Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (29 page)

Al-Rahman glanced at his cigarette, letting the smoke drift from his nose. He bit on his lip, feeling a piece of stray tobacco there. “Did you show her your face like I told you?”

“Yes, brother, I did.”

“And what was her reaction?”

The younger prince shot an anxious look toward his brother. “I’m not certain. It happened pretty quickly.”

“Did she die quietly?” he demanded. “Did she say anything?”

The younger brother lit his own cigarette and pulled a nervous drag. “She said something . . . I don’t know, something about Allah and the kingdom.”

Al-Rahman smiled. That sounded like Tala, always praising Allah. “All right, brothers,” he concluded, “you did a good job. That will be all for now.” Finished with them, he wanted them out of the room.

The two princes stood up together. The youngest one turned for the door, then glanced back to Al-Rahman. “And Crown Prince Saud?” he wondered quickly.

Al-Rahman waved an impatient hand. “That is not your concern.”

The younger prince stared at his brother. “You know our father, the king, will figure this out. That will not be a good thing. We have to be ready to defend ourselves.”

“The king is a coward,” Al-Rahman shot back. “He will not do anything.”

“But he still holds great power . . . .”

“Which is
exactly
my point! He holds to the same power that he wants to rip from our hands! He plans to dismantle our kingdom and turn it over to
them.
” Abdullah shot an angry hand toward the west. “But does he pay the price of his decision? Of course not! We do! He waits until he grows old, enjoying a life of great ease, then commands his oldest son to take our kingdom apart. But I will not allow it.” Al-Rahman cursed. “I swear that on his grave! It is he who betrays us! He is disloyal to Mohammad, and disloyal to me! He has been planning our destruction since before we were born!”

The older prince slapped both hands on the table, then pointed a finger at the younger men. “Remember this, my brothers,” he hissed a final time. “We are trying to save the kingdom. That is all that we do. We are trying to save the kingdom from this selfish king, save it from his stupid son!”

The youngest prince lowered his head in subjection as he backed toward the door.

* * *

The door swung close behind them and Al-Rahman touched a button on his desk to lock it. Seconds later, a side door to his office swung back. The old man stepped into the office. He walked painfully, shuffling between the chrome handles of a walker and it seemed to take him forever to make his way to the couch. He sat down wearily, then looked at the prince.

The old man’s skin was so thin and waxy, he almost looked dead. Al-Rahman noted the sick eyes and hollow face then glanced to the side door that led to a private study, knowing the old man’s doctor was waiting there. The old man coughed deeply, bringing up the collected phlegm from his chest.

Al-Rahman waited for him to spit, then reported. “They are dead,” he announced.

“Good,” the old man answered weakly. “You have made me proud.”

Al-Rahman waited, unconsciously gripping a gold pen in his hand.

“Now we must take care of Crown Prince Saud,” the old man struggled to breathe as he talked. “Then we will be ready to take the next step.”

The prince relaxed his grip on the pen. After all of these years, it was what he had been waiting to hear. “I have your permission then?” he asked quickly.

“Yes, yes, of course. Do what you will. But remember, Prince al-Rahman, you must do something first. If you don’t take care of all the offspring, then you will leave us a mess. You’ve got to cut out all the cancer or it will kill you one day.” His eyes seemed to narrow. “The crown prince has another wife. Another son.”

“I will take care of them.”

The old man coughed again, then took a crackling breath. The prince knew he was dying—he had but a month or so to live. Al-Rahman thought back on that spring day in Monte Carlo, a little more than eighteen years before. Through sheer force of will, the old man had done what he promised, living to see their success. And here it was, so close. Everything was in place. In a very few weeks he would pull the trigger and the final war would begin.

“When will you do it?” the old man asked between gasping breaths.

Prince Al-Rahman thought a long moment. “Soon,” he finally answered. “He’s still mourning over the bodies. He’s been there for hours. By now, of course, he knows that it was me. And he will act, I am sure; a few days, a few hours. We just killed his family, do you think he will wait? But he has a mountain to sort through before he can do anything. If he can’t trust his brothers, then where can he turn?”

“Before he turns against us, he will see to his last son. He will take care of his heir and ensure he is safe. And he will do it alone; he won’t trust anyone else. He knows there are snakes in the nursery and he will want to kill them himself. Until then, he is vulnerable, so we have a few hours.”

The old man rasped, and then warned him, “Crown Prince Saud is no fool. It would be a mistake to underestimate him. So be careful, al-Rahman. We’ve come too far, been far too patient, and we’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to let this slip through our fingers this late in the game.”

The prince pressed his lips. “Yes,” he answered simply. “It is a dangerous time.”

“Then take care of Prince Saud before he turns his attention to us.”

Al-Rahman started to answer when the personal phone at the side of his desk buzzed quietly. He picked up the receiver and listened, then grunted a few instructions and hung up the phone. The old man peered at him and Prince Al-Rahman smiled. “Crown Prince Saud is on his way to the airport,” he said.

“Where to?” the old man questioned, a hint of concern in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Al-Rahman answered. “But we are going to find out. He has requested his private helicopter. They are completing the pre-flight now.”

Princess Tala and her children were buried in a secret and private funeral at the royal family’s ancient cemetery on the outskirts of Medina. Only Crown Prince Saud, his father and a few trusted kin stood over the dark graves as the gold-plated coffins were lowered into the dry ground. There was no press release, no public offering, no notification to the world that the princess had been killed and incredibly, word of the assassinations didn’t leak to the international press.

When it came to interfamily homicide there was good reason to be silent. The kingdom had been thrown into chaos. And it was about to get worse.

* * *

Seven hours after the private funeral, the Crown Prince of the House of Saud was moved to one of his personal helicopters that always stood on alert. The helicopter’s blades were spinning when the crown prince showed up and the helicopter took off in the darkness without turning on its navigational lights.

The prince watched through the window of the American-made Sikorski S-92, a four-bladed executive helicopter that had more gold and leather than could be found in any executive suite looking down on midtown Manhattan. The highly modified cabin, originally designed to seat seventeen passengers had been modified into a six-passenger configuration, with opposing leather couches running down each of the sides of the cabin, a fully stocked bar, a small office and lavatory and two massive reclining chairs just behind the bulkhead wall. The carpet was a deep maroon and so thick it felt like one was standing on grass. Highly polished teak and mahogany accented the trim, and the seats were white leather, soft as velvet, and emblazoned with the royal flag.

Crown Prince Saud watched in silence as the warm waters of the Persian Gulf passed underneath his helicopter, but the night was so dark it was nearly impossible to get a sense of their speed. The winds had picked up, moving down from the north and the ocean was white-capped with rippled lines of foam reflecting the light of the yellow moon. The helicopter flew east, toward the Iranian border, and with each passing mile the emptiness inside him grew more dark and intense. He leaned against the helicopter’s starboard window and felt the vibration of the rotors spinning over his head. The helicopter passed the first of the many offshore oil rigs that dotted Iran’s western shore and he knew they would soon be “feet dry” over land. The Crown Prince could imagine the view from the cockpit—the miles of whitecaps below them, the enormous oil derricks casting shadows under the moon, the deep black sands and rising foothills of Iran’s western shores, the moon in the pilot’s faces and the enormous saucer of stars overhead. He glanced at his watch. A little after one in the morning. They had been in the air for an hour and would soon land.

The prince took a breath and turned in his seat. The helicopter was silent except for the sound of his second wife crying, a soft and heartbroken tremble that she tried to hold in. The prince looked lovingly at her and she wiped her eyes quickly to hide her tears. He reached out and took her hand and held it to his chest then placed his other hand very gently on the four-year-old boy who was sleeping beside her. “Do you want our son to live?” he asked simply.

The young princess nodded and squared her shoulders in reply.

“Then be strong,” the prince demanded, his voice strained but firm. He pressed her hand against their sleeping child’s head. “Be strong for him. Be strong for our family. Be strong for the kingdom. Be strong for me.”

The princess wiped her cheeks as she stared at her lap.

The prince saw a vision of the four charred bodies, their barely recognizable faces peaceful now in death. He glanced at his last son, a four-year old who slept on his young mother’s lap. His face too was peaceful. The prince’s heart broke again.

His family. His honor. Their future. Their king. That was all that mattered. The prince knew that was true.

He studied his young wife, reading the pain in her eyes. She looked as if she were dying, as if she were already dead. She looked so lonely, so abandoned. “Are you certain?” she pleaded. “Is there no other way?”

The prince shook his head. “I have decided. We will discuss it no more.”

The young princess sat back, her eyes fearful and wet. Her lower lip trembled. She was
trying
to be brave, she was
trying
to be strong . . . but this was so unexpected and so frightening. She looked straight ahead, her face strained with fear.

“Why can’t I go home to my family?” she muttered. “Why can’t I stay in Saudi Arabia? I know nothing of Iran!”

“Which is why we must do this! Are you so blind you can’t see? Your life is in danger and so is my son! Now quit crying of your suffering! Would you rather be dead? Would you rather I have to bury him like I buried my other children?”

The princess stroked the sleeping boy’s face. “But my husband . . . Iran? Why not the southern providence? My people are from that region. I want to live among them and . . . .”

“That’s right!
You want to live!
So you must do as I say!”

“But it is so far away!”

“Pray it is far enough!”

The princess fell silent knowing she should not say any more.

Prince Saud leaned his head back and stared blankly at the darkness. She glanced at him quickly and saw the trail of his tears.

Minutes passed, then the prince leaned toward her. “You are strong, Ash Salman,” he whispered firmly. “There is a determination, a wisdom inside you which is rare in my people. You have already shown more courage than most men I know. I will not leave you alone. I do have a plan! But there is a scourge in the kingdom. We suffer a deadly disease. It will take me some time to hunt my enemies. This threat, these assassins, I know who they are, but I don’t know how deep it goes or who is involved. It will take me some time to figure out who I can trust and who I should kill. And until they are dead, I need to know that my last son is safe. It is he they are after, for he will be the next king. So until this the danger passes, you
must
hide.”

The princess took a deep breath then turned back to her window to watch the darkness outside. The helicopter passed over the Iranian border and climbed to five-hundred feet. She saw a dark ribbon wind along the foothills to the south—the Khorramshahr highway that ran to the heart of the oil fields. She tried to remember the map she had studied the night before. The tiny village of Agha Jari Deh was but a little farther inland.

The helicopter leveled off, then descended.

The mountains rose up to meet them.

The princess was almost there.

* * *

Rassa Ali Pahlavi lay still in his bed, awake but unmoving. The bedroom was cool in the mountain air. Something had woken him, something far in the distance, the low sound of beating rotors passing over a hill. He lay there and thought, then pushed himself out of bed and pulled on a thin shirt and dark trousers.

He walked silently out of the bedroom. Moving into the kitchen, he set a blackened copper kettle on the stove and turned on the propane, setting the flame on high. He moved carefully, making no noise, knowing the walls that separated the kitchen from Azadeh’s bedroom were paper-thin. The water boiled quickly under the oversized flame and he sprinkled in two measures of black tea, stirred quickly, then poured the tea into a ceramic mug and held it tight, letting it warm his hands. He sipped once. The tea was bitter and he pressed his lips appreciatively as he sat down at the table.

A beautifully framed embroidery hung on the wall, an angular inscription consisting of three words;
Allah, Mohammad
and
Ali
. The name of Ali in the embroidery identified his household as a member of the Shi’a, or Shi’ites, those Muslims who consider Ali the legal successor to Mohammad. All around him were other reminders of his religion, along with verses from the
Qur’an
designed to chase evil away.

But evil
was
coming! Rassa felt a cold chill.
Something
was coming. He had felt this before.

Studying his meager surroundings, he felt restless and on edge. He sipped at his hot tea, seeking its warmth. Standing, he walked quietly to Azadeh’s bedroom and pushed the door open a crack. She was sleeping soundly and he sat down in the kitchen again. Picking up a copy of the
Qur’an
, he repeated the cleansing phrase, “
In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.”
Cleansed, he started reading, choosing at random a verse.