Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (38 page)
Read Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 Online
Authors: Chris Stewart
He stroked her face gently, then looked up at the sky. “I love you, Azadeh,” he repeated. “And we will be waiting, watching and caring for you.” He stroked her cheek lightly, then gently kissed her brow.
It was time that he left, at least for a short while. Sashajan was waiting. And there was other work he had to do.
* * *
Azadeh felt a soft touch on her temple and she opened her eyes. And though she didn’t see her father, she knew that he was near. Then an unseen voice whispered to her,
“Your father still lives. He still loves you. He cannot stay with you, but I can, and I will comfort you now.”
Then she felt a warm, soft and gentle blanket falling over her soul. It was. It wrapped completely around her, from her head to her feet, and kept the piercing arrows of Satan from touching her heart.
She slipped away into sleep, where a deep comfort waited. She slept peacefully through the night, dreaming of a better world.
Dhahran, Saudi Arabia
Prince Al-Rahman, now the oldest prince in Saudi Arabia, sat in the center of his office, an opulent and oval-shaped room with gold-plated walls, mural ceilings and diamonds imbedded in the molding around the windows and floors. His desk was huge. Three computers and a row of telephones were positioned to his left. An one hundred forty-inch flat screen television was tuned to CNN, was built into a wooden console to his right. A wall of tall windows, twenty feet high, looked out on the expanse of desert to the east. The sun beat through the windows, forcing the air conditioner to run constantly.
Prince Al-Rahman noted his reflection in the glass. Although he was middle-aged, he was still strikingly good-looking and well manicured. He was also as cold, hard and evil as any man in the world. More, far more,
he was the future king,
patriarch of the world’s great family, a great empire builder like the sultans before. He knew that he was chosen. That was obvious to him now. His father didn’t believe him, nor did all of his kin. But he had proven them wrong. And he would prove it again.
* * *
There was a soft knock at his office door and, after a respectable pause, one of the most recognized and wealthiest people in the United States was escorted into his office.
“My friend, good to see you.” The prince extended his hand. The venerable American walked toward him and shook it firmly. “Abdullah,” he greeted him, his voice raspy and thin.
The Crown Prince studied his guest. He is growing tired, the Saudi thought as the man approached. He looked wrung out and defeated. We need to keep a close eye on him.
He pointed to an arrangement of couches and leather chairs and the two men sat down. Black coffee was ready, and the prince poured for his American guest.
“You are ready?” the American asked as he sipped at his coffee.
“Yes, my good friend.” The prince sat back and relaxed against his leather chair.
The two men gazed at each other, each playing his best poker face.
“Before we get started, I’ve got something to show you,” Abdullah began. He opened a packet and threw half a dozen photographs on the table: mothers wailing in front of a smoky wall, children in various poses of death, small boys, even babies, all of them shot in the head or the chest. The American picked up the photos, his face unemotional. “Ugly work,” he offered. It was the only thing he would say.
Al-Rahman held another collection of photographs in his hand and he tossed them on the table as well: American helicopters. U.S. soldiers. Weapons. Hard faces. Smoke and burning houses. The Americans walked through the village and stood over the dead. Although grainy and tilted, the images were clear.
“This is the story I want you to put out,” Abdullah said. “U.S. soldiers are to blame for the assault on Agha Jari Deh. They were looking for al Qaeda. When the villagers didn’t cooperate, they punished them. We have witnesses. Testimony. Everything you will need. Al-Jazeera will run with the story when I give them the word. You take it from your side. You know what I want.”
The American studied the photos. “They’ll deny it, of course.”
“Of course they will. And eventually they’ll prove they weren’t involved. But the damage will be done. The truth doesn’t matter that much anymore. Those who hate the United States will believe it, not matter what evidence is eventually revealed. The
New York Times
will front page the story for weeks. It will weaken the administration and divert them from their work; there’ll be hearings in Congress, special investigations, the whole bit. And remember, all we’re after is another chip in the wall, another crack in the foundation, another scandal to weaken your country, and this will give us that.”
The American picked up a photo showing a dead child on the street. A U.S. soldier stood behind him, smoking a cigarette while talking to his comrade and pointing away. The image was clear enough, he could read their nametags. Sanchez and . . . Brighton? Maybe Bingham? Either way, it didn’t matter, they were about to be famous, their images slapped across every newspaper in the world.
“I’ll get some people on it,” he said, tossing the photograph on the table. “When will the story break?”
“Later in the afternoon tomorrow.”
“That isn’t much time.”
“It’s a big story. It’s My Lai again. U.S. military atrocities make very good press so it will be hard to sit on a story, if you know what I mean.” Abdullah’s voice was curt and sarcastic, but he smiled as he spoke.
The American sipped at his coffee. A few moments passed in silence. “On the
other matter,
you know, I’ve been thinking,” he finally said. “Asking around, getting a few opinions, talking in the abstract, of course, but trying to get a feeling for how this will be received. And I have to tell you, Your Majesty, that I believe you are walking on very tenuous ground.”
“We know we are. But you will take care of everything.”
The American was clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Your Highness. We can do many wonderful things, we’ve done miracles for you in the past. We are very powerful, our partnerships span the whole of the globe, our friendships very personal, our contacts cultivated and nurtured through the good and the bad. But there is, after all, only so much we can do, and this plan is far more than we had ever envisioned. Destroy an entire nation! How would you suggest we manipulate the political consequences of that?”
“We won’t destroy them. We will move them. There is an enormous difference, my friend.”
“But they will not be moved.”
“That is their choice. If they stay, they will die, but I cannot choose for them. We can’t make them be reasonable, though Allah knows we have tried.”
“They will not go away. They have nowhere to go. And even if they did, even if they were given other options, they would choose to die in their homeland. They have made that very clear. It is that important to them.”
“Again I will say it; I cannot choose for them.”
The American sat back in frustration. Although he had sanctioned human suffering many times, this was crossing the line! He pressed his lips together and his heart beat in his chest. “How many people will die?” he asked in a low voice.
The crown prince adjusted in his seat. “It is not your concern.”
“But Prince Abdullah, if you really want us to represent you, then you must. . .”
Abdullah lifted a hand to cut him off. “I would be careful not to confuse our relationship or overestimate your input. You are to advise and represent, not to interfere or give counsel when it is not asked of you.”
The American understood and bowed his head.
“All right, then,” the prince continued, “now, if it would make you feel better, I will tell you that it probably won’t be as bad as you think. Two of the nuclear weapons are tactical in nature and are relatively small. What we are proposing isn’t much different than what has been done before.”
The American shook his head. “How can you say that?” he cried.
The prince leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. He spoke with indignation, his voice sharp and on edge. “Dresden,” he sneered, “twenty-five thousand civilians firebombed. London; two hundred thousand; twenty thousand dead in a single attack. Leningrad; three hundred thousand civilians killed in combat, another half million starved. Berlin; two hundred eight-nine thousand killed in the last month of the Bolshevik advance alone, and who knows how many in the months before that? And let’s not forget what your own nation has done. Hiroshima. Nagasaki.
Poof!
” The prince brought his fingers together and blew them apart. “A hundred thousand gone.
Poof!
Just like that.
“So get my point? This is nothing new. War isn’t for the weak. And we’ve seen this many times before.”
The American frowned and swallowed. The prince’s eyes flickered yellow and his co-conspirator pulled back. Something stirred inside him! Where had he seen that evil flicker before? He swallowed again, forcing himself to relax. “I would like to know how many people will die,” he said before he lowered his eyes.
The prince shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe twenty-five thousand in the initial attack. Perhaps another twenty from the radioactive fallout.”
The American looked at his coffee and tried to steady his hands. “And your target is Jerusalem?”
The crown prince sat back and laughed. “Jerusalem!” he snorted while shaking his head. “Do you think I’m stupid? Don’t you understand me yet?” The Crown Prince whistled in disgust. Did this man understand
anything
?
The American started in confusion. “But if not Jerusalem . . . ?”
The prince waved an impatient hand. “My target is Gaza.”
The American almost choked. “Gaza! You’re kidding! It doesn’t make any sense! That’s a Palestinian area! A hundred thousand refugees live in Gaza.”
“I know they do. And those who die will die as martyrs. Allah will receive them unto his own.
“But Israel is the nation that you want to destroy!”
“No, my good friend,
we want to destroy the United States
. But to do that, we have to sacrifice Gaza. Israel will be the second step. Once we have destroyed these two nations we can turn our rage on you. And by the time we are finished, a hundred million of your people will lie dead in your streets. Your nation will lie in ruin.” Abdullah’s voice had risen to a rasp and his face seemed to darken like a shadow across the moon. “The world will be changed forever,” he almost seemed to hiss. “Leaving it ripe to be taken. And
that
, my friend, is why you and I are here.”
WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS
[Episode Three]
CHRIS STEWART
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned[.]
W. B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”
