Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (35 page)

“The grandson of Pahlavi lives there.”

Al-Rahman breathed upon hearing the name. “Are you certain?” he demanded, his voice strained and tight.

“Absolutely,” the general answered. “I have observed him myself. He is a dirt farmer, a peasant; my dog lives better than he. He lives in a shack I wouldn’t stable my horses in. He is nothing, I assure you of that.”

Al-Rahman was silent, his breathing heavy. “Pahlavi,” he repeated like it was a bad taste in his mouth. “Pahlavi, grandson of the Shah . . . .”

“You know of him?” the Iranian general wondered.

Al-Rahman didn’t answer. A long moment passed in silence, the phone humming softly between the two men.

Al-Rahman was impressed. It made perfect sense! His brother was brilliant. He
never
would have looked anywhere outside of Saudi Arabia. If his brother hadn’t made the mistake of making the desperate radio call . . . if his people hadn’t heard it . . . all might have been lost.

The Iranian broke the silence. “You know him, Al-Rahman?” he repeated.

“I know him,” Al-Rahman answered. “He is a distant cousin, if you traced our lines back many generations.”

The general filled the phone with laughter. “I could kill him,” he offered. “I could send him to prison or I could bring him to you. Tell me what you’re after. What do you want me to do?”

Al-Rahman answered quickly. “There is a boy. No more than four or five years old. He is a problem for me. I want you to eliminate the problem. Can you take care of that?”

The general snickered, drawing his own conclusion in his mind. A young lad? Sent away? One of the prince’s wild oats. And now the princess didn’t want the competition around her legitimate sons. How many times had he seen this? It was the same everywhere. “This will be easy!” he snickered. “I will see it is done.”

“Yes, you will,” Al-Rahman answered. “And you will do it today.”

“I’ll have one of my personal units up there within a few hours.”

“Yes, that is good. Before the sun goes down.”

“
Sayid
,” the general snapped. “But you realize, of course,” his voice softened now, “this task you have asked of me, it is outside the official responsibilities of my office. I do this as a favor. A personal favor to you.”

“I understand, Sattam bin Mamdayh.” Al-Rahman knew how the game was played.

“I do it at great personal risk and sacrifice.”

“I understand that.”

“Then perhaps we could talk when I have completed this task.”

“Yes, that will be fine.”

“I will report my success.”

“And, general,” Al-Rahman added before he hung up the phone. “I don’t need to state the obvious, but we don’t want any leftovers. We don’t want any talkers. No eyes. We don’t want any children spouting wild tales to their friends. It would be better if there were no witnesses to tell of this tale; this Pahlavi, his wife, his kin. When you take care of the child, you need to take care of them. Otherwise we will have residuals, if you know what I mean.”

The general only snorted. “I know, Prince Al-Rahman, how to do my job. You let me take care of your problem, then we’ll talk again.”

A distant thunder rumbled down from the mountain and the air was heavy with the smell of rain. Azadeh and her father were working in the kitchen, preparing their evening meal. The young prince was asleep, nestled under the covers in Azadeh’s bed. The princess worked beside Azadeh, helping to peel potatoes before dropping them into a boiling pot of salt and chicken.

Rassa heard his name being called from the backyard and he stopped, then grabbed Azadeh’s hand. Azadeh held still and the princess watched them, her eyes growing wide. She had been in their home for less than twenty-four hours, and though she and Rassa had hardly spoken she didn’t have to speak to understand the fear in his eyes.

Rassa moved to the back window. The sky was dark with heavy clouds. The back courtyard was slippery with mud and the animals were hunkered down under the olive trees that lined the back wall. Rassa saw a flash of movement as Omar Pasni Zehedan pushed his enormous frame over the back fence. He stopped and looked around, then ran toward the back door.

Rassa moved to meet him on the porch. Azadeh followed her father, but the princess stayed back. Omar, soaked with perspiration and out of breath, stood at the foot of the stairs, his curly hair hanging in front of his eyes. He was puffing and sweating despite the cold air.

“Rassa,” Omar said, his eyes darting around. “There are soldiers in the village. They are looking for you.”

Azadeh felt her heart crush as she gasped for breath. She reached for her father, but he pushed her aside. Moving onto the back porch, he drew the door half closed. Azadeh ignored his unspoken instructions, staying close enough to hear.

“What soldiers?” Rassa demanded.

“I don’t know,” Omar shot back. “I don’t recognize their uniforms. Special Security Forces I think, but I’ve never heard of the unit and I don’t know where they’re from. But they are asking for you, Rassa, and they are only minutes away.”

Azadeh moved to her father’s side and grasped his hand. The princess had heard and she backed against the far wall, then turned and ran to the bedroom where her son was asleep.

Rassa turned to Azadeh. “Listen to me,” he told her, “we’ve got to get out of here.” He fell suddenly silent. Too late. The crunch of heavy trucks on wet gravel could be heard from the front of their house.

Rassa turned to Omar. “Thank you for the warning, but you can’t help us now. Go. Get away while you can!” Without waiting for an answer, Rassa slammed the door in Omar’s face.

Azadeh looked up at her father, her eyes wide with fear. He pulled her close and she felt him shudder. “Stay here,” he whispered.

Azadeh pulled on his fingers, not letting them go. “Don’t leave me,” she begged him but Rassa pulled away.

“Stay with the princess,” he told her. “Get into the back room!”

* * *

The rains had quit just twenty minutes ago and a heavy mist hung from the orchard, dripping and wet, moist fingers that sifted through the trees but never quite reached the ground. The fog moved silently, almost as if it were alive, searching for something among the tall leaves. The surrounding mountains cast shadows through the thick underbrush, bringing on darkness before the sun had fully set. Far in the distance, somewhere east of the river, the roll of thunder echoed back through the trees as the rain squall moved away, pushing up the mountains to the east.

The army trucks sloshed to the center of the road and stopped. After years of Soviet oppression, Rassa recognized the sound of the trucks. Soviet-made APC-30s. Heavy. Armor plated. Twelve troops apiece. He listened and counted. At least three . . . maybe four trucks came to a stop outside his house. Two full squads. Fifty troops. He sucked in a quick breath.

Azadeh moved to the back bedroom and huddled with the princess below the window. The young boy remained sleeping in his mother’s arms.

Rassa moved to the front door and glanced through the lace curtains. Two trucks had rolled to a stop in front of his house. One was farther up the road, one at the base of the hill. The road was deserted, all of his neighbors having rushed into their houses, though he knew they would be watching from behind their curtains, too. The soldiers spilled from the trucks and Rassa studied their uniforms: black combat fatigues, dark berets, flak vests and high, leather boots. He pulled away from the window as the soldiers approached. He shot a terrified look to Azadeh’s bedroom, his mind reeling in fear.

* * *

The soldiers weren’t truly soldiers; at least most of them weren’t, but brutal mercenaries who worked for their commander as his personal army of secret police, an off-the-books unit that reported only to the general and nobody else. The conscripts were commanded by cruel, glaring and arrogant officers.

The senior officer, a captain, emerged from the second truck, swatting the flies and smoking a thin cigarette. He was a squat man, with a thick neck and well-muscled thighs. His nostrils flared as he breathed and his glare was intense. His job was simple. Do what the general told him; nothing less, nothing more. And
never
ask questions.

The captain stuffed his hands into his front pockets, then barked out an order, pointing to Rassa’s home. “Empty the house. Bring them all out here!”

His soldiers jumped at his voice. They moved to the door and blew it off its hinges with a burst of machine gun fire then rushed into Rassa’s house. The kitchen was empty. They moved through the room, opening the small armoire, spilling the dishes from the counter and knocking the chairs to the floor. They ran to the first bedroom and kicked the door back. No one was there. At the end of the hall, the bathroom was obviously empty. Which left the last bedroom. Four men gathered around the door, their guns at chest level. Their leader gave a quick signal and one of the soldiers kicked in the door.

They burst though the doorway and looked quickly inside. The bedroom was empty. The bed covers had been thrown on the floor. The window was open and a cool breeze blew the curtains back.

* * *

Omar grabbed the princess and pulled her over the brick wall. She held to her son, grasping him in her arms. The boy cried and the princess pressed her mouth to his ear, whispering to him silently, “Don’t be afraid. Go to sleep!”

Rassa followed, and then Azadeh. All five were over the back wall.

Omar glanced at the stranger and the young child in her arms. “The princess, I presume?”

Rassa nodded, pressing his body against the rock, then started crouching toward the old barn.

“There,” Omar hissed as he nodded toward the trail that led up to the mountains.

Rassa stopped and looked up at the rain-shrouded peaks that rose over the village, studying the rocky trail that disappeared in the cold mist. He heard voices, then the crash of gunfire as the soldiers shot the front door. He threw a desperate look toward Omar. “You have to save them,” he said. He nodded to the princess and her son who was clutching to her arms. “Take them,” he whispered. “Go to the mountains. You know that trail as well as anyone. The mist is heavy. It will hide you. Now go! Get away!”

Omar didn’t hesitate. He motioned toward the young stranger. “Come,” he hissed and she moved to his side. Omar reached for her young child and took him in his arms. Crouching, he ran through the orchard and slipped behind the barn. Rassa listened for a moment, hearing their footsteps fading away as they moved up the rocky trail. Then he turned to Azadeh. “Stay here!” he said.

“Please don’t leave me, Father.”

“Do as I tell you. Stay here. Out of sight.”

“Father, you can’t leave me!”

“It is the princess they are after; the princess and her son. They don’t want you or me. I think that we will be all right.”

“But Father . . . what are you going to do?”

There came a loud crash from the house as one of the bedroom doors was kicked open. They heard the banging of footsteps and then the soldiers curse.

Rassa turned back to Azadeh. “I have to give them time to escape.”

“But Father, if you leave what am I supposed to do?”

“Stay here, like I told you. Everything will be OK. They aren’t going to hurt me, it is the royal family they want.”

Rassa glanced toward the mountains. Omar and the princess had disappeared in the mist. Another crash sounded from their house, this time from Azadeh’s bedroom. More cursing, more yelling, and Rassa stood up. He glanced quickly to Azadeh. “I love you,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll be fine. But stay out of sight.”

Rassa jumped the fence to his courtyard, then ran toward the house. Azadeh peeked over the fence, then started to cry. She reached out toward him, but she didn’t call his name.

Azadeh crouched against the wall a moment, then sprinted to the orchard and hid in the mist. She heard her father’s footsteps and the guards calling out, then a warning shot being fired before the guards dragged her father down.

* * *

The guards worked quickly. They were brutal, but well-trained, and they knew what to do. First, they searched Rassa’s house, tearing it almost to pieces, knocking holes in the walls and tearing up the floors, looking for a hiding place or a secret trap door. Other soldiers gathered Rassa’s neighbors, everyone who lived on the hill, herding them like sheep into a circle. The guards stood over them, sneering at their countrymen, ready to shoot the first one who dared to move. Other guards spread out. It only took minutes to search every house on the hill. They found Azadeh hiding in the orchard and they dragged her to the circle of cowering villagers.

Azadeh looked down on the village. The streets were deserted. The market was empty and every shade had been pulled. “Soldiers in the village!” The call had gone out. The village looked like a ghost town. Everyone knew what to do.

Azadeh cried in her heart. “Please, help us!” But Azadeh had lived long enough to know that help would not come.

The captain of the guard approached Rassa. “Name!” he demanded.

Rassa swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Rassa Ali Pahlavi,” he said.

The captain nodded, his brown teeth protruding from receding gums. “The woman!” he demanded. “We want to know where she is!”

Rassa stared at him blankly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The captain smiled a sick grin. “Someone came here last night,” he demanded in a raging tone. “They brought a young woman and a child. That much we know. Now tell us where they are if you have any hope to live.”

Rassa shook his head weakly. “I don’t know, my
Sayid.
”

The officer turned to the group of women and children that had been herded into the circle. He studied them carefully. Most of the women were old, the young ones having left the village for a better life somewhere else. A few children cowered at the back of the crowd, the older women gathered around them like mother hens. The foreigner was not among them. And neither was the child.

He turned to the captives. “All right,” he said. “We are looking for a young woman and a boy. It is
very
important we find them. Do any of you know where they are?”