Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (43 page)

“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.

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.”

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.