best available medical team flown into Ankara immediately. Find one of our people on the ground there who isn’t too shaken up, and make contact with the families of the dead and injured. Lydia, prepare a crisis management team to deal with the embassy staff—get them all the help they need. And now let’s get ready for that press conference.”

  Webster started walking toward the door, but looked back over his shoulder. “And Morningstar,” Webster said, the smile of a snake on his face, “would you and Mullaney please step into my office for a moment, as soon as I complete my call with the secretary?”

  2

  Fairfax

  April 24, 4:13 a.m.

  He could see the flickering blue light of the television set reflecting through the drapes over the front window before he got to the front door of his house. Brian Mullaney didn’t know what he longed for more, Abby’s company or solitude. But he wasn’t going to have a choice.

  Abigail was at the door as soon as he started turning his key in the lock.

  “Oh, my God, Brian, when will these attacks stop?”

  Before her words ended, her arms were around his shoulders, pulling him against her. The smell of strawberry that always flowed from her hair filled his nostrils as—

  Abby pulled back to arm’s length as if she had just violated some unspoken rule.

  “Are you okay?” Her question was more probing and cautious than a genuine concern for his well-being. There was no welcome to the tone of her voice.

  Years ago, she would have held him close and pressed her softness against him, her warmth finding the numbness of his heart. But those days seemed so far away.

  They were casually introduced at an unremarkable Washington soiree in a Georgetown trophy house. But the connection was immediate—sensually electric as they consumed each other with their eyes, and spiritually satisfying as they quickly discovered the faith at the root of their peace.

  She actually liked and understood the game of baseball. And he had already developed a genuine fondness for the melodies of Puccini’s operas. When she found a well-worn CD of La Bohème resting alongside his stereo equipment, Abby felt her heart skip.

  There soon followed weekends where a day game watching the Baltimore Orioles at Camden Yards would be followed by an hour’s drive south on I-95 for an evening of opera at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts followed by a midnight run for the best barbecue in DC. Bliss was not a strong enough description.

  The darker side of Brian’s Irish personality, the insecure part that wanted to hide its feelings from public view, found refuge, respite, and resurrection in the spontaneous eruptions of joy that poured out of Abby like a newly discovered sun. Her smile warmed places in his heart he didn’t even know existed. She loved so fully that he was entranced, spellbound.

  And she found in Brian strength of character that was not dependent on wealth or position but which was spawned by faith, duty, and honor. Abby relished the peace and comfort she drew from Brian’s physical power and the singular, unshakable focus of his loyalty.

  He loved the way she looked in a summer dress, that tingle of warmth that rippled along his flesh and brought a smile to his lips as his heart drank in her ravishing beauty. When with a flip of her curly auburn hair, she would turn to him and bless him with a look that said I belong to you, and it makes me so happy.

  She loved the safety of his arms around her, the strength rippling beneath his shirt. And she loved to push her fingers into the thicket of hair at the back of his head and pull his lips to he
rs.

  When they weren’t in the stands at Oriole Park at Camden Yards, or in the seats listening to the Washington National Opera, they loved to curl up on Brian’s sofa—his back to the sofa and his arms encircling her shoulders—whispering their dreams of the future.

  Their courtship was relaxed, ebbing and swelling with the languid contentment of a summer stream, prodded in one direction or another by the demands of their budding careers … hers in the corporate offices of privilege, his in the sterile halls of national service. And they both loved the work they were created to do.

  But her devotion to PR—polishing the public personas of DC’s power brokers, the people in the same orbit as her wealthy father—disintegrated under the weight of her loneliness when Brian was assigned overseas. Their relationship got serious, and more passionate, when he returned from Yemen. The altar followed in close order.

  The only daughter of Richard Rutherford, an obscenely rich Southern financier, Abigail joyously transferred her loyalty and commitment from her power-banker father and the swirl of Washington society to her new, globetrotting husband and walks along the Potomac. They counted each child and each assignment that came their way as a new adventure to be savored.

  For the first ten years of their marriage, they were a great team. Then Mullaney was rotated back to Washington for a two-year tour on home soil. Daddy was overjoyed to have his Abby back home. And Abigail found herself overwhelmed by the seemingly endless parties, crowded cruises on Daddy’s yacht, and serving as Daddy’s “date” at DC’s mega social events for the proud and powerful.

  This world, the world she was raised in and raised to inherit, was intoxicating and, over the past six years, Mullaney watched as that world began to seize territory. There was no one moment of decision, no conscious abandonment of one life for another. But power is pervasive and persistent. And intoxicating. With Abigail’s renewed appetite for the kind of life she’d left behind, its perks and power, Mullaney and his children saw less and less of her. Cracks showed; loyalties were no longer common; disappointment replaced devotion and mutated into criticism.