Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (70 page)

Another long silence filled the air. Pari struggled to breathe, and then fell into a violent coughing fit. Raule looked away as she hacked, each lunge of her chest a little weaker than the one before. When her fit had passed, he stood, moved to her bed, and knelt on the floor. He handed her a handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat from her brow with another cloth.

She looked at him desperately, her anger having already slipped away. Dying had a way of softening one’s emotions, even the bitterest kind. They sat silently for a while, staring into each other’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Raule said in a soft voice. “I mean that, Miss Pari. It tears at my heart. Yes, I suspected. I thought that something wasn’t right, but please, you must believe me. I tried to help her. I did all I could. Was it enough? Clearly not. But I ask you to forgive me and let me help, if you will.”

Pari took his hand in hers. She held it a moment, measuring the feeling in his soul. Looking into his eyes, she saw the pain and anguish there. Was his disappointment for real? Was he a good man? Was he loyal? Was he a man she could trust?

She looked at him a long moment, then concluded that he was.

It took several days for Raule to gather the lawyers, bankers, and government representatives and have them draw up the documents. It was very complicated, more so than he ever could have predicted, and the more he got into it, the more complicated it became. Yet he worked frantically, sometimes twenty hours a day, all the while watching Pari anxiously as her health continued to decline. He tried convincing her to move to his private quarters where it was warmer, but not cleaner, and much more comfortable. But she would have none of it. Her hut had been her home for more than twenty years, and if it was good enough for her last week, as a penniless pauper, then it was good enough for her now, as a multimillionaire.

So Raule worked while Pari died. It was a race against time.

As he worked with her, Raule came to realize that if it hadn’t been for the young Azadeh Pahlavi, Pari would already have given up, letting herself slip away. “I’m tired of watching those I love come and go,” she explained. “I don’t want to be left alone here anymore. I want to go home to my husband. I hear him calling my name.”

Raule understood. But still, he watched Pari linger, fighting for a few more days. She wanted to live until she could sign the papers. It was as important to her now as it was to Raule.

So he prayed and worked like a man on a ship that was taking on water at a terrifying rate. He made hundreds of phone calls, drove more than a thousand miles, and scheduled dozens of meetings each day. He worked and he dug, trying to uncover half a generation of old records and bank receipts.

Yes, the government of Iran had agreed to release Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi’s family assets. Yes, they had agreed upon the amount—$12,548,697 U.S. dollars. But the fact that they had agreed did not make them amenable to the idea. Everyone Raule talked to wanted a piece of the pie. Some wanted a large slice, some a sliver, some just a cherry, but he didn’t talk to anyone who didn’t want a cut. So he promised and pleaded, he threatened and cursed, he signed secret contracts and illegal documents, and did some things even worse.

But in the end, eight days after the first message from the U.N. headquarters in Baghdad, he had a draft agreement and the appropriate players in place.

* * *

The five men were met by a driver at the front gate of Khorramshahr. They were directed to park their Mercedes Benz and immediately driven in a large van to the headquarters building, where they were met by Raule and his boss, who was bitter now and angry that he had not gotten in on the deal. The camp administrator waded through the introductions, and then turned the time over to the lead attorney who had drawn all the contracts together.

The men reviewed the paperwork for the last time.

“Do we agree everything is in order?” the lead attorney asked when they had finished. He was a British officer, round-shouldered but aggressive as a hungry pit bull, who had volunteered to work in Iran right out of law school and ended up staying for nearly ten years. He was a young man, with a soft face and eyes that were as clear and icy as his work.

The other men nodded, some reluctantly, some ambivalently, some eager to proceed.

“Then let’s do it,” the attorney concluded. “It’s time that justice was served.”

Raule, who had been fidgeting nervously on the edge of his chair, smiled now as the attorney stood. He loved this man. He really loved him. And if this worked out, he planned on sending him a birthday gift for the next fifty years.

The government agent nodded to Raule. “Bring her in,” he said.

Raule stood and moved quickly to a side door. He pushed it back and disappeared, and the men could hear the sound of soft voices from the next room. Then Raule returned, pushing a weak Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi in a new wheelchair. The men stood and waited as Raule positioned her at the head of the group.

“Mrs. al-Faruqi,” the young attorney said as he moved toward his client, “you are looking a little stronger today.”

Pari smiled and held her hand out toward him. This was their fifth or sixth meeting, and she had come to like him a lot.

The attorney moved to stand beside her and got right to the point. “Pari,” he said, kneeling in front of her chair. “We have completed all the documents. I want to review them for you.”

Pari raised her hand to stop him. “You still represent me, right?”

“Of course, Pari. I am your representative here.”

“And you have carried out my wishes?”

“As best as I could.”

“Then we don’t need to review them. I am ready to sign.”

The attorney nodded, pulled a chair over, and sat by her side. “Pari, it’s going to take a while, maybe a few weeks, maybe longer, before the Iranian government actually releases your funds.

“But they will.”

“We believe so. Everything indicates that they will comply.”

“You know you can’t trust them.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know. But we have made progress, and we believe that they will act in good faith this time. We have the initial agreements in place, signed and on file. And they remain under a lot of pressure from the E.U.”

Pari smiled wearily. “Are they going to pay me interest?” she asked.

The government agent shifted his weight in his seat. The lawyer shook his head. “No, Pari, you know they will not. Now, we could try to seek interest and damages, but I strongly recommend against it. Trying to get additional monies will certainly poison the deal.”

“They’re crooks and cheats—and they’re cheap ones at that.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will not dispute that. But I believe we are better to just let it go.”

“Twelve million. Ten percent. I would have tripled my money. Better than that. I was a good investor, you know.”

“I suspect that you would have, Pari.”

She stared at him. He finally grinned, recognizing that she was only teasing.

“OK, let’s do it,” she said. “I could die any time. Heaven knows we all want to do this before it’s too late.”

The men laughed uncomfortably. Pari looked at them and smiled.

The lawyer pulled out the first document. “This authorizes me to act as your agent in the disposal of your assets.”

Pari didn’t read the document but turned to the last page and signed. Although she was weak, her signature was smooth and flowing, filling the line.

The lawyer took the document and placed it inside his briefcase. He pulled out a stack of other documents and placed them in his lap. “A final review, then, Miss Pari, of your intentions. Upon your passing, you are leaving all of your assets, less the cost of disposal, which I will administer, to Miss Azadeh Pahlavi. Does that remain your desire?”

“Yes,” Pari answered. “I want it all to go to her.”

“You realize, of course, that we have no way of knowing where Miss Pahlavi is?”

“Yes, I know that is true.”

“And you are commissioning Mr. Sebastian Raule, who is sitting in the chair opposite me,” the attorney nodded toward Sebastian, “to locate Miss Azadeh Pahlavi, wherever she may be.”

Pari hesitated. “He is the only one I have,” she said.

The attorney remained quiet. Pari looked over at Raule. He shifted anxiously in his seat.

The attorney started again. “Does it remain your intention, Mrs. al-Faruqi, to commission Mr. Sebastian Raule with the responsibility of locating Miss Azadeh Pahlavi—for which, if and
only
if he is successful in locating Miss Pahlavi, he will become eligible to collect a finding fee?”

Both Pari and her attorney smiled at the phrase. “Well, I guess that is a more literal application of the phrase than you might normally use,” Pari weakly laughed.

“Yes,” the lawyer smiled. “As to the question, Mrs. al-Faruqi?”

Pari paused and then answered. “Upon hearing the news of my late husband’s assets being released, I did agree with Mr. Raule that I would pay him one million dollars if he could locate Miss Azadeh. I intend to honor that agreement. He is to find her and direct her to you. Once you have verified her identity and transferred the funds to Miss Azadeh, then Mr. Raule is to be compensated one million U.S. dollars.”

The attorney nodded. “Anything else, Pari?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m getting tired. Too tired to think.”

The attorney placed his hand on her shoulder. “Then we are ready to sign.” He thumbed through the stack of documents on his lap, organized them, and handed the first one to his client. It took a few minutes for her to sign every one. The documents were then passed on to the other men. Two of them acted as the witnesses: one a Turkish lawyer who represented the Iranian government, the other a lawyer from the E.U. The final signature was from the representative of the consortium of European banks where the money was currently held.

Fifteen minutes later, the paperwork was done. The attorney knelt again at Pari’s side. “Mrs. al-Faruqi,” he whispered. “Please, will you consider coming with me? I could get you to London. I could get you to the United States.”

“So they want me now. Ironic. They didn’t want me before.”

“It’s not only that, Mrs. al-Faruqi. There is more to it, as you know.”

“I understand. I understand. And I’m grateful for your concern. But I made my decision a long time ago. I’m OK here. I am comfortable. There are worse places to die. I do not mind spending my last days here; it won’t be very long anyway. So please, let’s let it go. I don’t want to speak of it again.”

The attorney squeezed her hand, then nodded and stood up again.

Twenty minutes later, Raule watched the men drive away in their Mercedes Benz. Watching them go, he felt his heart skip a beat, and he looked down at the contract he held in his hand.

One million U.S. dollars. He would be a rich man. He would retire. He would fish. He would read all day long. He would listen to his operas. He would smoke fine cigars.

Now all he had to do was find her.

How difficult could that be?

He would start in Baghdad. Then Karachi. She had to be here, somewhere in the Middle East. He would track down her uncle and her family.

And he would make them both rich.

Azadeh Pahlavi sat next to the window of the 767–300 wide-body aircraft, her eyes wide in anticipation, and her hands fidgeting nervously on her lap. She peered out the window, and then glanced over to Amina, who was watching her intently, evidently taking great pleasure in the look on her face.

The two women had the seats next to the left window. To Amina’s right were an aisle, then four seats, another aisle, and two more seats on the far right. The cabin was crowded, and several languages could be heard as the business travelers and tourists talked among themselves. The 767 was high, still above thirty thousand feet, but it had begun its descent into JFK, and the air grew more turbulent as the plane passed through a thin layer of frozen cirrus clouds. Multiple rows of small television screens in the backs of each seat showed the aircraft’s flight progress, direction, and altitude. Thirty-one thousand feet. Heading west by southwest. One hundred thirty miles from the U.S. border.

One hundred thirty miles from freedom. One hundred thirty miles from her new home.

Eight thousand miles from her people. Eight thousand miles from everything she had ever known.

Azadeh turned and smiled nervously. Amina leaned toward her, bending over her seat to peer out the window. All she could see were white clouds and dark water a long way below. No land was in sight—no dark ribbon of coastline, no sandbars, no white tops, nothing. But, looking west, she could see the water turn a slightly different shade, the tint changing from almost black to deep blue. Sitting back, she smiled at Azadeh. “It won’t be long now,” she said.

Azadeh nodded anxiously, twisting her fingers together.

“Pretty exciting, isn’t it.”

Azadeh nodded again in awe but didn’t reply. She had grown progressively quieter since the flight had taken off some seven hours before, lifting off from London’s Heathrow airport in the dark of night. Now she was almost silent, trying to take it all in. Amina studied her young friend. She recognized the racing emotions from the look on the girl’s face. Azadeh was nearly sick with equal amounts of excitement and dread.

The young Iranian smiled weakly and the older woman took her hand. “I’m so excited for you,” she laughed.

“Thank you, Amina. Thank you for everything.”

Amina nodded.

Azadeh thought quickly of Sam. “One day I want to thank the soldier too,” she said.

Amina didn’t answer. She knew that was impossible. Azadeh picked up the small cup of lemonade on her fold-down tray and sipped, puckered her lips, and sipped again. “It’s so sweet,” she said, placing the cup back on the tray. Amina watched her intently, not wanting to miss a single expression on her face.

Watching Azadeh, she remembered why she had dedicated her life to saving lost girls, the reason she worked as hard as she did: the excitement, the new pleasures, the feeling of awe. And it all started when she watched their looks of excitement as they approached the United States.