The Hadassah Covenant Read online

  The Hadassah Covenant

  Copyright © 2005 by Tommy Tenney and Mark Andrew Olsen

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-1174-3

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  All the characters in this novel are fictional except for those from the biblical account of Esther. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover illustration by Bill Graf

  Cover design by Paul Higdon

  Maps created by Meridian Mapping, Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Dedications

  Without fail I have always dedicated my books to my family or perhaps the surrogate family of my staff. After nearly a decade of being a published writer, I have come to realize something: I have an even larger family, the readers who have chosen to allow me into their homes and lives. It is to them I dedicate this book. The mere fact that this novel is a sequel is a testimony to my “adoptive” family’s acceptance.

  I have observed you, my readers, from an anonymous distance reading my musings. For that I am thankful. To be published is one thing; to be read is another.

  Tommy Tenney

  I would like to dedicate my efforts on this book to Dr. Leroy Patterson, beloved father to my wife Connie, Gran-Gran to our children, and the most consistent example a man could ever wish for in a father-in-law. Leroy served God faithfully for forty-eight years, and followed Him without waver for far longer. He was called home within weeks of his retirement. I hope I am as prepared when that call comes for me.

  Mark Andrew Olsen

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twele

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Acknowledgments

  After a decade of being a published writer, I have come to the realization that the production of a book is the work of a team, not a solitary writer.

  Tom Winters, whose legal skills and agent’s expertise have protected me from the beginning.

  Carol Johnson, with her fine eye and red pen, who helped hone the dull blade of an idea into a story.

  Mark Olsen, whose patience and literary skills have turned my private musings into a published novel.

  It is to a team like this I extend grateful acknowledgment.

  Tommy Tenney

  Cast of Characters

  Modern

  Hadassah ben Yuda — First Lady of Israel, wife to Prime Minister Jacob ben Yuda, daughter of David Kesselman.

  Jacob ben Yuda — Prime Minister of Israel, husband to Hadassah and champion of Middle East peace.

  David Kesselman — “Poppa” to Hadassah, survivor of Nazi occupation and Holocaust escapee.

  Ari al-Khalid — aka Ari Meyer, aka Dr. Clive Osborn — British-born antiquities expert, adviser to the coalition campaign to save Iraqi artifacts, and possessor of several more covert identities.

  Anek al-Khalid — London-based, Iraqi-born businessman and champion of exiled Jewish causes.

  Ancient

  Leah — beautiful, young, royal-blooded Jewish resident of Persia’s royal harem, a queen’s candidate. Recipient of Queen Esther’s original journals (see Hadassah: One Night With the King).

  Hadassah — Queen Regent of Persia, the former Queen Esther, widow of Xerxes and de facto mother of new King Artaxerxes.

  Mordecai — Hadassah’s cousin and adoptive “Poppa,” Master of the Audiences to the king, second most powerful and beloved man in the empire.

  Hathach/Jesse — the king’s chamberlain, master of the harem. Hadassah’s first love until he was taken to the palace and made a eunuch.

  Artaxerxes — king of the Persian Empire following the assassination of his father, Xerxes.

  Ezra — Jewish priest in exile, revivor of the Torah, and leader of the restoration of Jerusalem.

  Nehemiah — royal cupbearer and leader of the rebuilding of Jerusalem.

  Chapter One

  SUSA, CAPITAL OF PERSIA, IN THE TWENTIETH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF KING ARTAXERXES, FOLLOWING THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER, XERXES

  My Dearest Sister in Spirit Leah,

  I write you in some anxiousness tonight. I even waited until after the sun had set and the shadows here in the harem had grown long, my candle had burned low, and the halls fell quiet. You may consider me overcautious, for even though my position in Persia as Queen Regent is an exalted one, no position is safe from danger right now. So I take up stylus in reply to the intriguing yet potentially dangerous information in your recent letter.

  The rumors are true.

  That is why, as much as I long to see you again and give you the warm embrace of a sister, it is too dangerous at the moment to see you in person. So I must write you from my quarters, even though we find ourselves behind the same palace walls.

  Queen Mother Amestris, who as you know recently resurfaced as my palace nemesis, has posted her spies everywhere, and now even many of the guard have turned against me. There is so much rumor and so many threats spoken and unspoken. Most of what circulates about Commander Megabyzos, I am sorry to say, is true. Far from being a loyalist general, he is actually a hidden leader of the rebellion. What’s worse, I fear some of what they ha
ve said about my beloved Xerxes is true. I’m sure you also heard some of this gossip in ensuing years, but you never heard it from me—until now. How I wish he were here to explain his actions! All those lingering questions only compound the pain of my loneliness.

  Nehemiah, along with our Jewish people’s success with the return to Jerusalem and the rebuilding of the walls, has set everyone and everything in Persia on edge. As a result, I fear that even your painful predicament with the King and your politically motivated rejection have become guarded knowledge at court. Even passion must sometimes submit to politics, I fear. And the result is unrequited love. I know personally how much that hurts.

  On top of all this, King Artaxerxes is in mortal peril, and as goes his fate, so will that of all the Jews. Do you recall your first letter to me, not so long ago? You began it with the words, “My dear friend, I am in trouble.” Well tonight, my dear friend, I fear we are all in trouble.

  Thinking of all of this, I feel an invisible band tighten about my heart. It almost feels like a return of the dark days I once wrote you about, the times of my own great dangers and sorrow. I feel that I risk my life every time I pass a cordon of the royal guardians, the Immortals, or even ordinary soldiers. My heart beats faster within me and I avert my gaze from theirs. For years I only felt security and comfort within the walls of the palace. Now I imagine that every time I venture into the innermost halls of the court I may well again stumble upon a headless body sprawled across a dais or a bodyguard holding a bloody scimitar. I try to consciously soften my breathing and unbolden my gaze, to make myself less recognized. Most of all, to conceal my inner defiance. But I saw far too much during those murderous days, and I can feel the fear return like a stench in the air.

  As a result I now live under a self-imposed house arrest and dare not come to speak with you directly about this matter. That is why I asked Onesi to carry this to you herself. She is utterly trustworthy, I think you would agree, and knows all the back ways of the palace. I pray that she reaches you without being accosted or arousing suspicion.

  Leah, you and I are very blessed to be able to communicate in this way—most unusual for women, as you know. My beloved Poppa certainly was going against tradition when he taught me to read and write as I was growing up. And your more recent tutelage has been most fortuitous, particularly now when it is dangerous for us to meet in person. You yourself must be so careful, even more so than your new confidant, my adopted father Mordecai, would urge. I’m afraid that as prudent as he has always been, even he is becoming bolder and less cautious of late than I would wish.

  While protocol dictates that I sign this in my official capacity, our common blood covenant makes me long to close this simply as your sister, Hadassah. Sending this under the seal of Queen Regent may offer some small protection of respect were this letter to fall into the wrong hands.

  I must go—please be careful and strong and obedient to G-d.

  Your friend Esther, Queen Regent of Persia

  Chapter Two

  AL HILLAH, IRAQ—PRESENT DAY, TWO IN THE MORNING, IRAQI TIME

  The commandos struck precisely three minutes after the moon had melted across the desert horizon and plunged Al Hillah into a darkness nearly as sudden as the flicking of a switch.

  Hours had passed since the day’s last, fading echo of small-arms fire. Despite the late hour, Basra Street had only begun to cool, for even in autumn the Euphrates Valley remained a blistering cauldron—day or night. A stray dog pawed through gutter trash beneath the glow of a lone streetlamp. The scrawny beast was the only living thing along a sidewalk barren of all but two dented Mercedes and a dozen withered palm stumps.

  The shadow of a nearby wall rippled across a row of camouflage-shirted chests and a row of tightly clasped guns. One of the faces, features smeared with black, leaned forward to glance up at a second-story window.

  Nearly hidden by a parted curtain hovered the striking face of a young girl. Flawless light brown skin set off luminous green eyes, which searched the sidewalk until they finally met the commando leader’s stare.

  She started and her eyes widened. She gave an exaggerated nod and pointed almost shyly toward the other side of the street—toward a large white villa, shrouded in palm trees and thick bushes and encircled by a thick stucco wall.

  The lovely face disappeared from the window. Leaning back, the commando leader pointed his thumb toward the villa and straightened a wire microphone around to his mouth. His barked order crackled in a dozen hidden earpieces.

  “Sciopero!”

  The dog cocked its head toward the sky and uttered a soft whine.

  Less than a quarter mile away, a whir of rotor blades rose above the desert wind, and an A129 “Little Bird” Mongoose helicopter nudged its canopy over a jagged rooftop silhouette. The chopper’s bubble window swiveled sideways, its pilot scanning the streetscape through twin, side-mounted infrared scopes.

  The quiet of the street was shattered by the groan and a metallic shriek of a heavily chained gate crashing inward. The noise drew a shout from the home’s balcony and the trademark staccato of a guard’s Kalashnikov shooting on full automatic. From the opposite shadows, a single flash responded along with the click of a silenced gunshot. A low groan floated out—the guard’s bulk flopped over the railing and plunged into deep bushes.

  Shouts and a high wail rose from inside the sprawling Mediterranean-style villa. A light flicked on in an upstairs window while rumbles of falling furniture filled the air.

  Then came a deafening crack. A battering ram had shattered the front door.

  The camouflaged commandos holding Beretta semi-automatics raced in a crouch toward the open door’s glare. Called Viper 5, they were the Italian Carabinieri’s elite commando artifacts-recovery team—and they had breached their evening’s target twelve seconds ahead of schedule.

  At once the Mongoose shot up from its protective hover and was over Basra Street with a roar. The dog ran away, its howls muted by the descending thunder. Everything now seemed to happen with a stunning suddenness—the runners touched ground, men leaped from open doors, one of them in civilian garb, and the aircraft lifted away.

  Another explosion, louder and heavier, lashed forward.

  And the helicopter thrashed into pieces amidst a white-hot cloud of fire.

  Flames billowed across the roadway. The chopper’s metal carcass plummeted to earth, struck pavement, and flattened in a blinding spray of sparks and secondary detonations.

  There were more screams, now rending the air in Italian, not Arabic. New splatters of automatic fire lit up corners of the property—a pinpoint counterattack, triggered by the rocket strike.

  The civilian ducked away from the heat and launched himself across the trunk of the nearest parked sedan. The smoke and stench of burning fuel felt as though it was scorching his lungs. The air was so roasting hot he feared he would incinerate—flames pursued him over the barrier and licked at the back of his head as he landed hard and twisted his ankle in the opposite gutter. Panting heavily, he swerved around to a new fear—he had now exposed himself to sniper fire from the open driveway. With a single leap, he lunged toward the shelter of the wall and huddled against its pitted plaster.

  A long barrage of automatic fire pummeled his ears. The fighting was growing more fierce. All around him, ricocheting bullets whined and whistled—a scream of agony from somewhere at his left sent a fierce shiver up his spine. A dying groan drifted up from the other side of the wall where he crouched. Fighting to catch his breath, he found himself reeling from combat frenzy and shook his head in disbelief. This scene is flying apart! There had been resistance before—the men who stole and smuggled ancient artifacts rarely failed to guard them. But this? They were fighting as though . . . as though something far more important than money was at stake.

  He glanced across the street to a window where the wide-eyed young girl had made her brave appearance. Her face flashed there once more, aglow with morbid fascination. How out of
place she looks, the man thought, with those porcelain features and dark piercing eyes. He had a flashback, in one of those odd, inappropriate thoughts people conjure up in moments of great stress, and noted that her haunting look reminded him of that famous National Geographic cover of the young Afghani girl with the striking eyes.

  Surely her father, a former guard who had led the Italians here, would prevail over her curiosity and whisk her out of danger, far from the scene. But no—there she was, stealing another glance at the chaos unfolding below her. Get out of there! he found himself yelling inwardly.

  “Run,” he shouted, out loud now, as if she could hear him. “Get as far away as you can!”

  He whirled back to his surroundings. Finally, a pause. The man breathed out and willed his balled muscles to relax, although he knew from the pit of his stomach that this was the most dangerous moment—the lull when incautious types tended to let their guard down and stand.

  And earn themselves a bullet through the head.

  No, even though his thighs burned from the unaccustomed crouch, he resolved to stay in his safe hideaway and make certain. A full minute or more passed. One lone shot rang out just as he started to rise. He cringed and sank down again but no more followed. At last he heard shouts in Italian and stood, grimacing from the sudden circulation to his cramped muscles.

  The counterattack was over, suppressed by the commandos’ overwhelming firepower.

  He jogged briskly toward the home’s driveway, crossing the dead guard’s blood trail with a hop and turning away from the sullen stare of another dead insurgent on the patch of dirt that passed for a front lawn.

  I’m not here to imbibe the local ambiance, he reminded himself with an inner shudder. He was here in the guise of a scholar on patrol—Dr. Clive Osborn, British-born antiquities expert, bearer of all the requisite credentials, volunteer rescuer of rare objets d’histoire from the crosshairs of modern warfare.

  He wasn’t even supposed to be at these raids, he reminded himself with a shrug. His official, approved role came into play at base, when all was secure and the ancient contraband carted back in for a type of “antique triage.”