SON OF THE MORNING

WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS

[Episode Three]

CHRIS STEWART

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Cover design by Richard Yoo

ISBN: 978-0-9854619-2-8 (eBook)

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned[.]

W. B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

ONE

Dhahran Royal Palace, Dhahran, Saudi Arabia

Crown Prince Abdullah al-Rahman leaned over his father’s deathbed. A small mirror had been placed on the gold overleaf nightstand, and, uncomfortable with touching a moribund, he took the mirror and placed it near his father’s mouth. It fogged, but barely, and he sat it back in place. Standing upright, he looked around the enormous bedroom, with all of its leather, jewel-studded ornaments, fine art, and gold. To his right the kafan, the loin cloth, tunic and a new cotton shroud, had been neatly folded and placed at the foot of the bed, waiting to cover the king’s body once he was dead. A beautiful mahogany box had been placed on the shroud, and Al-Rahman could smell the fragrance and incense that were waiting inside. The funeral, or janazah, would take place later in the day before the sun had gone down. After being washed, his father’s body would be wrapped in the kafan, his face turned toward Mecca, and the final prayers said.

Al-Rahman thought it ironic, and he couldn’t help but smile, a dreadful twist of his lips at the corners of his mouth. Martyrs were to be buried as they had died: in their clothes, their bodies bloody and unwashed, their faces covered with the dirt of their battle, their open wounds bearing testimony to their martyrdom, and, if they had been so lucky as to die while defending the faith, their weapons placed in their hands.

Such were the burial rituals for a hero and a martyr.

The king would not be given such an honor when he was dead.

The new crown prince glanced again at the box of incense and the washcloths that had been placed near the bed, knowing that his father’s body would be cleansed when he was finally dead, then wrapped in the three white pieces of cloth and placed in the grave.

There would be no martyr’s honor for his father, no bloody hands or dirty clothes, no open wounds or heavy weapons placed in his cold hands. There would be no glory or salvation in his death.

But the truth was, his father would die a martyr, though no one would ever know. His father’s wounds would never testify of his martyrdom, for they were internal and unseen, like the blackness and corruption that had cankered his soul.

That was what happened when one died for the wrong cause.

The crown prince scoffed, an angry huff of his breath. Democracy and equality. What had gone through his father’s mind? Were these the tools Allah had intended for his kings? Were these the concepts Mohammad had taught? No. Not one. And surely his father knew that. Which made him a heretic. No, he was much worse than that, for a heretic could sin in ignorance, a heretic could be foolish or blind. His father had not been deceived; he had knowingly chosen his path. He might have been a traitor, but he was no fool.

Al-Rahman thought back on what the old man, his true mentor, had told him the first time they had met on the beach in southern France. It had been a long time before, but it seemed like yesterday he felt the heat of the afternoon sun. He could still smell the seaweed and hear the soft lap of the sea. And he could hear the words of the old man as if he were still standing there: “You might as well say the sun comes up in the west as to call your father a fool. The king is a visionary. And the most dangerous kind.”

The old man had been right. His father had been a visionary, and yes, the most dangerous kind. He had poisoned his family with his visions of democracy, which left Prince al-Rahman no choice.

So Al-Rahman had killed him. But there was no sin in that. Not after what his father and his brother had set out to do. Al-Rahman thought of the poison surging through his father’s veins, turning his organs black. As he stared into his father’s face, watching him die, he felt neither a twinge of uncertainty nor a hint of doubt or remorse. He felt no sadness or guilt.

But then, Al-Rahman had never felt a moment of guilt in his life.

He stared at his father, watching his lips turn from blue to gray. “What did it get you, my father?” Al-Rahman mumbled in a low voice. “What did your riches buy you? Your power? Your fame? In the end it brought you nothing; it could not even protect you. It brought you nothing but shame. But I will not squander it, my father. I will not squander our ancestors’ great power or their wealth. I will use it; I will build it; I will see my will done. I will pick up the battle of our fathers and build upon the legacy of the last thousand years.”

The king of Saudi Arabia took a deep breath and struggled to move, his hand lifting half an inch off the bed.

Al-Rahman’s smile turned into a deep frown, and he lowered his head. He knew that a dying man’s hearing was the last sense to go, so he leaned toward his father and whispered. “Can you hear me, Father?” he asked him. “I know that you can.”

The old king struggled, lifting his hand again. The prince smiled at the motion and placed his mouth right up to the old man’s ear, feeling the heat of his father’s skin on his lips. As he spoke his voice changed, as if another man were there. “It has started, my father,” he whispered in a soft, evil hiss. “There is no turning back. You might as well lift your hand to stop the sunrise as to bring an end to this plan. Like your own death, it is inevitable. The endgame is set, and there’s nothing you could do now, even were you to live. The age of the West is fading, giving way to a dark power again. A new day is dawning, a day of deep secrets and powerful men, an age of dark miracles, dreadful rumors, and a red, sinking moon, a day of a bright flash on the horizon that does not come from the sun. It will be an age of power and oppression far greater than has ever fallen on the earth. Even as I whisper to you, Father, even as my breath touches your ear, the final battle has begun. The sun is setting on the frail world you have known. It is passing, and with its passing, the greater kingdom shall come.

“You have lost this war, Father. You have failed in your plan. And your dreams are fading along with your breath. But I will pick up the blade for you, Father, and I will fight for the right cause. I will pick up the battle that you were too weak to fight, and I will build up the kingdom that you sought to destroy.

“So go now, my father. Go to my brother. Go to your wife and your children as well. Go to those who are waiting, be they in paradise or hell. Go and tell them you have failed, but I will not fail them too.”

The crown prince, soon to be king, paused and lifted his head. He was finished. It was all he had to say. So he straightened himself and stared at his father’s gray face, then heard a soft movement behind him and turned to see the mullah standing there. “Say your best janazah for him,” Al-Rahman commanded the religious leader, his voice normal now. “My father has much to be forgiven for, and he will need your most compelling prayers.”

Falcon 53, Over Northern Iraq

Army Special Forces Captain Samuel Brighton sat on the helicopter floor near the door, his feet pulled up, and elbows on his knees, his chin resting wearily on his folded arms. It was dark but the moon was out, providing plenty of light once his eyes had adjusted to the night. He watched the mountains of Iran recede behind him, then the hills and lowlands, then the beach, then the warm waters of the Persian Gulf. Hitting the water, the helicopters turned north, flying toward the Iraqi swamps that poured into the Persian Gulf from the Tigress and Euphrates Rivers.

Feet dry over Iraq, the helicopters set down for the second time at another unknown forward operating base to refuel, then took off again. By then, it was light. They had flown through the night.

Sam was surrounded by his men, but most of them were asleep now, their heads and shoulders slumped in exhaustion. He turned to look out the open cargo door of the helicopter, feeling the cool air raise the hairs on his neck. The visors over the pilot’s faces reflected the green and yellow lights of their cockpit displays. Behind him and to his right, three other helicopters followed their leader, their navigation lights dimmed. The air was clear, a cold front having moved through and blown the dust from the sky. Sam watched the landscape speed below him. The desert was barren, with clumps of Joshua trees and dry grass clinging desperately to the banks of the dry wadi walls, the same ancient rivers that had run through Iraq since the days of Babylon. The Wadi at Tubal passed directly below, erratic trenches that had been scratched into the earth as if by enormous fingernails, and he could see occasional pools of shallow water reflecting the slanted rays from the rising sun along the bends and narrow turns in the sandy streambed. The landscape continued to pass: rock, sand, a few trees here and there.

Staring at the desolation, he wondered again. This place was the cradle of civilization. This was where it had all begun. Four thousand years had come and gone, and this was the place men had chosen to fight and die for again and again. This was the place that had produced so much bloodshed and so many wars.

“Let them have it,” he muttered to himself. “There is nothing here worth fighting for. Certainly nothing worth dying for.” But even as he grumbled, he felt a quick twinge of guilt. The people here were as desperate as the desert as they clung to life, hoping for rain, hoping for time, hoping the next day would be a little better than the day that had passed.

He hated it here. It was so desperate and lonely. It caused a blackness in his heart.

But the people were trying—at least some of them were. And he was doing some good—at least he hoped that he was.

The lead helicopter turned thirty degrees, making the final turn to Camp Freedom, the base camp that would be his home for the next several days, until they got their next set of orders, almost certainly back to Afghanistan. As the helicopter leveled out, Sam was facing the eastern horizon and he gazed through the emptiness, looking across the barren terrain.

It was out there, far away, the little village in the mountains, south and east now, a few degrees off his right. Across the Sara al Hijarah and the northern tip of the Persian Gulf. All the massacred children, the fires, the destroyed houses and the burned tree.

All of it was out there.

And Azadeh was out there, too.

He thought of her face, dirty and streaked with tears. He thought of her eyes and her trembling shoulders. He thought of her hands, clasped so tightly at her chest. She was young. So fragile. So beautiful.

But that wasn’t the reason he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

“I knew you,” he whispered to himself. “I knew you . . . somewhere. I know that I did.” He rubbed his hand across his face, keeping his eyes looking east.

It was crazy, and he knew it. It was impossible. She was just another girl, another victim, another casualty that would be forgotten when the next battle began.

But there was something about her . . . .

So Sam stared across the nearly empty desert, looking toward the mountains of Iran, knowing that she was out there and knowing just as surely that he would never see her again.

Agha Jari Deh Valley, Eastern Iran

Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi sat on the cracked stone and cement steps of her father’s house and looked west. The smell of smoke still drifted in the air. Behind her, she heard one of the villagers, a stranger, rummaging through what remained of their kitchen, scavenging for any pots and pans that may have been left behind. Azadeh knew the thin woman wouldn’t find anything worth keeping; too many others had already picked their way through what remained of her father’s house.

Some of the scavengers had been people she knew, even a few family friends, but most had been people from the other side of the village whom she did not know well. Each had done the same thing: approach her devastated house and pass her on the steps, ignoring her altogether, as if she weren’t there, then rummage through her belongings and haul away a few possessions without so much as a word.

There was a small crash as the stranger in the kitchen picked up a piece of pottery and dropped it, the sound of broken clay scattering across the wooden floor. Azadeh heard another crash and more broken clay, but she didn’t react, her face remaining passionless and calm. She leaned back against the cold brick, listening to the final looting that was taking place in her house. It was nearly all gone, everything they had owned, every piece of furniture, every item of food, the kitchen table and utensils, the coal-fired heater, small television, blankets, mattresses, her clothes, all of it had been taken.

Her father was gone. All of her family. She had nothing. She was nothing.

Looking west, she had a clear view to the sea, the afternoon sun high, the terrain falling gently before her, the gradual slope of the valley dropping toward the salty waters of the Persian Gulf. Behind the village, the mountains rose, topped with gray granite and white snow. The trees were green in the valley, and the orchards along the river were close to bearing fruit. The sky was clear, and all the remaining villagers were out and working: preparing for the burials, tending the young bodies, cleaning up the debris, patching the bullet holes in the walls, sweeping up broken glass. Some had even started the work of rebuilding or repairing the damage done to their homes.

Hundreds of people worked around her.

But Azadeh sat alone.

Somewhere in the Desert of Western Iraq

He stood alone as the sun rose, clinging to the last of the dark night. He was a tall figure, his shoulders broad, and his arms powerful. He closed his eyes as he waited, facing the rising sun, its slanting rays creating a shadow underneath his heavy brow.

He stood unmoving, a great form of darkness, a shimmering statue against the sun.

He was the Son of the Morning, the Prince of this World. And he was incredibly powerful.

Balaam and the others waited behind him. From where they stood, with his cloak and hood hiding his pale skin and sick eyes, Lucifer still looked majestic, perhaps even beautiful. But Balaam had seen him up close, and he knew it wasn’t true. Lucifer could be handsome, yes; he could show a face of beauty and great splendor when he was forced to. Balaam cursed, almost laughing, knowing that when Lucifer showed himself to mortals he could even still force a smile. But like a reflection on shallow water, there was no substance to his beauty, no heart and no soul. Up close, Lucifer’s skin had grown pale, dead and yellow and cold. And it had turned soft and supple, as if it might slough off, like a costume of skin that was no longer attached to his soul. Even his eyes shimmered yellow, like those of a sick animal.

Lucifer was miserable. Balaam knew that. And his fellow demons knew it, too.

Yes, Lucifer could work miracles to deceive or appear as an angel of light; he could cite Scripture to make the mortals think they were on the right course while he soothed and manipulated and cursed and controlled. He could stir secret combinations and murder and sinister works in the dark.

But he could never be happy. It was impossible. He was a dismal wretch, dark and ugly and perfectly miserable. And he was condemned to his misery for the rest of all time, condemned to a body of spirit, incomplete and away from the Light.

He is the Prince of Darkness, the Accuser, standing to watch a rising sun whose warmth he would never feel. The day would dawn bright and sunny, but he would remain in the dark, his day as cold and dismal as the death of a child.

Wallowing in the cold pain, Balaam rolled his head, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. At least Roth was not around to irritate him anymore, for Lucifer had banished the slothful angel for not killing the girl. Roth should have convinced one of the soldiers to tie her to the tree and burn her beside her father. But the simple truth was—and this he hated to admit—despite their best efforts, there were times when even the most evil mortals didn’t do what they were commanded, when even the darkest soldiers were reluctant to kill the young and beautiful. Balaam didn’t understand it, for his natural instinct was just the opposite. The more beautiful they were, the more he hated them. The stronger they were, the more he wanted them dead.

Standing on the edge of the desert, Lucifer glanced over his shoulder, then cursed and growled, an unnatural sound in his throat. Another day had passed. Another night was gone. The eastern sky was bright now. Another day had come.

Another day closer to the end!

Time was growing short now! And there was still so much to do!

He snarled again, half from rage, half from fear. A sudden panic set in.

He was shortening the days, stealing Lucifer’s precious time! Everyone felt it. Even the mortals, in their ignorance, sensed the quickening of time that was robbing Lucifer of the opportunity to destroy the souls of all men, robbing him of the time he needed to wreak havoc and despair, robbing him of the pleasure of his famines and heartaches and wars.

He needed more time. Much more time. Time to find the good ones and drag them to him.

But He was stealing it from him.

How he hated Him!

*******

Behind Lucifer, his servants cowered in the shadows of the morn. Lucifer was foul now, and it scared them to be near him when he was in such a bad mood. Each day he grew bitterer, quicker to attack. So they stood as far away as they dared, out of sight, in the shadows, but always within earshot, knowing that he might call them and that they had to be ready to move.

How many spirits stood behind Lucifer, even he didn’t know. So many had chosen to follow him that they had never been numbered, but this much was clear: There were far more dark angels at his beckoning than there were souls in the world. This meant every man, woman, and child could be tempted individually, all of them receiving the personal assaults they deserved. And his angels weren’t all men . . . no, there were many women on his side. The bitter temptresses had proven incredibly powerful, able to speak to the mortals in ways that even Lucifer didn’t know, able to whisper especially dark thoughts into their mortal sisters’ ears.

So behind him, in the morning, an untold number of fallen angels waited, all of them ready to move at his command. They all felt his power. But they felt his anxiety, too.

The sun climbed over the horizon, sending a great shaft of light across the gray sand. He stood and watched the day break, then took a long, angry breath.

Yes, he was the Son of the Morning. He was so powerful. There was much to fear from him as his majesty grew.

He smirked and turned away, turning his back on the sun.

If He was shortening time, then Lucifer could work harder, too. He would accelerate the battle. He would drive his angels in a fury of heat, sweat, and fear. His heart slammed like a hammer. “Go!” he hissed to his angels. “They are waking now in this part of the world. I want you waiting for them the moment they open their eyes. Do your work. Say your whispers. You all know what to do!”

*******

Washington, D.C.

On the other side of the world, it was the middle of the night. General Neil Brighton was on his way home from the White House. He sat in the backseat, reading and tapping at his Blackberry®, trying to respond to the insufferable amount of e-mails he had received that day while his driver maneuvered expertly, using the HOV lane, though the traffic wasn’t so heavy at this hour of the night as to slow them down anyway. Brighton looked up occasionally to watch the passing cars as he thought, then returned to his work, thankful for a few minutes of quiet. After receiving the third death threat in a month, he had recently been assigned a security detail, a decision that he had originally objected to but now was grateful for the protection. It gave him time to work as he traveled to and from his office at the White House, and he had grown to be amazed at how much he could get done.

The driver pulled off Interstate 495 and turned inside the Beltway, varying his route through the side streets but generally heading south. He doubled back once, then made his way through a quiet neighborhood before coming to a stop in front of Brighton’s house.

“Sir,” he announced their arrival, and General Brighton looked up.

The general tapped at his Blackberry, then slipped it inside his blue Air Force jacket.

“What time in the morning, sir?” the driver asked as Brighton pushed open his door.

“Plan on five,” Brighton answered wearily.

“Going to sleep in, are we, sir?”

Brighton smiled. “You know, every once in a while.”

The sergeant turned and rested his massive arm on the back of the passenger seat. He wasn’t merely a driver, he was a security specialist, and Brighton figured, judging from the size of the sergeant’s arms, he could lift the car and throw it across the street. But he also understood that wasn’t why he had been selected to the Pentagon’s Special Security Detail. The sergeant had been picked for his brains, not for his muscles. It was his responsibility not just to fight his way out of trouble but to avoid getting into it, a task that demanded far more than a six-pack abs and thick arms.

Still, Brighton couldn’t help but be impressed. He thought back on his and Sam’s recent fight in the German bar. There wouldn’t have been any trouble if this guy had been there.

His thoughts raced again, lighting on Sam, wondering how he was after tonight’s mission. Then he patted the driver on the shoulder. “Thank you for the ride, Sergeant Hamilton,” he said. “Sorry to keep you up so late again.”

“Happy to help out, sir. But I won’t be here in the morning. I’ve got small-arms training at the range. It will be Master Sergeant Dawson if that’s OK with you, sir.”

“That’s fine,” Brighton nodded, then stepped out of the car and made his way across the lawn. Hamilton started the engine, but the car didn’t move.

The lamp on the street corner cast a weak, yellow light, and as he approached his front door, Brighton realized that he hadn’t seen his house or his yard in the daylight for several weeks now. It had been going on—what?—seventeen days since he had had a day off, and his schedule was always the same: up before the day broke and home after dark.

Stepping onto the porch, he turned and nodded to Hamilton, who waved back before slowly pulling away from the curb.

Neil Brighton stood a moment, watching the car drive away. It was cool, and the autumn evening air was not as heavy and humid as it had been just a week before. Several tiny moths flirted with the porch light that Sara had left on for him, but the front door was locked and he reached into his pocket to pull out his keys. Unlocking the deadbolt, he slipped inside the house.

A single, small bulb burned over the range in the kitchen, casting a dim light down the hall and into the enormous living room, but the house was otherwise dark and quiet. He knew Sara would be reading upstairs on their bed. She generally waited up for him, no matter how late he got home—said she couldn’t sleep without him anyway, so she no longer tried.

Standing in the hallway, Brighton realized that he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t move for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Then he heard the breathing and saw a slow rocking movement, and he stepped toward the figure sitting in the wooden rocking chair.

“Luke, what’s up?” he asked.

His son sat in the dim light with his eyes closed, his arms folded on his lap, his feet flat on the floor. “Hey, Dad,” he responded simply, but didn’t say any more.

Brighton placed his briefcase on the steps (he would have to lock it in his security safe before he went to bed), pulled off his jacket with his medals, and dropped his flight cap on the steps next to the briefcase and coat. Loosening his tie, he walked into the warm living room. The house was peaceful, and smelled of cinnamon and apples from the candle that Sara frequently kept burning near the kitchen sink.

Brighton didn’t turn on the lights. He sat down on the couch and leaned back wearily.

“Long day, Dad?” Luke asked.

Brighton took a deep breath and considered the things he had been dealing with for the last couple of days: the assassination of the Saudi royal family, the assault in Iran, all the children who had been killed. And that was just the beginning. It got much worse than that. Prince al-Rahman, the crown prince and heir apparent to the throne of Saudi Arabia, had become unpredictable. And now there were very troubling reports coming out of Pakistan. Too many meetings among the wrong men. Movements of al Qaeda soldiers. Rumors of something happening—something deadly, something big. It all had to fit together, but Brighton had no idea how. All he knew was that for the last week the hairs on his arms had seemed to stand constantly on end.

It was coming. And he knew it. He just didn’t know when—

“Long day, Dad?” Luke repeated, his voice penetrating the dark.

Brighton realized that several moments had passed and he hadn’t answered. “Yeah. Kind of long. You know how it is.”

Luke nodded slowly. He knew this job was killing his dad, sucking the life from him like the air from a balloon. But he knew he couldn’t change that. It was just the way it was. His father would die from exhaustion at this post if that was what he had to do. U.S. soldiers died every day, that was nothing new, and there was no way he would quit just because it was hard.

But Luke couldn’t help worrying. He had seen a real change in his dad.

The two sat in silence for a long time, neither of them feeling much of a need to talk. It was enough just to share a moment together in the dark. It seemed the silence said more than words could express anyway. So they listened to the clock on the mantel as it ticked time away. A few cars passed outside, and the old house creaked as the wood cooled from the heat of the day.

Luke rocked, his eyes closed, a peaceful look on his face. “Hey, Dad?” he finally said as he let the rocking chair come to a stop. “Something’s happening, isn’t it?”

A long moment of silence and then, “Yes, son, there is.”

Luke thought, then leaned forward. “Thanks for being a good man, Dad. Thanks for loving us.” He paused a moment. “Thanks for loving Mom.”

Brighton didn’t move, but he swallowed very hard.

“Thanks for teaching me,” Luke continued. “And thanks for knowing yourself.”

“I love you, Luke,” Brighton answered.

“I know you do, Dad.”

TWO

Agha Jari Deh Valley, Eastern Iran

Azadeh sat alone on her porch.

The afternoon had grown late, and though the sun was low it was still bright and yellow in the mountain air. Lifting her hand, she pulled her light chador around her neck and thin shoulders. The long cloak covered her head but not her face, and she pushed the light silk back, tucking it behind her ears, exposing her eyes to the afternoon sun.

The villagers worked quickly around her, solemn, quiet, a great depression hanging like a black mist in the air. The men and women kept their voices low and their backs bent as they concentrated on the cleanup and rebuilding. There was so much to do, such a mess to take care of, and that evening, before the sun would set, there would be a community funeral for all those who had been killed.

Azadeh shuddered suddenly as she looked at the devastated village around her.

So many dead children. So many shattered homes.

But the villagers had grown used to living with death, and the passing of their children was not the only thing they feared. It could get worse. It would get worse. There was a dark brooding in the air.

Azadeh sat in a stupor. She didn’t think, she didn’t feel, she hardly even breathed. She occasionally sighed, her shoulders shuddering from a long night of tears, but otherwise she didn’t react to the commotion around her. And no one stopped to talk or give her comfort; indeed, no one paid her any attention at all. The villagers, her neighbors, those who had previously been their friends, those who had known her father and her mother since before she was born, those men and women and their families who had shared the same food, the same holidays, the same mosque and prayers, acted as if they were blind to the young girl. They all looked by her or through her, around her or past her, but no one looked at her, for she was cursed.

The villagers had known it would happen. Some of the older ones had been saying it for years, especially those who had lived through the revolution that had overthrown the Shah. “No good could come from having a grandson of Shah Pahlavi living here.” How many times had they said that? Now they had been proven right. The army had returned to the village.

The Iranian Special Forces had come back. Black uniforms. Darkened faces. No mercy. Only fear. They had accomplished their tasks, always deadly and thorough. Then came the American helicopters, terrifying as well, coming on the wings of black beasts with long stingers protruding from their noses and black guns spouting fire from their open helicopter doors.

The armies had come, just as the old men had said that they would. Although they had come looking for Pahlavi, it was the village children who had been killed.

Oh, the children! Why the children? And why only boys? It was madness! It was evil. But the villagers had seen evil before.

In the end it all came down to insha’allah. It had to be Allah’s will. Who were the villagers to presume they could understand his ways?

So the old men had been right. The name of Pahlavi was cursed. And now Azadeh was the last Pahlavi, which meant that she was cursed as well.

She knew that she couldn’t stay here. The soldiers would return. They would come looking for the young boy. They would come looking for her.

Two village men walked by her on their way up the road. Azadeh watched them hopefully as one of them caught her eye. The bearded man stared, then pointed at her, and the other man sneered. Making a slicing motion, he moved his hand across his face, drawing a line with his finger from his eye to his throat, indicating the scar of an outcast who had been banished from home. Then he pointed at her, making his message clear.

Azadeh glanced painfully toward the scorched tree that stood against the afternoon sun, its black limbs reaching upward like ebony fingers for the sky. Someone she didn’t know, an old man from the village council, had come and wrapped her father’s body in a blanket and dragged it away. Had she had the courage to watch, she would have seen the shallow trenches in the soft dirt form under her father’s burned and brittle legs, but instead she had kept her eyes on the black marks that had scorched the old tree, blankly staring at the singed leaves and blackened soil where the fuel had been spilled.

Azadeh glanced again at the tree, and then dropped her eyes to her lap.

No! This wasn’t insha’allah! This could not be Allah’s will! Allah would not have wanted all this misery, death, and fear.

And if Allah did, she didn’t love Allah. Not if this was Allah’s will.

The image of her father’s murder flashed again in her mind and she passed a trembling hand in front of her eyes, trying to push the memory away. But the memory was so vivid it was all she saw now: the expression on his face as the flames grew around the base of the tree, his clothes growing dark and then bursting into flames, his hair curling back, and the final sound of his cries.

She shook her head and focused, trying to think of something else, some kind of happy thought, a pleasant memory. She tried to think of his face in a peaceful context: cooking breakfast in the morning, fishing in the small stream on the south side of the village, working in his fields. She tried to think of him shearing their lambs, one of his favorite things to do. She tried to think of his strong hands, his shy smile, and his deep eyes. She tried to think of his rough cheeks, always stubbled, or the warmth of his arms as they wrapped around her shoulder when he kissed her goodnight. But she couldn’t picture any of it. All of the details were gone. It was as if he had vanished—as if he had never been. All she could picture was his suffering, the pain in his eyes. All she could hear was the fire and his cries.

She sighed in sadness, thinking of her father’s words. “Zaman šekast dâdan hame delšekastegi.” “Time defeats all heartbreaks.” He had tried to believe it. She had tried to believe it too. But she knew it was a lie, for this was a heartbreak that would never heal. Not completely. Not in this lifetime. It was a part of her now.

She lifted her eyes and gazed again to the sea. Behind her, the mountains rose up to meet the blue sky, which was growing cloudy as the wind picked up. A storm was brooding in the mountains up north, along the border, and it was headed her way.

Azadeh took a last look around her, and then took a deep breath.

No. This wasn’t right. This could not be Allah’s will.

So she sat, rebelling a moment, refusing to move. She knew what she had to do; she had known it all along. It wasn’t as if she had to make a decision. The decision had been made. There was nothing to think about, nothing to plan, no options to weigh. There was nothing left for her. She had no choice now.

The soldiers would return. She was an outcast. She had to leave.

Standing, she turned for the wreaked house and made her way through the debris the soldiers and scavengers had left behind. Moving into the kitchen, she found a stranger still there, a few pieces of silverware protruding from the old woman’s clenched fist. Azadeh stared at her defiantly and the old woman stepped back, and then suddenly turned away. Azadeh watched in silence as the old woman left the house.

Moving down the narrow hallway, Azadeh stepped over pieces of broken furniture and spent carbine shells, making her way into the back bedroom, where she quickly looked around. The floor was covered with the tattered remains of her mattress, broken pieces of plaster, torn curtains, and pieces of old clothes.

She sat down near the window. Then she saw the old burlap sack where she had hidden the clothes. Crawling toward it, she picked it up and held it in her lap. The string around the opening of the sack had been pulled open, and it appeared to be stuffed with nothing but old, tattered rags. Pulling on the pieces of cloth, Azadeh emptied the contents onto the floor. Underneath the rags she had hidden her father’s leather jacket and a pair of thick boots.

She pulled on the boots, then stuffed the coat back inside the burlap sack and tucked it under her arm. The rough burlap scratched her skin, but she hardly noticed as she stepped cautiously back down the hall.

Reaching the kitchen she paused a moment, then passed through the archway and onto the porch.

Azadeh walked away from her home, keeping her head low. Her neighbors ignored her as she made her way to the narrow road that dropped over the hill to the village below. At the base of the hill, the suq was completely deserted. All the stalls were empty, the movable kiosks out of sight. There would be no open market today. Azadeh walked around the three-foot-high brick wall that identified the market. For some reason she couldn’t identify, she did not want to go in. Before her, to the west, she could see the rolling hills descending toward the waters that the Saudis had recently started calling the Arabian Gulf, but that everyone else still called it the Persian Gulf. Behind her, the el Umma rose in the afternoon sun, and Azadeh stopped and turned to look on it a moment, the old guard tower jutted out of the rich valley soil, the granite walls the same color as the mountains behind, the bulwark deep gray though spotted in places with black moss. Azadeh knew that it had been one of her father’s favorite places to be. She squinted at the tower. “You did not warn him,” she whispered, as if it could understand. “He was your friend. You didn’t warn him. You failed in your task.”

She stared at the tower as if expecting a reply. “It’s OK,” she then whispered. “I forgive you anyway.”

Turning her back on the tower, Azadeh started walking, leaving the village behind. The terrain sloped gradually toward the sea, and she picked up the winding road leading to the main highway that ran north and south along the foothills of the great Zagros Mountains. As she walked, she kept on the left side of the road, using the well-worn pathway, though she tended to stay closer to the protection of the tree line and bushes.

She moved quickly, for the way was downhill, and the sun dipped toward the horizon, growing into a bloated red orb until the village and the rising guard tower were left behind.

In the final turn in the road, Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi glanced back at the village for the last time. She reached into her pocket for her golden headband. It wasn’t there. Her heart sank into her chest. Her only treasure, lost in the chaos. She dropped her head, a single tear upon her cheek. Like everything else she had ever loved, it was gone forever.

She brushed her hand across her face, then turned back toward the road.

*******

As Azadeh walked away from the village, a shadow stood unseen near the top of the hill. He watched her intently as she walked down the path, noting the slump of her shoulders and the slow drag of her feet. Eventually the road turned, and the young girl walked out of sight.

The dark spirit, Balaam, remained alone in the shadows for a very long time.

He had once been a great teacher. He had once held such control. Once his great voice had sounded through the halls of evil power. But now he was nothing, his voice having become coarse and scratchy, as if he were always out of breath. Pale-skinned and dull-eyed, he was shrunken, hopeless and completely miserable. Condemned forever to wander the endless expanse of this world, he clawed constantly at the ankles of those he had once loved, scratching and pawing to drag them into hell. It was a bitter, dark and dejecting work, completely devoid of any sense of satisfaction, meaning or worth. But it was all he had. It was what he had chosen to do.

As Balaam watched Azadeh leave the village, Lucifer emerged from the shadows and moved to his side. Balaam turned to face him, his head moving anxiously on his thin neck. Lucifer stared a long moment, looking down from the hill. “How many years have you been watching her?” he hissed sarcastically. “Yet you haven’t stopped her. In fact, it would seem you’ve accomplished nothing at all.” He stopped and glared at Balaam, his face painted in hatred now. “You remember Roth?” he asked icily, the threat quiet but clear.

“Yes,” Balaam quickly defended himself in fear. “But at least I’ve made her miserable. Sometimes that is all we can do.”

Lucifer shook his head. It was not nearly enough. “Those we can’t destroy, we can cause to suffer, but I want more for her. She doesn’t have much, but she honors what she has. She stays true. She has not faltered.”

Balaam shook his head. There was no answer for that.

The two spirits stood in silence as the coming storm gathered around them and darkened the light. Lucifer looked up at the weather and smiled testily. “I would churn it,” he whispered. “I would sharpen the elements to hedge up her way.”

Balaam nodded. Yes, he could do that, but it would not be enough. “Give me time,” he muttered anxiously to his master. “I will get her.”

Lucifer shook his head. Frowning, he motioned. “Can you feel them?” he whispered, leaning closer to his slave.

Balaam barely nodded, a fearful move of his head.

“He is out there,” Lucifer hissed. “He’s out there. With her father. They will help her, I’m sure.”

Balaam stood silent. The servants from the other side made their work so much more difficult. And they seemed to have grown even more powerful, or at least more willing to demonstrate the power they had.

Lucifer clenched his fist and cursed bitterly. “I hate her,” he whispered, staring at the empty road.

Balaam didn’t answer.

Didn’t they hate them all?

THREE

As the sun sank toward the horizon, a north wind picked up until it was blowing down from the mountains in cold gusts that snapped at Azadeh’s clothes. The clouds were rolling in, and she stopped to study the darkening sky. The first layer of thin cirrus clouds had already passed overhead, and heavy, darker clouds were beginning to droop along the tops of the highest mountain ridges. Turning, she saw that the snow-topped peaks behind her were already shrouded in fog. Even as she watched, the temperature dropped and the air grew heavy with mist. It would start raining soon, she thought, putting her father’s coat on. Although thankful for its warmth, she also realized it wouldn’t be enough to get her through the night. Not if it was raining. Not without some kind of shelter overhead. She looked quickly around, and then heard a crash of thunder as the mist fell lower on the mountains, moving down through the canyons to roll along the foothills.

The road was empty, the sun had set, and the twilight was growing dim as the bloated clouds moved west, robbing the evening of its remaining light.

Pulling up her leather collar, Azadeh ducked her head and pulled her chador tightly around her neck. Having lived in the mountains, where the winters were long, the summers short and intense, Azadeh knew how unpredictable the weather could be. It usually snowed in her village during Nō Rūz, the Iranian New Year’s celebration in the last week of March, and it wasn’t unusual for it to freeze again by the first week of September. And she knew how dangerous an autumn storm could be. She had seen them sweep in from the north, bitter and cold, and drop five inches of hail and frozen sleet before they blew out again. She knew the temperature on the mountain could drop forty degrees in a matter of hours.

Looking around, she realized for the first time that she had absolutely no plan. She had no idea where she could go or what she should do. Her only objective up to this point had been to get away from the village.

She remembered briefly the man who had sneered at her while running a finger from his eye to his throat, and she shuddered, the overwhelming loneliness washing over her again.

She was durandâxte. An outcast. She understood how it worked, for she had seen others cast out from the village before—a woman caught in adultery, a younger girl who’d been raped, a son who’d refused to marry the girl his father had chosen for him—the reasons for being durandâxte were many, but the results were the same. “Stay and we’ll kill you. Go and you might live. Where you go or how you live, we don’t care anymore. You are durandâxte, it matters not, but you must leave us now.”

But what was she to do, out here all alone? A woman—any woman, but especially one who was barely of age—couldn’t just trot around the countryside without an escort. She couldn’t drive, she had no money and no way to get around. Worse, she had no friends or relatives she could turn to, no one who could help her at all.

For the first time since leaving the village—really for the first time since watching her father die—Azadeh started thinking, her mind clearing enough to recognize the danger she was in.

She needed help. Someone to turn to. She could not survive on her own.

But no one would help her … .

She shuddered suddenly, but not from the cold.

*******

Lucifer watched and walked beside her, then turned to Balaam. “What is the worst decision she could make now?” he asked in a patronizing tone. “What is the worst thing she could do, as far as we are concerned?” Lucifer already knew the answer, but did his slave know? It was a test. He always tested. It made him feel good. It was part of how he controlled.

Balaam stood beside him, his weak shoulders slumping, his eyes burning with a pathetic desire to please. He stared down at Azadeh with a dark, hateful frown. “I don’t know,” he muttered fearfully, terrified of disappointing his Master but more afraid of his punishment if he were to say the wrong thing.

Lucifer hovered over him, and Balaam felt his cold breath, like a chill of stale air escaping from an old grave.

Balaam looked away. He hated being with Lucifer. It hurt him inside. His eyes were so piercing, his power so complete, it was like falling into ice water—it sucked the very life out of his core. Lucifer was never kind to his angels; he distrusted, even hated, all of his followers. And Balaam was no different, he was hated as well.

Balaam’s head fell.

Then he tightened in panic as Lucifer drew near. Balaam took a breath and held it to brace himself for the scorn.

“I asked a simple question!” Lucifer sneered. “What is the worst thing the mortal could do now? Where is the one place we don’t want her to go?”

Balaam’s fists clenched with tension as he suggested, “The American mentioned Khorramshahr. She would find safety there.”

“Yes!” Lucifer shouted in a sarcastic reply. “Yes! He got the answer. Someone give this lad a reward!” He loomed over Balaam, a master over a child. “Now think, then,” he continued with a hateful sneer, “we don’t want her to go to Khorramshahr. Where could we tell her to go?”

Balaam thought, then shook his head. He simply didn’t know.

“Where is the most immediate danger? Where would she almost certainly be killed?”

Balaam’s face remained blank, and Lucifer swore. “Idiot!” he screamed. “How could you be such a fool? Who does the young girl trust now? Who is the only friend she has? Omar, you idiot. Isn’t that clear? And where are the soldiers? They are at Omar’s house! He isn’t there. He is hiding. But they are waiting for him there. They are searching and waiting; they know he was involved. So if we can lead Azadeh to Omar, the enemy soldiers will find her, for they are waiting there.”

Balaam nodded eagerly. Yes, that was true.

Lucifer pushed Balaam aside. “Stand back and listen, my child, and if you listen, you will learn.” He grew very serious and took a step toward Azadeh.

Walking beside her, Lucifer leaned toward her ear. His robes moved around him, blowing back as if from some unseen storm. His eyes glared as he watched her; then he started to speak. His voice was gentle and sweet. “Omar will help you. You must go to him, my dear. You have no one else. No where to go. It is the only safe place to be. Go there, and go quickly, do not think more on this, dear. You must go to Omar! What other choice do you have?!”

Lucifer spoke to her softly, keeping a constant drumbeat of lies in her ear.

*******

Azadeh considered her situation, her heart heavy, her mind weak. But the only person she could think of was Omar, her father’s best friend, the bear of a man who liked to meet with her father on the ancient guard tower, the mysterious companion who had occasionally visited their home. A gruff man, all business, a man who reeked of wealth and power, Omar had shown an occasional interest in her. He had been kind, had brought her books and items of clothing: a chador or small scarf, once even a new pair of shoes.

Might Omar help her? Was he home? Had he gone there with the child? She didn’t know. And she didn’t know how to reach him anyway. She had no idea where he worked and only the vaguest idea where he lived, for she had been there only once and that was four or five years before. She closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to picture Omar’s home. It was somewhere north of the village, up along the foothills near where the river cut through the canyon; she remembered standing on the riverbank and looking down on her town. It was a sprawling brick, stucco, and mud house, far larger than anything Azadeh could ever hope to live in, with pastures for Omar’s horses, rows of olive trees, and a natural orchard along the rolling foothills.

She turned toward the mountains and stared through the deepening gloom. Could she find it? She didn’t know. But if she was to seek help from Omar she would have to walk north, toward the mountains and into the heart of the coming storm. And she would have to climb, which meant even more rain and deeper cold.

Azadeh looked around her, wondering where else she could go. Who was there to help her? Whom could she trust now?

*******

“Omar!” Lucifer whispered, “You must go to him. Go. You’ll be safe there. Don’t think now, just act. It’s the only thing you can do!”

*******

The answer seemed apparent. Omar was the only person she could think of who might be willing to help her.

She felt a soft raindrop on her cheek and looked up at the sky. The rain started falling in a light drizzle, and the wind turned very cold. But the rain didn’t last long. It turned quickly to ice pellets and then heavy sleet. She heard more thunder in the distance as the hail and sleet blew against her neck.

She thought a final moment, and then started walking. She had made up her mind.

Turning north, she left the road and began to make her way across the open terrain. Coming to an ancient rock fence, she climbed over and snagged her brown dress, tearing it up to the knee. She examined the torn material, and then resumed walking. As she made her way up the mountain, a dark and gloomy dusk settled in. She heard movement around her and stopped to listen carefully, her imagination picturing horrible demons in the dark. She felt it, she sensed it.

There was someone there.

*******

Lucifer smiled with a horrible grin, a sick twist of his lips at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t smile because he was happy—he hadn’t been happy since his exile from the Light—he smiled only because he had her, because she was doing what he had hoped.

*******

Azadeh stared through the darkness, certain she was not alone. A small herd of goats moved toward her, the nanny bleating as she complained of the cold. Azadeh touched the nanny’s head, and then trudged along again. The terrain started rising to form the foothills at the base of the mountains, which were completely shrouded now in dark, heavy clouds. She made her way to the forest, where the ground became spongy with old, rotten growth. The temperature continued dropping to a bone-chilling cold, and she started to slip on the wet ground.

It grew dark very quickly and within a half hour after sunset she could barely see, the heavy clouds covering up any light from the moon and the stars. To her right, in the distance, there was the faintest white glow, nothing more than a thinning of the darkness and a tint of white. The village was down there, perhaps four or five kilometers to her right, and the low lights from the market shimmered miserably in the cold.

Azadeh stopped and looked at the soft glow that lightened the darkness. She was so homesick, so lonely, she thought she might die. But she pulled her scarf around her and kept walking.

*******

Lucifer walked along with her. He was laughing now. Balaam walked toward him. “You were right,” he said. “Omar’s house has been taken over with Iranian secret police. They are looking for him now, and they are very upset. If Azadeh goes much farther, they will find her. And if they find her … well, who knows what we could convince them to do? Many of these soldiers are our servants; many of them worship you, Lord. If we can lead Azadeh to them, they will take her and have her, I’m sure.”

Lucifer snorted with pleasure. He had been proven right again. But that was no surprise. It was always so. Could I ever trust my servants? he wondered. Would they ever be worthy of me?

He looked over to Balaam, his eyes dead and lifeless, almost covered with film. “It may not matter,” he muttered. “She may first die from the cold.”

*******

Azadeh walked all night because there was nothing else she could do. She knew if she stopped she would die. It was as simple as that. The temperature was now midwinter cold, and the rain and sleet were intermingled with snow.

Snow. This far south. At this time of year!

It was an evil omen, an omen she could not ignore.

But she tucked her head and kept walking, pulling her arms near her chest. She took one step, and then another, traveling in a direction she thought (and then hoped) was northwest. She prayed as she walked, sometimes closing her eyes. “The rain comes from God. The cold comes from God. Death and life come from God. Please, God, I want to live.”

To live she needed to find Omar. But which direction to go? The night was so dark, and she was so cold.

By 10 p.m., her hair had frozen in long strands at her neck. By midnight, she could no longer feel her fingers or feet. By 2 a.m., she was walking unsteadily, stumbling through the wet sleet, her teeth chattering so hard they rattled her brain. Everything started to look familiar. Had she been here before? The trees pulled closer around her as the forest thickened and the terrain grew steeper. Every few minutes she would stop and listen, trying to peer through the dark. Which was north? Which was south? She couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead. Reaching an awkward turn in the path she tripped suddenly, falling into the brush and the wet forest floor. The decaying leaves that enveloped her felt surprisingly warm and soft, like a blanket. The bushes were a pillow and she almost felt warm.

It was time to sleep. She had done all she could. I’ll just lay here a minute, she thought. For a moment, I will rest. I feel so tired and cold.

Closing her eyes, she felt a warm tear on her cheek. Rolling onto her side, she pulled herself into a tight ball.

Death and life come from God. Please, God, I want to live.

*******

Lucifer stared at her as she fell into the brush. “Sleep, little child,” he hissed his most evil lies in her ear. “Sleep now. It is over. There is nothing left in this life for you. You have nothing left to live for, nothing to look forward to. You are alone. No one cares. You don’t have a friend in this world. You are worthless, you are miserable; there is nothing worth saving left inside of you. So lay there, my child, just lie there and die. You have nothing left to live for. It is the only thing you can do.”

Balaam stood beside Lucifer and listened, a cold chill on his spine. Lucifer was so convincing, even at these most vile lies. Balaam almost laughed in delight.

Then he heard a voice from behind him and felt a hot stab of fear. He saw the light, he felt the power, and he almost fell to his knees. Then Lucifer felt it too, and he turned around and screamed.

*******

Azadeh woke suddenly and looked quickly around. There was a fire … no, a light. And she felt peaceful and calm.

A lone figure stood over her, causing her to squint in the dark. Then he reached down and touched her, wiping the frozen tear from her eye. She felt his bare finger and shuddered, feeling instantly warm. “Azadeh,” he said to her, and she took a deep breath.

“Father!” she whispered. “Father, is that you?”

Rassa Ali Pahlavi stood over her, an expression of worry and deep concern on his face. But though he looked like any father would look staring down at his freezing child—his eyes were drawn with sick worry, compassion, and alarm—he appeared much younger and lighter, much happier and more pure, as if the cares of this world could not affect him so deeply now. It was as if, though he watched her, he knew there was something more. He was assured of the outcome, and the moment didn’t seem to trouble him so.

He bent down and touched Azadeh’s shoulders, helping her stand, then put his arms around her and held her close to his chest.

“Azadeh,” he said simply, “you’re going the wrong way.”

He held her more tightly, and she sensed his deep warmth again.

“Father,” she said, “I don’t understand.”

“You’re going the wrong way, Azadeh. Omar isn’t at his home tonight. Remember, he had to flee from the army. He left with the young prince and child. And even if he was at his house, Azadeh, the soldiers are waiting. You would be in great danger if you were to go anywhere near.”

“But Father, what do I do, then? Where am I to go?”

Rassa pulled away but kept his hands on her shoulders. “What did the American tell you?” he asked patiently.

Azadeh thought, her mind clearing. “Khorramshahr,” she whispered.

“Yes, Azadeh, Khorramshahr. Do you know where that is?”

Azadeh pondered this. “West of the border, along the Persian coast,” she finally said.

“Yes, that’s right. You must turn around. You are in danger. Stay away from the village. Do not try to find Omar. Do you understand, Azadeh? Will you do as I say?”

Azadeh didn’t hesitate. “I will, Father.”

Rassa stepped back. “Azadeh, I can’t stay here long.”

She cried with disappointment. “Please, Father, you cannot leave me now!”

He reached out and touched her lips, and she fell silent again. “I need you to remember something for me, Azadeh.”

She nodded wearily.

“Remember my final words, for they may be the most important thing I can say. There are times in your life when you feel completely alone, times you feel abandoned, as if there is not a soul in this world who cares about you. But when you feel that way, Azadeh, remember there is another world. There are others watching over you from the other side of the veil. We watch. We listen. And we understand. We never leave your side, Azadeh. Someone is always near, someone who knows you and loves you and wants you to succeed. You are never alone. There is always someone there. Think of that, remember, and it will give you the strength that you need.

“Now there is nothing more I can tell you, nothing more I can do. Turn around. Walk down the mountain. It is warm and safe there. You will be all right.”

Azadeh glanced behind her a quick moment, but when she turned back, her father was not there.

Gone. He was gone again!

Then she felt a sudden wave of heat, as if from some unseen fire.

Yes, he was gone now. But he had been there!

She stared at the darkness a long moment, then turned around and started walking. Soon she found a path that led down from the mountain. About the same time, the rain stopped and a warm wind blew from the ocean, pushing the mist aside. Half a kilometer down the trail, she found a cutter’s old woodshed, the lean-to that was but a shadow in the dark. At first, she was too afraid to approach it but eventually she gathered the courage to walk toward the woodshed and looked inside. Dry grass. Straw. A few bales of hay for the horse the cutter used to move the wood down from the mountain. She lay on the rough straw and curled into a tight ball, pulling the leather coat around her neck.

Although she couldn’t see him, Rassa was kneeling by her again. “Sleep now, my daughter,” he said. “Rise in the morning and turn your feet east. Go down to the coastline; it will be warmer and safer there. There will be early vineyards and berries. Keep the sea on your left and stay away from the road.” Rassa touched her eyes. “Sleep now,” he whispered.

In seconds she was breathing very deeply and slowly.

*******

Azadeh slept peacefully until midmorning. By then the sun was shining brightly and it was growing warm.

Waking, she looked around her and rubbed her eyes, completely confused. Where was she? What time was it? Why was she alone? Then the memory came crashing back and she drew a quick breath. Jumping to her feet, she looked around desperately.

“Father!” she cried. But there was no one there. “Father,” she called again. But she knew that she was alone.

Had she become delirious? Had she lost her mind?

She turned in a circle, holding her hands at her head. Had it all been a dream? Wasn’t any of it real?

Then she saw something shining and looked down at her feet. Her golden headband had been carefully placed on a large maple leaf, its star-shaped diamond catching the light of the sun.

She cried out, moving her hand to her mouth, then swallowed painfully, catching the lump in her throat. Her eyes welled with tears and her heart burst in her chest as she picked up the prized possession. Lifting her head, she looked up at the sky.

“Thank you,” she whispered, though she didn’t know to whom she spoke. But she couldn’t help smiling as she lifted her head.

Now this was insha’allah.

This was Allah’s will.

So she left the woodshed and started walking just as her father told her to do.

*******

Azadeh followed her father’s words, doing exactly as he said.

She turned west and started walking toward the lowlands that defined the coastline on the east side of the Persian Gulf. The going was much easier, for she was walking downhill, and the air had turned dry and warm. Making her way through the forest, she quickly realized that she had been walking in circles most of the night before, disoriented and lost in the dark. Emerging from the forest, she saw the valley that spread down to her right, the green slopes gently bending toward her village, which was a just a little more than five kilometers away. On the edge of the forest, she found a wild patch of berries and ate until she was full, drank from a small stream, then lay in the sun to feel its warmth. Moving quickly then, her heart feeling inexplicably bright, she turned for the main road that led from the Agha Jari Deh Valley to the lowlands along the Persian Gulf. Agha Jari Deh was tucked against the mountains at almost seven thousand feet, but the terrain to the west dropped evenly toward the sea, the landscape shifting from steep slopes and rocks to gentle hills covered in orchards and finally ending in the sandy bluffs that extended to the shore.

It would take her three days, maybe four, to make her way to the U.N. refugee camp on the southeast border of Iraq. Thinking of it, she felt peaceful inside. Before, she had heard stories of the camp, stories that had filled her with fear. And it was illegal for an Iranian to enter the camp, but she didn’t care. She didn’t fear Khorramshahr. Her father had told her to go.

Putting the mountain range behind her, she walked toward the shimmering waters.

*******

By late afternoon, Azadeh had reached the descending terrain on the west side of the mountains. Although she stayed away from the road, afraid of being picked up by one of the many military convoys that patrolled the roads every day—or worse, by one of the mutawwa—she still made good time making her way down the trail.

Just as evening was coming on, a rickety bus loaded with migrant farm workers pulled up beside her. The bus—faded blue paint and rust from the front tires to the rear exit door—creaked and belched smoke as it slowly rolled to a stop. The front door swung open, and Azadeh peered in carefully. The inside of the bus was crammed with four or five destitute-looking families who were likely heading up north to help with the harvest on the potato farms.

The driver, an old man with a faded gray turban, salt-and-pepper beard, and thick glasses, studied Azadeh for a very long time. “Where you going, child?” he finally asked her, just as she was stepping away.

Azadeh hesitated. What was she supposed to say? She clenched her teeth and answered defiantly, “Khorramshahr.”

The old man studied her a little longer. “You in trouble?” he demanded.

Azadeh shook her head. “No, Sayid,” she replied.

“You running from the authorities? Are the mutawwa after you?”

Azadeh shook her head again. “No, my Sayid.”

The old man stroked his long beard while two dozen sets of eyeballs stared from the tattered seats of the bus. She heard the cries of several babies and smelled a propane griddle cooking flour cakes from somewhere at the back. She glanced toward the smell, her stomach growling so loudly she was sure that everyone heard. The old man cocked his head, and then pointed to the back of the bus. “Get in,” he told her.

Azadeh hesitated. “Sayid, are you sure?” she replied.

“Get in,” the man repeated. Then, turning in his seat, he called over his shoulder. “Irshad, come up here. Get this poor girl something to eat.”

*******

The next day, after riding in the bus all day, partaking with the families’ meager offerings of food, and getting off the bus, evening was coming on while Azadeh hid in the thick brush on a gentle hill that looked down on Khorramshahr. She studied the road along the border, which was guarded and narrow. She knew there were two guards in the guard shack, but they seemed uninterested. As she watched, the road remained empty, as it had been all day.

The official Iranian position regarding Khorramshahr had changed over the past year or so. Although it was still illegal for an Iranian to enter or seek refuge in the compound, the Iranian leaders had decided they were more than happy to send their problems into the U.N. refugee camp. Most of those were only troublemakers anyway, and it served no purpose to try to keep them in.

So, though the soldiers still manned the guard shack, it was pretty clear they didn’t care one way or another if any of their countrymen tried to slip across the border. As night came on, the two guards settled in, getting comfortable for the night.

Azadeh waited until darkness. Then, before the moon rose, she slipped from the shadows of the brush and climbed down the hill. Moving quietly, she crawled through a small trench that defined the border between U.S.-occupied Iraq and Iran.

Twenty minutes later, she was inside Khorramshahr.

FOUR

In the Mountains High Above the Agha Jari Deh Valley, Twenty Kilometers Southwest of Behbehan, Iran

The rains came down in steady sheets, and then turned to snow, which accumulated so quickly it completely covered his tracks. Omar was a huge, strong man, and he climbed like a goat, steady and powerful and with very sure feet. But he was hungry and cold, and afraid for his life.

He paced himself carefully, keeping a constant pace. He knew if he stopped he would freeze. Stop and die. Walk and live. And it was the same for the child.

So Omar huffed, puffed and kept walking, his head bent, his legs sure but slow.

He glanced down at his chest. Using part of his robe, he had fashioned a tight pouch. The young prince slept near his body, his face pressed against his chest. Omar’s large coat wasn’t buttoned, but tied around his middle now, leaving room for him to move more freely and for the young boy to breathe.

Omar climbed. His hands were nearly frozen, but his feet were still warm, the constant exertion keeping the blood circulating down to his legs and toes. He glanced at his watch; a little past two in the morning. Thirty-six hours now since the soldiers had first appeared, thirty-six hours since he had tried to save his good friend and ended up with the child.

Slipping on a rocky spot on the trail, Omar grabbed a branch to stop his fall, then paused and turned around, struggling to catch his breath. The snow had quit, and the clouds parted suddenly, the strong winds of the mountains pushing them aside. The storms had come without warning, appearing out of nowhere, but they disappeared the same way, melting into nothing at the sweep of a hand. Behind him, the tops of the mountain were still capped in white clouds, but the moon was high now, the snow fresh and white. His eyes had adjusted to the night and he could see almost as clearly as if it were day. He saw the lights of the village, several thousand feet below, and farther in the distance, the starlit shimmer of the sea. To his left, he saw the treeline and the giant boulders that stood at the crest of the Agha Jari Deh Valley. In the moonlight, he could just make out the narrow, rutted road that followed the nearest canyon, running toward the top of the mountains before it sputtered out, becoming a narrow, rocky trail. For the past thirty-six hours, he had stayed away from the main trails. He knew that was where the soldiers would be. They were too lazy and too inexperienced to find their way through the mountains, so he knew he would be safe if he stayed away from the roads. The trail he followed was a game trail and not used by men.

He stood there and breathed a long moment. He was thirsty and hungry, but he was almost there.

Kilometers below and behind him, the princess was hidden in a small cave, too frightened and weak to go on. She might be dead now, but there was nothing he could do. She couldn’t walk anymore, or chose not to, so he had left her hidden there. He would send someone back for her as soon as he could, but he didn’t know what they would find. If she was strong, and if she wanted to, then she would be alive when they found her. If not, it didn’t matter. Either way, he had done the right thing.

Turning, he started walking again, picking his way carefully.

Half an hour later he saw them. They had been waiting.

The smugglers, three men in long beards and dark clothes, had been watching him from a distance for almost the entire day. For the last two kilometers, they had been following very closely. With all the soldiers searching along the lower trails and roads, with the fires in the village, the sounds of gunshots and helicopters, they had to be on their guard, willing to take no chance, their longtime friendship with Omar aside. Yes, they trusted him, and yes, he had helped make them rich. And yes, they had known him since they were little boys, but there was friendship and there was business, and this was business.

So they had waited and watched until they were sure it was safe. Now they emerged from the trees and stepped onto the trail.

Omar knew they had been following him, but still, he was surprised to look up and see the three men standing there.

“Praise Allah,” he said in a weary sigh of relief. “I need you, my brothers. Come! Help me here!”

The smugglers walked toward him, their huge coats flowing behind them like dark sheets in the night. Under their garments, blunt-nose carbines protruded from their hips. Behind them, Omar could hear their horses and smell the animal sweat. As the men moved toward him, he undid the leather belt around his waist and lifted the sleeping boy.

“What is this?” the lead smuggler cried, causing the young boy to stir.

Omar shook his head to silence him. “You won’t believe me,” he whispered. “But trust me, my brothers, he is worth far more than gold. Far more than his weight in diamonds. Now, hurry, he is hungry. And I am so weary, I fear I might die.”

FIVE

New York, New York

The firm of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs had their main lobby on the seventieth floor of the Iron Gate Building in midtown Manhattan. The reception area was breathtaking, with wood panels, granite steps, marble pillars, and oak floors, all handcrafted pieces of decorative architecture from Greece, Italy, and Turkey. A thin, sunlit shaft of an atrium extended five floors above the center of the lobby, and original pieces of fine art lined every wall: Rembrandts and Picassos, a single Renoir, two Rubens. Ancient and illegal Chinese and Mexican pottery artifacts and were displayed in glass cases along the main hall. And though the décor hadn’t been updated since the firm had moved into the building back in 1952, it still exuded an air of timelessness and beauty that rivaled most any building in the world.

Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggsoccupied the seventieth through seventy-sixth floors, as well as two apartment suites for visiting dignitaries and a fine penthouse for the senior partner on the building’s top floor. But the elevators from the main lobby didn’t rise to the firm’s office suites, at least not without the proper security code. The sixty-ninth floor was as high as the general public was allowed to go.

On the surface, it might have seemed odd that they did not make themselves more accessible. But the last thing the firm wanted was to be available readily.

Although certainly the wealthiest and most successful business firm in the world, Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was not registered with the city or state government. The firm’s telephone number was unlisted—if you didn’t already have their number, then the answer was no. If you didn’t know whom to approach, then they didn’t want to talk to you. They certainly didn’t advertise, and few people outside of their sphere of influence knew who they were.

Their client list was short, perhaps fewer than five dozen governments and business organizations in all, but taken together their clients controlled a large percentage of the exploitable wealth in the world. The lawyers, former high government officials, and consultants at Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs specialized in creating commercial agreements between governments and industries, managing international public relations, influencing legislation, setting trade policy, and helping to determine international currency and exchange rates. The firm, with its eighty-nine partners and associates, was perhaps the most exclusive business organization in the world, and the partners were a veritable Who’s Who of international CEOs and former government leaders. The board of partners included a former U.S. president, two former vice presidents, a former secretary of defense, and three former secretaries of state. A twice-elected British prime minister was the newest member of the firm, and he was only one of sixteen former foreign leaders who sat on the executive board. The recently retired chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had been invited to join the firm as a junior associate. He would spend two or three years working seventy hours a week; then, if he had potential (generating $100 million in revenue was the first step in demonstrating his worth), he might be offered a partnership. If the senior members liked him. Or maybe not.

Junior associates averaged somewhere in the low eight figures in salary; ten to twelve million was expected, though a few made more than that. The senior partners made so much money it didn’t matter anymore. How much was enough? It was hard to put a figure on it exactly, but this much they knew: It was less than they made.

Somewhere along the journey, each of the partners realized it wasn’t the money that they craved anymore. They had made so much already, and it was so easy to make more, that a few hundred million was meaningless. What motivated them now was power—the ability to influence the world’s events. The ability to call any man on earth, be he president or prime minister, CEO or head of an illegal cartel, and have him be willing not only to talk to them but then to do what they wanted. Power was their drug. It was one hundred percent addictive, and over the years, each of the partners had learned one vital truth: Power could drive a man to do things he would not do ordinarily. It could change him in subtle and yet irreversible ways until he was no longer comfortable in his old world.

After tasting such power, they could no more live like common men than a lizard could live in the sea.

As the years passed, the firm demonstrated another remarkable trend. No one had ever left the organization. No one had ever retired. No one had ever taken leave or resigned. They all died in place, most at a very old age, for once they had tasted the power that the firm could provide, the lust continued to drive them until they were dead.

Despite the high profile of the previous positions they held, the list of partners and associates who worked at Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was a highly guarded secret. Just as one didn’t take the elevators to their lobby without the security codes, one simply didn’t apply to become a member of the firm. From the busboys in the corporate dining room to the secretaries who answered the phones, from the maintenance crews who cleaned the bathrooms to partners who worked on Partner Row, everyone came with a personal recommendation from someone inside the firm. Every employee, no matter what he or she did, had some kind of personal tie to another member of the firm, which was one of the keys to controlling their enormous influence and wealth.

And when the lowest level secretary made almost $200,000 a year, the firm didn’t even know what turnover meant. Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was a loyal army, faithful and trustworthy to the core.

*******

The meeting took place very late on a Saturday night. A terrible storm had settled over the city, and the wind was fierce and howling, with lightning and hail beating down from the darkest core of the storm clouds. The powerful charges of electricity flashed constantly, illuminating the billowing storms from within. A fierce rain beat the windows, and the seventy-six-story building swayed perceptibly like an anchored ship that bobbed on a huge, swaying sea. And this wasn’t the first violent storm to hit Manhattan in the last little while; New York City had been wracked with severe weather for weeks. Thunderstorms, even tornadoes, had swept through lower New York State, flooding many townships and leaving the Hudson and East Rivers swollen and bloated with debris. The torrential rains were now more than the crowded city could take—too much water and nowhere left for it to go. The upper portions of the city had already been evacuated, with bacteria-spewing sewage and river rats taking up residence in the warehouses and brownstone flats that lined the two rivers on the north side of Manhattan.

In addition to the unbearable rains, the storms had brought unwelcome guests. Floating balls of poisonous spiders had been seen, black widows and brown recluses drifting across the water and infesting the upper parts of the city. Dozens of venomous snakes, no doubt washed down from upstate, had been killed in Central Park. Muskrats and other river vermin were frequently sighted. But more often they were heard, their padded feet scratching at the windows and walls, searching for shelter, searching for food. And the backed-up sewage had begun to spread diseases from cholera to dysentery.

*******

The lightning flashed from the thunderstorms that hovered over the city, illuminating the narrow canyons of Manhattan with great strobes of light, but when the elevator opened and the three men emerged to the lobby, none of them seemed to take note. They had much more on their minds than the weather. They wouldn’t be in the city long enough to feel its effects anyway.

An attractive, middle-aged assistant was waiting to meet the three men. She graciously shook their hands, lightly kissing the senior member of the delegation on both cheeks. The men were dressed immaculately and trimmed to perfection, and it was clear from their faces that the surroundings at Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs were not particularly impressive to them. Their palaces were every bit as beautiful, and they had many more palaces than they would ever admit.

The men followed the assistant to another elevator, and she flashed a card, and then punched in the security code to take them to the top office suite. But the Saudi prince entered the elevator alone. His assistants stood by, keeping watch on the lobby floor. The door closed, and when it opened three floors above the main lobby, the managing partner of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was waiting for the prince in a broad and dimly lit hall. The usual pleasantries were exchanged as the managing partner led the Saudi prince into his private den, a large room crowded with books and papers but as well supplied as any other room in the suite. The coffee was poured, but the two men held their cups, neither of them taking a sip. The lights of the world’s greatest city glowed dimly through the huge windows that extended from the office ceiling to the floor. The prince moved to the window and watched the rain as it fell, imagining what it would feel like to tumble eight hundred feet and hit the rock-hard pavement below. He stared a long moment, thinking on great deeds in the past, then turned toward the other man, who was standing behind him. “It is time,” he announced in a low voice.

The managing partner, Drexel Danbert, moved around his desk and sat down in his chair. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“Yes,” the prince answered, then began to explain.

*******

Twenty minutes later, the American studied the sheet of paper before him, his hands shaking as a tiny film of perspiration began to form on his lip. His eyebrows, neatly trimmed and white, rose as he read, and then he looked up at the prince. The youngest brother of the new Saudi king met his dark eyes.

Drexel struggled to hide the incredulous look on his face. “You’re not serious!” he said in a horrified voice.

The Saudi nodded slowly. “Yes, Mr. Danbert.” He lowered his eyes, gesturing to the paper the American was holding in his trembling hand. “Those are the instructions I was sent to deliver to you.” The prince raised his hand and pulled on his dark goatee, not saying anymore.

Drexel watched him stroke his whiskered face, noting the thin tattoo on the prince’s little finger, a crescent with two black stars, symbol of the royal House of al-Rahman, a powerful family that could trace back its roots almost three thousand years.

The Saudi hesitated, then sipped his hot coffee from an exquisite Spode® cup. Although the coffee was black and sweetened with eight cubes of sugar, it certainly wasn’t the chai that he loved so much, and he considered the coffee so weak as to be barely drinkable.

Drexel stared at his own cup, seeing his image reflected on the smooth surface of the black coffee. He took a painful sip and lifted his eyes to the Arab again. “But what about—” he started questioning.

“I am but a messenger, Mr. Danbert,” the Saudi interrupted, his voice impatient now. “I have told you all that I know.”

The American hesitated, and then huffed in frustration. “It can’t be. It makes no sense. I don’t understand!”

The Saudi swished the black drink around his teeth before answering, “Mr. Danbert, I don’t know what more I could tell you. But if I were you, I would anticipate the market and make adjustments now.”

Danbert thought quickly. The firm held much of their wealth in a series of privately managed investment portfolios. These funds contained five, maybe six billion dollars in properties along the East Coast, and another eight billion dollars of assets between San Diego and Seattle. Twelve or fifteen billion dollars spread across the country. And that was just real estate. How much were the partners holding in U.S. stocks and securities? He didn’t even know. It might be a half a trillion. It was difficult to estimate.

And he had to dump it. Dump it all while he could.

“But we can’t … we can’t just …” his voice stuttered and he paused, and then started again. “Look, Imad, we can’t dump it all. It is impossible! Not in two weeks. Good Lord, we couldn’t do that in ten years! Not in secret. Good as we are, we can’t hide that kind of thing. Eventually, the money leads back to those who control it. We don’t want that kind of attention. We don’t want any attention at all. Think of what you are saying. Dump half a trillion dollars of U.S. assets in the next fourteen days?! You’ve got to be kidding! Talk about obvious!”

The Saudi swished another mouthful of coffee, and then simply said, “The decision is yours. You can do what you will.”

Drexel hesitated. “But the timing couldn’t be worse. You must know that is true. The market has dropped eight or ten percent in the last month alone … .”

The youngest prince almost smiled, his dark eyes beaming with deadly pride. Drexel watched him solemnly, and then leaned back in his chair. “Oh,” he stumbled, frowning. “Ohhh . . . . ” He held his breath, understanding. “You’re doing it, aren’t you, Imad? You’re driving the market down.”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Don’t lie to me, Imad!” Drexel jumped up from his chair. “The Saudis, your government, by which I mean your older brother, King al-Rahman, is holding … what, how many billion dollars in U.S. stock and other securities? And if you guys are suddenly in the market, if you are selling what you have … .” Drexel glared at the prince. “It’s you,” he sneered in anger. “You’re dumping on the market, aren’t you, my friend?”

The prince sipped his coffee.

Drexel watched him carefully, his thin face turning pale.

The young prince, barely more than thirty, had the same snake eyes of his brother—hard, deep and cold as glacier ice. The prince watched the panicked American, and then pushed himself up from his seat. “Yes, Drexel,” he finally answered in an angry tone. “We are selling our U.S. assets while there is still something to sell. Now, you are a smart man, and I think you understand what we are going to do next. You know what is coming. So make your move while you can. Liquidate your assets and get into something else. Gold. Other markets. Chinese currency is a great deal right now. And since it is likely the Chinese will emerge as the most stable government over the next couple years, I would think it might be a good time to look at the yuan.

“But remember this, Drexel.” He sarcastically dripped the American’s name now, there being no pretense to their relationship anymore. He spoke for King al-Rahman, which made him eminently powerful. “The finances of the situation are not our central concern. You know the plan. The objective. Don’t lose sight of that now. It makes no difference to my brother what you choose to do. Stay in the market or jump. Move or sit tight, it’s completely up to you. He is offering this warning as a professional courtesy and that is all. But know this, my friend, either way, we will move.”

“But what are you thinking? What could you do that would cause a meltdown over here?”

The snake eyes stared at him. The American hesitated, and then caught a quick breath, his face falling like a mask into a horrible frown. He shuddered. “No,” he mumbled feebly. “You never said that!”

“No!? My brother told you! You know what we intend to do. You can sit there and deny it, but if you do then you’re a fool!”

“That was never our agreement. Not a part of the plan!”

“We changed the plan, Drexel, and my brother warned you. If you chose to not believe him, there is nothing we can do. But let me ask you something, and I want you to think about this. Did you really believe your nation could just sit out this war? Did you really think you wouldn’t be involved? We think not, Drexel, we think not. The United States was always our target. We told you! You wouldn’t listen! And you can plead naïveté or ignorance, but deep in your heart you had to know that was true!”

Drexel lifted a trembling hand, then fell back on his chair, recalling his recent meeting with Al-Rahman in Saudi Arabia, his face turning as gray as the dark clouds outside. “Al-Rahman said …,” he was mumbling, barely able to speak. “Al-Rahman said you were going to move against Israel. You would use the weapons in Gaza.”

“Yes, we said all of that. And it was our original plan. But your country has grown too bold and ambitious, long-armed and powerful. Democracies are rising, sprouting all over the world. All of them are fed by your people. And if there’s one thing we can’t endure, it’s another democracy in the Arab world. We’ve got to act against these growing tumors before it’s too late. In order to do that, we’ve got to take your country down. Once we have forced it to turn inward, to focus on its own problems, then we can do what we want.”

Drexel fell silent, his brow wet with sweat. The prince watched him a moment, then stood up to leave. He patted Drexel’s bony shoulder as he passed. “You’ll get over it,” he said. “Now it’s time to get back to work.”

*******

Drexel listened carefully. The elevator door down the hall slid open, then closed. The prince was gone, leaving Drexel alone in the huge office suite. The night slipped around him, the dim lights in the den illuminating his face in deep shadows, creating dark pits along the cheekbones underneath his deep eyes. Drexel stared at his aged hands, forcing himself to settle down, then leaned across his desk and picked up his cigarettes—a two-pack-a-day habit. Had been for almost fifty years. They said he’d die of cancer before he was old enough to retire, yet he kept skipping along, feeling healthy and strong.

But this thing … this ugly thing … he suddenly felt very old.

He pulled a cigarette from the thin pack using only his lips, sat back and lit up, and drew in a long drag.

They were about to unleash a very evil genie. Generations would pass before the final price would be paid. And it was his job to assist them, to give them advice, to help them anticipate and counter what the United States would do. It was his job to help them deal with the firestorm that was coming, a firestorm of their making, a firestorm they controlled.

He pulled another drag, feeling the bitter smoke fill his lungs, then leaned forward on his desk.

The war was upon him.

But the United States would fight back. The Americans wouldn’t just lie there and let the ashes of history be heaped on their graves. Yes, they had grown spoiled and immoral, but the entire world had, too! Who hadn’t turned rotten and decadent? Was there a single nation on this earth that wasn’t as weak as brown-paper pulp?

No. All of them were weak. There were no heroes anymore.

Still, the Saudi king and his brothers were underestimating his countrymen. It didn’t matter how much they paid him, he couldn’t change that. The United States was going to fight them, and Americans would fight for their lives.

And the United States could be a junkyard dog when it came time to fight. Americans could be ruthless and efficient once they had made up their minds.

Sitting in the semidarkness, Drexel couldn’t help but think of what one of his early partners had told him the first time they had plotted to bring down a foreign government. “If you go after the king, make sure that you have the weapons to kill him. Don’t just take a knife, take an Uzi and a shotgun and an M-60 Patton tank. Take every weapon you can assemble. And be ready to run.”

Drexel shook his head, flicking a piece of brown tobacco from the tip of his tongue.

His clients were going after the king. But were they powerful enough to checkmate the king before the king came after them?

He wondered. Yes, he wondered.

It could go either way.

Washington, D.C.

Neil Brighton woke suddenly, his heart slamming in his chest. He sat up, his face sweating, his hands clenched against the sheets.

He had dreamed it again.

A clear summer day. A billowing cluster of thunderstorms. The sky was so huge and he was so small. The storms turned black as lightning flashed from the sky to strike the ground around him. He felt a deep and sudden chill. Someone was walking toward him, but he couldn’t see who it was. The outline was familiar. Who was it? He couldn’t see! He lifted his eyes in time to see a white-hot burst from a nuclear explosion. The man was instantly swept away by the nuclear fireball.

His breathing was labored, and yet Sara remained sleeping on her side of the bed, her face in her pillow, her hair spread across the white sheets. He sat there in the moonlight that illuminated the room, staring straight ahead, trying to focus his eyes. He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. The terror had not gone away.

The mushroom clouds. The young man.

Who was he? Why so familiar? Why couldn’t he see his face?

He had never suffered dreams. But now he had to wonder, am I being warned?

For a long time he sat motionless, resting his face on his palms, staring at the dark floor. Finally Sara rolled over, and he looked at the clock. Almost four in the morning. Time to get up anyway. He had a meeting with the National Security Staff, and he had things to prepare.

*******

General Brighton got a call on his office desk phone a little after ten in the morning.

“Neil,” a husky voice boomed through the nonclassified line. “Aaron Statskily. You got thirty seconds?”

Aaron Statskily, chief of staff of the Army, thin, bespectacled, a marathon runner who was awarded more Purple Hearts out of the Gulf War than any other man. He and Neil had gotten to know each other at War College, the interservice advanced training school for up-and-coming officers, then lost touch for a few years before hooking up again in Washington, D.C. Not close, but professional, they respected each other and spoke frequently.

Neil glanced at his watch. He had a 10:15 a.m. meeting at the Pentagon, and it would be tight, but the good news was that when General Statskily said thirty seconds, that’s about what he took. He, like General Brighton, was a man pressed for time, and he milked every second out of every minute he had.

Outranked by two stars, Brighton was deferential to his friend. “General Statskily, I always have time for you,” he said in a friendly tone.

“Cut the crap, Neil, I know how busy you are. You’re juggling more fur balls than a constipated cat.”

Neil smiled. Aaron Statskily created more awkward metaphors than anyone he had ever known. “OK,” he answered with a light laugh. “We both are busy, general. So what’s going on?”

Statskily coughed. “Professional courtesy.” His voice was not booming so much anymore.

Neil hesitated. Professional courtesy. He knew what that meant. Off the record. General to general. A private conversation among close friends. “Gotcha,” Brighton answered, sitting on the edge of his desk.

Statskily went on. “I got a call from Colonel Dentworth, an old friend who runs our manpower shop, you know, the flesh peddlers down at the Army’s Military Personnel Center. He told me something interesting. Seems some of the Cherokee guys have been looking at your kid. They’ve been watching him. They like him.” The general hesitated. “They like him a lot.”

“Really,” Brighton answered, feeling a sudden jab at his gut.

“Yeah. Sounds like they want to bring him into their group.”

Brighton gritted his teeth. But he kept his voice even. “Well …” he started to say. “That’s very … cool. Not surprising. Sam’s a very good soldier.”

“Apparently so. Now, I’m sure you know the reason I’m calling, but let me state the obvious. We want to know how you’d feel. You know the Cherokees. You know what they do. They fall directly under the National Command Authority, as you certainly know as well, since you’re the guy at the White House who tasks them. Which seems to raise a question: Is that going to be a problem for you? Would it make it more difficult for you to do your job, knowing your son is going to be assigned to the most aggressive and high-risk unit in the army?

“So I’m asking straight up. Do you want me to kill this? If you do, everyone understands. One word from you, Neil, and we put this thing to bed. Your son will never be disappointed because he’ll never know. Not so much as a whisper. You have my word.”

The four-star general fell quiet. Brighton stood and paced back and forth, pulling the extension cord with his hand.

The truth was, he was proud. Terrified, but proud. The Cherokees were the absolute best of the best. The tip of the sword. One in ten thousand soldiers were good enough to be a Cherokee. But what they did was so dangerous and barely legal. They operated in a very different world.

Could he deny Sam the opportunity at the most coveted assignment in the Army?

Doing so would make his work that much more difficult. But he knew he couldn’t stand in his way.

Then he had one final thought.

Sara would have a fit if she knew that he had a chance to stop him and didn’t take it.

SIX

Washington, D.C.

Ammon and Luke Brighton met for midmorning breakfast at one of the little fast-food places that lined the Student Center building on the campus at George Washington University. Ammon had just come from his first class and Luke had just come from the gym. They each bought a cinnamon roll, big as a saucer and with about a thousand grams of fat and sugar, then sat down at the one of the small tables in the hall. Hundreds of rushing students passed by them, but they concentrated on their food. Five minutes later, no longer hungry, they sat back and relaxed.

“What you got going today?” Ammon asked.

“Not a lot. Econ quiz. Biology lab. Some old, same old. You think Dad is still planning on meeting us down at the harbor for … .”

“No. He called me earlier. Said he couldn’t make it. Said maybe sometime next week.”

Luke scoffed. “Yeah, right. When pigs sprout wings and fly.”

“Don’t be angry at him, Luke. He’s doing the best he can.”

“I’m way more than angry, but I’m not angry at him. I’m angry at them. The ones who put him under so much pressure. They ride him like a bad horse. They keep whipping and whipping. One day he’s going to fall down. You can only ride a horse so long, spur it so many times, before it blows out its lungs.”

“Pretty graphic,” Ammon smiled.

“I feel graphic,” Luke replied.

“Still, don’t be ticked off at Dad. And don’t worry about him either. You and Mom worry too much. I can see that something sustains him. Can’t you see it too? He’s doing something very important, and the Big Guy knows that. I think he’ll be OK.”

Luke nodded, and then stood up quickly. “Got to go,” he said. “Econ quiz. I’m not ready.”

“So what else is new?”

“You need a ride this afternoon?”

“No. I’ll take the Metro.”

“OK. See you later, dude.”

“Good luck on your test.”

*******

Luke had seen her before—many times, in fact. They were in the same freshman economics class, but then so were a couple hundred other kids. Sometimes he would see her at the gym where he lifted weights and she always ran. They passed each other in the hall, but they never spoke, for it seemed whenever he saw her she was never alone. He didn’t know where she was from, but it appeared that her entire high-school class had followed her to college. She was always surrounded by friends. But though they had never spoken, he had watched her. Icy blue eyes. Long, blond hair. Legs that didn’t quit. She was beautiful. And sophisticated. And where did she get that tan? She had a lot of money; he knew that from the way that she dressed. Those who had it, those who really had it—not just a few millions but much more than that—had a thing about them that was hard to hide. Assuming they wanted to hide it, which, of course, they never did. If money talks, then big money screams, and everything about her screamed like a high-pitched cry in the dark.

Luke was sitting on a bench outside the university library when she walked up to him. It was a brisk fall day and a cool breeze blew, taking the humidity and smog of the district and flinging it east. He was reading—cramming, really—for the upcoming economics quiz when her shadow fell over his textbook. He didn’t look up. She waited for a while, then, apparently growing impatient, she took a step to the side, formed the silhouette of a pterodactyl with her fingers, and flew the shadow across his page. Luke looked up, his eyes growing large. “Hey there,” he said, keeping the book open in his hands.

She smiled shyly. A pure act. “Hi. You look busy.”

Luke flipped the book closed. “Not really,” he lied. “Well, kind of,” he admitted. “I’ve got a test in a couple minutes.”

“Well, that’s very important. I’ll just leave you alone.” Her voice was soft and deliberate. She oozed confidence.

“Are you kidding?” Luke jumped up. “I mean …” he stammered. “It’s OK. I’ll do fine. In fact, it’s my economics class. We have it together.”

“Really?” she answered.

Luke slumped just a little. Hadn’t she ever noticed me?

He nodded to the bench beside him. She dropped her backpack and sat down. “Luke Brighton,” he said.

“Alicia Debonei. Yes, it’s French, which is a coincidence, because so is my father, but please don’t ask.”

An introduction like that raised a lot of questions, which was her point, of course, but Luke didn’t bite. He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s cool,” he said.

Alicia crossed her arms in front of herself. Her forearms were slender, but her legs were long and strong. She wore a light blue halter top and a white skirt that was just a few inches too high and revealed distracting legs. She had on leather shoes with an insignia he had never seen before, though he recognized it as Italian; a diamond ankle bracelet that was obviously real; no earrings, but a couple of diamond and sapphire rings on her fingers; and a soft fabric headband made out of something … shiny, he had no idea what it was. Turning toward him, she flipped a strand of blond hair from in front of her eye. Her hair was a soft color, fine and silky. He stared at the movement, mesmerized just a moment too long. She met his eyes and smiled. He looked away.

“Are you ready for the econ quiz?” he asked, the only thing he could think of to say.

“Are you kidding? I was completely lost in that class about five minutes after the professor introduced himself.”

“It can be kind of tough.”

“How are you doing?”

Luke hunched his shoulders. He had a ninety-seven percent average, but if she had been struggling, that might not help him right now. “I’m doing all right,” he answered carefully. “But I have to work really hard.”

“All work and no play make Jack a very bad boy,” she teased.

Luke laughed. “I don’t work that hard.”

She crossed her legs and seemed about to say something when her cell phone rang. She was holding the silver phone inside her palm, and she glanced at it discreetly as she silenced the cell phone.

“You want to get that?” he asked her.

“No. It can wait.”

“No big deal if you want to get it … .”

“Really, it can wait.”

She tucked the cell phone in her purse. Luke heard it ring again, but she ignored it and focused on him. Then a different ringtone emanated from the purse. Embarrassed, she opened it and silenced a black cell phone.

“You’re a busy girl,” he said.

“So sorry,” she sighed. There she went, tossing that pesky strand of hair once again. He really wished she wouldn’t do that. It was completely distracting. But then, so was her smile. So was everything about her. He had trouble thinking of the most basic thing to say to her.

“So, Miss Debonei-whose-father-is-French-but-let’s-not-talk-about-that-right-now, where you from?” he finally asked her.

“OK, an average question. Not original, but safe. A casual ice breaker, good enough to get things started, but certainly not going to break any rules.”

“OK,” Luke laughed, “I’ll try again. So … tell me about your father. Is it true he’s an American-hating French industrialist whose grandfather helped the Nazis during World War II?”

She stared at him, and then started laughing.

He only smiled in return. But it was a good smile. His face was dark, his eyes bright and friendly.

She bit on her lip. “I guess I’m a little bit like you. I come from all over, not from only one place.”

Luke hesitated. “Your father was in the military?”

“Hardly!” she laughed.

“Then, I guess … .”

“Let’s not talk about that,” she cut in. “What I want to know is, how many times you have met the president?”

He hesitated again, surprised. “A couple. How did you know?”

“Oh, I know about you, Luke Brighton. I guess lots of people do.”

Luke was dumbfounded. “I didn’t think you knew who I was.”

“Of course I do,” she laughed. “I did a little asking around. It wasn’t hard to find out. In a school with a lot of famous people’s kids, especially from the government and the international diplomatic corps, how many of their fathers had direct access to… … the… … president.” It was clear from her emphasis that she understood.

Few people recognized what it really meant to work for the president, to actually have access to him, to talk to him every day. Few people really understood what kind of power that could bring. Very few had the rush of adrenaline that came from being near the man.

Alicia understood it. He didn’t know how, but somehow she understood.

She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “My father hates the president, I must tell you. I mean, he has such a deep-seated, visceral hatred for him, it almost makes him sick. Now, don’t get me wrong, he’s never met the man, so it’s not personal. He’s met the last three presidents, but he has never met this one. He’s from the wrong circles, you understand, the wrong pack and all, but he would pay a million dollars to spend an evening with him. Not just to share a photograph opportunity at a fund-raiser; that’s not how my father operates. He is much more intimate, much more … you know … friendly than that. But if he were to ever spend an evening with the president, heaven knows what he might say! He thinks the president is deranged. Thinks he’s damaged the world. He considers the president as evil as anything since Hitler, and on a bad day, maybe worse than even him.”

Luke’s defenses shot up. His shoulders squared and his jaw set. Then he looked at her smile, her blue eyes and soft hair. She watched, and then leaned toward him. “Don’t worry, Luke Brighton, I’m not like my father,” she whispered.

Luke pulled his head away from the soft whisper that touched his ear. “Who is your father?” he asked.

She punched him on the shoulder. “Why does he keep coming up?”

“Because you keep bringing him up,” Luke answered with a grin.

“Well, yes, I suppose I did … .”

“Debonei … Debonei,” Luke thought out loud. “Duh! I know your father. He owns Capital Media Group. How could I be so stupid! It’s only, what, the second largest—no, the largest media empire in the world.”

Alicia nodded weakly, again, all an act.

Luke shook his head. “I’m sorry. I should have recognized you,” he apologized.

“You’re kidding!” she answered. “Like you should apologize for that?”

“Well, you know, I just suppose that you couldn’t go many places in the world and not have people recognize your name.”

She shrugged her shoulders, uninterested. “Enough about me,” she said. “Unless you have a fascination with money, and I’m hoping you don’t, then who my father is isn’t any big deal.”

Luke glanced at his watch. Class in three minutes. “Our econ quiz,” he said.

Alicia didn’t move. “We can make it up tomorrow. I’ve already talked to the professor. He said sure, no big deal.”

Luke nodded happily. He figured Alicia asked a lot of favors and wasn’t disappointed very often. But that was fine by him. He could use another day to study anyway.

“So, are you going to be a hotshot pilot like your father?” Alicia asked. “Isn’t that what he was before he became a hotshot presidential aide.”

“Don’t know. Maybe. I love flying, but I haven’t decided. I’ve got a little time to think about it, I figure.”

“You act like a fighter pilot, did you know that? A little bit arrogant, but in a nice sort of way.”

Luke faked a hurt expression. She kept on smiling at him.

“So,” she nodded to his textbook, “do you like our econ class?”

“Yeah, I actually like it a lot.”

“I hate it. And I’m not stupid either. I’m not your typical empty-headed blonde, but there’s just something about it that I don’t understand. All the numbers. All the theories. I like things that are more tangible, you know, something I can really think about.”

“Have you declared a major yet?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“And that is … ?”

“Political science.”

“Really!” Luke answered. “Why poli-sci?”

“Because I love politics. All kinds of politics. And I’m good at it.”

Luke laughed out loud. With her father’s money and that smile, she could dazzle her way anywhere. “I can see that,” he answered.

“Bet on it, baby, I am.”

This time they both laughed.

The campus was quiet now. Most of the classes had started, so the sidewalks were almost empty; a couple of guys throwing Frisbees® to their dogs on the quad were about all that was left. “You taking Econ II next semester?” Alicia asked as they watched the dogs jump in the air.

“I won’t be here next semester.”

She cocked her head. “Had enough of school? Going to drop out and join the Army? Be like your dad? Heading off to hike around Europe for a while?”

“Probably not,” Luke answered. This one was kind of tough to explain. One of the students threw an errant Frisbee that landed at his feet. He stood and threw it back; tossing a perfect spiral that hit the other guy in the chest.

Returning to the bench, he sat down.

“So … you were saying … ? Why might you not be here next year?”

“I might take a little time off,” he said.

She stared at him, tossing the hair out of her eyes again. “You’re rebelling. You little devil.” She was grinning wickedly.

Luke watched the Frisbee floating back and forth. “Sometimes I wonder about things, you know. My parents. What my dad does. The things they ask of him. The price we pay. I don’t want my life to be like that. Way too much of some things. Way too little of some things else. I wonder sometimes if … .” He hesitated.

Alicia smiled as if something were clicking inside her head. She thought a moment, and then made some kind of decision. Glancing at her watch, she said, “It’s almost lunch. You want to go get something to eat?”

SEVEN

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

The Khorramshahr refugee camp was named after the Iranian city half a day’s walk to the south. One of Persia’s major ports, with a huge, smoking oil refinery sitting on a small island in the middle of the Kārūn River, Khorramshahr had been an early target when the Iraqi army advanced during the opening weeks of the Iran/Iraq War. The entire Iranian population had fled the city, leaving an empty shell behind for the Iraqi army to loot. Devastated during the fighting, the city remained a ghost town after the Iraqis withdrew until, in 1983, relatively confident they would not be overrun by the Iraqi army again, Iranians slowly began to return.

Khorramshahr was a small camp set up along the Iraqi/Iranian border. Administered by the U.N., but overseen by the Iraqi government and protected by the U.S. military, the camp sat on a small plateau overlooking the Wawr al Hammār marshes that fed on the brackish waters of the southern tip of the Tigris River. One hundred ten kilometers southeast, the Tigris River flowed into the Persian Gulf. Behind the camp, the Zagros Mountains rose out of the rolling plains; west and north were the salt flats and marshes that defined the border between Iran and Iraq. Built on a barren prairie, the camp was suitable—except when it rained (at which time it became a sucking mud hole), or when the wind blew from the mountains (at which time all of the tents would blow down), or during the annual locust infestations (there was no way to keep them out of the food), or during the freezing temperatures of winter or under the burning summer sun. All in all, Khorramshahr was a great location for a refugee camp—for about three weeks a year.

A “temporary” camp that now housed a second generation of refugees, Khorramshahr had been established originally to protect the Iranian Balgus expatriates who had taken the opportunity during the chaos created by the First Gulf War to flee religious persecution in their homeland. Ignorant and wildly optimistic, they had hoped to enjoy a better life in a freer Iraq once Iran got rid of Saddam Hussein.

Things didn’t go as the refugees had hoped. Saddam didn’t fall. The Iraqi government didn’t welcome them after the war. And they couldn’t go back to Iran, not without fear of death. So they were left in the temporary camp until the geopolitical environment changed. Even after the U.S. liberation of Iraq, a fight in which, even after all these years, the outcome was still unsure, they were left hanging in limbo—not welcome in Iraq until the national government was on much more firm ground and yet unable to return to Persia, even if they had wanted to.

International law guarantees refugees the fundamental right to safe asylum as well as the right of non-refoulement, meaning that they will not be forced to return to the country from which they had fled. But international law can’t force a host nation to absorb the huddled hordes in their refugee camps. So the Iranian expatriates were caught in no-man’s land, left to live for years in the “temporary” camp.

During the early months of Khorramshahr’s existence, Iranian insurgents infiltrated the camp with members of the Absolute Committee of the Islamic Revolution, a clandestine group controlled by militants in Iran bent on punishing those who rejected the true laws of Allah. As a result, the expatriates lived in constant fear that they would be killed or abducted by ACIR members. The expatriates were forced to guard the children and to carefully taste their food, terrified that it might have been poisoned. Many expatriates were beaten randomly in the middle of the night. With ACIR’s help, Khorramshahr was also infiltrated by murderers, rapists, deserters, and thieves, as the Iranian government quickly learned it was cheaper to send their worst offenders across the border to Khorramshahr than to take the time to try them and then keep them in jail or execute them. Worse, Iraqi soldiers regularly launched military attacks in the area, injuring and killing refugees to stir up the ethnic hostilities that already existed between Iran and Iraq.

In the early days, the Khorramshahr refugees also suffered from insufficient food, water, heat, sanitation, medicine, and doctors. The summer before Saddam Hussein was driven from power, a group of human rights activists from various European countries made an inspection of the camp. Their report described Khorramshahr as hardly more than a prison camp where children died regularly because of infectious diseases. The report stated that malaria, typhus, and dysentery were spreading among the refugees, while many were prohibited from attending the hospitals in the neighboring Iraqi city of Al Basrah. Three-quarters of the inhabitants of the camp were undernourished because of the insufficient rations, and the drinking water was contaminated. The ACIR had stolen what little the refugees had been given, and anyone who left the camp and was stopped at an Iraqi checkpoint risked prison and torture. Many disappeared without a trace.

Since the U.S. invasion of Iraq, after which the U.N. had taken responsibility for the camp, things had gotten immeasurably better. Khorramshahr had become tolerable because it can provide safety and the basic necessities. But it was a very long way from paradise. And it would never be home.

*******

The young woman lay on her cot. Her eyes were closed, but she was not asleep and, as the darkness gave way to the early morning light, she opened her eyes and stared up.

Lying quietly on her cot, when everything was silent and the shadows were full, when her mind was not yet occupied with all that she had to do that day, she was just beginning the battle over her emotions. The young woman realized it was a dangerous and unpredictable time of day.

If she let her mind wander, who knew where it would go, especially after she had spent another anxious night fighting through the dark dream. She felt the thin blanket around her legs, tightly wrapped and damp, and remembered the dreadful feeling of waking in sweat.

The dream didn’t change much. Sometimes it was raining, sometimes it was dry, sometimes it took place in the mountains, sometimes down by the stream, but other than the setting, the basics were the same: the same tree, the same flames, her father, the smell.

So Azadeh guarded her thoughts carefully to keep the darkness at bay.

She had learned it was just around the corner, always lurking. The darkness. The anger. A depression so deep that if she ever fell in, she knew she would sink down forever and never come up for air. It was always there, always simmering just below her smile. It was the first thing she thought of in the morning and the last thing at night. It was in the air she breathed, a secret part of her now.

But she knew how to fight it. She had learned from her father how to keep the demons at bay. She had to keep the window closed and not let anything in. She couldn’t consider her situation or the sense of injustice would suck the life from her soul.

So she forced herself to be happy. It was all she could do.

She would keep on believing, keep on smiling, keep on trusting in something she couldn’t see.

But sometimes she wondered what she would do if she saw him again. What would she do if she met the soldier who had assassinated her father? She could picture his face, his flat nose, greasy mustache, and dull, deadly eyes.

Some mornings she prayed to forget him.

Some mornings she prayed she never would.

*******

Soon after arriving in Khorramshahr, Azadeh had fallen into a routine. The camp provided food and shelter but very little else, and her days had become very much the same: wake on her small cot with a thin, cotton blanket over her shoulders, stand in line to wash, stand in line for breakfast, stand in line for drinking water, stand in line to speak with a U.N. refugee worker, stand in line to glimpse a newspaper, stand in line for lunch, stand in line for another drink of water, stand in line, stand in line, stand in line . . . . Looking at the back of some stranger’s head defined her life now.

Azadeh decided to write a letter to Omar, hoping against hope that he might be able to help her. As she stared at the single sheet of paper, she struggled to think of what she could say. Her mind drifted back to that horrible afternoon when the soldiers appeared at her house. She thought of Omar at their back door, coming to warn them, his hair wet with rain, the deep curls hanging in front of his eyes. He was sweating and panting heavily, his hot breath creating puffs of mist in the cold.

“Take them!” her father had commanded Omar, pointing to the young Saudi prince and his terrified mother.

Azadeh remembered Omar’s huge shoulders and thick legs propelling his weight up the rocky trail, holding the Saudi prince like a piece of limp baggage, the young boy appearing weightless under his powerful arm. The princess clung to Omar’s shoulder while holding one hand to her mouth. The mist gathered around quickly around them, and for a moment they looked like gray spirits moving through the orchard and across the wet grass. Omar had stopped and looked back, then turned and pushed them along, herding the princess and her son toward the rocky trail that led up the mountain. They were soon swallowed up in the mist, the sound of their footsteps quickly fading away.

Sitting on her small cot, Azadeh wondered for the thousandth time if Omar had been able to keep his charge safe. If not, her letter didn’t matter, for Omar was certainly dead.

But if he was all right, then where was he? Would he get her letter? Would it be safe to reply? She was just a young woman; she had no right to contact him in the first place. Such a great man as Omar, would he stoop so low as to answer her anyway?

Then a dark thought occurred to her, leaving a cold pit in her stomach. Might the soldiers trace her letter to Khorramshahr and come looking for her?

She thought a long moment, a cold shudder inside, then slid the pencil and blank sheet of paper into her small burlap sack and placed it under her cot.

She considered for three days, then finally made her decision. That evening, when the sun was about to set and mourning doves were calling each other from the birch trees behind the last row of tents, she summoned her courage, feeling compelled to try. She took out the pencil and started writing, choosing her words carefully, the Persian script poetic and articulate from two thousand years of heritage.

Master Omar Pasni Zehedan:

It is difficult to consider the possibility that my words might not find you in good health or even find you at all, but I remember with such deep emotion that night that you came to our home and I felt a need to thank you for your sacrifice and what you were willing to do.

My father, as you must know, has been called home to Our God. I think I knew my father as well as anyone on this earth and I can tell you without hesitation that he looked forward to your conversations on the old tower as much as anything in this life. It is my belief that he loved you, Master Zehedan, as he would have loved a brother had that gift been given to him, and I pray you will remember his soul in your prayers.

I find myself in a situation which, though not home, is safe and tolerable. I am here in Khorramshahr. There is no school, and few young people my age, but it is safe and we eat, and are generally provided for, so I will not complain. What am I to do, I have not yet formulated, but I maintain my faith that, over time, Allah will light the way. I take one step into the darkness, and then wait for Allah light. Insha’allah. I trust in Allah’s will.

Were you to have opportunity, and were you to feel it appropriate for one such as yourself to show kindness to one such as I, I would look forward to hearing of your good health and well being.

I pray, as always, that Allah will place warmth in your soul and peace in your mind.

Respectfully. Humbly.

Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi

Azadeh stared at the letter, reading it carefully, then folded it twice and placed it in the brown envelope. And though she had fantasies of Omar receiving her letter and sending some of his men to whisk her away, her main reason for writing was to establish some type of contact with the outside world. She was desperate to believe there was someone out there who cared.

Still, she almost smiled as she reviewed the brief note. She felt like a little girl writing to an imaginary friend.

After sealing the envelope, she realized she didn’t know Master Zehedan’s address. She struggled as she thought, then did the best that she could, using his full name and a guess of his home’s location on the north side of the Agha Jari Deh Valley, five kilometers north of the village.

*******

Although Azadeh had no idea what the outcome would be or where she would end up, she knew she was far better off in Khorramshahr than any alternative and she was grateful to be there, regardless of how bleak or hopeless it might seem.

She missed her father. She missed her village. She missed everything. Sometimes the homesickness washed upon her like a wall of cold water, leaving her shivering, lonely and cold. But she did not lose hope. There was reason still to live.

And just as she had done since she was old enough to remember, she started each day with fajr, the first morning prayer in the sala’h. Turning toward Mecca, she joined with the true believers from all over the world who demonstrated their faith in Allah by falling to their knees.

*******

Azadeh believed, because she had been taught by her father, that Allah was closer to humanity than a father was to a child, and that nothing in this world deserved an equal surrender of self.

As a united people, Muslims begin each day by falling to their knees in worship of Allah, whom they consider the creator of the universe and every being therein. Bowing to pray is a demonstration of their surrender to the Allah, for Islam means submission to Allah’s will.

Azadeh had also been taught that she must always face Mecca when she prayed, for that was where the great Ka’bah was.

The Ka’bah, a stone building shaped like a huge black cube, was far and away the most sacred structure on earth. Forbidden to most non-Muslims, originally built by the Prophet Abraham and his son Ismai’l, the beautiful but simple structure was built for the purpose of worshipping Allah, and the ceremonies that were observed there had been performed by the Prophets for thousands of years.

Inside the Ka’bah, the Black Stone had been placed. Older than the creation of the earth, round and small enough to hold in two hands, the Black Stone was composed of several fragments of rock bound together by a silver band. According to Islamic tradition, God had given the Black Stone to Adam after plucking it from Paradise.

Because the Black Stone came directly from Allah, it was revered by all Muslims as the most holy object on earth. It was Allah’s gift to man, evidence of Allah’s being, and every prophet from Adam to Mohammed had at one time touched the Black Stone.

As the centuries passed, the Ka’bah was frequently damaged by calamities and war. In the early seventh century, a fire had ravaged the Ka’bah, and when it was rebuilt, the Arab tribes could not agree who should have the right to install the Black Stone in its place back inside the Ka’bah. After many arguments, which nearly escalated into war, the tribes finally agreed to let the next person who entered the courtyard decide who would be privileged to place the ancient stone in its place. As Allah had intended, the next person to come into the courtyard was Mohammed. A young man, not yet a prophet, Mohammed placed a piece of cloth on the ground and set the Black Stone at the center. Then he asked each of the tribes to select a delegate to gather around the cloth. Together they lifted the cloth with the Black Stone off the ground and carried it to the Ka’bah, where Mohammed set it in place.

Azadeh had been taught that if one kissed the stone, which was smooth and soothing and emitted a pleasant fragrance from Abraham’s hands, it would bear witness to that person’s worthiness on the Judgment Day.

Several feet in front of the Black Stone was the Zamzam well, another reason why the Ka’bah was considered so sacred. Tradition told that while Abraham was away from his wife Hagar and Ismai’l to visit Sarah at Mecca, the Angel Gabriel had hit the ground with his wings on this spot to bring forth a flow of clear water from under Ismai’l’s feet.

For these reasons it was essential for all Muslims to face the Most Holy Mosque of Ka’bah as they began their morning prayers, and Azadeh had never even considered breaking this command.

Once she had prostrated herself on her prayer rug and faced the city that contained the Black Stone, she closed her eyes and repeated the words her father had taught:

“Oh Allah,

I am the daughter of my father, Your Servant

And the daughter of my mother,

Your gift to me.

My soul is in Your palm

I receive light by Your finger.

Your judgment is perfect,

Now I ask you by every name given to you by the Prophet

That you keep my life in Your palm

That you touch me with Your finger

to remove my sadness

and give me joy today.

Prophet Muhammad,

Peace be upon him.

And though Azadeh had great faith in this prayer, she had come to believe that there had to be something more. So she closed her eyes again and boldly added other words to the prayer, words of her own, words that had not been taught.

“Allah, my God,” she began in a quiet voice, “In my heart I realize I don’t deserve what You have given to me. You have given me life. Yet I am a weak and unworthy child. You gave me a mother who wanted me, though I don’t remember her face. You gave me a father who loved me so much that he put aside everything that he cared about in order to take care of me. You gave me health and a strong body, and the opportunity to be here in this life.

“And while You have given me disappointments and heartaches, I accept them as well. I accept all of your gifts, both the good and the ill. Show me Your will, God, and I will follow Your way.”

With those words, Azadeh took a deep breath. Standing, she moved to her tent flap to look out on the refugee camp, one of the most empty and lonely places in the world, then squared her shoulders and stepped into the harsh sunlight.

EIGHT

Camp Freedom, North of Baghdad, Iraq

The HH-60G Pave Hawks landed in formation, four helicopters in a right echelon position, each maintaining a position five feet above and to the right of their leader as they descended through the semidarkness. The sand blew before them as their enormous blades stirred the air, sending the dirt—fine as talcum powder—up and over the helicopters in a vertical whirlpool of sand. The pilots landed quickly through the blowing dust, barely able to see. When the helicopters touched down, the landing pistons hardly compressed for the helicopters had spent all of their fuel and most of their ammunition as well. The pilots nosed their helicopters forward and taxied across the corrugated steel that had been placed over the uneven terrain, moving toward the load-up area.

Dawn was ready to break, and the sky was in the transition from deep black to dark gray. Pulling onto the loading tarmac, the helicopters came to a stop. As they did, the soldiers opened the cargo doors and began to spill out, thankful as always to be on the ground. The men wore full battle gear: desert camouflage battle-dress uniforms, flak jackets, Kevlar® helmets, and brown leather boots. Each soldier also wore multiple web belts and a small pack containing ammunition, rations, water, smoke grenades, radios, miniature GPS receivers, grenades, cigarettes, lip balm, night vision goggles—all the essential elements of modern war.

A hot breeze blew up from the west desert, the air uncomfortable, brittle and dry. It had been a cold night but it would be a hot day.

As the soldiers, all Delta Special Forces with subdued unit patches on their shoulders, piled out of the helicopters, it was clear from the way they walked that they were exhausted. Sweaty and covered with grime, most had spent the night on their bellies, crawling through the dirt, spider’s webs, and rat droppings that covered the cement floors of an old weapons storage complex that had recently been taken over by insurgents again. When the battle was over and the bodies identified, the Deltas hadn’t been surprised to find not only Iraqi insurgents, but Iranians, Syrians, Kuwaitis, and Chechens as well.

Once the United States had pulled most of their forces out of Iraq, things had quickly started to fall apart.

With only a few units left behind, the U.S. Army had their hands full. Dangerously full. As to their Iraqi counterparts, without the ability to gather their own intelligence or air assets to support their missions, with strained logistics and having been infiltrated by insurgents, they were simply overwhelmed. Too many bad guys. Too few good guys who believed in a national identity. Leadership that was weak and corrupt. The Iraqi military was simply unprepared to handle the chaos that was thrown in their path.

That is why Sam and his fellow Deltas had found themselves tasked to stay in the country after the raid in Iran. In doing so, they accepted many of the same counter-terrorism operations they had started doing more than ten years before. The only difference now was that they were severely outnumbered. Only the Deltas and a few Army Rangers went out on operational missions, the vast majority of the other U.S. forces being committed to doing nothing more than protecting the 10,000 civilians who worked for the U.S. government inside the Green Zone, which made it a losing proposition. Homegrown insurgents were gaining strength once again, and they were not alone. As the dead bodies testified, there were also imports from other nations who were determined to keep the Iraqis down.

Sam knew that, at the end of the day, it all came down to this: Did the Iraqis want their liberty as much as those who hated freedom wanted to keep it from them?

*******

The horizon turned quickly to a silvery hue from the dust and smoke that hung in the air. Sam, sitting on the right-hand door of the first helicopter, dropped to the tarmac the moment his pilot brought the helicopter to a stop. He was dirty and tired, maybe more than any of his men, for he had spent almost six hours in a crouching position, hidden in a dark ditch, covering their movements as they crawled and shot their way through the old storage compound. The black camouflage on his face was smeared with perspiration. Combat was work, the hardest work in the world, and the cool night temperatures in Iraq weren’t enough to have kept him from sweating like a pig.

Dropping from the HH-60’s open door, Sam led his team away from the helicopters, and then circled his fingers, telling them to gather around him. The eleven-man squad assembled as he took off his helmet and pulled out the foam earplugs he had stuffed in his ears. A few of the other soldiers, the more experienced ones, took off their helmets to pull out their earplugs as well. The inside of the Blackhawks averaged one hundred twenty decibels, and Sam didn’t intend to lose his hearing—not from flying, anyway. Maybe from shooting his M4; maybe from firing off RPGs, or maybe from being too close to incoming artillery shells, but certainly not from sitting like a sardine in the back of a very noisy flying machine.

As the men gathered around him, the helicopters lifted and turned toward the refueling area, flying away from the well-organized tents and portable buildings of Camp Freedom.

Sam waited until the sound of the helicopter rotors and turbine engines had faded away, and then turned to his men. “It was a good night,” he said, congratulating his team. “We killed a bunch of bad guys and didn’t lose anyone. Thirteen to zero. Not a bad soccer score. More, though, it was important for us to take the safety of the compound away from them. But listen now, we’ve got another mission tonight. Brief at 2200. Get some sleep and be ready. We’ll rally for team dinner at 2100. The cook promised steak and potatoes. That will give you something to dream about. Now go get some rest.”

He paused, his men standing with stooped shoulders around him. “Any questions?” he concluded. The group was silent, tired but happy, and very ready for sleep. “All right. Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll see you tonight.”

Sam stuck out his hand, and his team gathered in a tight circle, placing their dirty hands upon his. “Wolfman!” they cried together, yelling their unit’s call sign, then turned and split up, heading for the enlisted hooches and tents. Showers and chow could wait; they were too exhausted now. In five minutes, most of them would be asleep on their cots, their weapons carefully secured but their faces still dirty, some gloves still on their hands, their flak vests on the floor. Two hours from now, a few would wake and head for the showers—a base-camp luxury that had to be taken advantage of—get something to eat, then hit the sack again. But most would sleep straight through until late afternoon, when the sun started dipping and the temperature started to fall.

Sam watched his men separate, wiping a stream of black sweat from his eyes, then turned to follow, head low, helmet under his arm, weapon slung across his shoulder, his flak vest open at the chest. The sun was just half an orb above the horizon, but it seemed he could already feel its heat. Amazing how quickly the desert transformed from cold night to hot day.

Sam had walked only ten steps when he saw his commander moving toward him with a deliberate stride. The major looked determined and stared directly at him. For a moment Sam pretended not to see him; he was tired, irritated and he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t like the major. The two rarely saw eye to eye.

Then the image of the murdered children in the Iranian village flashed again through his mind. How many reports and affidavits had he been required to fill out, detailing the gruesome attack at Agha Jari Deh? He suspected his major had another report or statement for him to sign. He turned away and kept walking.

The thought of the massacre churned the juices in his gut. He thought of it too often. He wanted to leave it behind. He wanted to never think of it again. But everything around him seemed to remind him somehow: a small hand, a buddy’s letter from his son, a local young girl in her white dress standing on a street corner and staring at him—too many things brought back the dark memory. And the continual rehashing of the mission, what went right, what went wrong, who were the killers, why had they done what they did, it all amounted to nothing but dark memories. He was growing more bitter at having to rehash it again and again.

He thought of the girl, her dark eyes and long hair, exquisitely beautiful, even in her grief. He thought of her reaching out to her father, a charred corpse. He wanted to forget her, wipe the memory away. But he knew that he wouldn’t. It was the price he would pay. All soldiers paid a price for their service by the thoughts that remained in their heads. A few of the memories were good. Some were evil, dark and painful. They had to live with them all. That was just the way it was.

But this one … this one was different from anything before. Why couldn’t he keep her out of his mind?

Sam glanced at his commander, and then lowered his eyes.

“Brighton,” the major called out, and Sam reluctantly turned to face him. The major, long and lanky, a West Point graduate, walked quickly toward him, an uncomfortable look on his face.

“What’s up, boss?” Sam asked after saluting wearily.

“You got a telephone call,” the major answered after returning the salute.

Sam looked surprised. “I hope it’s not your little sister again,” he said dryly. “I’ve told her a thousand times not to call me at work.”

The major didn’t smile. His little sister, the new Miss Virginia, had become a hot topic among the men in his squad, and he was growing a little weary of their constant jokes. “In your dreams, Sammy boy,” he slapped Sam on the back, “and over my dead body. Now come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You have a phone call. Quick. He’s been holding.”

The two men started to walk. “Who is it?” Sam asked, though he suspected that he already knew.

“The White House,” the major answered.

Sam shook his head. His dad on the phone.

His father, an Air Force two-star general, was on special assignment from the Pentagon to the National Security Staff. He worked at the White House, directly for the president, acting as special counsel on National Security affairs. It was one of the most coveted jobs in the military, but Sam also knew that the weight of the assignment was crushing him down. His father had aged fifteen years in the past twenty-four months, the pressure squeezing the life out of him like the juice from an orange.

His mind raced, trying to think of a reason that his father might call. Would he call with good news? Probably not. His gut tightened up.

The major quickened his step toward the Operations Center. “Pick it up,” he said. “He’s been on hold for five minutes already.” Sam recognized the strain in the major’s voice. He had grown familiar with the sound, and he doubled his pace. But his boss deferred to him, walking at his side instead of leading the way. Sam knew it was unnerving to the major whenever the White House called. Truth was, it was unnerving to the regiment and battalion commanders as well—it was unnerving to everyone from the chief of staff down. But there was nothing he could do about it. His father was who he was. Sam didn’t say anything as the major walked nervously at his side.

Although he had never talked about his father, never so much as mentioned his name, it was impossible for the men in his unit not to know, and Sam knew how stressful it was for the major to have the son of a two-star general in his command, the son of the special counsel to the president, no less. At best case it was a zero sum game for the major: Everything went perfectly, Sam stayed healthy, and no one said anything. But if Sam got wounded or killed, or the unit didn’t perform in an exceptional way, who would answer the hard questions that would come slamming down? Who was going to call the White House to tell the old man? Because of this, Sam knew the major would happily ship him out, send the source of his problems to the next unit down the line. And Sam understood it. He would have felt the same way.

The irony was that Sam was the best soldier in the unit, courageous, faithful, always ready to go, always willing to put his neck on the line. Which was exactly the problem. Sam acted as if he had no fear. He acted like there were angels protecting him every day. He wasn’t stupid, but he was brave, almost brazenly so, and his boss often scolded him for having to be in the middle of the fight.

“Geez, man, can’t you ever stay out of the line of fire?!” his major had once yelled at him.

Sam looked up from examining a bullet hole in his shirt. The shell had shredded the loose material directly under his arm, leaving an entry and exit hole two inches from his chest.

“Do you always have to be in the very thick of the fight?!” the major yelled again.

Sam had shaken his head, pushing his leather-gloved finger through the hole near his flak vest. “Wow, that was close.” He looked up and smiled.

“Can’t you just once stay at camp and take your turn guarding the perimeter like everyone else?”

“Hey, baby, that’s not why I’m here,” was all Sam replied.

So it bothered Sam to have the major walking at his side, almost half a step behind him, as if Sam should lead the way.

Moving into the Operations Center, the unit’s executive officer, a young major with a ridiculously thin mustache, was holding the satellite phone, which he thrust toward Sam as if it might explode. Then he turned away quickly, pretending to work through a pile of papers on his desk. Sam noticed his regiment commander, a thick lieutenant colonel, standing by his office door. The major walked toward the lieutenant colonel but neither one of them said anything, though they tried not to make it obvious that they wanted to hear.

Sam turned his back to his commanders. “Hey, Dad,” he said.

“Hi, Sam, how are you?” his father’s voice echoed through the satellite phone.

“Good, Dad. Fine. What’s going on?”

There was a short pause, which Sam immediately noticed, and his chest tightened again. “Things OK, Dad? Mom OK? Luke and Ammon?”

“They’re all good, Sam … .”

Sam considered the other possibilities. He thought of his biological parents, two social misfits who constantly struggled along. “Did the old man get knifed in another bar fight?” he asked. “The ol’ lady call for more money? Tell them to bite it, Dad, you don’t owe them anything.”

“No, Sam, none of that. Really, everything is fine. I was just calling to, you know … say hello, see how you are.”

Sam didn’t believe it. He had already recognized the anger in his father’s voice.

There was another moment of silence. “I understand you just got in from an operation?” the general then said.

“Yes sir,” Sam replied. He knew this wasn’t the reason the general had called, but he had no choice but to wait until his father got to the point.

“It went OK, I hope?”

“You know how it is over here, Dad. You take one step forward, you hit a land mine and get blown a couple steps back. But tonight was pretty good. We got a couple of the bad guys and took back some of their ground. And none of my guys were hurt, which is all I could ask.”

“You’re all right then … .”

Sam was growing frustrated. “Dad, you really didn’t call me to talk about the mission, did you?” he said. “I go out every night. You never call. Now, what’s going on?”

Sam heard the sound of rustling paper, then the soft squeak of his father’s office chair, indicating he had stood up. “Sammy, you had an op a couple days ago,” his father said in a quiet voice. “A mission into western Iran.”

Sam bit his lip. “We probably ought not to talk about this right now.”

“We need to, Sam.”

“It was a coded mission, Dad. If you really want to discuss it, I need to get to a secure telephone.” An image of the massacre shot again through his head. “But Dad, I’d really rather not talk about it, unless we really have to.”

“Sam, listen to me, OK. I know about the mission. I’m the guy who sent your unit there. And I don’t need you to tell me about it. I already know everything. But there’s something you need to know. Something you’re not going to like.”

Sam sighed bitterly. What could be worse than what he had seen? “Whatever it is, Dad, I think I can handle it,” he said.

Major General Neil S. Brighton stood in his White House office, a cramped inner room stuffed with classified folders, locking file cabinets, a small desk, and two blue leather chairs. He ran a hand through his thick hair and paced, the phone at his ear, while staring angrily at the front page of the Washington Post.

The photograph was grainy and blurred, but heart-wrenchingly powerful. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but not one of them had to be true, and this photograph was painfully deceiving. A dead child, a smear of blood on his chest, a dried trickle of red running from his shoulder and down the underside of his arm to drip peacefully off his fingertips and onto the ground. A anguished woman crying while holding her son. Smoke and black vapor filled the entire background; it looked as if an entire village was in flames. Two U.S. soldiers stood side-by-side, looking past the carnage, one of them smoking a fresh cigarette. Their eyes were dull and deadly, as if there was no feeling at all. Captain Samuel Brighton was in the center of the photograph, rubbing his hands on his side of his face. The Washingon Post’s headline, in 20-point Stilson Display Bold typeface, read, “U.S. Soldiers Accused of Iranian Atrocities—Pentagon Denies Secret War in Iran.”

The general stared at Sam’s picture and thought of his wife. She was going to be sick. He thought of Sam’s brothers. They would turn white with rage. He read the byline on the story: Mr. Lawrence O’Neil. The reporter had to know the story was a lie! The photographs had been floating around radical Arabic newspapers, televisions, and web sites for a couple days now, but no one in the western press had bothered picking them up. No one believed the accusations. Until Mr. O’Neil.

Brighton thought of his position in the White House, knowing he might be forced to resign. If the press made the connection between him and his son, if they smelled fresh blood, regardless of the absurdity of the allegations or what the truth was, he might be forced to withdraw to protect the president.

If he had to go, he didn’t care. He would resign if they asked.

The only thing he cared about was protecting Sam, a young man whom, though adopted, he loved as much as his other sons.

Brighton slapped the newspaper on his palm and swore bitterly.

It was a lie. Everyone knew it. But that was how the game was played now. The United States had a lot of enemies who didn’t care about the truth.

Inaccurate but true was an acceptable standard to them.

The general swore again, breathing into the phone. “I’m holding the Post,” he finally said to his son. “Your picture’s on the front page.”

“Really?”

“Before you get too excited, you better let me explain.”

Sam remained silent while his father read him the first five paragraphs of the story. The telephone hummed when his father was through. Sam was clearly stunned. “Has Mom seen the picture?” he asked quietly.

“No. Not yet.”

“Can you hide it? Hide the papers? Tell her friends not to say anything.”

“I’m trying, Sam. But it’s likely that—”

“It will kill her if she sees that. She’ll go through the roof.”

“Listen, Sam, let’s not worry about your mother for right now. I’ll try to keep it from her, but even if I do, that’s not the main point. Worst case, she sees it and throws a couple pillows at the paper boy or maybe writes a nasty rebuttal, which would only muddy the air. Either way, she is strong, I’m not worried about her. It’s you, my boy, that I’m worried about … .”

“You’re worried about me?” Sam exclaimed. “Over this? Come on, Dad, if this is the worst thing that happens to me, I can certainly handle it.” His voice was light now and clearly relieved. “So some puke gets my picture from Al Jezzera and prints some lies in the press. So what? Think I care? Me and my buddies quit reading the newspapers a long time ago. This is no big deal, Dad. No big deal at all.”

Brighton hesitated. “I was worried …” he continued.

“Who you better be worried about is that slime-ball reporter!” Sam said. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

Brighton almost laughed. “You want his name? We could go meet him in a bar next time you’re back in the States.” Brighton laughed as he thought of the recent scene in a German pub, when he and Sam had been forced to fight.

“Go and get him, no way! I say you send his sorry butt over here. Let him spend a week with my unit, then see what he writes.”

Brighton smiled in satisfaction. What a difference that would make!

“So I made the front page of the Post?” Sam muttered, then chuckled again.

Brighton could picture his son’s face, the great smile and strong chin. “Yeah, pretty cool, huh?” he answered. They were both laughing now.

“You know, Dad, my only regret is I’ve wasted my fifteen minutes of fame while I’m over here. What a bummer. I feel cheated! I don’t get to savor my time in the sun.” Sam laughed again. “Bummer,” he repeated, then grew serious once more. “But listen, Dad, try to hide it from Mom, OK? That’s all I care about. This slime-ball reporter, my image, my face in the press—that means nothing to me. And it will blow over long before I get home anyway. But it will hurt Mom. She’ll get angry. So try to hide it, will you?”

“I will, son,” Brighton answered, “but there’s something else I want to talk to you about . . . .”

Brighton fell silent as his mind raced through the past couple of days. He thought about his dead friend, the crown prince of Arabia. There was so much going on. So much uncertainty. He was truly frightened. He had a stone in his chest. What was going on in Saudi Arabia, one of the most vital and dangerous places on earth? Had Prince al-Rahman come to power? Had Al-Rahman killed his brother? What had happened to the king? Had Al-Rahman killed his brother too?

The general huffed in frustration, and then threw the newspaper on the desk. It landed face up, Sam’s picture staring at him, and he flipped it over with the tip of his pen.

He thought of the Cherokees, the elite Deltas that were going to pull Sam into their group. They went to the worst places on the face of the earth and did the most rotten missions, taking care of the problems that no one else was willing to tackle, no one else could handle, and no one in the government wanted to acknowledge had to be done.

One in ten thousand soldiers was asked to join the Cherokees, and Brighton was proud of his son. But he was afraid for him, too. The unit suffered horrible attrition. Theirs was a dangerous, hungry, exhausting, and blood-soaked world. They were also a group of the most dedicated soldiers in the military. Every one of them believed they were serving a cause that was worthy of their deaths. Although he knew Sam had the passion for the task, he was less certain that he himself would be willing for his son to make that sacrifice.

As he thought, the phone line fell quiet until he heard Sam’s voice again. “Dad?” Sam was saying. “Is everything OK?”

Brighton clenched his jaw, and then took a deep breath. “Sure, Sam, everything’s fine. Really busy, you know. Sorry. I lost my train of thought for a moment.”

“That was more than a moment.”

Brighton didn’t reply.

“That’s OK, Dad,” Sam answered. “It just means you’re getting old.”

“You have no idea, Sammy, no idea. What was I saying then?”

“We were talking about my mug on the front page of the Post. But then you said there was something else you wanted to tell me.”

Brighton hesitated. He shouldn’t say anything, but he couldn’t hold back. He would say only a few words. “Sam, I’m going to give you a head’s up, OK? But this is just a private conversation between father and son. You understand me, Sammy? This is private, OK?”

“All right, Dad,” Sam answered. “This is between you and me.”

“You and me, Sam. You understand that.”

“Maybe it’d be better then, Dad, if you just—”

“No, Sam, I want you to know. I want you to know that I gave it my blessing, so that when they talk to you, you won’t hesitate for me.”

“What are you talking about, Dad?”

“Listen, Sam, just listen, all right? Some things are happening. Some good things, some bad. And some of them will affect you. So you’ve got to be ready.” He paused again. “Sam, I know you expected to stay with your unit in Iraq for a year or more. But it might turn out differently. You might find yourself somewhere else.”

Sam paused before asking, “Why would I have to leave my unit? What are you saying, Dad?”

Brighton was firm now. “Just keep yourself sharp. That’s all I should say. Keep busy. Do your mission. But be prepared for something new, something that makes me very proud. It might be a week. Might be a few days. Either way, be ready for a call.”

Sam thought a long moment. He knew from the sound of his father’s voice that he wouldn’t say any more. “All right then, Dad. I’ll be ready. Now you take care of Mom.”

“I will.”

“And Luke and Ammon.”

“Them too. Got them all. Now keep your head down.”

“I always do, Dad.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. I’ll see you sometime, OK? Tell Mom I love her. Tell her I might be able to come home for Christmas.”

“I’ll tell her, Sam.”

*******

Major General Neil Brighton sat on the corner of his desk, pondering what the future might hold for his son—for all his sons. Unbidden, the face of Prince al-Rahman swam before his eyes. The general knew the prince; they had met many times. And there was something about him, something . . . cold. He was so cocky, prideful and arrogant. It was almost as if he knew something that no other man knew, as if he saw something coming that no one else could see.

Brighton reached over and picked up a red-bound report that had the words “Classified, Top Secret, White House National Security Staff” across the cover. He flipped it open and looked at the photograph and the two-page memo inside.

The Pakistani general’s face was gritty and grim. His mustache hung over his large lips, and his eyes were dark as wet coal. The Pakistani was in charge of his nation’s nuclear program. And the photograph showed him talking to one of Al-Rahman’s senior men.

Neil Brighton shivered, a cold run down his spine.

His instincts were screaming. Danger. There is danger. He shivered again.

The sense of foreboding led his thoughts again to Sam and the Cherokees who would be recruiting him within the week. The unit was so secret that even the code name was classified and changed every three months to keep Congress and the press at bay. They were a top-secret Special Forces unit that worked on the razor’s edge of the law. Some would argue that what they did was illegal (the U.N. would certainly say that it was), for they slipped across the borders of both friends and foes, operating in countries against which the United States was not at war. And they did things, they got to people, that no one ever talked about—no one in the military, no one in the administration or the Congress. They operated in Israel, Europe, and Pakistan. They operated in Tajikistan, southwestern China, and Saudi Arabia as well.

They were the best America had to offer, America’s most valiant sons, willing to sacrifice and suffer to take peace to the most dangerous parts of the world.

The general shook his head sadly.

Was it a good use of fine men? Sometimes he wondered. It wasn’t clear anymore.

He frowned and looked up, staring through his bulletproof window at the deep White House lawn. What had brought them to this moment? Why had it come to this? Things had accelerated so quickly, and they were accelerating still.

The world was spinning. Would it ever regain control?

NINE

Camp Freedom, West of Baghdad, Iraq

The night after Sam Brighton had taken the call from his father, his team had been tasked to do a night recon on some suspect houses in Northern Baghdad, but the mission had been aborted owing to lack of helicopter transports to infiltrate the team. As a result, Sam spent the night in his bed, under his cover when it was dark, quiet, and cool, instead of having to sleep in the middle of the day, with the light, heat, and noise. He got a good night’s rest, something he hadn’t enjoyed in more than two weeks.

Next morning he woke early, ate some breakfast, cleaned his gear, swept the tent floor (a completely pointless thing to do), waited in line for a nonrestricted computer to send some e-mails (he mostly communicated with his other army buddies scattered around the world), then went down to the unit Operations Center to see what was going on.

Entering the enormous tent, Sam felt the cool air. Outside, the morning sun had already grown hot, and the air-conditioned tent was a welcome relief. The Operations Center was stuffed with loads of electronic and communications gear—satellite telephones, GPS receivers, more than two dozen portable computers, handheld devices, UHF radios to talk with the unit’s helicopter pilots and ground crews, FM radios to talk with the ground troops when they were in combat on the ground—and all of this equipment demanded cool, clean air. The desert was excruciatingly hard on men, equipment, and machines, and it was a constant effort to keep everything from choking on the sand and dust.

The Operations Center was quiet; only a few soldiers were there. None of the unit’s combat teams had been tasked with combat excursions, so, except for a few standard security patrols in the small towns along the road between Camp Freedom and the airport, everyone had a little time to catch up on things. For a moment, Sam wondered what day it was. He glanced at his watch, a military issue black dial with the date and time. It was 9:36 a.m., Sunday.

He looked past the communications consoles in the middle of the room and spotted Joseph “Bono” Calton, a dark-skinned captain who was one of his very best friends.

Bono was a poster boy for the twenty-first-century soldiers fighting an unconventional war—fluent in Arabic and German, an expert marksman, equally good with a sophisticated GPS computer and in hand-to-hand combat with a knife. And he seemed to have the endurance of a mule—he could hike for twelve hours without stopping to rest. Most important, with his dark skin and dark eyes, he could blend in perfectly with the local populace. Sam had always wondered why his friend was so dark-skinned, but once he had seen a picture of Bono’s mother, a beautiful Moroccan his father had met while spending a summer in Northern Africa, he understood.

Six years out of college, the captain had just celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday, though he looked a bit older, with his dark face and sharp eyes. Having grown up in Los Angeles and graduated from one of the rich-kid high schools they made prime-time soap operas about, if anyone had an excuse to be spoiled, Bono certainly did. Sam knew that his dad had made a zillion dollars in the dot-com craze, getting out when the getting was good and settling down to a life of tennis, margaritas, and investing his cash. But when it came to money, Bono seemed completely uninterested. The only thing he really ever talked about was his family, and sometimes Sam got tired of looking at pictures of the two beautiful blondes, one his daughter, one his wife. Maybe he was only jealous—it was painfully clear the captain had something special that he did not have.

Like a lot of guys in the unit, the captain had several nicknames: “Sniper” (for his marksmanship), “Abu” (his dark features), the “Mule” (his flat-foot plodding). But most called him “Bono” for his inexplicable attachment to a mysterious brand of South Korean running shoes that you could only buy in the back alleys in Seoul. Still, he was such an imposing figure that none of the enlisted guys dared call him anything but “captain” to his face, and in a formal setting or in combat everyone called him “sir.”

It hadn’t taken more than a few days for Sam and Bono to become very good friends. They were alike—dedicated, fearless, with a bit of attitude, and both were in the Army because they loved the fight and believed in the cause. Sam knew that Bono could have followed in his father’s tracks, taken over his business affairs and spent Wednesday mornings on the golf course and Friday nights at the club. He also knew that Bono would just as soon drive splinters of wood under his fingernails as spend his life behind a desk.

In this one thing the two men were the same. They were driven by ambition, but not for ambition for cash.

Bono hadn’t yet noticed Sam standing near the doorway, so he kept his head down, concentrating on his work. In the quiet of the empty Operations Center, Sam’s thoughts drifted back to the first time they patrolled together.

*******

Sam’s Delta unit had been bouncing in and out of Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan (as well as several “non-host nations,” where they had not been invited and were definitely not supposed to be) for more than three years. As one of the U.S. Army’s most highly trained and versatile units, the Deltas went where they were called, which meant they spent a lot of their time on the road. While most army combat units in Iraq were eventually assigned more-or-less permanent facilities for their living quarters—early during the war, some of the more fortunate ones even ended up in former palaces of the ruling elites—the Deltas were not usually so lucky. Knowing they were far more mobile and in high demand, they didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about their living conditions. That seemed fruitless and wasteful. They were Deltas, after all—they didn’t need air conditioning or swimming pools. They needed clean weapons, lots of drinking water, and a mission every night.

Bono had been assigned to Sam’s unit just five months before. Sam clearly remembered the day he had been tasked to pick up the new captain at the airport in Afghanistan, where he watched Bono climb down the makeshift ramp from the enormous 747 airplane, a contract carrier ferrying soldiers in and out of the country. Sam took him to Camp Lenard and showed him his tent (which had become suddenly available when the previous captain had been killed by a sniper while out on patrol), then helped him unpack his gear and showed him around.

On the afternoon of that first day, Sam sat in the corner of the Operations Center, watching the young captain work.

Like any organization, the U.S. Army had its share of weak, cowardly, selfish, ignorant, and truly bad officers. But such men never made it into combat positions, or, if they did, they were quickly removed. Men’s lives were on the line, the chain of command understood that, and no one suffered fools in a combat zone. Indeed, the men who volunteered for and achieved the status of combat officer were some of the best that the United States had to offer. But still, there were variations in their capacities to lead. There were good officers and great officers, brilliant leaders and others who were not as talented or creative. Sam was instantly curious which kind of officer the new captain would be.

It generally took the men a few days, maybe even just a few hours, to evaluate their new leaders, and their first impressions almost always proved to be uncannily accurate. Sam better than most at evaluating his fellow officers—he knew he would be working with the captain for the next eight months or so—so he set about to study him and learn what he could. He watched how Bono took care of his equipment, how he spoke to the senior officers and the men under him. Sam listened to Bono’s tone of his voice and the things that he said. Sam noted the things Bono carried around in his pockets and the optional equipment he had.

On the evening of Bono’s first day, the regiment commander pulled Sam aside. “What do you think?” he whispered, nodding toward the newest captain in his outfit.

Sam stared at the back of Bono’s head. “He keeps a military-issued Bible in his chest pocket all the time. He collects knives and switchblades. Got more than a dozen in all. He’s got a drop-dead gorgeous wife and he pulls out her picture every chance that he gets. And he’s got a tiny, pearl-handled .22 strapped to the inside of his calf, a cheesy little thing that isn’t going to kill anyone unless he shoots them square in the eye at point-blank range. Looks like something he might have picked up in Spanish Harlem for thirty bucks and some crack. But it’s only three inches long and real easy to conceal.”

The commander waited, not knowing. “So … ?” he pressed.

“I like him,” Sam answered. “In fact, I like him a lot. He’s thorough. He’s careful. But he’s not afraid to act. He cares about his wife and little girl, and that keeps him from being way stupid, but it’s pretty clear he’s not afraid to get in a fight. This is a guy I would go to battle with.”

The lieutenant colonel nodded and smiled. “Good. You got him, then,” he said. “Show him the ropes for a few days. I’m not screwing up your own team, I just want you to work with him for a while, is all.”

“Sure, sir. But then, if it turns out that he and I work well together, maybe you would consider assigning the two of us to … .”

“Not bloody likely,” the commander shot back. “You’ve got a good team. Not going to screw with that. Bono or Mule, or whatever he goes by, will have to take one of the other teams and figure it out. I just want you to give him a bit of head start, that’s all. Things are screwed up as it is, Lord knows this freakin’ nation—if you got the nads to call this rat hole a nation—has killed enough of my guys. Don’t want to make it any easier for them, that’s all.”

*******

Three nights later, Bono had been sent on his first patrol. As his unofficial trainer, Sam stayed close to his side.

It was just after sunset. There were four of them in a battle-hardened Humvee®, the standard military personnel transport that had, since the first year of the Global War on Terror, been reinforced with thick armor walls and floor. Years before, when the United States had first invaded Iraq, the soldiers had been forced to compensate for the inadequate armor in the original Humvee design by piling sandbags on the floor and strapping scrap iron to the sides. It was the only way they could think of to protect themselves from the unstoppable roadside bomb attacks that occurred every day. The terrorists had proven ingenious, even brilliant; the U.S. generals had been forced to admit. Taking the path of least resistance, the terrorists (Sam refused to call them insurgents; anyone who primarily targeted innocent Iraqi civilians—women, schoolchildren, old men sweeping sand off the streets, young mothers carrying their babies while waiting for the bus—was clearly a terrorist and not worthy of any other name) had learned how to hide among the civilians, how to hit and then run. They had two primary weapons: suicide bombers and, for those not yet willing to have a face-to-face conversation with their Maker, what the U.S. press called IEDs, for improvised explosive devices, or simply roadside bombs. The local troops called them dead REDs, for remotely exploded devices. These ingeniously improvised roadside bombs could be made of almost any explosive material, including old mortar shells, plastic explosives, grenades, and nails packed around TNT. Most of the detonators were activated through cell phones, and the battle tactics were simple: plant the device, hide, wait until a U.S. convoy or Iraqi government vehicle drove by, dial the cell number, and watch the enemy get blown to bits. On Sam’s first tour in Iraq, the terrorist cells had turned back to using dead REDs again. In fact, on Sam’s first day in the country, even while riding from the airport, his convoy had been attacked by a roadside bomb. No one had been hurt, but a lot of sand had been blown in the air. A quick investigation of his good fortune revealed that the terrorist had panicked and called the cell phone number too late, causing the powerful, double-packed mortar shell to explode after the convoy had passed. Phone records would indicate he had nervously dialed two wrong numbers before finally getting it right, allowing time for the convoy to pass. But still, the sound of the explosion had proven a lousy welcome to the country.

Although Sam and the others would laugh about it many times, each of them, inside their guts, hated to wonder.

Two wrong numbers and they had lived. One good dialer and they might have died. How many of their nine lives had been sucked up on that one?

It was all so unpredictable.

That first night with Bono, while driving away from their base camp, Sam had slapped the side of his new Humvee as he drove. The Humvee was heavy with its extra armor and a full load of weapons and fuel, and it felt slow and cumbersome under his hand.

With the new captain sitting at his side, Sam kept his eyes moving, his head constantly swiveling from one side to the other. The sun had set, and it became dark as only the desert can be, a sort of eerie, moonlit twilight that emphasized the shadows and created fleeting ghosts of gray and black that seemed to run across the road.

Earlier in the day, a couple of Apache attack helicopters had reported that a single anti-aircraft missile had been launched toward them from a small cluster of shacks and tin-roofed, cinder-block shanties on a tiny peninsula near the Tigris River. There hadn’t been reports of hostile action in the area for several years—the small village was inhabited by dying fishermen and their old women, the younger generations having been taken either to serve in the army or to be servants in the city many years before—and none of the Apache’s defensive systems had detected the presence of a radar-guided missile, but things were deteriorating quickly now and everyone was on edge. No way were they going to let the security situation get out of hand. One of the pilots had insisted he’d seen a smoky trail coming toward him before falling out of range. That was enough to get everyone’s attention. Bono and his team were sent to investigate.

The men approached the village along the winding, dirt road that followed the bends in the Tigris. The land was marshy here, with cattails and reeds growing higher than a man could see, and the water was slow, brackish and heavy with silt. The fishing had once been good here, but that was years before, and the small village, never more than an Iraqi dinar above the poverty line, had fallen into abject destitution over the past generation or so.

Approaching the village, Bono asked Sam to bring the Humvee to a stop before venturing onto the marshy peninsula. It was maybe three thousand meters to the village. Bono got out of the Humvee and stood near the front wheels, studying the village through his night vision goggles. Sam opened his door and followed until he was standing at his side. Staring through the goggles, Bono could see the common fire flickering between the shanties and a few old men standing around, but that was about all. He dropped his glasses and listened. The birds had fallen silent, but they never cried at night, and the only sound to be heard was the water lapping gently against the marshy shore.

Bono turned to Sam. “You realize, of course, there’s no way to approach them without announcing our coming.”

Sam nodded as he studied the sandy road that led to the village. It was pitted with mud holes and deep ruts, with broken branches and dead palm leaves lying across the rough road. Years might have passed since a vehicle had been driven down this road, and it would take them some time, maybe five or ten minutes, to navigate across the marsh to the village. He glanced back at the Humvee. It was a great machine, powerful and heavy, but very loud. Built to carry men into combat, there was nothing stealthy about this vehicle. Its enormous diesel engine belched like a locomotive, maybe louder, and with sometimes more smoke.

“Think they’ve heard us already?” Sam asked the other captain.

Bono shook his head and nodded at the night air. “Wind is blowing toward us. They haven’t heard anything.”

“We could hoof it to the village.”

Bono thought. “Don’t think we should,” he said. “We need the protection the Humvee has to offer. Especially since there’s just four of us and being out here, where there’s no cover but this reed grass. We’ve got no backups, no artillery or air patrols. Who knows what we’d be walking into. According to the Apache pilot, there’s an entire battalion of surface-to-air missiles hiding in the village. Do I believe that? Not at all. But I’m not willing to bet on the lives of my men.”

“OK, boss, but you realize if we jump in the Humvee and go tooling off across the grass, we’re going to give whoever is waiting in the village an awfully long time to know we’re coming. If they haven’t seen us already—and they might have, it’s amazing how good these natives’ night vision can be—they’ll hear us at least five or seven minutes out. That’s an awful long time to announce we’re coming if there are hostiles hiding there. Lots of time to hide or plan an ambush. Lots of time to lock us in their sights.”

“Yeah,” Bono muttered. “And you know what really ticks me off? There’s no one hiding in the village. I’m sure there’s nothing there. I mean, look at it. If you were an Iraqi soldier and wanted to pop off a couple missiles at passing U.S. aircraft, can you think of a worse place to do it? No cover. No escape routes. No place to hide. You telling me those starving fishermen are going to offer you any help? What have they got to offer? A couple dry fish? I don’t know what our Apache driver saw, but if it was a missile it didn’t come from this place.”

Sam nodded. He agreed. “But you know what will happen if we don’t check it out,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve been around long enough that I figure I do. If we don’t check out the village, if we don’t turn over every stone and look behind every door, those aviation grunts will never relax. Every time they fly over this area, they’ll be on edge. They’ll zoom down and fly low, harassing these poor guys every chance that they get. One of their flyboys saw a missile and it was launched from here, so the first time they see smoke from the village fire or a flash of reflected light in the sun, bang! They’ll come in, their guns blazing to take care of this place.”

Sam nodded sadly. It was true. As a grunt he had learned the value of a pause, the value of evaluating a situation completely before he popped off his gun. But the aviation guys weren’t so careful. Their information wasn’t as good. They flew high and too fast. And because of that, they were much more likely to pull their triggers on their missiles and guns. More, they were so much more vulnerable, sitting like metal ducks in the air. And they never saw the results of their bullets. Sam suspected it was impossible to fully appreciate the ugliness of death when one imposed it from the air.

Sam stared at the village in the distance as he thought. “What do you propose?” he finally asked.

Bono started unstrapping his web belt. He laid it on the bumper of the Humvee, then stripped down to his fatigue pants and boots. “I’m going to float down the river,” he explained as he walked to the rear of the Humvee where the tool kit was stowed. Pulling out a black garbage sack, he wrapped his M4A1 assault rifle, and then secured it with tape. “If I can get into the current, it will carry me across the channel and down to the village.”

“Unless you miss it, and then some oil tanker will find you somewhere off the coast of Kuwait,” Sam replied. He knew the river was fast and deep in the middle.

“Yeah. Unless that happens.” Bono surveyed the gear in the back of the combat vehicle. “I want a blowout kit,” he said as he motioned with his hand. Sam tossed him one of the two medical pouches and watched as Bono strapped it to his belt. “But assuming I don’t drift down to the Persian Gulf, this is my plan. Give me ten minutes in the water, then fire up Bertha and head out across the road. Make lots of noise; gun the engine, whatever it takes to let them know you’re here. I’ll set myself up on the northwest shore, opposite of your approach. I don’t know for certain what kind of cover I’ll have, but I’m assuming there will be marsh and weeds, about like what we have here. I’ll keep in the cover, but get as close to the village as I can. You guys come screaming in. If any bad guys are there, I can cover you from their rear. If they try to retreat, we’ll have them surrounded.”

“Surrounded? With four men? And from only two positions?”

“Whatever.”

Sam looked at Bono, his dark face camouflaged to match the night. “You should take someone with you,” he said.

“No. I won’t need it. I’m only acting as a safety value, you know, just in case it turns out I’m wrong. But I’m sure there are no hostiles in this village. This will be nothing but a cakewalk, a chance for a nice moonlight swim.”

Sam nodded slowly. “You know, Bono, treading water for fifteen minutes in a snake-infested lake while holding a rifle and radio above the waterline to keep them from getting wet is hardly my idea of a good time. But hey, that’s just me. If this is the way you want to do it, then I’m with you, man.”

Bono was slipping toward the water. “It’s cold,” he said.

“Do you want me to—?” Sam started to question, but it was already too late. The captain had already slipped through the marshes and disappeared.

Sam glanced at his watch. Nine minutes fifty seconds to wait. He fingered his radio nervously, and then paced back and forth. He stared at the river, and then watched the village through his night scope. He waited as long as he could stand it, eight minutes, then climbed into the Humvee. “Let’s go,” he said.

“The boss said to give him ten minutes,” the noncommissioned officer answered.

‘Yeah, yeah,” Sam shrugged. He hated his new buddy, a guy he was supposed to be training, being out there alone. He hated waiting. He hated being so far away from the village. He counted to sixty. “Let’s go,” he said.

They fired up the Humvee and headed out across the deeply rutted road. One man rode shotgun, standing at the open hatch at the roof. All of the men were wearing night vision goggles, and they kept their headlights off as they drove. No sense illuminating themselves like a target in case there were bad guys in the village. “Ranger One, what you got?” Sam questioned over his radio, but Bono didn’t answer, and Sam’s chest tightened up. It took longer than they had hoped to forge their way across the swampland, pushing dead tree trunks and palm leaves like a bulldozer before them, but they finally pulled into the village, their engines racing like a drag racer.

They found Bono sitting on a log next to the fire. The village leader was next to him, and the two men were talking like they were old friends. Bono motioned to his comrades as they came racing in. He pointed to the fire, where some fishes were frying on sticks that had been laid across the fire.

The other Deltas got out and walked toward him.

“So … I’m assuming there aren’t any bad guys?” Sam started to question.

“Not so much as a pea shooter,” Bono answered him. “And Sayid ell-Marhsif here has assured me that he loves the Americans and would never aid the terrorists. He had four sons; they are all gone, taken by Saddam’s army. He has nothing but his fishing now. No grandchildren. No wife.”

Sam bowed to the old man, who grinned toothlessly back at him.

“And Ell-Marhsif has been kind enough to offer us dinner,” Bono said.

Sam looked down at the fish. “They look like carp.”

“Yeah, but if you cook them long enough, they taste like chicken,” Bono said.

*******

Standing in the Operations Center, Sam smiled as he remembered that first night on patrol. Yes, Bono had proven thorough, ingenious, and ready to think outside the box. He would do anything to get the job done. Put him in a firefight and he wouldn’t hesitate. But he cared about the Iraqis almost as much as he cared about his own, and he had the ability to think about the larger picture at hand. If there was one thing Sam had learned, it was to respect and appreciate the opportunity to work with men like that.

Sam took a deep breath, and then walked toward his friend. “What’s up?” he asked as he sat on a metal chair next to him.

The other captain looked up. “Three hundred and eleven down,” he replied.

Sam stared straight ahead. “Fifty-four days to go.”

“Yeah, unless we get extended.”

Sam took out a handful of bubble gum, offered one to the captain, then shoved a couple of pieces in his mouth. Double Bubble®. Delicious. He’d been an avid chewer since his days in Little League. “Not going to happen,” he answered after softening the gum in his mouth. “We’re on our way home, my friend. They’re not extending soldiers any longer. They won’t keep us for more than a year.”

Bono huffed. “Regular army, maybe. Air Force pukes—no offense to your old man, the general—may be true as well. Those guys are filling their deployments then heading back home. But you know how it is for us Deltas. They don’t care if it takes us a month, a year, two years. Deltas don’t rotate home until the job’s done. And this is a freakin’ big job.”

Sam didn’t answer for a moment. Bono was probably right. “Life sucks when you’re a Delta.”

“Which is why we fought so hard to get here. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t love you, baby, you know that,” he reached over and slapped a desert cockroach off his knee, “but dude, unless you’re willing to dye your hair blond and start wearing a dress, I wanna go home.”

Sam chewed, blew a little bubble, and nodded his head.

The two men were quiet a minute, both of them lost in thought. Talk of home had a way of doing that.

“Three hundred and eleven,” the captain repeated after a while.

“Fifty-four and counting,” Sam answered again.

The unit radio crackled with static behind them and Bono looked at it, expecting something, but no voices came through.

“You’ve got tactical operations center duty all day?” Sam asked him.

“Until noon, that’s all.”

Sam motioned toward the nearly empty Operations Center. Two young specialists were working at computers, and there were some voices from behind the commander’s closed door, but other than that, they were the only ones there. “Not a bad day to have desk duty,” he offered. “You’re not missing any action. Nice and quiet. If you’ve got to sit at a desk, you got a pretty good day.”

The tactical radios crackled again as one of the teams called in their position report. Bono keyed the microphone and acknowledged with a sharp “Roger,” then noted the time on his log.

“Who’s out there?” Sam wondered, nodding his head toward the radio.

“That was the Snowmen. They and the Tiger team are on security patrol around Al-Attina and Tirkish. We heard last night that—”

The radio crackled again. “Breadman, Tiger Two,” a soldier cut in.

Bono picked up the small FM microphone and answered, “Go, Tiger.”

“Breadman, we’ve got something here.” There was an unmistakable hesitation in the radio operator’s voice. “We’ve got a small car,” he went on, “license plate reads Juliet, Romeo, niner, niner, four, Romeo. Take a look at it, will you? Something’s not right.”

Bono sat up instantly and motioned to one of the young specialists sitting at the computer four empty seats away. She had already copied the license plate information and was entering the query into the INMEDS computer, the multi-unit, multiservice database of automobiles, names, addresses, phone numbers, locations, aliases, Iraqi driver’s license numbers, anything that could be used to track an individual or group of people in Iraq.

While the specialist tapped at her computer, Bono spoke again into his microphone. “What’s the situation there, Tiger Two?” he asked. “Do you need some support?”

There was a moment of silence until the soldier came back. “Negative, Breadman. It’s probably nothing. We’ve got a small sedan parked in a private driveway on the south end of the block.” While he spoke, Sam reached over and pulled out a large urban map showing the narrow alleys and crooked roads that made up the small town of Al-Attina, an old industrial town seven kilometers south of the international airport. He slid the map across the desk to Bono, who turned it 180 degrees so it faced him, then tapped his pencil on a narrow alley off one of the main thoroughfares.

“Tiger,” he interrupted, “confirm your location is Twenty-one and Lashihhia?”

“Roger,” the soldier came back. “And, like I was saying, we’ve got an abandoned vehicle on the street. It’s got a small child locked inside. Looks like he’s no more than two, maybe two-and-a-half-years old. The windows are rolled up, and he’s dying in there. We’ve tried to open the doors, but they’re locked. I’ve got some of my guys going house to house along the street here, but so far either no one is home or they claim they don’t know who he is.”

Bono straightened up, his face turning tense. He looked at one of the specialists, who shot a quick look back at him. “Anything in the INMEDS?” he demanded.

“Nothing so far, sir. The license plate isn’t in the database. The vehicle, or at least that license plate number, isn’t associated with any terrorists or insurgents that we know.”

“What vehicle is the license plate identified with?”

She ran her finger down the screen. “An ‘80 BMW 320i. Red. Sedan.

“You copy that, Tiger?” Bono had been holding down his microphone switch, allowing the radio to transmit the conversation.

“Roger that, boss. Ain’t no Beemer here. We’ve got an old Toyota.”

“Which means the car or the plates are stolen.”

Bono released the transmit button and waited.

“Copy that, sir.” Tiger cautiously replied.

Bono dropped his head as he thought. Sam moved toward him, glancing down at the map.

“Breadman,” the radio crackled again. “Stolen or whatever—and come on, half the vehicles in Baghdad are running on bogus plates—we’ve got to do something. This kid is dying in there. It’s over ninety on the street. It must be more than one twenty inside the vehicle. He’s lethargic and sweating. Now he’s just lying on the seat. He’s flushed and dehydrated. We’ve got to get him out of there.”

Bono didn’t hesitate. “No!” he replied. “Do not touch the child! This is a family issue. You’ve got to find his parents. They have to be in one of the houses somewhere.”

The soldier hesitated, and then called back again. “Breadman, we’ve been up and down this block twice already. There’s almost no one home, but you know how it is, most of these guys are too scared of us. They won’t answer their doors, and we don’t want to bust them down. And yeah, I know we don’t want to get involved in some lousy child-abuse thing, but I’m telling you, this is a cute little boy and we’ve got to get him out of this car. Sergeant Brunner is standing here beside me. He’s going to bust the front window, and then we’ll unlock the door. We’ll be careful not to hurt him, but we’ve got to get him out of there.”

“NO!” Bono screamed.

The radio crackled and went dead.

*******

The car bomb had been planted inside the passenger’s side of the door. The terrorist had rigged the device to explode when the window was broken or the car door unlocked. Based on the power of the detonation, the explosives forensic specialist estimated that the bomb was packed with ten to twelve pounds of dynamite, enough to kill everyone within twenty meters of the car.

Four U.S. troops, all members of Bono’s and Brighton’s unit, had been killed trying to rescue the little boy from the car. Another seven were wounded, almost the entire Tiger team, some of them critically burned and scarred. The entire afternoon was spent evacuating them, with medivac helicopters deployed from as far away as Kirkuk. While the wounded were cared for and evacuated, two more Delta teams, Sam’s included, were deployed to the area, where they searched house to house, questioning everyone they could find within four blocks of the explosion. They learned the automobile had been parked and deserted late in the afternoon of the day before. Apparently, the little boy had spent part of a day, a night, and the morning alone in the abandoned car packed with dynamite, and all for the opportunity to blow a couple of U.S. soldiers to bits.

The terrorists knew the soldiers would help the little boy when they found him. No way they would leave him to die in the car.

Although Sam and his team interrogated everyone in the neighborhood, they learned little else and took no one into custody. This was a battle-worn area, with an explosive mix of Sunnis and Shiites, and the locals had learned it was far better, and much safer, not to say anything.

All they were able to find of the little boy was one of his feet, the shoe still attached but split at the toes, which had been blown across the street and through a small apartment window, where it landed on the floor.

*******

Late that night, Sam lay awake on his cot. His gut burned inside him, and his fists were clenched at his side.

He pictured the scene again and again. His dead comrades blown to pieces. The shoe of the little boy. The fire and the smell.

He cursed in frustration, a rage that boiled over inside. He cursed the whole war. It was pointless and worthless, a complete waste of time. What were they doing, losing good men like this, all in a fruitless attempt to save the population of this stinking country from themselves.

These people simply weren’t worth it.

They should pack up and leave them to rot in their hell, leave them to canker in this cancer they loved so well. They were cowards, afraid to fight for themselves. Leave them. Not look back. Write them off, every one of them.

*******

As Sam cursed bitterly, a black angel hunched beside him, kneeling, his arms at his side, his mouth pulled into a tight and hideous frown. His teeth flashed, the only white on his face, for his eyes were as dark and lifeless as the black hole in his soul.

“You hate them,” Balaam whispered in the soldier’s ear. “These people are all idiots. Savages. Animals. They aren’t capable of freedom. They’re too stupid, too weak. They aren’t like you, so clever, so capable, and so strong. You are so much better than they are, so much smarter and good. Look at them all. Take a look at this place! Is there anything worth fighting for here? Is there any good in this land?”

Balaam took a deep breath, thinking as he glanced at the other American soldiers who were sleeping around them. How he hated them all! How he hated what they stood for and the things they had done! How he hated their kindness and the reasons they fought!

*******

Sam wrestled on his cot, stretching his legs uncomfortably. He felt agitated and angry. Hatred was building inside. He sat up on his cot and rubbed his hands through his hair, his bare chest glistening in the dim, moonlit night. His dog tags hung from his neck, and the chain swayed against his chest as he rubbed his eyes.

*******

“You hate them!” Balaam continued to hiss in Sam’s ear. “They smell. They are dirty. These people are not like you. They are not as good, not as strong. They are lazy. They are stupid and evil and stubborn and weak. Look at you! Look where you are! This hell-hole of misery! Once the main force pulled out, the entire thing collapsed, leaving not an inch of progress. Then what is all this for!

“These people, they’re not good, they are . . . don’t you know? . . . something else . . . something less . . . something unworthy of democracy and the things you fight for.”

*******

Sam shook his head and frowned, forcing the thoughts from his mind. He knew they weren’t true, and he was ashamed for even thinking them.

But the little boy. The youngest martyr. How could he reconcile that?!

He struggled again, trying to force the depressing thoughts from his mind. And though Balaam kept hissing at him, he wasn’t listening anymore.

Yes, there were times when he wondered—times when he had his doubts, but he knew that it was not the Iraqis’ fault. For almost three thousand years, Iraqis had lived through a nearly endless cycle of subjection and strife. The idea of democracy was completely foreign to them. Foreign to their Muslim roots. Foreign to the traditions of their tribes.

But they wanted it or something like it. At least most of them did. It was just that there were enough of the others to make it so difficult.

Sam shook his head in frustration, thinking of the dead little boy. That was the real tragedy. All the children. They were innocent. And far too often, they took the brunt of the war. Not from the U.S. soldiers; the U.S. military took exceptional pains to protect civilians and innocents. But these insurgents, these evil men who claimed to be fighting for the people but were clearly fighting for the power they craved, they were all too willing to fight their battles between the arms of another man’s children, using them as shields or as bait, as diversions or screens, taking any advantage the children might give them to spring a surprise.

Maybe because he had suffered as a little boy, Sam had an exceptional soft spot, an almost deadly weakness, for the children he saw. He wondered again, and not for the first time, if there wasn’t something he could do for these innocents. He had see far too many suffer—the little boy in the car, the young woman in Iran, so many others through the last year. If he could just think of something, anything, that might make a difference in even one of their lives.

TEN

Camp Freedom, Iraq

A blazing sandstorm had wrapped Camp Freedom in a miserable blanket of suffocating brown dirt and sand as fine as talcum powder. It turned the afternoon a dismal brown while coating everything in fine grit, bringing security operations to a slow and gloomy crawl.

Sam stood alone in his tent. He tied a brown handkerchief over his mouth and nose, pulled his combat goggles down over his eyes, fastened the Velcro® collar on his combat jacket, and headed out the tent door. As soon as he stepped into the wind, he felt the sand blowing down his collar, up his sleeves, around his fastened pant legs, and into his ears. He lifted a hand to block the wind as he made his way to the Operations Center. Before stepping inside, he shook off his clothes as best he could, then dropped the handkerchief from his face and squeezed through the door, sliding in quickly to keep the sand at bay. A temporary shield had been put up between the door and the interior of the tent, and he brushed himself off from his boots to his hair, then pushed the heavy cloth back and stepped into the room.

The Operations Center was crowded and noisy. The sandstorm had significantly complicated combat operations, and the officers and senior enlisted men were busy working on their contingency plans. Sam saw Bono sitting at a makeshift plywood table in a quiet corner at the back of the center. Spread out on the desk in front of him were several satellite photographs, his next patrol order, a communications plan, and several other items.

The patrol order included the detailed rules of engagement for the mission: a three- or four-page analysis of the anticipated enemy action, the purpose of the mission, the position of friendly forces, including the location and availability of Air Force fighters for ground support, ingress and emergency egress routes, communications plans, radio frequencies, code words and the meanings of various smoke and illumination signals, and a list of the teams that were assigned for backup and support. Written in large block letters across the cover page of the patrol order were the words “Prepare Now or Die,” a fairly effective means of reminding the squad leaders of the importance of preparing for their patrol. And though reviewing the patrol orders was one of the least liked tasks for most officers, Bono took the responsibility very seriously.

Sam walked toward him, but Bono kept his head in his work. Watching him, Sam thought he seemed to be nervous. Sam knew that another squad leader had been reassigned recently to logistics or chow hall or some other non-combat duty, and that Bono was determined not to make a miserable mistake, though it wasn’t his career he was worried about nearly so much as his men.

Bono was writing notes in the margin of his tactical map; Sam watched over his shoulder as he worked. In the corner of the desk, Bono had placed a picture of his wife and daughter. Most soldiers had some kind of charm or pre-mission routine that was supposed to bring them good luck. Some wore the same color underwear each time, some spit in the wind, some chewed the same gum, kissed a cross, wrote a letter, or listened to the same song. Bono’s ritual was to tape a picture of his family on the wall next to the table while he prepared for patrol. Sam didn’t know why, but, of course, he never asked. It was considered extremely bad form to question another’s pre-combat routine.

Peering at the picture of the beautiful little family, Sam felt a tiny sinking in his gut. He moved toward the picture, looking closely while Bono kept his head down.

Will I ever have this? he wondered. He could only hope that he would.

Family was something Sam rarely talked about. His biological father, the old drunk who occasionally made a little money as a charter fisherman on the southern Virginia coast, and his mother, who had deserted him to the old man when he was only eight, had never been anything but a stress in his life. Yeah, they were back together now, and it seemed they were getting along, but after years of abuse, it was impossible for him to think of them as his mom and dad. If it hadn’t been for the Brightons … Sam hated to even think. They had saved him. They were his family now.

But still he felt, deep inside, that he wasn’t really one of them. The Brightons seemed to have something that he would never have, some innate goodness, some moral bearing that he just didn’t possess. They were as straight down the line as anyone Sam had ever known, and he wasn’t quite like that, though he had really tried. Sometimes he thought there was something inside them, something that ran through their veins, that made them different from him, even better somehow. He had tried. He had tried really hard. He was still trying. But he fell short so often, it seemed it just didn’t work.

Sam’s thoughts were interrupted when Bono finally looked up. “Still blowing out?” he asked wearily.

Sam nodded to the flapping sides of the tent. “No. The wind has died down completely.”

Bono turned, his face still blank.

“No helicopters will be flying tonight,” Sam added as an afterthought.

Bono looked down at his map and mumbled, “That means no air support.” He shook his head.

Bono’s desert fatigue shirt was open, showing the dog tags that dangled from the chain on his neck. Hanging next to the dog tags was a small silver shield. Lots of soldiers wore them. They called the little charm the Shield of Strength. Josue 1:9 was etched on the back—not the entire scripture, just the reference. Sam, who also wore a Shield of Strength, had the scripture memorized: “Behold I command thee, take courage, and be strong. Fear not and be not dismayed: because the Lord thy God is with thee in all things whatsoever thou shalt go to.”

Subconsciously, he reached under his fatigues and felt for the Shield of Strength there. Squeezing it, he asked Bono, “You thirsty?”

“Feels like I’ve got half the desert stuck in my throat.”

Sam cocked his head toward the rear door of the Operations Center. Bono nodded, stood up, and followed him through a wooden door that opened up to a wide canvas hallway, then to another tent, which was set up as a lounge for the unit’s soldiers. Once inside the second tent, they made their way to the refrigerator and grabbed some sodas, then dropped onto a couple of cheap, folding chairs. It was quiet here, and the two men relaxed for a while. Bono finished his soda in three long gulps, then took the picture of his family, which he had been holding in his hand, and tucked it inside the chest pocket on his shirt.

Sam watched him. “Do you always think of them?” he wondered.

“You know, it’s funny,” Bono replied. “When I’m out there in the fight, I don’t think about my family. I don’t think about my wife, my kid, nothing like that. I don’t think about going home, the reason I’m fighting, the idea of freedom or America or any of that. All I think about is the guys in the team. Protecting each other. Keeping each other safe.”

Sam didn’t answer. He felt the same way.

“We are the only men in the world who know what that means, to fight and die with your brothers. It’s a huge privilege, man.”

Sam held his cold soda bottle to his cheek, feeling the condensation cooling his skin. The lounge wasn’t air-conditioned; despite the strong wind, it was hot inside.

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Bono asked, staring blankly ahead.

“What’s that?” Sam replied.

Bono crushed his plastic soda bottle, walked to the fridge, pulled out another soda, then came back and sat down. “People say American soldiers fight to protect their freedoms,” he started. “Some people write us letters and thank us for keeping them safe. The politicians back home always thank us. Some are even sincere in their thanks. They say we are fighting for their freedoms. But I don’t think that’s true.”

Sam laughed. “You going ‘Jane Fonda’ on me, baby?”

“No, really,” Bono answered. “Think about it, man. When was the last time Americans were actually fighting for their freedom? You might have to go back to the Revolutionary War. That might have been the last time.”

“I don’t know, Bono. How about the Civil War, boss?”

“I understand the North was fighting to preserve the Union, but I think most of those men were fighting for something else. I just don’t believe, I can’t believe in my gut that men were laying it on the line there, laying it down like they did, just to protect the Union. I think there was more to it than that.”

“What do you think it was?”

“They were freeing the slaves. Fighting to free other men. Either that or trying to keep the Union indivisible by preventing Southern secession. Take your pick.”

Sam remained skeptical. “What about the First and Second World Wars?” he asked.

“World War One was plainly and simply a fight to save Europe. We had no national interest, nothing really at stake. World War Two? The Japanese were our enemy, the ones who attacked. We could have confined our war to the Pacific and won easily. We could have let Stalin and Hitler divide Europe, knowing they would eventually turn on each other and devour themselves. But we put our own interest aside and saved Europe first. Again, another fight to save other men.

“I know a lot of people like to talk about the Vietnam War, but can anyone make a serious argument that we were fighting for imperial power? I mean, come on, man, what did the Vietnamese have to offer if we had conquered them? Nothing. Nada. Not so much as a bowl of rice. So why were we there, if not to save the South Vietnamese? And if you want to know what happens when we fail, you should look no further than Indochina. How many million Vietnamese and Cambodians were slaughtered because we failed in that war!? The killing fields should haunt for the next hundred years.”

Sam didn’t answer, he just listened, content to sip his soda for now.

“Kuwait?” Bono continued, his voice rising now. “Afghanistan and Iraq? Yeah, we needed stability in the region, but if all we were interested in was the oil, we could have been like the Germans and French who propped up Saddam to keep the oil rolling. Heaven knows he would have sold us all we needed. That isn’t the reason we came here. There was more to it than that. Yeah, I think we needed to double tap the Taliban and kill Hussein, and yes, I’m glad that happened. In that sense, you might argue that we went into those countries to protect the freedoms we had. But though that might have been why we came in, it is not why we stayed. We could have eliminated the threat, then skipped out of town. But that’s not how we work. We stay to protect the freedoms of those left behind. We stay to help them build a government that will keep them free.

“Now think about that, Captain Brighton. I believe it is true. We don’t fight for our freedoms. We fight for much more than that. We fight for the freedom of others.”

Sam was shifted on his chair, adjusting the sidearm in the drop-down Kydex® holster that was strapped to his thigh. “I guess that makes us the good guys,” he said.

“Which is what makes it so hard.”

Sam looked confused. “I don’t get it,” he said.

Bono looked away, and then rolled his neck to crunch out the kinks. “Going home,” he answered. “I mean, I want to see my family in the very worst way. I want to hold my daughter. I know that she needs me, and I want to be there for her. But I can’t reconcile the way I feel at home with the way I feel about being here too. This mission. My comrades. The thrill of the fight.” Bono leaned forward awkwardly and looked into Sam’s eyes. Sam could see that this was his confession, he was getting it out, and Sam let him talk. “I would give anything in the world to be home right now. But when I get there, I know I’m going to miss being here. I’m going to miss the battles. I’m going to miss the thrill. But mostly, I’m going to miss the feeling of doing something right, something that helps another. I’m rock-solid on that, Sam. I know what we’re doing here is part of a good work. And I’m going to miss it. Now tell me, is that wrong?”

Sam thought a moment, and then raised his head. “I don’t know, captain. I think maybe you’re asking the wrong guy.”

Bono sat back and waited, and so Sam went on. “Is it wrong to be a warrior? Maybe it is. We are so steeped in violence, it can be offensive sometimes. Americans like their heroes soft now, you know, soft and cute. I don’t know, but it seems there’s almost a victim mentality in our heroes today: A POW who was taken captive and suffered, a soldier who died for his friends—these are the heroes Americans are most comfortable with. They don’t like their warriors too battle hardened. That scares them now. But that’s you and me. That’s who we are. We find and kill the enemy. That is a day’s work to us. Is that evil? It can’t be. Not when it’s for the right cause. So you want to go home, but you want to stay in the fight. You feel the claws of this mission because they have latched into you.

“So I don’t know, Bono, but this much I believe. There aren’t many people in the world who get to do something like this. Most will miss it. Most are never given the chance. But you and I, and a few others, have been given this opportunity to do something for others that they can’t do for themselves. Are you wrong to appreciate that? I don’t think you are. Some day you’ll go home to your family and hold each of them close, and you’ll know you did your duty. How many people can say that?”

The two men fell into silence, listening to the wind blow. “You know what I look forward to more than anything else?” Bono said after they had sat for a while.

“What’s that?”

“There are a thousand things I miss: my wife, my own bed, watching the Yankees on TV, getting up in the morning without having sand fleas in my hair. But there’s nothing I miss more than holding my little girl. More than anything else, I miss picking her up and holding her in my arms. She lays her head on my shoulder. She clings to my arms. She has a way of molding to my body, like she was meant to be there. That’s what I look forward to more than anything else, when I step off that airplane and she runs to my arms. When that happens, I will feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

Sam took a drink of his soda, which had grown warm and a little flat. “You are lucky,” he answered.

Bono nodded and smiled.

“Fifty-two days,” Sam muttered.

“And counting,” Bono said.

ELEVEN

One measure of any tyrannical government’s willingness to control its people is the thoroughness with which it suppresses the rights of its most vulnerable citizens. Throughout the entire Persian Gulf, the ruling mullahs, presidents, and kings have enforced humiliating and sadistic rules on women and girls, enslaving them in a system that, at best, demands segregation and second-class status and treats them no better than beasts of burden, and at worst, kills them without fear, remorse or shame to protect the family’s “honor.” In far too many places, women cannot be educated, work, or drive. In far too many places it is illegal and immoral for a woman to be examined by a male doctor, but since there are no opportunities for education, few female doctors can be found. And there are too many places where lashing and stoning are appointed for the smallest infraction of law.

It would be easy to presume that a thriving sex trade inside a theocracy would be an unsustainable contradiction. Most would think that a country founded and ruled by Islamic fundamentalists would decry such a practice. But a substantive look under the surface reveals why just the opposite is true. Exploitation is not only possible, it is almost inevitable in a culture that tolerates repression, a lesson that has been demonstrated repeatedly.

Although it is impossible to determine the number of victims, U.N. officials who have worked inside Iran say there has been a nearly 500% increase in the number of teenage prostitutes since the revolution. In Tehran alone, there are nearly 100,000 women and girls in prostitution. Most of them live on the streets. The “lucky” ones live in brothels. Many Iranian girls, some as young as ten, have been sold into slavery in various nations around the world. The Interpol bureau in Tehran reports that the trade in young women and girls is one of the most profitable business activities in Iran. Many of the young women who find themselves caught in this evil web are girls from the countryside, where poverty and ignorance abound. Worse, slave traders seem willing to take advantage of any tragedy to fulfill the demand. Following the earthquake in Bam, a disaster that claimed some 50,000 lives, orphaned girls were swept up and transported to slave markets in Tehran.[1]

And Persian women aren’t the only victims of this flourishing trade. Young women from the ghettos of Gaza, the remote villages of Egypt, and crowded city streets of Kuwaiti have been taken from their families, some even sold by their parents, and forced into prostitution in other areas of the world. Victims have been found in Qatar,[2] Kuwait,[3] and the United Arab Emirates.[4] In the northeastern Iranian province of Khorasan, local police report that girls are being sold to Pakistani men.[5] In the southeastern border province of Sistan Baluchestan, thousands of Iranian girls reportedly have been sold to Afghans. Perhaps the most creative justification of prostitution takes place inside Tehran, where, to control the spread of HIV, officials of the Iranian Social Department of the Interior Ministry have proposed setting up “morality houses.”[6] There, using the traditional religious customs, a couple may be married for as little as one hour.

And the West is not free of this crime. Police in Tehran have uncovered prostitution and slavery rings with ties to France and Germany, England, and Spain. Turkey is a hotbed of trade heading to the United States, with underground auctions not unlike those that operated in northern Africa some three hundred years ago. And the prices are astounding. A young girl may be bought for as little as a few thousand dollars. But, as with everything else, beauty commands a much higher price. Someone with just the right look might fetch ten to fifteen thousand dollars, maybe more.

Ghesha Ghetto, East of Kirkuk, Iraq

The store was a dilapidated slab of concrete floor and plywood and cement walls situated in the southeastern ghettos of Kirkuk. It was a dark, mean place, a place where the light didn’t shine and the darkness of evil settled on even the brightest day.

The Ghesha ghetto was a small, isolated triangle created by a fork in a slow, brackish river and some low hills to the north. There were only two roads leading to the ghetto, and a wall of rundown buildings and old warehouses formed a broken barrier that concealed most of the occupants within. The ghetto was off-limits to the U.S. military—the area was considered too dangerous and without any tactical interest—and even the local police rarely strayed between the banks of the river. Occasionally, when the sniping or pirating became entirely untenable, the regional Iraqi leaders would send in a heavily armored patrol, but the patrol never stayed more than a few days before fleeing again, leaving the ghetto to feed on itself. Like a starving rat snake that was slowly swallowing its own tail, the ghetto consumed all its young in turf battles and hate until there was very little left that was worth fighting over.

There was no law or authority in the ghetto, and the insurgents and foreign mercenaries took advantage of that, creating a world of darkness and pain for all of the residents. The business deals that were done here were nearly unspeakable. Everything was for sale in the ghetto: weapon, drugs, old women slaves, little girls, stolen pieces of art, counterfeits and other things. And the prices were cheap.

The store owner sat near the back wall of his shop, alone, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. The shelves were mostly empty though there were a few things to buy: cigarettes from Europe and Turkey, a few canned goods and household supplies. Outside, the streets were cluttered and noisy with the sound of smoke-belching autos, tiny motorcycles, and many people, their shoes thumping along on the ancient cobblestone streets. Children could be heard laughing and calling to each other from where they played down the narrow street, and the store owner couldn’t help but scowl at the sound.

The owner’s face was rough, pock-marked and sunken under his eyes. His lips were fat and dry, with tiny specks of dry spit at the corners of his mouth. He glanced at his watch, and then turned his eyes on the door. Five minutes later, exactly on schedule, the two men walked in, one American, the other he didn’t know, maybe Middle Eastern, probably Afghan, judging by the way he was dressed, with his silk trousers, black vest, and thin canvas boots. The American was young and thick. He could be strong, or he could be fat, it was hard to tell, for he hid his body under a loose-fitting jacket and oversized shirt. His long hair was bleached and tangled, as if he spent a lot of time in the sun. A beach kid. Venice Beach. The owner had heard about them. Spoiled, rotten children with too much money and too much time, corrupted and carnal, thinking they could buy whatever they fancied in the world.

Yes, he knew about them. And yes, they were right. If they had enough money, they could buy anything.

The old man stared but didn’t say anything as he continued to smoke. The dark-skinned man pretended to shop, picking up a rusted can of potatoes stolen from a U.N. convoy, but the other one nodded to the shop owner, then moved to the back of the store.

“You Kiraddak?” the American asked quickly. Being the customer, the one with the money, the foreigner was in the superior position and he wasted no time with small talk or friendly conversation.

The other man, the dark one, watched anxiously from behind a low shelf, his black eyes always darting as if he expected disaster to strike. He was there to cover his master’s back, and he kept his head moving, searching for the ambush.

The shop owner didn’t answer but stared arrogantly. Yes, they were the buyers, and there were many other places these men could go, but he also knew that they were hungry and eager to close the deal. His contact had warned him. “These guys are amateurs,” he’d been told. So though they held the money, the Iraqi knew he was in a position to take advantage.

He stared at the American. “Who sent you?” he asked.

The foreigner reached into his pocket and pulled out his own cigarettes. The Iraqi recognized the red-and-white packaging of the American cigarettes, recognized around the world, and stared as the American flipped the pack with his wrist. A single cigarette protruded from the half-opened top, and the American extracted it with his lips, then took the cigarette in his hand and offered it to the Iraqi. The Iraqi reached up with brown fingers and took the cigarette, tucking it in his shirt pocket, saving it for a later time when he could enjoy the rich flavor by himself.

The American slipped the cigarettes back in his pocket. “You Kiraddak?” he asked again, this time more tersely.

The old man patiently placed his hands on his knees. “Who sent you?” he repeated as he leaned back against the cold wall.

The American fidgeted again, then answered. “Al Mohammad. From Istanbul. He said you would be waiting for us.”

The old man smiled slightly and nodded. “Sayid,” he said.

The American moved toward the Iraqi. “We want to see the product,” he said.

The old man scowled and answered, “I promise, you will be satisfied.”

“No. We want to see some pictures before we close the deal.”

The Iraqi grunted and pushed himself up. Moving to the front counter, he lifted a key from a pewter key chain hanging around his neck and unlocked the bottom drawer. Sorting through a stack of pictures, he extracted a few and threw them on the counter. The two men moved forward. They were obviously too eager, though they tried to hide their emotions behind their cold stares.

“These are from the territory we asked for?” the American asked.

The Iraqi grunted. “That’s what I’ve been told. They were e-mailed to me a couple days ago.”

The American leafed through the pictures quickly and tossed them aside. “No,” he said angrily, “none of these will do.”

The Iraqi grunted. Really, he thought, was it that big a deal? The shelf life of his product was just a few years anyway. Did it make that much difference? He grunted again. “What?” he asked sarcastically. “Too young or too old?”

The American looked away, a flash of anger in his eyes.

The Iraqi shook his head. Turning back to the pile, he sorted again, and then threw a couple more pictures on the counter. The American looked at them quickly and then pushed them aside too.

“Help me,” the old man scolded. “What are you looking for?”

The American told him, and the Iraqi snorted, then thumbed through the pictures again. “This is your last choice,” he huffed as he tossed a handful of black-and-whites pictureson the counter.

The American froze as he stared at the pictures, his hands shaking. He nodded, his eyes burning bright. His buddy gritted, his jaw closing in a smile.

This man was so eager.

So close to a deal.

“How much?” the American demanded.

The Iraqi stared at the eager eyes and doubled the price quickly in his head. “Twenty thousand,” he answered. “U.S. dollars. Nothing else. And we want half up front.”

The American scowled. “That’s not what we agreed!” he protested.

The old man nodded to the pictures. “But that was before you saw her,” he replied. He continued to study the American, who continued to stare.

The Iraqi knew that he had them; there was no doubt in his mind. Ignorant American, he laughed to himself as he watched the Yankee stare at the floor. He could have had the same thing for four or five thousand if he had just played it cool. But no, he was stupid. And the old man would make a huge profit, which would make his masters proud.

“Twenty thousand,” the Iraqi repeated firmly. “Half now and half later and not one penny less. Cash. All American. And you must decide now.”

The two men glanced at each other, and the American swore bitterly. “When will you be ready?” he demanded.

“The pipeline is in place. I only wish it were as simple to smuggle whiskey or cigarettes.”

The foreigners glanced at each other.

“OK,” the American finally said. “Twenty thousand. But I want delivery this week.”

The old man grunted. “It will take another two weeks.”

“Two weeks!” complained the American. “I thought you said it was easy.”

“It is easy, friend,” the Iraqi replied. “But this is a special order, and custom orders take time. So stay, enjoy our hospitality. Sightsee for a while. Come back in two weeks with the rest of the money and you will get what you want.”

The American picked up the photographs, his hands shaking again.

Although they had been taken from a long way away, the photographs had been cropped to show Azadeh’s face very clearly. She looked very scared in the first photograph, her lips drawn and tight as she gazed past the camera at something unseen in the distance. The second photo showed her checking through the in-processing desk at Khorramshahr, her dark eyes shining intently, a white scarf covering her hair. The last one showed her walking through the muddy camp, a burlap sack under her arm.

She looked vulnerable and lonely, yet there was a light in her eyes.

How long would that light shine? Not very long, the American was sure.

The American’s voice took on a deadly edge. “Don’t disappointment me,” he threatened the Iraqi as he leaned toward him. “I want the girl in ten days, or you and I will have issues, my friend.”

TWELVE

The Orchid Flower Presidential Palace, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

The royal Saudi family had been on a nonstop program of building palace since 1990. The king and his sons had been spending billions of dollars on their homes, including man-made lakes, gold trim, diamond-studded fixtures, marble floors, and other luxuries that beautified their palaces and those of their supporters as well. The security features, extensive, in some cases even formidable, were designed to protect the royal family from their own people as much as from their enemies around the world. Incredible gardens surrounded each of the dozens of palaces, gardens that required large amounts of water, often in drought-stricken areas. Beyond that, there were sophisticated waterfalls, interconnected swimming pools, aquariums, and deer farms, all of which required enormous quantities of water, all dredged up by the powerful pumps that had been dropped into the underground aquifer.

The Orchid Flower Presidential Palace had always been one of the king’s favorite retreats. Built over 4.2 square kilometers and completed in 1998, the palace compound contained a fabulous central home, with five smaller palaces for various wives and family members, a presidential compound and VIP residences for visiting dignitaries, all surrounded by three lakes, five man-made waterfalls, and two fishing holes.

But though the palace had been a favorite of the king, he was dead now, and the new king, Al-Rahman, didn’t care for it much. It certainly wasn’t what he would have built, but it would have to do for now.

King al-Rahman sat in his enormous leather chair, smoking a thick brown cigar and sipping the illegal Jack Daniels® whiskey his brother had brought back from his recent trip to New York. As he looked at the huge office around him, the Saudi king couldn’t help but smile.

If this was what it felt like to be king, he was going to like it. He was going to like it a lot.

Sitting there with his smoke and his whiskey, knowing the throne was now his, was the happiest moment in his life—a life that had, so far, been altogether too dull.

Prince al-Rahman was the second son born to King Fahd bin Saud Aziz, monarch of the House of Saud, grandson of King Saud Aziz, the first king of modern-day Saudi Arabia. From a young age, it had been clear that Prince al-Rahman was not the preferred son. Highly intelligent and strikingly handsome but with an infrequent smile, the young prince had always fallen in the shadow of his older brother, the now dead Prince Saud bin Faysal. From the time they were old enough to compete in soccer or wrestle together on the tile floors, the younger son had been overshadowed again and again, always beaten by his older brother no matter what they did. And Prince al-Rahman knew from a very young age who the next king would be: the first son. The loved son. The preferred son of the king.

The first son owned the birthright.

The second son did not.

The first son owned the kingdom.

The second son didn’t own a thing.

But death had changed everything.

King al-Rahman thought, how many years, how many lives, how much pleasure and pain had gone into this moment? How much effort and planning had brought him to this point, when he could sit on the throne and go where he pleased, when he could hold the reins of power without constant fear—fear of his brothers, his father, fear of their kin, fear of the secret Palace Guards or one of the several security organizations his father had created to maintain his great power.

The young king considered his brother, whom he had killed recently along with his brother’s family, his wives and their children, even most of his friends—better to make a clean sweep than to have to spend his nights wondering if he had missed anyone. Yet, here he was now. The first step was complete.

Was he satisfied with his work? Almost perfectly so.

Was he eager for the next action? He could hardly wait.

While smoking, the new king thought of his dead older brother and shivered with pride. Swiveling his office chair, he looked east. From where he sat, the Persian Gulf was a little more than two hundred miles away, but he had walked the gray sands that lined the Saudi beaches at least a hundred times, and he could picture the scene perfectly in his mind, the blue-green water, the pebbled beaches, the burning sun in the sky. The waters were infested with sea snakes and eels, and he knew that, even now, some unseen sea scavenger was nibbling on his brother’s corpse.

I waited. I was patient, he told himself. I paid the price, I bore the burden. I deserve what I have now.

The new king of Saudi Arabia took another quiet drag on his cigar, sipped at the alcohol, and leaned back in his chair.

The truth was, Prince al-Rahman had first thought of killing his brother at a very young age. Indeed, one of the earliest memories he had was of sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at an open cut on his knee. He and his brother had been wrestling on the tile floor, and, being older and larger, Prince Saud had flipped him over his shoulder and Al-Rahman had landed on the knee, splitting the flesh nearly down to the bone. He had grabbed his leg and caught his breath, clenching his teeth, the blood oozing through his fingers as his eyes grew wide in pain. But he hadn’t cried. Not a tear. Not a whimper. He would have died before he would have let his brother see him cry.

Ten minutes later, sitting on the edge of his bed, he had applied a thick bandage, wrapping the white cotton tightly around his bloody leg. As he doctored his own wound, the thoughts had first come into his head.

“He is stronger than you are,” the voice seemed to say.

The young prince was crying angry tears now that he was alone in his room.

“He is stronger than you are,” the voice came again. “He will always be stronger. You must not fight him anymore. Every time you fight by his rules, you end up on the floor.”

The prince shook his head and wiped a quick hand across his eyes.

“He is the oldest, born of the first wife, in every way preferred. Have you seen how your father looks at him? Have you seen the look in your father’s eye?”

Al-Rahman hung his head, taking in a deep sob.

“You might as well get used to it. This is the way it is and the way it will always be. This anger you are feeling, it will never go away. He is the oldest. He is chosen. He will get everything!”

The young prince finished wrapping the bandage and tightened the knot with a quick, angry pull.

The voice continued in a low voice, a cold buzz in his head. As he listened, Al-Rahman felt a sudden surge of emotion in his chest, a hard, growing knot that seemed to pump up his heart. It was cold and unpleasant, but tempting, somehow. Like a moth drawn to fire, he knew it could hurt him, but he wasn’t afraid.

He could have shaken it off. He could have stood up and walked away. He could have fallen to his knees and prayed for the voice to depart. But he didn’t. He wanted it. And he listened carefully.

“He will be the next king,” the voice was hissing now. “He will rule over you unless … . There might be a way if you are strong enough. Strong in other ways. Strong is ways that I could show you. If you show enough courage. If you do what I say … .”

And that was how it had started, such a long time ago. He had been just a child, but he was old enough and smart enough to know. These thoughts didn’t come from Allah. They came from somewhere else.

As the years went by, the voice came with more frequency and force. And the voice seemed to know how he felt. The voice seemed to understand him, his doubts and his fears. It seemed to understand his frustration far better than anyone else.

The day before Al-Rahman’s sixteenth birthday, the voice came again. “Like you, I was rejected,” it spoke in a dry hiss, “just as you have been rejected by the king. I know what it is like to live under a master who is bent on destroying everything that I hold dear, everything that I have built, everything that I have loved.

“I too have been pushed away, forced into the shadows at the back of the room, forced to listen while others proclaimed their great love for the other. I too have been forced to watch as the chosen one absorbed all the attention and power, as if it were his right just because of when he was born.

“So yes, I understand you. I know the pain of being rejected. And what could you do to change it? You could not help when you left your mother’s womb. Is it fair that you were brought into this world under the curse of being the second son?”

The young Al-Rahman sat on the top of a fortified wall that surrounded his father’s mountain palace, looking down on the dry and barren desert below. The sand stretched for miles, and the sun was unbearable. A hot breeze blew up from the desert, and the mountain smelled of dry pine. Al-Rahman stared. His dark skin was dry and he was used to the heat, but he had to squint at the hot sun, and he frowned as he thought.

“He will be the next king.” The voice always came back to this point. “He will leave you with nothing. You will never be anything.”

Although he was smarter than his brother, more capable, and far more willing to work, more willing to do what it took to protect the kingdom from its enemies, both at home and abroad, none of that mattered, for he would never be king. That thought was the most vicious cut, the deepest wound that he could feel. “You will not be king,” the voice hissed again. “Unless … there still might be a way, if you are strong enough. If you are brave enough. If you do what I say.”

Thirty years in the making.

And the voice owned him now.

But none of that mattered, for now he was the king.

*******

King al-Rahman sucked the last puff of smoke from the tight, brown cigar, glanced at his watch, and smashed the cigar’s glowing orange ash on his desk. The executive committee would be gathered. It was time to get back to work.

He walked down three flights of stairs, deep into the underground bowels of the palace, to the secure briefing room. There, his three younger brothers were waiting, along with four of their closest advisers: the commanding general of their military forces, the communications czar, the foreign minister, and, most important of all, the head of state security and palace police.

The underground command center had cinderblock walls and a bare cement floor. It was crowded with banks of telephones and computers along three sides and several large maps along the back wall. Several command consoles sat in the middle of the room, each with a square metal desk and a row of three or four telephones. A ten-foot plasma screen illuminated the front of the room. But the screen was a deep blue; all it showed was the time, the seconds and minutes ticking by on a digital clock in the center. There were no windows in the command center and only one exit, a heavy steel door along the east wall. Although the room had been designed to accommodate the king’s entire security staff, there was no one there besides Al-Rahman’s three brothers and his top advisers, all of them waiting around a dark conference table. They stood when the king entered and remained standing until he had walked to the head of the table and sat down. His three younger brothers sat at the far end of the table. The advisers sat on each side. To the king’s immediate right was General Abaza, head of the state security and palace police.

Out of all the men in the room, General Abaza was the king’s most trusted counselor, the only man he could truly depend on, the only man whom he didn’t suspect he might find standing at the foot of his bed one night, a grim look on his face, a long knife in his hand.

Abaza was a large man, brawny if not particularly bright, and with the instincts of a badger huddled in the back of its cave. Leave him alone, and he was OK. Crowd him, and he would fight you to the death. General Abaza and Al-Rahman had known each other since they had been in primary school and by the time they had reached adolescence they were best friends. The general had proven extremely loyal over the years. Of course, he owed everything he was or ever would be to Al-Rahman, but both men understood that, so the relationship worked.

King al-Rahman smiled as he thought of how he had recently tested the general. It was simple, yet brilliant, and he was proud of the plan that had been carried out just three nights before.

A group of hooded men broke into General Abaza’s home. Brandishing rifles and swords, they rounded up the general, his wife, and four children and herded them into the basement, all the time screaming obscenities and flashing their guns. The children howled in terror. His wife nearly fainted in fear. After gathering the family in a back room, the men pulled back their hoods to reveal painted faces in black and red camouflage. They looked like raging devils, their eyes circled in dark rings, drops of blood dripping from their painted lips. The men stood over the terrified family, all the time screaming and shoving, giving Abaza no time to think, no time to analyze, no time to wonder who they were or what was going on.

The leader moved forward and grabbed the youngest child. Looking into the general’s eyes, he lifted his sword. “Prince Abdullah al-Rahman has killed our king!” he yelled. “He poisoned him. We know that. And he killed the crown prince as well. Now we are going to kill him. And we are going to move tonight. Are you with us or against us? You’ve got five seconds to decide!”

Abaza stared, his eyes wide in terror, his mouth dry as sand.

“Who will you die for!” the terrorist yelled. “Are you loyal to Al-Rahman, or are you on our side? Pledge you will help us kill Al-Rahman, or you and your family are dead!”

Abaza’s Adam’s apple bobbing like a bubble in a sea, his eyes wide in terror. Then he bowed his head, took two steps forward, and dropped to his knees. “I cannot betray him,” he muttered. “If you are going to kill us, I only ask that you kill me first.”

The leader raised his sword over the general’s head. Abaza’s wife screamed. The children cowered in the corner and covered their heads. But the swordsman only grunted, then laughed and fell to his knees. He moved over to the general and took him in his arms. The general looked up, staring into the man’s eyes.

The man rubbed his face, removing part of the camouflage, and removed the black wig. It was Al-Rahman, the new king. His eyes danced with delight.

“So, you are with me, General Abaza?” he laughed to his friend.

The general stared in disbelief then dropped his head into his hands in gut-wrenching relief.

“Good. That is good. You have won my respect, General Abaza. You have won my trust, too. I will never forget you and what you have shown me tonight.”

And Al-Rahman had meant what he said. Abaza was now his most trusted adviser, the only man in the room he knew he could trust with his life.

Al-Rahman glanced at the general, giving him a knowing look, then turned back to the others. Standing, he lifted a finger and held it menacingly in the air. “Brothers,” he said, “my father has passed. The kingdom is secured. We have saved our people, our family, and most importantly the Holy Cities of Allah from an unspeakable catastrophe, a disaster that would have set us back four hundred years.”

The king’s men grunted in false agreement. It was a cynical rationalization, and each of them knew it. They weren’t in this for religion, their nation or Allah. They were in it for the power—the power and the money. It was simple as that. They wanted to control their people. They wanted to control the hundred trillion dollars’ worth of oil under their sand. They wanted to control the significant events in the world. They craved to have other nations adore them, or, if they didn’t adore them, then to fear them, it mattered not which.

Power was their opium, and they were as addicted as any group of men in the world.

So though they grunted in false agreement, their eyes remained dull and dim. The king could lie to them if he wanted, but it didn’t change anything. They knew what they had done and they knew why they had done it.

Al-Rahman stared at his conspirators, then jabbed his finger at the air. “There is a tide, a stinking tide, that rises in our world. We have seen it in Iraq. We’ve seen it in Egypt and Lebanon. It’s starting to belch up in Libya, Pakistan, and Iran. And we’ve got to staunch it before it goes any farther.”

“Yes,” the youngest prince answered. “We must stop it now.”

The other men remained quiet, though they nodded their heads.

“The stench of democracies seems to lift everywhere. It is evil. It is vile. And it is not Allah’s will. It is not the will of Allah for these people to govern themselves. That is why Allah provided royal families. That is why Allah provided Holy Law. That is why Allah provided religious leaders and gave them power. We are the protectors of Mecca, guardians of the most sacred shrine. It is our responsibility, it is our duty, it is our right and our power to stop the flow of democracies in this part of the world. That is the will of Allah. And we will see Allah’s will done!”

The men fell silent. None of them dared to speak. The youngest prince stared at his brother, and then lifted his chin. “Our father,” he started saying.

It was a mistake. The king exploded, leaning across the table, his eyes growing yellow with hate. “My father,” he screamed, “was an evil, foolish man! He was going to decapitate our kingdom. He was going to give it to them!” Al-Rahman stabbed his finger, motioning to some unseen being. “He was going to take my birthright and give it away. But Allah will curse him. I have the seen a vision of his hell. He is there. He is burning. And you will not speak his name. You will not mention our father. I will not hear his name again!”

The young prince fell back, pressing against the back of his chair. The king’s eyes burned through him, practically searing him with their heat. Al-Rahman’s hatred was almost a buzz, a deadly sense of blackness that seemed to suspend in the air. The young prince glanced at his brother, and then dropped his eyes to the floor.

Al-Rahman remained suspended, leaning on the table, his knuckles clenched and white from the weight of his hands. He stared at his brother, then slowly stepped back to his chair. He moved his eyes around the table, taking in each of the men. “My father was a traitor. My older brother was too. They were traitors and fools. And we will never speak of them again!”

The room remained silent until General Abaza answered simply. “Yes, my Sayid,” he spoke for the men. All of them eagerly nodded. It was a fine plan, indeed.

Al-Rahman was silent a long moment. He stood at the table, leaning toward his men. “The battle against democracies has grown bitter, my friends. Bitter as acid. And we are losing, you must know.

“And this thing, this idea, this cancer of freedom they call democracy is a looming crisis that we cannot ignore. If we don’t strike at the root, then we are only fooling ourselves. We can run around chasing sprouts of democracies until we die of old age, dashing from one nation to another, trying to kill each new bud. We can run around, fighting battles in several nations throughout the Middle East, from Jakarta to the West Bank and everything in between. But while we run around on the surface, the problem is taking root under our feet. After watching the problem, I am sure of one thing. We can’t kill all the buds until we kill the mother plant. And we have to kill the mother before she sprouts any more.”

The room fell into silence until the youngest prince spoke again. “But my Blessed Brother, if we are able to cut off their oil … .”

The king raised his hand suddenly. Blessed Brother. Where had that come from? He’d never been called that before. It was a new name. A good name. He liked that a lot.

The younger prince paused, then dared to go on. “My brother, if we cut off all oil shipments through the Persian Gulf, we would hit the Americans where it would hurt them the most. As you have said, our oil is the fuel that drives their economic machine. Without it, they are helpless. They would be brought to their knees. They would crumble like a tower built out of sticks on wet mud. We are sitting on the fuel the entire world needs to survive. If we cut off that power, we can show them where the real power lies.”

Al-Rahman nodded, but his eyes remained firm. “There is no time, brother. Things are changing too fast. The race is on, and we are losing, so we have to be quick. We have to be bolder, more ambitious, more willing to take dangerous risks.

“So yes, we could cut off their oil, and we will do that, no doubt. But there is another way, another plan that is even more beautiful. So listen to me, brothers, come and listen to my plan.”

The seven men all leaned forward. They were listening, yes.

King al-Rahman turned toward his foreign minister. “More than life itself, what is the one thing that you want in this world?”

The minister didn’t hesitate. They had discussed this before. “I wish to see the world cleansed of the Jewish state,” he replied.

“Yes. That is right. That is our mission from Allah. And there is only one way to do that. Can you tell me what it is?”

Again, the answer came quickly. The minister knew the king’s thinking, and he regurgitated it nearly verbatim. “We must destroy her evil mother, the betrayer of Muslim nations, the mother of all whores, our greatest enemy, the United States.”

King al-Rahman nodded. Although his lips turned into a tight smile, his eyes remained dull and black. “Yes. And I hope you can see that, brothers, for it is so clear to me. We can never eradicate Israel as long as the United States exists. The Americans will stand by the Jews, even at the risk of losing their lives. Evil binds together, and they are bound with strong cords. And worse, we cannot eliminate the rotting stench of democracies until we eliminate the United States. Can you see it? Can you? Do you believe it is true?”

A heavy silence fell over the room. The youngest prince moved nervously in his seat and diverted his eyes. King al-Rahman cleared his throat, keeping his eyes boring into him.

“But how, my dear king?” the young prince finally said. “You are talking about the most powerful nation in the world! The most powerful nation that has ever existed since the first man walked this earth. And you say we can destroy them. It is not possible, I think!”

“Yes, it is, my little brother. And not only is it possible, but it is possible now.”

“But my brother, I don’t—”

The king raised his hand, indicating for the other man to be still. “Yes, yes, I know what you are going to say. But what if, what if there was a way, a final way to destroy the United States? What if there was a way we could get the entire world to hate them as much as we do? What if we could get the world to hate Israel and the United States? What if we could unite everyone against the most powerful nation on earth? And what if we could even get their own people to hate and resent their own government?

“Can you imagine such a war? The entire world united against the great whore and her little sister, the Israeli pigs. Imagine it, brothers! Then, if you can truly imagine it, if your minds are strong enough to contemplate that it can be done, then consider what I have told you and stand up and follow me!”

The king turned suddenly and walked out of the room.

The underlings watched in silence a long moment, then stood and followed the king.

THIRTEEN

Al Hufuf Military Weapons Storage Complex, Eastern Saudi Arabia

One of the king’s private helicopters was waiting on the asphalt at the end of the circular drive on the east side of the presidential palace. It was a monstrous machine, American made, with deeply tinted windows and black paint with gold trim around the cockpit and along the smooth tail. Two powerful engines sat just behind the midsection, their chrome exhaust ports glinting in the afternoon sun. A set of small steps had been extended from the aft cabin door, and a line of military guards stood at attention on both sides of a narrow stretch of deep blue carpet that extended from the steps. Two military pilots were waiting, one of them watching the palace anxiously. As the king emerged, he nodded to the other pilot. The other pilot hit the start button, and the twin turbine engines started to turn. The pilot moved the throttles to idle, jet fuel poured into the combustion chambers and the engines caught, emitting a sudden roar from the jet exhausts. As the engines rolled up, the rotors started to turn. By the time the king was climbing in the cabin, the helicopter was ready to go.

The king’s brothers and advisers followed quickly, half a dozen steps behind. They hurried into the cabin and sat down on the reclining leather seats situated throughout the interior of the helicopter. A steward lifted the collapsible steps and quickly disappeared behind the forward bulkhead. The massive helicopter lifted into the air before the men even had a chance to buckle themselves in. It turned immediately east, flying over the palace grounds, pushing a swirl of leaves and biting sand through the hot air.

Overhead, a flight of two Royal Saudi Air Force F-15s circled at fifteen thousand feet. The lead pilot, one of the king’s four dozen cousins, kept a close eye on his radar while his wingman, half a mile behind and to his right, watched the low-flying helicopter make its way east.

Turning to his window, the king glanced up at the sky, thinking of his brother lying at the bottom of the sea. In his death, his brother had taught him one final lesson. Never fly in a helicopter without fighter escorts overhead. The king searched the sky carefully, eager to know that his escorts were there. But he couldn’t see the fighters. They were too high and too small.

Fifty minutes later, the helicopter landed on an unmarked landing pad in the middle of the Al Hufuf weapons storage facility. It was a peculiar complex—high cement and concertina-topped walls, layers of security with wire, and guard towers every fifty feet or so. And there were dozens of military police, some in the open, some hidden behind protective walls. But inside the triple fences, there was not much to see: a few low brick buildings, open sand lots, roads large enough to support heavy convoys, two rows of cement bunkers half-buried in gravel and sand, a small supply building, and not much else. But looks were deceiving. Most of the facility had been built underground and the complex was much larger, and far more important, than it looked from above.

A small military escort was waiting, five military Humvees surrounding two black Mercedes SUVs. The king rode alone in the first vehicle. The other men crammed into the second SUV. The convoy rode through the military compound to the headquarters building, a long, single-story brick building. The men got out, entered the building, and took the elevator ten stories below ground.

King al-Rahman stood before the group in a small conference room. Behind him, a 28-inch television emitted a pale, gray light. Reaching under the table, the king tapped a button that activated the video equipment, and the television screen came to life, showing a live video feed from one of the nearby underground bunkers. The bunker was a large room and brightly lit. Cement floor. Cement walls. No visible entry. No guards. It appeared spotless, almost sterile, with not a smudge on the floor or speck of dust in the air. Sitting in the middle of the room were five lead-plated crates. The king’s men stared at the screen. They did not understand.

The king broke into a sinful smile as he looked at the television. “Our deliverance,” he muttered lustily. “Our great gift to our people. Our great gift to the world.”

The men didn’t respond, their eyes wide. And though they didn’t understand yet, all of them sensed an overwhelming power in the air.

Their world was shifting right under their feet. They could smell the revolution in the air.

The king moved until he was standing next to the screen, his face eerily illuminated by the subtle light. “The objects you are looking at,” he explained in a low, even tone, “are five nuclear warheads. Fifty-seven kilotons. One-hundred fourteen million pounds of explosives each. There are five. Look at these warheads and do the math in your head. Then tell me, my brothers, that we can’t bring our enemies to their knees. Look at those weapons and tell me we can’t do what we want.”

The men fell into a stupor. It was not what they had expected to be shown. Things were moving far too quickly! A smell of sickness seemed to seep into the air.

“Where did you—” the foreign minister started.

The king waved him off. No time to go through that. It didn’t matter anyway.

The minister leaned against the back wall, his face turning dark gray. His mind raced, trying to absorb the terror of it all. The dead king. The crown prince. Both of them killed by Al-Rahman! A new king now among them. A new direction. A new track. And yes, King al-Rahman was a strong man, but he was as mindlessly ambitious as any man in the world. And now this, now these weapons. It was a terrifying thing! He sucked a deep breath, giving himself time to think.

The room was deadly quiet. The men only stared. It was all they could do. After a full thirty seconds of silence, the oldest prince finally breathed. “When?” he asked dryly.

“Soon,” Al-Rahman answered. “A few weeks. Maybe less. There are a few things yet to do, and the timing is critical.”

The younger prince shook his head. “No, King al-Rahman!” he muttered in fear. “You will destroy the kingdom. You will destroy Medina and Mecca! I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it is suicide.”

Al-Rahman moved toward him, his lips pulled back in a sneer, his hands clenching, his breathing labored and fast. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve been telling you?” he demanded. “Haven’t you understood anything?”

“But brother, if you attack the United States, their position is clear. They will retaliate. They will kill us. They will destroy the entire Middle East. They will not absorb a nuclear detonation on their country and not retaliate.”

King al-Rahman looked at him, his eyes on fire. “Oh, my brother, my dear brother, if you only understood. If you only knew what I know now, if you could only see what I see. It has all been so long in the making. And we are not alone. We have many allies; men are on our side, men that you don’t know about, unseen advocates and sponsors. There are many who will be working to ensure we succeed.”

The younger brother shook his head. He was growing more scared, even angry. He trusted his brother, but he was not a fool. And he resented being dragged here, to this underground hole, to be shown a row of weapons that, if used, would only guarantee the kingdom’s destruction.

His heart skipped, the spit in his mouth turning suddenly sour. “Brother, you know I love you,” he started to say. “But if you do this thing, if you attack the United States, then we are dead men. You must certainly know that. This isn’t good news. These weapons are not our salvation, they are our destruction, I’m sure.”

The king glared at him a moment, angry thoughts rolling around in his head. The young prince looked away cautiously, seeing the emotion in his brother’s eyes. “King al-Rahman,” he mumbled, forcing himself to look at the king once again. “I trust you. You know that. I would die for you, my brother, you know that I would. Give me a knife, say the word, and I would thrust it deep in my heart. I would cut out my own intestines if you commanded me. But I have to tell you, dear brother, I simply do not understand what you’re thinking. I do not know your plan, but I am certain of this—if you choose to use these weapons, if you detonate an atomic warhead anywhere in the United States, they will find out who did it, and we will all be destroyed.”

King al-Rahman stared into his eyes, then shook his head and showed a sudden smile. “Yes,” he answered tartly, “without the right preparations, we would be destroyed. If it was us against them, then I would be a fool.

“But you see, Prince Mohammad, there is something more that we can do. Preparations. Arrangements. And before we use these weapons—and we will use them, my brother—we are going to change the world in a magnificent way. We are going to realign every ally, every enemy and friend. We are going to change the geopolitical world in a very fundamental way.

“Then, when we have completed our work, it won’t be us against them. It will be the United States against the world; it will be the United States against the Middle East, the Arab nations, every Muslim on earth. It will be the United States against most of Europe and Asia. It will be the United States against China and South America as well. It will be the Americans and their lapdog Israelis against the rest of mankind. And they will be the criminals. They will be the ones who are feared. It will be the Americans and the Jews who will be hated and despised.

“When we are finished, the world will not only support us, they will see justice in our cause. Then they will not only allow it, they will help us see our enemies destroyed.”

FOURTEEN

Camp Freedom, Central Iraq

Sam sat with Bono at the end of the dining hall table. It was early morning, and the two had just come back from patrol. Although they were not on the same team, they had been on the same mission, patrolling on the western edge of Baghdad, where there had been reports of insurgents recruiting from among the poorest neighborhoods. Both men were exhausted, their faces blacked with camouflage and dirt. The patrol had been fruitless, and all they had found were two dead Chechen soldiers, easily identified by their Russian boots, who had been bound, their faces covered, and then shot in the head. They were finding more of this kind of thing now, and it gave them a some hope. If the terrorists were killing each other, that clearly made their job easier; more, though, it indicated the growing divisions between the various terrorist groups. Although bound by their common hatred for the United States, they also hated each other, and it wasn’t unusual to find the results of their fratricide.

Sam rested his arms on the table, sipping a 20-ounce bottle of imported water from some unpronounceable desalinization plant on the eastern shore of Qatar. It tasted like saline solution, but Sam had grown used to it. It was cold and wet, and that was all he required anymore.

The chow tent was a little cool—it had been a cold night—but it was growing warmer as it became more crowded during the change of patrols, some on their way in, some getting ready to go. Bono was wolfing down a huge pile of scrambled eggs and dry toast. He kept his fork moving while Sam sipped his drink. They didn’t talk much until Bono was nearly finished with his powdered eggs.

“You hear about the Lizards?” Bono asked, referring to one of the other combat teams.

“What’s that?” Sam looked up.

Bono laughed as he leaned across the table. “A couple of their guys were working one of the checkpoints leading into the airport. Some fool comes speeding toward them, doesn’t even slow down. They fire warning shots, take out his tires, you know that routine. At the last second, the guy steers the car toward them, opens the door and bails out, even as the car is racing forward. The Lizard guys drop behind their cement bunkers, expecting a huge explosion; I guess little ol’ Lieutenant Ramirez has got to change his underwear tonight. The car screams toward them, hits the cement barricade, and … that’s it. No car bomb. No big explosion. Nothing. The guys come out from behind the barricade, wondering why they aren’t dead. They see the Iraqi running away, but he’s gotten too far for them to shoot. Then they see the money scattered all around.”

“Money?” Sam wondered.

“Yeah. A couple hundred thousand. Cash. U.S. bills.”

“What? Why?”

Bono shook his head. “No one knows.”

Sam thought a minute. “So some crazy guy goes careening toward the checkpoint, refuses to stop, gets his tires shot out, steers toward the barricade, jumps out, and runs away, leaving behind a couple hundred thousand dollars in cash to spill on the ground?”

Bono nodded and smiled. “Yeah. That’s what I was told.”

“They don’t know what—”

“They don’t know squat, my good friend. Just another day in this paradise we all call home.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief as a stranger approached them and sat down at Bono’s side. Although there was plenty of room at the table, he sat close to them. Bono looked up and nodded, then turned back to his eggs.

The man was dressed in dark jeans, heavy boots, and a tan jungle shirt. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, with short black hair and skin tanned from too many days in the sun. The stranger caught Sam’s eye, nodded his head in greeting, and turned back to his coffee, blowing over the hot brew. Sam studied him while he sipped. Who was he? Definitely not one of the U.S. civilian contractors. Too lean. Too relaxed. Those guys all drove around with a target on their foreheads, and every one of them was as skittish as a chicken in a yard full of wolves. Support staff from the civilian affairs office in Baghdad? Maybe. But if he was, he was new to the country. It would take him a couple weeks to get that scared look in his eye, the darting pupils, the constant swivel, the unremitting suspicion that most of them couldn’t hide. Got to be CIA, Sam thought. Plenty of them around.

The man looked up and caught his eye again, then leaned toward him. “Captain Brighton?” he said, keeping his voice friendly but low. “I’ve come a long way to see you. Could we get away and have a quick talk somewhere?”

Sam hesitated. “And you are?” he asked.

Bono stopped eating and looked over. The stranger turned and nodded to him. “And you too, captain. I’d like to talk to you both.”

“What about?” Bono demanded.

The man extended his hand. “Colonel Gass,” he answered with a crushing grip. “Come on, men,” he said, pushing away from the table. “Like they say in the movies, I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

Washington, D.C.

It was a little after nine in the evening, and General Brighton was just getting ready to leave his office when his computer chimed, telling him he had another batch of e-mails. He had already turned his monitor off, and he hesitated to turn it back on. He was supposed to meet Sara at a dinner party for the new chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, way out in Chevy Chase, and he was already more than an hour late. But he couldn’t resist.

Fourteen new e-mail messages had been loaded into his inbox, but there was nothing so urgent it couldn’t wait until morning. Then he saw the last message, this one from Sam. It was short and ambiguous, but not so coded that Brighton didn’t understand:

Dad,

Things are going well here. Nothing earth-shattering to report (or dangerous, Mom will be happy to hear).

Thought you might want to know that I had an interesting conversation yesterday morning. Met a guy who made me a very tempting offer. It looks like all those days of playing cowboys and Indians when I was a kid will come in handy.

I’m real excited. I think this is my calling in this world. And if I can help this gig turn out good, that is a good thing and I’ll be proud.

Just thought I’d let you know.

Tell the family hi.

Tell Mom I’m happy and doing well and that I think of her every day.

Sam

Brighton read the message quickly, and then typed a short reply:

Very good. I am proud of you. It is a great honor, but one that you have earned.

I pray for your safety every morning and night.

Come home when you can.

Dad

FIFTEEN

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

Azadeh walked toward the bright sun, which was just cresting the top of the great Zagros Mountains. The craggy peaks, topped in dark granite, had sloughed off ten million years’ worth of broken rock, and a huge boulder field spread across the foothills on the west side of the range. Above the Zagros Mountains, the sky was clear and open, a deep blue that had not yet taken on the lighter hue of mid-morning. Azadeh breathed the air, smelling hints of salt water and rotting seaweed mixed with the deep musk of junipers and pines from the dry forest on the mountain ridges to her right. The morning was crisp and clean, and though it was still chilly she felt the soft rays of the sun beginning to warm the skin on her face and the backs of her hands.

This would be a good day. She felt it inside. The day before, her letter to Omar had been returned, “Deficient Address” stamped across the back flap. Staring at the unopened and tattered envelope, Azadeh realized that if she were to get out of Khorramshahr it would be on her own.

Earlier in the week, she had talked to one of the U.N. headmasters, a stern Muslim woman from some unknown village along the Pakistan border, about being allowed to attend classes at the improvised school. High-school classes were held in the cafeteria tent between meals, but so far only young men had been allowed to attend. There was talk now of letting the young women attend the classes as well, and Azadeh had been the first to sign up when the list of those who might be interested had been passed around. Today she would get her answer and she was full of hope.

Standing outside her tent, a small, aluminum, semi-permanent structure mounted on a plywood platform and covered with a wide sheet of canvas to keep the rain off, Azadeh sniffed the fall air, and then glanced around, realizing she was going to be late for breakfast if she didn’t hurry along.

She was just turning toward the chow line when something stopped her. She paused, thinking a long moment. Then words she had spoken in her morning prayer repeated themselves in her mind: “I would like to do something good today.”

She hesitated, wondering why the words would come back to her now.

I would like to do something good.

She looked quickly around.

There was no one there. No one who needed her.

“No. There is someone.” The voice was clear in her mind.

Turning left and right, she confirmed once again that she was alone; the row of small tents under the canvas sheet appeared empty, and the dirt path that ran between the rows of tents was deserted as well. She could hear the low sound of the gathering crowd in the distance, up near the top of a small hill where the refugees were forming up in the chow line, but no one was around her, and she didn’t understand.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling.

“No. There is someone near.”

She shook her head, thinking, then put the feeling aside. Turning, she started walking to the cafeteria hall. She was already late, and those last in line got very little to eat.

Then another voice came to her, soft, subtle and yet unmistakably clear. “If you want to help, you’ve got to listen.”

Listen?! That was not how Allah worked. He had no voice, no spirit, no intention to speak directly to man. He caused. He controlled. He manipulated. He dominated. But Allah did not speak. That was not how Allah worked.

Yet she stood there, unmoving, and then slowly nodded her head. “I will listen,” she answered in an uncertain voice.

She closed her eyes, her head low, and waited. But she didn’t hear anything. And the feeling didn’t come back again.

A minute passed. Then another. She caught a whiff of coffee, hot oatmeal, and brown sugar drifting down from the cafeteria tent. The wind had picked up, coming now from the mountains. She remained still, and the shadows fluttered as the canvas over the tents flapped in the gentle wind.

Still she waited, unmoving.

She heard the sounds of the eager voices diminish as the refugees who had been standing in line received their daily rations and started eating in silence. She felt the air getting warmer as the sun rose over the mountain peaks.

“I will stand here all day,” she said to herself. “I will stand here all year if I have to. I will stand here forever until I understand.”

Then she heard it, a soft sound behind her, but not one she had expected to hear.

*******

Pari al-Faruqi was too old to consider the possibility that she might one day actually live in freedom. She had been in the camp too long to even remember what it was like to live somewhere else, and the thought of leaving Khorramshahr was almost distressing to her now. Knowing she would never leave, she had accepted this place and sought to make it her home.

Pari’s assigned quarters were a small plywood and tin-roofed hut with prefabricated pieces of foam insulation tacked to the ceiling and walls. Most of the 600 refugees in Camp Khorramshahr lived in these semi-permanent structures—the newest refugees stayed in tents until a plywood hut became available—and Pari had decorated her small home to an almost ridiculous degree. A single, small window and door took up most of the front wall, but she had taken colored chalk and painted fantastic murals on the other walls, the only paintable surface available to her in Khorramshahr. The colors were bright, with oranges, pinks, and blue hues depicting a sunrise over the mountains, spring flowers, and the black sand and deep green water of the Persian Gulf. The paintings were awkward—whatever talents Pari had, painting was clearly not one of them—but they were certainly more pleasant to look at than the bare, foam-insulation walls. Under the murals she had placed tin cans filled with wild chrysanthemums and croton plants she had gathered along the fence, back where a small stream kept the ground wet and agreeable. In one corner of the hut she had set up her small, foot-operated sewing machine, the only object from Iran she had brought with her to Khorramshahr, and through the years she had taken odd scraps of cloth and crafted dresses for the younger girls in the camp as well as colorful quilts, one of which was on top of her cot. Her clothes were neatly folded and arranged on top of a small bureau, and the only pair of shoes she owned was placed neatly at the foot of her bed. The floor was covered with a threadbare Persian rug, a gift to her from one of the U.N. volunteers who had worked in the camp some eight or nine years before. On the bureau was a black-and-white photograph of a young man, handsome, light-haired, with blue eyes and a thin nose, clearly not Persian. A silver cross, highly polished, hung over the head of her cot.

It was a home of poverty by any measure, humble but clean, warm enough but never quite comfortable, adequate, but without even the simplest luxury. It was a home filled with as much beauty as she was able to create from the barren environment around her and despite its lack of elegance, Pari was satisfied.

And unlike many of the huts in Khorramshahr, this one had an air of permanence, as if Pari had accepted that this was the place she would die.

Through the years, Pari al-Faruqi had seen many come and go from Khorramshahr—a thousand children, a hundred families, far too many to remember. She had known orphans, single mothers, tiny babies, and old men who had lost everything. Few of them spent more than two or three years in the camp before they were assigned a patron outside Iran or Iraq, someone who was willing to sponsor them in their country, provide them with a job, a little money, and someplace to live until they could get on their feet. But Pari hadn’t been so lucky and she never would be. She would die in Camp Khorramshahr, of that she was sure.

Although she was only sixty-six, she looked older, with frail shoulders, thinning gray hair, and so many lines on her face that the creases seemed to fall into each other. But her neck was long and slender, her fingers thin and elegant, and she carried herself with such confidence that it was clear to anyone who studied her for more than a moment that Pari had been very beautiful. And though she was now an old woman, her eyes were bright and alive, and they danced as if she knew a secret that she would never tell.

Resting on her cot, Pari coughed deeply again. She had been coughing all night and she held a small cloth sprayed with blood in the palm of her hand. She lay there and wondered if she should get out of bed. Maybe not. Not this morning. Not until the sun had warmed things a bit.

Pushing herself against her pillow, she looked around the room and shivered. The inside of her hut was cast in a pleasant light from the sun filtering through the thin fabric over the window, but she still felt cold. Turning, she saw that the flame on the small propane heater in the far corner had gone out again.

Wincing at the chill, she hacked through a coughing fit, then lay back again.

*******

Azadeh followed the sound of the coughing.

Behind her tent was a double row of huts, all of them identical, with rain-stained plywood walls, tin roofs that were now rusting, and small prefabricated doors. She had never spent any time in this part of the camp, and she made her way carefully, not knowing if she would be welcome.

She listened, hearing the sound again, then stopped in front of the unpainted door. Knocking gently, she squared her shoulders and waited.

A long moment passed, but no one opened the door. She knocked again, the sound echoing off the wood walls. Then she heard a voice answer, and she pushed back the door.

Azadeh poked her head tentatively into the room and saw the old woman waiting on the side of her bed.

“Hello, hello,” Pari said in a bright voice. She motioned with her hand, beckoning Azadeh to come in. “Well, well, what is this? Who is this beautiful girl?”

Azadeh smiled shyly. “I heard—” she hesitated. “I heard you coughing and I wondered if you were all right?” She glanced around quickly, taking in the murals and flowers.

Pari adjusted herself on the side of her bed, and then looked up, her dark eyes flickering in the morning light. She wore a deep blue cotton robe, which she pulled tightly around her waist. Azadeh watched her, standing shyly at the door. “I’m sorry,” she tried to explain. “I was just wondering if, you know, if there was anything I could do?”

“Oh, how wonderful,” the old woman exclaimed. “I’ve been hoping to meet you. Your name is Azadeh, am I right?”

Azadeh nodded in surprise. “Yes, my lady, but how did you know?”

The old woman smiled. “I know most of the people in this camp. And someone as beautiful as you, well, it would have been hard for me not to take note.”

Azadeh lowered her eyes. She was not used to being complimented so easily and she did not know how to respond. “Bânu—” she started, but Pari broke in.

“Your last name is Pahlavi?”

Azadeh looked up in surprise, instantly on guard.

Pari read the worried look on her face. “Come in, will you, please,” she said, gesturing toward the younger woman. There was a single chair in the corner, near the portable loom, but Pari patted the cot beside her. “Come, Azadeh, please sit down.”

Azadeh entered the hut carefully, leaving her shoes near the door, and stood in the center of the room.

“I knew several Pahlavis,” Pari began gently. “It was many years ago. And a long way from here. I used to live in Tehran. When I was a little girl.” She studied Azadeh’s face as she spoke.

Azadeh kept her eyes on the floor. “My father—” she started to say.

“—was a grandson of the Shah?” Pari finished the sentence. Although the raising inflection in her voice indicated it was a question, it seemed she already knew.

Word spread easily through the camp; among people with little to do, there was plenty of talk. Badguyi. Gossip. Everyone knew everything. Azadeh had heard some of it already, the quiet whispers, the sideways looks. But she lifted her head defiantly. She would not apologize, nor would she try to hide who she was. She nodded, her lips pressed firmly, her chin held high.

“They were good men.” Pari offered in a soft voice. “A good family.” She paused and stared at Azadeh, choosing her words carefully. “I knew some of your family, Azadeh Jan, a very long time ago. My husband was a very—” she stopped, thinking, then continued slowly. “Your grandfathers were treated poorly, very poorly, I’m afraid. I think they had the best intentions for our country, but most of them are gone now.”

Azadeh nodded but didn’t say anything.

Pari patted the cot again, motioning once more for Azadeh to sit down. “OK, Azadeh Jan, that is all we will say of that for now. We will talk of it later, if you want to, but come and sit down.”

Azadeh motioned to the door, still uncomfortable. “Bânu, I was just—I heard your coughing and I thought I might be of some help.”

Pari smiled. “Yes, well, that is a coincidence. You see,” she pointed to the propane heater in the corner and coughed. “I’m afraid I’ve taken a chill. It feels so cold in here. Yet I can’t seem to get the flame on my heater to be anything more than a flicker.”

Azadeh moved toward the propane heater and knelt down. It was very similar to the heater her father had kept in his bedroom, and she saw instantly what the problem was. Reaching around to the back of the unit, she turned off the gas. “Have you got a file? A toothpick, perhaps?” she asked. Then she saw a broom in the corner and quickly stood up, removed a single straw, and went back to the heater. “Your outlet is clogged,” she explained as she worked. “We had a heater like this at my home. You have to clean the gas outlet every once in a while.” She ran the strand of straw carefully through the propane outlet, rubbing it against the sides of the valve, then broke it in two and ran both straws through the narrow outlet. After several moments of this, she reached behind the heater and turned the propane on again. Pushing the igniter, she heard a sudden snap as the igniter clicked and the pilot light fluttered, a light blue flame at the base of the porcelain retainer. She turned up the valve and the flame kicked on, spreading a bright yellow flame across the base of the unit. She felt the heat instantly, stepped back and smiled.

Pari clapped her thin hands in delight. “Do you know how long, my dear Azadeh, I have been trying to get that heater to work? Too many nights I have shivered under the blankets in the cold.”

Azadeh smiled. “It was easy, Bânu.”

“Thank you, thank you. You have really brightened my day.”

Azadeh moved away from the heater. “You know, Bânu—” she paused, not knowing her new friend’s name.

“I am Pari al-Faruqi.”

Azadeh bowed politely while bending her knees and holding her hands across her chest. “Bânu al-Faruqi.”

“You don’t have to call me madam. Pari Jan will be fine. We are all equals here, Azadeh Jan. There is no rank in Khorramshahr; we all tread the same ground.”

Azadeh smiled, beginning to feel comfortable. “Pari Jan, were you intending to eat breakfast this morning?”

The older woman’s shoulders slumped. “I was feeling a little tired. And cold, as you know. I was thinking I might skip breakfast today.”

Azadeh looked at her new friend. She was so small and frail. The last thing she needed was to skip another meal. “I was just going up,” Azadeh offered. “I would be happy to bring you something.”

Pari smiled instantly. The warmth from the heater was beginning to spread through the small room, and she already felt better knowing she could get warm if she wanted without having to crawl under the quilts on her bed. She turned to Azadeh. “Perhaps it would be nice to eat. If you will bring me something, I would be very grateful. And we could eat here together. Would that be OK with you?”

Azadeh smiled. “What would you like?” she asked.

“Do I have a choice this morning?”

“Probably not,” Azadeh said. The breakfast menu was very basic.

“Then I’ll have a wheat roll and spice jelly, if you really don’t mind.”

SIXTEEN

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

Azadeh set a plastic plate and two cups of steaming coffee on the bureau. While she had gone for their breakfast, Pari had put on a white dress with overly extravagant blue trim and white lace. She sat by the heater now, her feet near the flame, a thick, woven sweater covering her lap. Her hair was combed back and tied with a blue ribbon, and she looked a bit more alive than she had just twenty minutes before.

“You look lovely,” Azadeh said as she stirred the hot coffee. “Blue is a good color for you, Pari Jan.”

Pari looked proud as she pressed the long trim. “You think so?” she asked, moving her hand to the ribbon in her gray hair.

“Oh, yes,” Azadeh smiled, and bit her lower lip. The ribbon and lace looked oddly out of place in the bare hut, but then so did the flowers and the colorful quilt. She handed her new friend a coffee, noticing as she bent toward her that Pari had applied some foundation to cover the crow’s-feet at her eyes. Azadeh tried not to stare as she set the tray down. Makeup was forbidden, didn’t Pari know?

“It’s been so long since I’ve had a visitor,” the older woman said excitedly as Azadeh placed a warm cup in her hand. “I’m getting too old now. It’s harder and harder to get out anymore.”

Azadeh almost laughed. As if there was someplace to go!

Pari took a careful sip of the coffee. “This is so nice of you,” she said.

Azadeh nodded, and then sat down on the corner of the bed. The hut was so small that she could reach across the room and touch Pari’s knees.

Pari took the tray and a plastic knife and began slicing the bread. The bread, or nân, was round as a pancake but thick and brown and made of hard wheat, well cooked, without yeast. It had a brittle crust that crumbled in her hand, leaving a soft, spongy middle, which she then broke in two. The brown spread was half butter, half jelly, and heavy with spice. Azadeh smelled the jelly and her belly grumbled. Pari took a piece of the bread and smothered it in spice jelly, then handed it to her.

Azadeh hesitated as Pari lifted the bread and took a small bite, then followed her lead and began eating. The crust was hard, almost bitter, but the inner portion was soft, the jelly sweet, and she savored each bite. The coffee was black and heavy with sugar, and she held her plastic cup tightly, letting it warm her hands.

Looking around the small room, she noticed the young man’s picture on the bureau. “One of your sons?” she asked politely.

Pari laughed. “Oh no, Azadeh Jan, that picture is much older than that. That is my husband, Yitzhak Nakash. Both of us were much younger when that picture was taken, as I’m sure you can see.”

Azadeh leaned toward the picture, which showed a tall man standing between two marble pillars. A crystal-clear pool shimmered in the background, and exquisite granite tile was under his feet. She studied the man in his white suit and white hat. “He is very handsome,” she said.

“Yes, dear, he was. And smart. Oh, so smart! He read everything. He had more books, oh, you should have seen them, his library reached up to the ceiling. I used to tease him that he loved them more than me. He assured me he didn’t. And I usually believed him; he could be so convincing, you know.” Pari stopped and smiled shyly, and Azadeh noticed her dancing eyes—those eyes with their secrets that she would never know.

“Yitzhak was such a beautiful talker,” Pari went on wistfully. “He was so smooth and sweet. He used to tell me—” she stopped suddenly, and then took a slow bite of her nân. “It was a long time ago,” she concluded with a firm shake of her head.

Azadeh hesitated. “He is not with you?” she wondered.

“No, Azadeh. He died years ago.”

Azadeh nibbled politely. “I’m sorry, Bânu Pari.”

“No, no, it’s all right. In my prayers sometimes I ask God to scold him for leaving me alone for so long. When I see him again, believe me, I’m going to let him have it.” Pari flashed a teasing smile.

Azadeh was silent a moment, then motioned to the silver cross over Pari’s bed. “You are a Christian?” she asked carefully, not knowing if it might be an inappropriate question.

The old woman hesitated and Azadeh sensed her tightening up. Her shoulders had been slumping, but now she sat square and placed her arms on her lap. “Yes. I am a Persian Christian. There are a few of us left.”

Azadeh took a bite of her bread and chewed slowly, still fearful of saying the wrong thing. But it was so fascinating. She felt drawn to the cross, and she stood up and moved closer, leaning over the head of the bed. She touched it with both hands, running her fingers down both sides. It felt so solid, so heavy, as if it was ten pounds of pure silver. “This represents the suffering of the Great Prophet Jesus?” she asked.

“Yes, child, it does.”

“He was killed on the cross? Crucified?”

Pari nodded in answer.

“You celebrate the death of your God? I do not understand.”

Pari thought a long moment. “We do not celebrate his death, but we remember it, yes. His death was important because He died for me.”

“He died for you?”

“He died for all of us, Azadeh Jan.”

Azadeh shook her head. It seemed horribly cruel. What kind of religion believed that men would crucify their God? What kind of religion would worship such a powerless being, a God who could not even defend Himself against His own creations? And what kind of religion would worship a dead God? She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t question it now. Odd as it seemed, she didn’t see any particular evil in this belief; it seemed foolish, perhaps, but not wicked. And Pari certainly didn’t seem like a devil, though Azadeh knew that was what most of their people would have considered her.

“There were no Christians in my village,” Azadeh continued after some thought. “But I went to private school outside of my village, and I had a friend who was a Christian. We called him Omar, but his mother called him David. He was a good friend. Bright but quiet. I thought he was honorable.”

“So you can be honorable and still be a Christian?” Pari asked with a laugh in her voice.

“My father said you could,” Azadeh quickly replied, eager not to offend.

A warm wisp of steam lifted from Pari’s cup, and she smelled it deeply before taking another sip. “There have been Christians inside Persia for more than eight hundred years,” she said. “We have been part of the government, business leaders, traders, craftsmen, almost anything. We have flourished and we have famished, depending on who is in power. But since the rise of the ayatollahs, we have been nearly destroyed.” Pari gestured to her surroundings. “You realize that is why I am here.”

Azadeh nodded. She had suspected.

“Our countrymen will no longer tolerate us,” Pari said. “We have been forced to leave our homes, cast out from our people. It has always been dangerous to be a Christian in Persia, but it is most deadly now. There is much to fear if you believe as I do.”

Azadeh dropped her eyes, thinking of her own village and her status of an outcast. She remembered her father and his whispered conversations with Omar in the night. Both of them feared. Everyone feared. It was the way that they lived. “Tolerance is anathema to their teachings,” she said, not needing to specify who she meant by the pronoun. “They believe there is a battle between Allah’s teachings and the influences of the world. There are true believers and heathens, and you must choose which side you are on. You are either with them or against them. There is no middle ground.”

Pari pressed her lips. “I guess that is a fairly accurate description,” she said. “But I had some neighbors, good friends, and they were not always so intolerant. A few of them were not good people, yes, but most were simply afraid. So they did what they had to. But there were some good people too.”

Azadeh shook her head, thinking of her own people in Agha Jari Deh. “Not enough of them,” she replied bitterly, her voice hard and low. “They will betray you. They will hate you. They will take everything.”

Pari watched her a moment, noting the look in her eye. There was bitterness there, a hard squint, that had not been there before. “Who are you talking about, Azadeh?” she asked quietly.

Azadeh moved angrily to the edge of the bed. “I’m talking about everyone!” she said in a bitter voice. “Maybe there are some good people out there, but they are few and far between. And what chance do they have? They are always destroyed. The bad ones are stronger! They will always win. The good will always die. It is better to be quiet. It is better to hide. It is better to quietly do what it takes to get by and live.”

Pari took another slow bite of bread and studied her younger friend. “You know, little Azadeh, you are going to have to decide.”

Azadeh moved her head to the side. “Decide what?” she demanded in a hard voice before she could catch herself.

“Will your heart be softened, or will you let it become hard, like a wet stone in your chest, like an ice chip that is too cold to hold? Will you turn bitter—or will you remain happy despite the things you have had to endure?”

Azadeh didn’t answer, though her eyes remained narrow. She shifted her weight on the side of the bed.

“I pray every day,” she defended herself. “I live by the Five Pillars of our faith.”

“And that is good, my new friend.”

Azadeh shook her head. “It is not enough,” she admitted. “And sometimes

I wonder. Does Allah really love me? And if Allah does, then why this? My father was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. And did I really deserve this … ?” Her voice trailed off.

Pari watched her, then leaned forward on her chair and rested her rough hands on Azadeh’s knee. “I know you’ve been wronged, Azadeh,” she said. “That is clear in your face. I’ve seen that look many times before. You are alone here, deserted. There is a long story inside you that perhaps one day you will tell. But regardless of your story, Azadeh, this much I know. You have to decide how you are going to respond. Will you let your heart grow hard and bitter or will you look to the future and remain able to love?”

Azadeh closed her eyes as if she were confessing a great sin. “Sometimes I feel angry. I know that Allah has always helped me, but sometimes, I don’t know.” She sadly turned away. “Sometimes I don’t understand.”

“I can’t answer that, Azadeh. Many things I don’t know. Why we hurt. Why we suffer. I know that life isn’t fair. But I’ve also learned that there is more equity in our struggles than we may believe; there are hidden hurts in those around us that we may never see. Everyone has to suffer—that is part of the plan. But it isn’t the outcome and it isn’t why we are here. So remember that, Azadeh. There are better days ahead. Don’t give up. Don’t grow hard. That is not Allah’s will.”

SEVENTEEN

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

Azadeh got out of bed long before the sun came up and dressed quickly, then slipped out of her tent and moved up the hill. Keeping to the shadows, she waited outside for the U.N. contract workers to show up at the cafeteria. The head cook, a thin woman from Algiers, nodded to Azadeh as she plodded up the trail in the darkness, then held back the tent flap and let her slip inside.

Putting on a stained apron, Azadeh went to work. She cleaned the grease drains and ovens, brought in and stacked thirty-pound sacks of flour and ten-pound sacks of sugar and salt, then prepared and kneaded huge blobs of dough. The ovens were warm by the time she finished the first batch, and she shaped the nân into flat cakes, and then set them inside. Two hours later, just as the sun was rising and the refugees were lining up for breakfast, Azadeh cleaned her hands, wiped the flour off her cheek, and turned to the head cook, who reluctantly paid her the agreed-upon wage.

Azadeh stared at the commodities, then took the dripping pork sausage with great care and gingerly with tongs, scrambled eggs, and white cheese, and arranged them carefully on a metal plate. She placed the food in a small box, covered it with a clean cloth, and slipped out of the tent.

Walking quickly, she made her way past the line of hungry refugees, nervous in the knowledge that she was hiding a treasure. She hoped the smell of the sausage wouldn’t penetrate the box or she would be mobbed. Pushing through the crowd at the end of the line, she walked past the administration building, off the low hill, and toward the long row of plywood huts. It had rained the night before, a cold and misty drizzle, and a low fog hung over the hills on the east side of the camp. The ground was almost slimy from the powder-fine mud, and she walked carefully, occasionally slipping as if she were walking on ice.

Down to the second row of huts she walked, then turned left past the latrine and showers, over the small bridge that protected the exposed water pipes and gas line, and east to the fifteenth hut on the right. She stopped in front of the shelter and noted the heavy moisture on the inside of the window. The propane heater created its own condensation, and it appeared that Pari had the heat turned up full blast again.

Which meant Azadeh wasn’t the only one who had woken up covered in sweat in the night.

As she pushed the door open, Azadeh was met by a warm wave of moist air. The older woman was still sleeping. The hut was built on a platform elevated six inches off the ground, and Azadeh stopped on the threshold to take off her muddy shoes, which she left outside the door. In her stockings, she stepped quietly into the hut and closed the door.

Pari rolled over to face Azadeh as she walked into the room. Pari then struggled to push herself up on the side of the bed. Azadeh walked to the small bureau and placed the box down. “Good heavens, darling Azadeh, what are you doing here so early?” Pari said.

“I brought you breakfast,” Azadeh smiled as she helped the older woman sit up. Putting her arms under Pari’s shoulders, she looked quickly around, searching for the handkerchief Pari always tried to keep hidden from her, seeing the tip of the red-tinted white cloth sticking out of her clutched hand. As she lifted her weight, Azadeh felt the dampness of the smaller woman’s nightclothes. Pari’s gray hair was matted to her neck, and Azadeh reached for the small washbasin on the bureau. The water was cool, and she dipped a gray washcloth inside. “You didn’t sleep, Bânu?” she asked as she washed Pari’s face and neck.

“I slept very well, Azadeh Jan,” Pari answered in a weak voice.

Azadeh shook her head. “No, Bânu, I can see that you didn’t.”

The older woman didn’t argue but sat, her shoulders slumping, while Azadeh washed her face and combed her hair. “That feels so nice,” she said simply.

“I’m glad,” Azadeh answered.

The two were quiet a moment until Azadeh said, “I brought you a surprise for breakfast.”

Pari’s eyes brightened up. “What? Extra jelly?”

“Even better,” Azadeh said. “And you’d better eat it now before it gets cold.” She washed her hands in the clay bowl, then picked up the box and removed the cloth covering, exposing the sausage, eggs, and melted white cheese that had been hidden inside. The aroma immediately filled the room, and Pari leaned forward, a sudden smile on her lips. “My goodness, Azadeh Jan, how did you arrange that?”

“I guess even we homeless refugees deserve more than bread and jelly once in a while,” she said.

The older woman stared at her. “They are serving this for breakfast?” she asked in a disbelieving tone.

“They are this morning,” Azadeh replied.

Although she had gotten up at 3 a.m. and worked in the kitchen for an entire week for this single meal, she didn’t tell Pari. The woman would not have enjoyed it, perhaps even would have refused to eat it, if she had known.

Pari stared at the scrambled eggs and sausage, then up at Azadeh, her eyes wide with excitement. “I haven’t had eggs for, I don’t know, years and years. And sausage. I can smell it. It makes my mouth water. How could we be so lucky?”

Azadeh spread a paper napkin on Pari’s lap, then settled the single plate in front of her and sat on the bed.

“Oh, no,” Pari said as she saw the plate, “you have to eat too!”

Azadeh looked at the scrambled eggs and the finger-thin rolls of pork sausage. “I ate at the chow tent,” she said.

Pari shook her head, then took a clean fork and divided the eggs in two. “Then you will eat again. You must eat with me, Azadeh, or I won’t feel comfortable.”

Azadeh glanced at the eggs and eagerly nodded yes. The two ate slowly, savoring each bite of the special meal. “Delicious!” Pari murmured as she tasted the sausage.

“So good!” Azadeh agreed as she took a bite of the egg.

They ate in silence. It took only a few minutes before all the food was gone.

While Azadeh cleaned up, Pari put on her dress with blue trim, and then they sat together, Pari on her chair, Azadeh on the corner of the bed.

“Bânu Pari,” Azadeh said, looking her square in the eye. “I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”

The older woman smiled. “Now, Azadeh Jan,” she teased, “you know a lady of proper upbringing can never be perfectly honest. There are always a few secrets one must keep.”

Azadeh smiled, but only barely. “Don’t worry, Bânu Pari, I’m not going to ask your age.”

“As well you shouldn’t, my dear friend, or I would have to ask you to leave.”

Azadeh looked stern. “Bânu, I need to be serious for a moment.”

Pari sat back. “All right, Azadeh Jan, what can I do for you?”

Azadeh nodded toward the red-tinted handkerchief Pari still hid in her hand. “You are sick. You try to hide it. But in the little time I have known you; I have watched you grow frail. I touch you, you have a fever. And the cough. That horrible cough. Now I want you to tell me what is wrong.”

Pari leaned forward. “Don’t worry for me, Azadeh Jan. I’m not contagious, I promise, or I would never have let you come into my home. Yes, I am sick, but there’s nothing you can do. So let’s not worry about my health, dear. There are other things we can talk about, other things to plan: getting you back in school, getting you out of Khorramshahr, what you will do with your life. So many good things to talk about, so many interesting things. Things of promise and optimism. Yes, there are many things we can talk about, but my health is not one of them.”

“No,” Azadeh said firmly. “We will talk of this. I want to know what is ailing you. I want to know why you have come to accept that you will never leave this camp.”

“Azadeh Jan, why waste our time—”

“Bânu, you must tell me. And I want to know now!” Azadeh eyes grew fierce with a hard light from the fire within. She sat on the edge of the bed, determined, her lips pressed and tight. She had learned—she knew now—that sometimes she had to fight, and she wasn’t going to sit idle and let this thing pass. “You are my friend, Bânu Pari. I trust you. I hope you trust me. But if you feel any affection for me, if you have any feeling for me at all, then I deserve to know.”

The older woman sat still a long moment, though she seemed to deflate. “I really wish we didn’t have to,” she said in a quiet voice.

“I have many wishes, Bânu. Sometime our wishes don’t come true.”

Pari hesitated. “That is something I could have said to you, dear.”

“Then we understand each other, Bânu.”

The old woman was still.

“Now please,” Azadeh begged now, her voice soft and low. “As your friend, as my friend, I have a right to know.”

Pari swallowed awkwardly from the tightness of her throat. “All right then, Azadeh Jan, if you really must. I have tuberculosis, and there is nothing they can do.”

Azadeh hesitated, then asked, her voice sad, “You are going to die, Bânu?”

Pari laughed quietly. “We’re all going to die sometime, Azadeh Jan.”

“No, I mean, you know, are you going to die soon?”

“No, I don’t think so. If you had asked me five years ago, I would have said I’d be gone by now. But it seems this old body just keeps slogging along. Another month. Another year. Another five years. I don’t know.”

“Tuberculosis … ?” Azadeh wondered, an uncertain look on her face.

“Tuberculosis is a bacterial disease that usually affects the lungs,” Pari explained, “though it can affect other parts of the body as well—the lymph nodes, kidneys, or bones.”

“And this tuberculosis is the reason why you have never left Khorramshahr?”

“Well, yes and no. Having tuberculosis is what keeps me here now, but it isn’t that simple. The reason I’ve never been able to leave Khorramshahr goes back even further than that.

“Being a Christian means it has always been much harder for me to find a sponsor so I could leave the camp. But for me it was even worse. I had other issues as well. You see, Azadeh, my husband … he was a very good man, but good men have enemies. A list of enemies is but a list of the battles one has fought. If a man has no enemies, then he was a coward, I think.

“And my husband fought many battles. He was a very controversial man. Very wealthy, very strong, a man of great means. He was courageous and ambitious. And, well …” her voice trailed off. “Let’s just say it is a very long story that I may tell you some day.”

“Bânu,” Azadeh said softly, “I don’t understand.”

Pari took a pained breath. “You asked if my tuberculosis is the reason I have never left Khorramshahr, and the answer is no, at least it wasn’t at first. My husband had many enemies in the government who had great interest in keeping me here. If I were to leave, I could hurt them. They owe me many things.

“But some of that eventually passed, and after many years I was told that I could apply for release. I started making arrangements. A few more years passed while I searched for a sponsor. Again, I am a Persian Christian. It was difficult. Then I was diagnosed with tuberculosis, which was the final delay. A refugee cannot immigrate with an infectious disease. And untreated tuberculosis is infectious—”

“Untreated,” Azadeh interrupted. “So there must be a treatment. There is a way you can be cured!”

“Yes, Azadeh, there is. People with tuberculosis can be treated effectively. Treatment usually includes taking a combination of anti-tuberculosis medications for six months or so. It takes time. It takes money. And the exact treatment plan must be determined by a highly qualified physician.”

“Then we will do that!” Azadeh shouted, standing up from the bed. “We will arrange a treatment plan. I don’t care what it takes. I am smart. I can do it! We will figure a way.”

Pari smiled and pulled her down, setting her on the edge of the bed. “Yes, Azadeh Jan, you are smart, maybe even brilliant. But more, you are determined and willing to work.” She nodded quickly to the greasy plates. “How long did you have to work for that tigress of a cook to earn that simple meal? A week? A month?” She cocked her head in understanding. “I’ve been here long enough to know it was a long time. Which only proves what you said. You are very capable.

“But this is different, Azadeh, different. And much more difficult.”

“But why? I don’t understand! There must be something I could do.”

“But you see, there is a thing now, a complication,” Pari tried to explain. “After years of waiting and begging and standing in line for the U.N. doctors who visit Khorramshahr every six months or so, I finally began to receive treatment for my disease. But it turned out poorly, I guess. The doctors gave me inferior quality drugs, drugs that were old and weak. I should have taken the anti-tuberculosis medications for several months, but I only had enough medicine for two or three weeks. So the bacteria in my body wasn’t eliminated. Instead it grew stronger. Six months later, the doctors came back again. Same weak medicines. Once again, not enough. And the bacteria grew stronger and even more powerful. They call it multiple drug-resistant tuberculosis. It is nearly impossible to treat.”

Azadeh looked confused. “Then what does it mean? Isn’t there something they can do?”

Pari shook her head slowly, coughing into her handkerchief. “From what I can learn, patients with a drug-resistant disease can sometimes be treated with drugs to which their organisms are still susceptible. But it is difficult. Very rare. And very expensive. I need an expert who has experience in treating multiple drug-resistant tuberculosis, and not many of those can be found around Khorramshahr, my dear. And even if they were somehow to provide me access to such a specialist, the effectiveness of treatment for multiple drug-resistant tuberculosis is very uncertain. It might work, it might not. Knowing that, do you think they are going to spend the money to treat an old woman such as me?”

Azadeh was silent as she stared at her hands. “There is nothing they can do, then?”

“No, dear, there’s not.”

Azadeh hesitated. Then, lifting her eyes, she asked, “Might I be in danger?” Before Pari could answer, Azadeh cut in again. “It doesn’t matter to me, Bânu. I will not leave you either way. But if there is something I could do to lessen the risk of infection.”

Pari shook her head. “I cannot spread the disease anymore,” she said. “The tuberculosis has done its damage inside me, but I have no germs in my sputum anymore and I cannot spread the disease.”

“Then why won’t they let you leave Khorramshahr?” Azadeh exclaimed.

“Once you are on the list of the contagious, it is very difficult to be removed. I’ve been fighting them for years, I have notes and reports from a U.N. doctor, but the paperwork is suffocating, and I just can’t fight anymore. I’m tired, Azadeh, worn down, and it is hard for me to care anymore.”

“No,” Azadeh mumbled. “Pari, you can’t give up like that.”

“Azadeh, I won’t be the first one to get lost and die in a refugee camp.” Pari nodded to the west. “There is a camp cemetery out there, and I won’t be its first occupant.”

“No, Pari, no. If you are no longer contagious, you can get your name on the release list. But you’ve got to keep trying. You cannot give up. And you cannot die here.”

Pari took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She sat unmoving, then slowly said, “Listen to me, child, and let me try to explain.” She opened her eyes and stood up, took two small steps, and bent down to look into Azadeh’s eyes. “It’s all right. I’m not unhappy. In fact, I think I might be better off in this place than anywhere else I could be. What else would I do? Where would I go? I am too old to start over. I have no children left alive now. No family. I have nowhere to live. No friends to take me in. No matter where they sent me, I would be a stranger in a strange land. Where would I stay? How would I eat? I must be realistic and consider these things. And there are worse places than Khorramshahr, believe me, I know. It isn’t much, but over the years I have come to think of this as my home.

“And I don’t have much more time left, Azadeh Jan. I know you are young and that makes it very difficult for you to understand, but I have accepted my fate here and I am satisfied.”

Azadeh shook her head. “It is not fair,” she whispered, speaking more to herself. Feeling a bitter swell of emotion, she wiped at her eyes.

Pari pressed forward and kissed Azadeh’s cheek. When she pulled back, her face was peaceful and she smiled, her eyes calm. She reached for Azadeh’s hands and intertwined their fingers. “Azadeh, you and I are so much alike. I keep smiling. You keep smiling. We both see the good in this life. And we have so much in common; I mean right here and now. Your entire life lies before you, bright, perhaps uncertain, but still beautiful. We have both seen our share of shadows, but there are such bright days ahead. You have so much to look forward to. I know that you do.

“But listen to me, Azadeh, for you have to know this is true. You have so much to look forward to. But so do I, dear. You have this life. I have another. You have this world. I have the next. There are bright days ahead, bright days for you, but bright days for me as well.”

Azadeh nodded slowly, her eyes rimmed in red.

Pari pressed her fingers, and then kissed her cheek again. “Now listen to me, Azadeh, for I know this is true. All of us have a special mission, a special work in this life. I did. And so do you. God will direct you. He will help you. I know that He will. So don’t you worry about me, Azadeh. Instead, we’ve got to worry about you.”

*******

The stranger stood on the low hill outside the fence, looking over the camp. The sycamore branches hung low, and he kept in the shadows. He was an Arab, poorly dressed, but the gear in his pockets was worth a great deal.

His master wanted a final confirmation that the target was still in Khorramshahr. So he waited and he watched, ever patient.

A little more than an hour after entering Pari’s cabin, she appeared at the door once again. She paused on the threshold to pull on her shoes, then shut the door behind her and made her way down the path. Even from the distance, he recognized her. She was too beautiful.

He quickly pulled out the camera with the powerful telephoto lens and snapped a dozen pictures.

Yes. It was her. There was no doubt in his mind.

Twenty thousand dollars was a very fine sum. But she was worth it, he could see that. She was worth that, and more.

EIGHTEEN

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

After learning of Pari’s disease, Azadeh worried and stewed, the frustration simmering until she could no longer sleep. After three days, she walked up the hill to the camp administration building and talked to a burly man standing guard, who told her she would have to wait.

Hours later, she was admitted through the front door and escorted to a small office near the back of the building, where a worn and tired man was waiting behind a worn and cluttered desk. His nameplate read:

MR. SEBASTIAN RAULE

Special Assistant to the Administrator

The assistant studied her carefully. This one, he remembered from when she first came to Khorramshahr. He smiled at her, a wry and pleasureless turn of his lips. “How may I help you?” he asked as he sat forward in his chair.

Azadeh spent the next five minutes explaining the situation with Pari. Raule appeared only to half listen while he doodled on a yellow pad.

“There was political influence that tried to keep her here,” Azadeh concluded in a determined voice. “Then she was diagnosed with tuberculosis, and improperly treated, as you surely must know. But she is no longer contagious. There is no reason to make her stay here anymore.”

The thin man checked his watch and impatiently bounced his pen.

“Can you help her?” Azadeh begged him. “There must be something you can do!”

Without answering, Raule swung around in his chair and pulled a small, leather binder from the cheap credenza at his right. He flipped through the pages until he came to Pari’s name, reviewing the administrative notes, though he pretty much knew what they said.

“Her case has been sent to the review panel in Kuwait,” he explained. “From there it was passed on to the Red Cross office in either Belgium or Washington, D.C. Once the paperwork leaves the camp, there’s not a thing I can do.”

“You could call. Write a letter. The poor woman has been waiting for years!”

The assistant shook his head and forced a look of sadness onto his face. “I’m sorry. There is nothing. Now if you have anything else—”

“NO!” Azadeh shouted, leaning toward the old desk. “You can’t dismiss her with a simple wave of your hand! You can’t dismiss Pari al-Faruqi as if she were some nameless thing!”

Mr. Raule shook his head. “I’m sorry, but she’s a problem. We do the best that we can.”

“She isn’t a problem, she’s a woman! A human being, you fool!”

Raule sat speechless for a moment, then lifted up in his chair. “Let me remind you,” he started, his voice low with rage.

Azadeh’s face had already turned gray. She huddled in the chair, her eyes wide in horror. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered, almost falling to her knees. “I’m so sorry! It was wrong … I was wrong to say what I did. I’m sorry, my Sayid.” She kept her head bowed as if expecting a blow, not daring to look. “It is not like me to say such a thing, Master Raule. It is not how I have been taught. You are no fool. I was wrong. I’m very sorry, Sayid.”

Raule sat back down, glaring at the girl. He let the moment linger, the silence hanging painfully in the air. Azadeh waited before carefully lifting her eyes. She wondered if she dared go on. “Master Raule, please,” she finally whispered, “couldn’t you try to find some way to let her go home?”

“She has no home now, Miss Pahlavi.”

Azadeh started to speak, then fell silent again.

“She has no home,” Raule repeated. “She has nowhere to go.” Azadeh looked up, her dark eyes growing wet. Raule shifted his weight as he pulled uncomfortably on his pen. There was something about Azadeh that he couldn’t resist and he finally leaned toward her, placing his arms on his desk. “She is better off here,” he said, his voice soft now. “I’m not just saying that, Miss Pahlavi, I believe it is true. She has nowhere else to go.”

He stopped and watched her. “But even if what I just said wasn’t true, I am but one tiny cog in a world of grinding, meshing gears. There is very little I can influence. Very little I can do.

“Now, if you will let me be honest, I will tell you the truth. It is extremely unlikely that your friend will be granted a release from Khorramshahr. She is old. She has little to offer, and no family or friends to take her in. Even if she were to leave Khorramshahr, she would only end up in some other camp, a different name, but another place just like this. I’m sorry, Miss Pahlavi, but I have seen this before. It would be best to accept it. I know Mrs. Al-Faruqi has.”

“But she has only accepted it because she knows nothing else. You have beaten her down, robbed her of any hope. If you were to give her the option, if you found her a home, I believe she would leave here. Look around! Wouldn’t you? Please, isn’t there something, isn’t there anything you could do?”

The assistant stared a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “I am powerless,” he answered. And it was the truth. The U.N. bureaucracy was the largest and most vicious in the world. He knew the old woman would die here. And she wouldn’t be the first.

He stared blankly at Azadeh.

Azadeh closed her eyes and cursed.

NINETEEN

Ghesha Ghetto, East of Kirkuk, Iraq

The two Iraqis stood facing each other in the back of the store, the sounds of the overcrowded slum penetrating the thin windows and cracks around the poorly fitted door that faced out on the alley. The faint smell of sewage and stewed cabbage drifted through the shutters of the darkened window, and the room was still chilly from the cold cement walls.

The men wore dark, unsmiling faces.

Former lower-ranking members of Saddam’s ruling Baathist party, for years these men had ruled through intimidation and fear, assisting in the rape of Iraq and Iraqi women as these men sought to satisfy their slightest desire. Now they were left with nothing but bitterness and hate. Having tasted power, they were going through the equivalent of heroin withdrawal, and it was clear from their actions they valued nothing now—not their families, not their country, barely even their lives.

The leader was a short man with a thin neck whose head strained awkwardly when he looked up to talk. Although he had a dark beard, he was bald, and his baldness reflected the light of the single bulb overhead.

“Why is he willing to pay so much for this girl?” the short leader demanded his voice thick with sha, the opiate tea he drank every day.

The store owner frowned. “I don’t know,” he replied defensively, many years of resentment boiling in his thick voice. A former army officer, he was not used to being questioned, and his eyes flashed with anger, his brow furrowing into a deep scowl.

The leader gritted his teeth. “I don’t like it,” he sneered. “You can buy a girl, any girl, I don’t care how young or beautiful, for ten thousand American dollars. He is paying two times the market. Something is going on.” The leader stared at the shop owner, who hunched his shoulders and scowled. “Who is he? Where did he come from? Why does he want her so badly?”

The shop owner stood square, staring into the young leader’s face. “I’ll tell you why he wants her! Because she is young and beautiful. And he is American. They think they can buy anything! Twenty thousand dollars! That may be little more than a month’s wage to him! I don’t know. I don’t care!” He swore bitterly. “Who are you to question when I make a good deal? If I had sold her for ten thousand, you would be angry too. I bring you a deal with enormous profits, and you are worried because I don’t know who the buyer is! Do we know any of our buyers? No. Not a one. Now, are you going to get the girl or should I go somewhere else?”

The smaller man stared defiantly, glaring into his subordinate’s eyes. There were issues here, he could see that, issues he could not ignore, but he would deal with them later. There was always time to make adjustments in the attitudes of his men. Working in Saddam’s political chambers had taught him many things.

He took two deep breaths, then frowned and nodded toward the wooden door that led into the shop. “Is the American out there?” he asked.

The other man nodded yes.

“I will talk to him,” he said, walking toward the door.

*******

The American was waiting beside the counter near the front of the nearly empty store. Emerging from the back door, the Iraqi leader walked toward him; the American turned and waited until the two men stood face-to-face. This was the Iraqi’s land, his neighborhood, and he stood with confidence, not intimidated by the American’s money or wealth. The American was the stranger in this part of the world, and the Iraqi stood too close, knowing it would make him uncomfortable. He studied the stranger, making a swift appraisal of him. Soft hands were a sign that a man could not take care of himself, and he glanced down. This man’s hands were dark and hard. Many days in the sun. A long way from soft, and certainly not manicured. The Iraqi grunted, a little surprised; most of the Americans he had dealt with were soft-padded poodles from the city who couldn’t change a flat tire or load a weapon if their lives depended on it. He moved his eyes up to the man’s shoulders, which were broad and strong. Many Americans strengthened themselves—part of how they worshipped their bodies—and there was nothing unusual about the strength of his arms. But there was something lean in the muscles. They were taut and quick. These were the muscles of a fighter, not a fool who spent his time mindlessly lifting weights.

The Iraqi felt the first stab of fear.

Then he studied the face, the shaggy hair and hard eyes.

There was something about this American, something familiar. He had not seen this face, but he’d seen that look before.

The Iraqi bit his lip, even more uncomfortable. “You came to discuss the girl?” he snorted in barely understandable English.

The American nodded toward the shop owner, who was standing near the back of the store. “He said he could get what I wanted, but it would take two weeks. Things have changed. I want her now.”

The Iraqi was suspicious. “What’s your hurry, good master?” he asked.

The American glared. “Does it matter?”

“No, my Sayid,” the Iraqi answered sarcastically as he bowed. “But these things can be difficult.”

“Can you do it? Yes or no?”

“Yes, yes, of course. It’s just that—”

“I’m leaving the country in three days. Can you get her by then?”

“Oh, no, my Sayid. It will take longer than that.”

“How long?”

“At least a week. She is inside Khorramshahr, which you must know is a U.N. refugee camp. If she were in Iran or a village under Iraqi control, I could have her tonight. It would be easy, my friend. But the refugee camps are much more difficult—you must know that is true. Perhaps I could interest you in another one of our—”

“No,” the American snapped. “I only want her.”

The Iraqi stepped back and forced a smile. “You must be buying for a very, ah, how do you say in your language? Ah yes. A very particular buyer.”

“Who I buy for doesn’t matter. All I want to know is, can you get her by Saturday? It’s a simple question, Mr. Zubaida.”

The Iraqi scowled with anger. How did this man know my name?

He shook his head. “Very difficult. Maybe, if we were to pay the right people, pull a few strings here and there—but it will be much more expensive. Our cost would go very high. I will say we can do it, but it might cost another five or six thousand dollars.”

The American leaned toward the Iraqi, his eyes bright and intense. “Then you will take it out of your profits, which were already very generous, my friend. I will come back in three days, and I want that girl. Have her here, we are all happy. Disappoint me, and I shut you down.”

“Shut me down?” the Iraqi scoffed as he turned away. “Don’t make me angry, you American fool! You cannot touch me, not here. If we were in Baghdad, in the American sector, then maybe, but this is not your world, my friend.” He snorted again. “Shut me down! What an idiot! What are you going to do?”

The American took a step forward. “I did not mean shut down your business, my friend.”

The Iraqi took another step back, glancing anxiously toward his partner, who was standing quietly near the back door. Who was this American? His gut tightened up.

The American moved his hand, flipping aside the open flap on his jacket. The Iraqi saw the pistol and glared angrily.

“There are things I could do,” the American said through clenched teeth. “Things you are familiar with. Things you have done too.” His eyes glinted in the dim light, and the Iraqi saw that look once again, that look he had seen too often before.

“You and I are the same,” the American hissed. “We understand each other. You know that we do. Now, I’m coming back on Saturday, and I want that girl.”

The Iraqi pressed his lips together and nodded.

The American turned and walked out the front door.

The Iraqi cursed at him, keeping his head down until he heard the door close.

Oh, how he hated the Americans. How he hated them all!

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

The former Baathist party leader was escorted through the front gates at Khorramshahr. The camp looked like any other he had been to, and he kicked his feet through the dirt and dead grass, not noticing the few trees and wildflowers along the fence on the east.

The man wore dark pants, white shirt, and black turban. He didn’t remove his dark glasses, which he wore to hide his red eyes. He waited impatiently on the wood porch of the administration building, listening carefully to the sounds of the camp. It was afternoon, and the sun was hidden behind a thin haze, enough to soften his shadow and reduce the afternoon heat but not enough keep him from sweating profusely, a steady stream of perspiration beading on his heavy brow.

The administration building was built on a small hill overlooking Khorramshahr. A ten-foot barbed-wire fence surrounded the camp, but it was in disrepair and generally unnecessary, as none of the camp’s occupants had anywhere to go. To the north were the cafeteria and improvised school. Rows of identical plywood huts had been built on the flats to the west, and south of them were rows of multicolored tents, which housed the newest refugees. The stranger stared at the tents, hoping to get a glimpse of the girl. Behind him, up near the trees, some refugees were burning the contents of the latrines, an inky black smoke drifting from the fifty-gallon drums.

A little after 3 p.m., Mr. Raule came out on the porch where the Iraqi was waiting. “The administrator will see you now,” he said. The Iraqi followed the pasty-looking French officer into the building.

The administration building was simply laid out, with small cubicles lining both sides of the tile-covered room. Little furniture, no decorations, a small clock on the wall. Four offices took up the space at the back of the building, and Mr. Raule led the Iraqi to the largest of them.

The camp administrator was a French career civil servant, a man who had spent his entire professional life working through the monstrous bureaucracy that was the U.N. He had finally, and proudly, reached a place where he owned his own kingdom and he exuded an air of smugness that was almost tangible and repugnant. He was an overly neat man, small, with a tightly trimmed white mustache and a hairline that had receded past the midpoint of his head. His office was sparse, clean, and all business: metal desk, metal cabinets, metal wastebasket, metal chairs. A single window looked out on the camp, but the blinds were closed. As the Iraqi was escorted into the room, the U.N. administrator stood and moved quickly from behind his desk, every motion efficient. He had little time.

The men shook hands, but the French administrator did not invite the Iraqi to sit down. “What can I do for you?” he wondered, getting right to the point.

“I’m looking for someone. A young woman, about eighteen, give or take a year or two. Pretty. Long hair. She came here from the western mountains of Iran.”

The Frenchman studied the Iraqi, noting the sunken cheeks and rough skin, the dark and lifeless eyes. He wanted to step back from him. “We have many young people here,” the administrator replied, offering little help.

“She is my master’s niece. She was recently orphaned, and my master has reason to believe she might have come here. He has sent me to find her and bring her back to her family in Pakistan.”

“What is her name?” the administrator asked.

“Azadeh Pahlavi.”

“Have you checked with the front desk?”

“No, my Sayid.”

The camp administrator turned to the door and called for Raule, who appeared almost instantly. “Azadeh Pahlavi. Young girl. See if she is here.”

Raule didn’t move. “She’s here,” he said.

“You are certain, Mr. Raule?”

“Yes, sir, I am. She was processed no more than a few weeks ago.”

“Really?” the administrator said. “Just curious, Mr. Raule, but how can you be so sure?”

Raule blushed and dropped his eyes. “I helped her with some of the paperwork when she was processed. She’s—I don’t know—I remember her. I’ve talked with her a time or two since then.”

The administrator stared, a curious look on his face. “Very well then, Mr. Raule.” He nodded to his Iraqi guest. “This gentleman, Mr. Ishameil, has come for Miss Pahlavi. He works for her uncle. He brings good news for her. He wants to take her with him.”

Raule shook his head and answered, “Sir, that can’t be.”

“And why not?” the administrator questioned. The Iraqi frowned.

“The young woman who I’m talking about had no next of kin. Her father was recently killed. Her mother died in childbirth. She said she had no family. No brothers. No sisters. No one, she said.”

The camp administrator cocked his head to the Iraqi and raised a curious eyebrow. “Perhaps we are talking about two different people,” he offered.

The Iraqi shook his head and pulled out a picture, dropping it on the desk. The Frenchman picked it up, and then handed it to his assistant, who looked at it carefully as he nodded. “Yes, that is her. I remember her very well.”

The administrator extended his hand, asking for the picture again. It showed a close-up of Azadeh’s face but no background or any other identifiable features that would give context to where the picture had been taken or how long ago. “This is a recent photograph?” he wondered.

The Iraqi shook his head. “Perhaps a few months old. Her father sent it to my master sometime last winter, I believe.”

The administrator turned to his assistant. “Mr. Raule, are you certain she said that she had no kin?”

“Oh, yes, quite certain, sir.”

He lifted the picture and shook it. “And you are certain this is Miss Pahlavi?”

“Very certain, sir,” Raule shot a glaring look at the stranger.

The administrator leaned against his desk, took out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips, sucking on the filter instead of lighting up. “It seems, Mr. Ishameil, that we have a discrepancy here. Either your master is a liar, or this girl has an uncle that she is not willing to claim.”

The Iraqi’s shoulders slumped. This is so insulting and demeaning, he thought. His eyelids drooped with feigned hurt.

His act wasn’t particularly convincing, and the U.N. officer pressed his lips together.

“Sayid,” the Iraqi pleaded, “my master is an honorable man. He has sent me at great expense, and he is not wealthy, my Sayid. He sent me to find this girl. He only wants to help her. He has her interest at heart. And it may not be surprising the girl wouldn’t mention her uncle, for my master has lived in Pakistan his entire adult life. It is likely Miss Pahlavi and my master have never met.”

The administrator finally lit the cigarette and pulled in a long drag of smoke. He had heard so many stories, many of them unlikely, and it was difficult to tell him something that he wouldn’t believe. What the man said was certainly possible. Yet it just didn’t ring true. In his gut, he knew the Iraqi was lying. But he didn’t how he could prove it. And he didn’t much care.

“Do you have papers proving relationship?” he asked quickly, ready to move on to his next task.

“Of course, Sayid.” The Iraqi pulled out three stapled forms and handed them to the administrator, who immediately passed them to his aide, Mr. Raule.

“Now, my Sayids,” the Iraqi went on as Raule scanned the documents. “I would love to spend the afternoon discussing my master’s family tree, but I know you are busy, and frankly, I am as well. If you would sign the release forms, I will take custody of the girl. And of course, I also have a copy of a signed U.N. Form 12-22.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another neatly folded piece of paper. “I believe that is all you will need,” he concluded confidently.

The administrator eyed the forms as he smoked. “It seems, Mr. Ishameil, that you might have done this before?” His voice was carried just enough sarcasm to show his disdain.

“Oh, no, my Sayid,” the Iraqi shot back.

“Never?” The Frenchman lifted a derisive eyebrow. “You seem very knowledgeable. Which makes we wonder, why would a man like you be familiar with the custodial process for a young woman—a very pretty young woman—from my refugee camp?” His voice dripped with contempt.

The Iraqi forced a painful face. So the administrator was going to make it difficult. Fine. I’ll play along. When this is over, the bureaucrat will give me what I came for and never think about me or the young woman again, thought the Iraqi. “As I said,” he started, “my master is very eager. The news of his brother’s death has been very hard on him. They were not friendly. Estranged. There was a bitter divide in their family, and my master is hopeful that his brother’s death, in Allah’s mercy, Blessed be the Name of His Holy Prophet, may have the power to bridge the divide. My master believes that caring for this young girl is part of his penance, and he means to make good. So he has taken great care to find out what has to be done. Thus, I have my instructions: find his orphaned niece and bring her back to him.”

The administrator pulled another drag, and then turned toward Raule, who lifted his eyes. He had studied the documents. They were in order. He reluctantly nodded.

The administrator knew then that, despite his suspicions, he could not stop the stranger from taking the girl. The camp directives were clear: U.N. officials were to make every effort to repatriate minor or female refugees to their families. No exceptions to the rule. Families had precedence. And no agreement was required from the female refugee to go. Even if she didn’t want to go back to their families—and the administrator knew there were many good reasons some of them did not want to return—they had no choice. If a family member appeared with proof of relationship, the camp directors had to release them to that person’s care.

The Frenchman knew that some of the young women he released from Khorramshahr ended up in very bad circumstances: prostitutes in Iran; sex slaves in India, Pakistan, and Thailand; suicide bombers in Gaza; prisoners in forced labor camps. The list of places they could be sent was as long as the list of sins. But worrying about the children who left Khorramshahr was not what the U.N. paid him to do. Such concerns fell under the Office of Women’s Advocate on the twenty-first floor of the U.N. building, sixteen floors below his superior’s offices and eight thousand miles to the west.

Eight thousand miles from Khorramshahr. A very long way, indeed.

He glanced at the photograph of Azadeh. Beauty was a dangerous thing, he knew. He turned to the Iraqi. Did this man really represent Azadeh’s uncle? He had serious doubts. Would she end up in a brothel in Karachi? It was certainly possible.

Would he spend even five minutes worrying about her once she had been taken from Khorramshahr? Not a chance in this world.

He had other worries than one more lost girl.

He walked back behind his desk, sat down, and began to sign the release forms. The Iraqi smiled as he watched the administrator work through the papers.

Without looking up, the administrator asked Raule, “Do you know which living quarters Miss Pahlavi has been assigned?”

Raule hesitated, shooting a look at the stranger, who was watching him now. The two men locked onto each other with unblinking eyes. The hostile moment lingered.

“Mr. Raule?” the administrator prodded, still looking down.

The assistant’s jaw tightened up, and the Iraqi scowled as he leaned his weight toward the smaller man and pressed his lips in a frown.

Raule cleared his throat, his mind racing. “Miss Pahlavi is still in the temporary quarters,” he finally said.

The French administrator signed the last document, and then looked up. “Then go and fetch Miss Pahlavi. And tell her to pack all her things.”

TWENTY

Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iran/Iraq Border

Raule walked through the neat rows of plywood and tin shacks, making his way down to the tent city where the newest refugees were housed. Approaching the tents, he slowed his pace, then glanced down at the note he had written on a small piece of paper. Row B, Tent 12. Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi.

He stopped outside one of the tents. It was set back six feet from the main road, and a narrow, rock-lined path curved toward the half-open flap. The rocks that lined the small trail, none of them bigger than his fist, had been painted green and blue by some previous occupant, and a ten-inch plywood sign had been posted in the dirt at the head of the path. Tent 12 was painted on the worn plywood, though the dark letters were so faded they were barely readable. Underneath the tent number was an empty space. Years before, the tent occupant’s name would have been written in grease pencil in the now-empty space, a small gesture of welcome and ownership, but the habit had long since been abandoned, overcome by events. Raule stood outside the tent and called Azadeh’s name. He listened. It was quiet. He called her name again, and then moved toward the tent, careful not to disturb the painted rocks on the narrow path. He pushed the tent flap aside and looked through the netting. The tent was empty.

Raule felt a sudden surge of relief. She wasn’t here. He couldn’t find her. The stranger in the administration building would have to come back another time.

A horrible image flashed like a dark movie in his mind. He knew the truth. Like his boss, the camp administrator, he knew that the burly Iraqi was not who he said he was. A lost uncle. A paid servant sent to find an orphaned child. The lie was so thin it was like peering through a torn veil. Yes, the Iraqi’s paperwork was flawless, but that didn’t mean anything. In his heart, Raule knew they were about to send Azadeh into a dark and terrible world, a world where she would spend the next ten years working for her masters, then be tossed on the street if she had not died already of disease.

He stared at the empty tent and smiled. The Iraqi would have to come back another day.

He would go back and lie. He would tell the stranger waiting in his office that she had left the camp. He could say that she might have been gone for days; some refugees came and went, it wasn’t as if there was any kind of roll call. He could pretend to mount a search, buy a little time. His boss would know what he was doing, but he might play along. He had many more things to worry about than his assistant’s efforts to save a girl.

Raule’s hands started to tremble as he worked out the plan. He would delay a few minutes, then go back to the administration building and report that Azadeh was gone. Feigning surprise and distress, he would tell the Iraqi to leave while they searched, to come back the next day. He didn’t need much time to get her out of the camp. When night fell, he would take her away. After that … .

He heard voices behind him and quickly turned around. Azadeh was walking toward him, her hair covered with a white scarf. Raule glanced down the trail toward the administration building, then around at the crowded pathways and dirt roads that wound through the camp.

“Master Raule,” Azadeh said brightly as she walked toward him. Then she saw the look on his face and stopped. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked in a worried tone.

“Miss Pahlavi,” Raule started, and then halted for a moment. Did he really have the nerve? He quickly stepped toward her. “Miss Pahlavi, come quickly. We need to talk.” He pushed her toward her tent, but she resisted his hand.

“Sayid, what is it?” she asked him. Raule looked around nervously again.

“You have an uncle?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I told you, Master Raule, I have no one.”

“No, Miss Pahlavi. Think. You came from a large extended family. You have many uncles and cousins. They scattered to the wind. When your grandfather left Persia, all of them followed him. Now think, did your father have a brother who went to Pakistan?”

Azadeh didn’t hesitate. “No, my Sayid. My father had no brother.”

Raule nodded firmly. It was as he had thought. “Listen to me, Azadeh,” he started to say, his hand squeezing her elbow in a firm grip. “There is someone here for you—” Then he looked back.

The Iraqi was standing not twenty feet away, at the head of the dirt path. The camp administrator stood beside him, an irritated look on his face. The Iraqi scowled, and then moved quickly, making his way down the trail. “Azadeh Jan!” he shouted, extending his arms to the girl. “Thank Allah, I have found you! Allah has protected you. And I have found you safe.”

Azadeh stared at him, a puzzled look on her face. “Do I know you?” she asked as the stranger swept her up in a powerful embrace.

“No, Azadeh Jan, you do not.” He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “But my master is waiting. And you will come with me, my dear.”

Azadeh pushed herself back. “Who are you?” she demanded.

The Iraqi didn’t answer as he turned to Raule. “Thank you,” he said, victory flashing in his eyes.

Raule looked away, conceding defeat. The Iraqi had known his intent, or at least he had suspected, and had followed him to ensure that he returned with the girl. There was nothing he could do now. He glanced at his boss, who nodded to his watch and spun his fingers in a circle. Time was wasting. He was pressured. There were important papers to sign, phone calls to make, reports to be filed. Not mention the fact that his office hours ended at four.

Raule glanced at Azadeh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Miss Pahlavi,” he told her, “this man represents your uncle who lives in Pakistan. He has come to retrieve you and take you to his home.”

Azadeh’s face was a blank. “I have no uncle,” she said.

“Yes, Azadeh, you do. We have the paperwork. It is all in order—”

“I have no uncle!” she cried. She turned to the stranger and shivered, looking into his dark eyes. “I do not know who this man is, but I will not go with him.”

“But he carries proof. We have checked it.”

“Come!” the administrator called from the path. “Pack your things. We are waiting. You’re going to your new home, child.”

Azadeh’s face grew taut, her eyes glaring and bright. “I will not go!” she answered. “And I am not a child!” She started backing up to her tent.

And that was all that the stranger would have. “In my master’s house, a young woman is taught to do as she is told,” he said icily. “She does not challenge her master. She may do it once, but only once; she’ll never do it again. The rules of sharia hold true in our home. It is not your place, as a woman, to tell me what you will or won’t do. You will do as we tell you. And you will remember what your place is in this life.”

The Iraqi seemed to swell as he stood over her. She shrank, pulling back, conditioned to retreat. Raule stepped between them and looked Azadeh in the eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but it’s true. You must go.”

Azadeh shook her head, not in defiance but in disbelief. “I cannot. I cannot. Look at him,” she whispered, leaning into Raule. “You know what he is. You know what is going to happen to me. Please, Master Raule, please.”

“Come!” the camp administrator shouted, growing angry now. “Tell her to gather her things and let’s go!”

Raule nodded sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said.

The Iraqi stepped between them, pushing Raule to the side. “You should be grateful,” he sneered as Azadeh stepped away. “My master sent me here to save you. I’ve traveled many days. We have both sacrificed, and this is the thanks that we get. Now get your things, Azadeh, and come gratefully.”

Azadeh shot a pleading look toward Raule, the only man who could help her, but he did not look at her now. He had done all he could. He had done more than he should have. He glanced back at his boss, who was walking angrily toward them, a glare on his face.

The Iraqi opened the tent flap and moved inside. It took him less than two minutes to throw her things into a rough burlap sack and reappear, ready to leave.

“Pari Jan,” Azadeh gasped, thinking of her only friend. “I need to tell her goodbye.”

“Who? What?”

“There is an older woman. My friend. Please, you must let me tell her goodbye.”

The Arab looked around, and then huffed impatiently. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Four twenty,” Raule answered.

The Arab shook his head. “No time,” he said impatiently as he moved down the trail. “The train heading north from Khorramshahr leaves in less than an hour. We will have to hurry to catch it even now. And I will not spend another night in this land.”

“But Sayid, please, I have a friend. She lives not more than a five-minute walk from here. Please, if I could just go and tell her—”

Her new master shook his head again. “Come now!” he said, as if speaking to a disobedient dog. “And remember, Pahlavi Jan, what I said about sharia and accepting your place in this world. We can do this easily, or with difficulty. It is up to you.”

Ghesha Ghetto, East of Kirkuk, Iraq

The meeting had been arranged for 9:40 p.m., enough after sunset to be dark but still early enough to allow the parties to get off the streets before the 10 p.m. curfew. Not being a fool, the American had refused to enter the ghetto—not while carrying $10,000 in cash, and especially not with the enemies that he had already made there. And the Iraqi had been reluctant to allow the transfer without his supporters around. After bitter negotiations, they had decided to meet on the ghetto side of the bridge that joined Ghesha Ghetto to the main highway on the other side of the river. There was a turnoff there, a dirt road that led down to the river that was out of sight of the main road.

At 9:40 p.m., the American was standing in the middle of the dirt road. Behind him, forty meters in the distance and hidden behind a stand of stunted trees, his friend was waiting, his automatic weapon trained on the road. The moon was still low, and the dirty air stole most of the starlight, leaving the night dark and still. The American glanced at his watch as he waited, and then turned his eyes back to the road. At 9:43 p.m., a dusty Mercedes moved slowly toward the bridge and turned onto the dirt turnaround. The American didn’t move from the center of the road, and the driver of the Mercedes kept his lights on bright as he approached. The American turned away and closed his eyes, eager to retain his night vision.

The Mercedes rolled to a stop not more than two feet from him. The driver cut the engine and then finally the lights. The American turned back to the automobile. His face was dark and hard, and he watched silently as the back door opened and his contact got out. The American peered past him through the dark tinted glass. Another man was sitting in the front seat, but he was barely a shadow behind the dark glass. There was movement from the backseat, but he couldn’t see who it was.

The Iraqi slave trader approached the American and stood near the front of the car. They summed up each other with menacing glares.

“Where is she?” the American asked, a hard edge on his breath.

The Iraqi didn’t answer. “You got a cigarette?” he asked.

The American shook his head. Not tonight. No time to be nice.

The Iraqi nodded to the low trees. “How many men do you have back there?” he asked.

The American bent down, pulled a blade of dry grass from between the ruts in the road, and stuck it between his teeth. “Where is she?” he countered, ignoring the question altogether.

“Where’s my money?” the Iraqi asked.

“Who’s in the car?”

“Where’s your other man?”

The two men stared at each other, neither of them wanting to give. The American finally tightened his jaw and said, “I’ve got one friend with me. You met him before. He’s back there in the trees. Other than that, we’re alone.”

The other man nodded. He believed that was true. They had been watching the riverbank for the past two hours or so. They had seen the American, but not his buddy hiding down in the trees, although it didn’t take a genius to figure that was where he would be.

The Iraqi studied the American and smiled. There was something about him that he simply didn’t like, something that made his skin crawl. He had no right to be here. Ghesha ghetto was for Iraqis, not Americans. No reason for any Americans, especially one he didn’t like, to be in this world. So he would rob him, and then kill him, along with his friend in the trees. Then he would take the girl and work another deal.

The Iraqi looked around, searching for the American’s car. “And how are you proposing to get out of here?” he asked.

The American nodded to the river. Up against the bank, mostly covered over with cattails and brush, a low boat had been hidden, small but speedy and maneuverable.

Glancing at the boat, the Iraqi sensed for a fleeting moment that something was wrong. If the American was a stranger to Iraq, where did he get the boat? And why was he always with his buddy? The Iraqi’s military background suggested the pattern of working in teams this way, but he didn’t dwell on the thought. His mind was too full with the prospect of a pile of thousand-dollar bills. “Where’s the money?” he demanded again, shrugging off the boat.

The American reached under his jacket and pulled out a thick wad of cash.

The Iraqi stared and then turned, slapping the hood of the car. The back door swung open and a huge man emerged. Azadeh followed, a dark coat over her shoulders, a burlap bag in her hand. She looked up in fear.

And the American smiled.

*******

Forty meters upriver, the man hiding among the trees adjusted his weight on the ground. It was dark now, and he was completely hidden. He was lying on his stomach, his elbows at his side to support the weight of the automatic rifle with its night-vision scope. Watching through the scope, he saw the scene as clearly as if it were day. From his angle, he had a clear view of the American’s back and sometimes the side of his head. He also had a clear view of the Iraqi and the front of the car.

He saw his target slap the hood of the Mercedes, then another man crawl out of the car, followed by the girl.

The woman beside him rested her hand on his arm. “Is that her?” she whispered directly into his ear.

The shooter nodded slowly.

“Please, will you put the gun down now?” she asked.

The man only grunted.

“Please,” the woman begged him.

“Will you be quiet please?”

She hesitated, knowing it was not a request, and lowered her head to the grass, peering all the time through the trees.

*******

The American looked at Azadeh, and for some reason he winked. She stared at him, bewildered.

The Iraqi watched her carefully, noting her reaction.

The Iraqi was confused. Then his heart slammed in his chest, his instinct for survival finally slipping into gear, forty years of training standing the hairs on his neck on end. The smugness about him melted into a feeling of fear.

All the questions washed over him, things he should have thought of before. The boat. The American. Far too fearless. Too confident. Willing to pay too much money. In a hurry. Insisting on this girl.

A chill ran down his spine.

He reached for the handgun that was strapped to his chest. But the American had already pulled a pistol from some unseen holster under his jacket. A 9-millimeter. Sig Sauer. Phosphate anti-corrosion finish. His eyes widened in great fear.

The Iraqi feinted for his weapon, but the American moved forward with frightening speed, grabbing his hand in a crushing grip. The Iraqi felt a jab of pain as the American put pressure on the joints of his ring and little fingers. He tried pulling back. The grip tightened. “I wouldn’t,” his assailant said calmly, “not if you want to live.”

The huge man next to Azadeh reached out and grabbed her by the throat, his fat fingers crushing into the soft skin on her neck. He jerked a small pistol from his sleeve and jammed it to the side of her head.

The American stared at him coolly, his eyes narrow, his face firm and blank. He showed no emotion, no anxiety, not a worry in the world. The Iraqi watched him, noting the cold look in his eye. That look! How he hated it. So smug and so cool. Looking into the American’s face, he finally understood. This wasn’t some rich boy from the city looking for a thrill. This wasn’t some American thug looking to make a quick buck on a deal.

This was a trained professional.

His world came crashing down.

The first Iraqi felt the American’s grip on his hand, firm as cold steel. He saw the specialty handgun and the confident smile. Then he panicked, his mind clouding, his instincts irrational and self-destructive, a thousand thoughts rushing through his head

Why was the American armed? Was he going to kill him? Who was his friend in the trees?

Were they going to steal the girl? After all the work he had done? No! They couldn’t have her. Not if she was dead. And he would kill her before he’d lose her.

“Let’s keep this simple,” the American said in a calm voice. “No one needs to get hurt here. All I want is the girl.”

The Iraqi hesitated, years of hatred and resentment bursting inside. “You’re going to steal her, my friend!”

“Of course not, you fool—”

The irrational panic welled up in the Iraqi’s mind. He didn’t have that much to live for anyway. He could die now, he could die later, and he didn’t care that much anymore.

The hateful pride inside him took complete control. “Kill her!” he screamed over his shoulder to his friend. “Kill her! They will take her! Kill her before they do!”

The man holding Azadeh tightened his grip on her throat. It was clear from the rage in his eyes that he was going to shoot her. He jammed the blunt end of the pistol into her temple, moved his finger for the trigger, and pushed her head down by his hip so that he wouldn’t get back splattered when he shot her.

The American heard the angry buzz of a bullet not more than a few inches from his ear, and the huge man suddenly slumped, a red circle on his forehead and a large gaping hole where the back of his head used to be. The sound of the gunshot crashed from the trees half a second later. The American twisted the Iraqi’s wrist, hearing the bone snap, and the Iraqi dropped his weapon and cried out in pain. Continuing the movement, the American lifted his pistol and fired through the side window of the car, aiming at the shadow in the backseat. More shots echoed from the trees behind him and the front window shattered, two bullet holes pocking the passenger side.

The injured Iraqi, the only one still alive, screamed, his face pulling in pain and fear. He bent down for his weapon, but his assailant had kicked it away.

The American leaned toward him, twisted his broken wrist, and grimaced, unable to hold in his disgust. “You sell little girls!” he screamed, slapping the man on the head, his anger snarling his breath. “Young women! Helpless children! What kind of sick man are you!”

The Iraqi fell over, holding the top of his head. He whimpered like a puppy that had been beaten with a stick.

The American reached down and grabbed the Iraqi’s hair, jerking his head around until he was staring at his dead friend. “You couldn’t fight me. No! You couldn’t fight like a man! You had to go for the girl, and now look what you did! Your friends are dead. You are alone here. So now, tell me, big man, what are you going to do?”

The Iraqi whimpered, begging, “My Sayid, my Sayid—”

“Shut up!” the American cried, releasing the grip on his face.

The Iraqi fell to the ground and lay on his stomach with his arms spread wide, a familiar position he had forced many others to endure.

Azadeh didn’t move. She was quiet, and a long way from tears.

She moved toward her rescuer, saying something in Persian that he did not understand.

He was five inches taller than she was and he looked down, holding her shoulders in his hands.

“You …” Azadeh started, her face scrunching as she struggled to find the right words in English. “You … remember me,” she finally managed.

“Yes. I came for you,” he answered.

“I,” she pointed to her chest. “I did what … you say to me.”

Sam Brighton broke into a smile. “You did good. You got to Khorramshahr. And now you are safe.”

COMING IN EPISODE FOUR…

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American soldiers! Abdullah thought, his mouth growing dry. U.S. soldiers had dared to move openly inside of Iran! There had been rumors, even sightings of Special Forces units working inside the borders of Persia, searching for hints of their nuclear program, listening, watching, looking for things, but this had been different—these were combat troops. And they had shown up at the village at the very worst time.

*******

He heard his office door open behind him. He turned his head just a bit, lowering his chin to the side, but he did not turn around, and he could not see who it was. Then he heard the shuffle of soft feet, and his heart jumped in his chest. He heard the deep breathing, the rattle in the chest, and his lips turned up in a smile. Then he smelled him. The stale clothes. The smell of medicine and disinfectants. The smell of sour breath.

He turned around slowly.

The old man was standing there.

The king bowed at his waist. He didn’t think, he just did it; it was an instinctive reaction, one he could not have explained. Yes, he was king, but this was the Master, the only man on earth that Abdullah feared. He bowed his head, then rushed forward and took the old man by the arm. He felt the thin flesh, the tender skin and weak muscle hanging like limp cloth on the bone, as he guided the old man toward the nearest chair.

*******

“Some people will claim that freedom belongs to all mankind,” the old man said. “That is a lie. Don’t believe it. From the beginning of time that lie has been deceiving the world.

“Some will say that all people have been given the power to choose. Another lie. Don’t believe it. Life is not a matter of choice. It is a matter of strength. It is not a matter of freedom. It is a matter of power. That’s the only thing that matters: who is strong, who is weak, who can convince enough of the others to follow. That is all that matters in this miserable world.”

*******

“Oh, don’t you worry about Abdullah. I can take care of him,” the president said.

Brighton sat forward in his chair. He knew the royal family perhaps better than anyone, and the president’s estimation of Abdullah was clean off the mark. “Mr. President,” he said, “I must respectfully disagree. Abdullah is a dangerous man. Maybe very dangerous. We’ll have to approach him carefully.”

“He’s nothing!” the president shot back. “He’s a spoiled kid, oversexed and over-moneyed. No brains. No ambition. No direction. No core. If he’s the next king, that’s fine. I know how to deal with him. I’ve dealt with worse men before.”

Brighton shook his head slowly. “No sir, that’s simply not true. You don’t know Abdullah. None of us do. It would be foolish, even stupid, to underestimate this man.”

*******

As the king studied the head of the mullah, he couldn’t help but think. Yes, many of their best men would die. Tens upon thousands. Maybe many more. The price of their brothers’ blood was substantial, but it was a good price to pay, for what blood was too precious to see their mission complete?

In a week, maybe less, they would see the destruction of their enemies throughout the Middle East. They would see the Great Satan literally brought to his knees. They would see the destruction of his offspring, the goatish daughter herself. She would be pushed into the deep sea, forever destroyed.

Yes, they would pay a price. Many of their men would die. And their wives. And their children. But what choice did they have? The final battle was upon them. The time of the goat’s blood was here.

*******

The timing of the attacks had to be precisely coordinated and extremely compressed. Like an enormous tsunami that would crash over the land, they had to be unexpected and devastating; with no chance of being turned back. The destruction had to be wide and deep, completely demoralizing and debilitating in every way. And they had to create a sense of passing, as if the old world was gone, leaving normal life shattered like broken glass on the floor.

*******

General Brighton stared silently at the monitor on the wall, watching the Israeli pilots fly toward their targets. There were only seconds to release point, and he swallowed painfully against the knot in his throat. Taking a step forward, he muttered under his breath. “No. Call them back. It’s not too late!” he said.

READ EPISODE FOUR NOW…

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[1] “Sexual Slavery in Iran,” Bahareiran’s Blog, http://bahareiran.wordpress.com/2011/03/06/sexual-slavery-in-iran. [Nota bene: I know this is a novel, but there are going to be readers who won’t believe. Hence these footnotes.]

[2] U.S. Dep’t of State, Kuwait (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2007), http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100604.htm.

[3] U.S. Dep’t of State, Kuwait (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2007), http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100599.htm.

[4] U.S. Dep’t of State, United Arab Emirates (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2007), http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100608.htm.

[5] Donna M. Hughes, “Islamic Fundamentalism and the Sex Slave Trade in Iran,” http://www.uri.edu/artsci/wms/hughes/iran_sex_slave_trade; see also Andrew Bushell, “Pakistan’s Slave Trade—Afghan Refugees Sold into Prostitution; Indentured Servitude Flourishes; Scenes from a Slave Auction,” http://www.ipoaa.com/pakistan_slave_trade.htm.

[6] Donna M. Hughes, “Islamic Fundamentalism and the Sex Slave Trade in Iran,” http://www.uri.edu/artsci/wms/hughes/iran_sex_slave_trade.

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

1

2

3

4

5

6