Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (30 page)

“It is righteousness to believe in Allah and the Last Day; and the Angels, and the Book, and the Messengers; to be firm and patient in pain and adversity, and throughout all periods of panic. Such are the people of truth, the God-fearing . . . .”

He read the verse again, then looked up in thought.

“To be firm and patient in pain and adversity . . . .”

He thought of the sound that had startled him out of sleep. A helicopter. On the western side of the hill.

Helicopters flying toward the village? That was never good news.

“Pain and adversity.” His village had had their fair share.

* * *

Crown Prince Saud unstrapped his seat belt and moved to the small door that separated the passenger cabin from the cockpit and pulled it open. He was met by the dim, multicolored lights of the cockpit; four eight-inch computer displays, a terrain-following radar, and rows upon rows of digital gauges and multifunctions switches. The two pilots sat side-by-side, both of them Saudi air force colonels, old friends, trusted and worthy, their faces an unearthly green in the reflected cockpit lights. Saud stood in the doorway and studied the ALQ-162 defensive/countermeasures CRT, an automated system that searched out ground threats—ground-to-air radars, shoulder-fired weapons and other heat-seeking missiles. With the exception of the Operations Normal symbology, the screen was a pale, silver blank. Satisfied, he raised his eyes to look through the cockpit window. The world appeared crooked, for the pilot had rolled the helicopter into a steep bank. The horizon tilted across the windscreen at an uncomfortable angle, the moon and stars filling the right window, the coastline and lighted highway filling the left. His head spun a moment and he adjusted his weight to balance himself, then turned to the copilot, who gestured to the north. “Agha Jari Deh,” the pilot said, pointing to a tiny collection of mud and brick houses nestled tightly against the rising mountains.

The prince watched anxiously. Even in the moonlight, the village was surprisingly small; so small, the helicopter would overfly it in a matter of seconds. There was only one road leading to the village and except for those who traveled to its market the village was almost completely unknown.

Saud studied the passing huts and small homes. It was so small. It was perfect. Allah had prepared a way.

* * *

The helicopter rolled level and began to slow down. The copilot lifted his hand to the helicopter’s collective grips, which controls the helicopter’s ascent and descent, and pressed his radio switch to answer a radio call. “Transportation is waiting,” he announced to the prince.

Saud nodded and watched as the helicopter turned to line up on a grassy field, two or three kilometers south of the village. The circle of grass appeared as a dark bowl against the reflective rocks of the mountains. The village was quiet, less than a dozen lights shining to the north. He picked out the headlights of the waiting vehicles as the helicopter descended through three hundred feet and slowed below one hundred twenty knots. A powerful
whoop
emitted from above his head as the blades slapped the air, taking less of a bite as the aircraft slowed down. The pilot switched on the landing light and the tips of the spinning blades reflected the powerful lamp. Saud nudged the pilot on the shoulder, then stepped out of the cockpit and closed the door. Moving to the princess, he sat down at her side. In the dim light of the cabin, he saw a single tear glisten on the edge of her chin. She stared ahead, unmoving, her determination building inside. The prince didn’t speak to her as he slipped her lap belt on.

The helicopter landed with a bump on the uneven field and the pilot brought the twine turbine engines to idle and disengaged the rotors. Saud stood and worked the exit door, which dropped into the darkness, the folding steps exposed as the door slipped into place. He turned back to the princess who was waking their son. The three of them stepped out of the aircraft and into the cold mountain air.

* * *

Rassa heard his neighbor’s dog. The Afghan Hound bark urgently from behind the fence that followed the narrow trail that led up to the mountains. He stood up and moved to the window and looked out on the courtyard that surrounded his backyard where the moon cast deep shadows that wavered as the clouds passed overhead. The air was calm now, and cold, and he saw no movement in the dim light. Twenty seconds later he heard the sound of an automobile engine and the soft crunch of tires against the rock and gravel outside.

A sudden chill ran through him. He thought of the whoop of the helicopter blades and the roar of the turbine engines. Out here, in the most remote parts of the country, where the warlords and tribal chiefs ruled, a helicopter could only mean one of two things; warlords from the south, coming up to collect recruits for their bloody turf battles, or the jihadist—the lawless Islamic fanatics who had adapted to the presence of Western forces in Iraq by hiding out in the Iranian deserts where they planned their battles against the Great Satan and Jews.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Rassa felt his heart sink. He had seen many men disappear, pulled away in the night. Some had been suspected collaborators. Some had been hauled off to fight. Many were never heard of again. Fewer still returned to their homes.

He listened to the sounds of the car doors shut, then soft footsteps on the porch. He glanced in a panic to the bedroom door, thinking of his daughter, Azadeh, then considered the old rifle stuffed behind the ancient cedar armoire in corner of the room, a beat-up Lee-Enfield .303 that had been used by his grandfather during the First World War. The rifle was his own deadly secret, for to have a rifle, any weapon in fact, in Iran was strictly forbidden. Yet Rassa made no move toward it. If they were coming for him, be it the warlords or mullahs, it would be dangerous to fight them, especially with Azadeh in the next room.

So he waited, unmoving, listening to the footsteps outside his door. The wooden door rattled on its hinges but Rassa didn’t dare to move.

Rassa finally pulled the door open and peered out onto the dimly lit porch. Two middle-aged men stood in the darkness; both of them strong and well-dressed in dark western suits, though traditional turbans were wrapped on their heads. The nearest man blocked the doorway with his massive frame and moved one hand to his hip, exposing a thin, leather holster. The second man stood slightly behind the other and off to the side. Rassa glanced past the first guard to see two dark cars parked on the road, their engines idle, their headlights off. Without explanation, the bodyguards pushed into his home and swept through the room. Rassa stood speechless until one of them paused at the back bedroom. “Is Azadeh in there?” he asked Rassa in a deep tone.

Rassa moved toward the hall. “Who are you?” he demanded, his eyes flashing with rage.

“Is she in there?” the bodyguard repeated.

Rassa tightened in panic then shook his head. “You do not want her,” he hissed, his voice husky with rage. It was the voice of a fighter at the edge of a war. “It is me you have come for!
Leave her alone!
”

He took a quick step toward the guard while glancing at the holster underneath the dark suit. If they had come for Azadeh then he would die in their way.

The leader ignored Rassa and nodded to the bedroom. “Check it out,” he said.

The smaller guard nodded and slowly pushed the door open. Stepping into the room, he pulled a tiny flashlight from his pocket and flashed it inside. He saw the sleeping girl, her head buried on the side of her pillow. He swept the light quickly, taking in the simple bed, small chest, and white wicker drawer. A small collection of colorful dresses, silken hajib headscarves and full burkas were hanging from a rope tied across the far corner. A golden headband had been neatly arranged on top of the dresser. On the floor next to the bureau was a pair of sandals and leather shoes. He studied the room carefully, then stepped back and closed the door.

Rassa was waiting at the door, a look of rage on his face. He relaxed his glare only slightly when the guard closed the door. “Who are you?” he hissed. “What are you doing here? I have nothing to hide! I have nothing you want!”

The two guards didn’t answer as they nodded to each other. The larger man moved to the front door, pushed it open and raised his right hand. The automobiles turned off their engines. Rassa heard the car doors open, then the sound of soft footsteps. He waited, then moved to the center of the kitchen, placing himself between Azadeh’s bedroom and the front door.

A young woman entered the room, her dark eyes bewildered and red. She was dressed in a dark burka and leather sandals, and she pulled a deep blue shawl tightly over her shoulders. She moved to a position beside the wall, then pushed her burka back, revealing a long mane of dark hair. Another man followed, dressed in an exquisite dark suit. Rassa saw him and stepped back, sucking in a quick breath of air. The intruder walked into the room with the confidence of a king, his shoulders square, his head high, his eyes constantly moving with suspicion but still clear and sure. Rassa dropped to one knee as the prince moved through the room, the social chasm between them demanding he bow with respect.

The prince moved toward him and extended his hand. Rassa stood and the prince pulled him to his chest, kissing both of his cheeks in a display of respect.

Rassa dropped his eyes in confusion. What was this man doing here?

The prince stepped back and took in Rassa, measuring his appearance from his head to his feet. The woman remained near the doorway, her eyes dull with fright. The prince turned back to Rassa and gripped him by his shoulders. “Rassa Ali Pahlavi,” he asked, “do you know who I am?”

“You are Crown Prince Saud, oldest son of King Fahd bin Saud Aziz, monarch of the House of Saud, grandson of King Saud Aziz, future Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques, keeper of the Holy Cities of Mecca and Medina.”

Prince Saud nodded. Good. That was good. His cousin might have been raised in one of the most remote villages in the mountains, but clearly he was not an illiterate fool. He had read. He remembered. And he was aware. Some of the prince’s own citizens would not have recognized him and only one in a hundred Iranians would have known who he was. He nodded with approval, then motioned toward the young women. “Do you know her as well?” he demanded.

Rassa kept his head low, afraid of meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I do not know who she is.”

The prince nodded again. That was good as well. She mustn’t be recognized if their plan was to work. And he had doubted she would be, not here in the Iranian mountains, so far from their home.

The royal sons were rarely photographed inside their own country, and it was strictly forbidden to photograph their children or wives. This wasn’t England after all, with their maniacal fascination with the royal family. This was the House of Saud, the Kingdom of Arabia, Keeper of the Holy Cities. Theirs wasn’t a monarchy of fairy tales and magic castles, a kingdom of tabloids, gossip and family secrets revealed. The House of Saud was a kingdom of
power
, the kingdom of
Allah
on earth and paparazzi were simply not tolerated in their press. The royal wives and their daughters led luxurious but anonymous lives. It had always been thus and it would always be so, for it would have been demeaning to Allah and Mohammad for the women of the royal family to live public lives.

Which meant the princess could stay here
if
she would not be recognized.

Prince Saud nodded to the princess. “You do not know who she is?” he repeated.

“No, my
Sayid.
Should I recognize her?”

Prince Saud watched Rassa closely as he searched for any shadow that he was not telling the truth. Did he truly not know her? Would his eyes give him away?

Rassa’s face didn’t change. He did not know who the princess was.

The prince breathed a shallow sigh of relief.

It might actually work.

He studied Rassa again. His men had been investigating his cousin for almost a year, and there was little about Rassa that the prince didn’t know. And though the final plans had been laid some months before, when the prince first became convinced they might actually come after his family, this was the first time he had seen him and he wanted to take his measure.

Rassa held the prince’s gaze, never looking away. This man might be a prince, but
this
was his home. And no man was his master, a least not in
this
place.

Over the years the prince had learned how to measure a man. He had learned to distinguish between his enemies and friends, measuring secret ambitions and hidden desires, to recognize those who loved him and those who wished to bring him harm. Staring into Rassa’s eyes, he saw no guile in him. This was a good man, straightforward and honest and for the first time in days, the prince began to relax.

He took a step toward Rassa. “We are not strangers,” he said. “One of my grandfathers, your grandfathers, they were cousins I believe.”

Rassa nodded. The genealogy was not unfamiliar to him. “That was many generations back. Maybe even five hundred years.”

“Yes, but the bloodlines of royalty are extremely pure. We are far more closely related than you might at first guess.”

Rassa thought for a moment, getting past his surprise and fear. “Our forebears were enemies,” he added after reviewing the genealogy in his mind.

The prince smiled. “Yes, they traded a share of their men’s lives in battles, there is no doubt about that. But they were not unfriendly, I think. They were sheiks fighting for their kingdoms and to protect their gold, but when the day was over, I suppose they were friends. That was business, that was then, and of course this is now. So you and I, we are family. And the bonds of our ancestors that tie us are far stronger than any blood that has been spilt in the past.”

Rassa paused, then answered sadly.

“
When the battle is over,

And the evening winds come,