Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  She gave her hijab an extra-hard wrench tying it on, pinching the underside of her chin. Tears sprang to her eyes again. Dashing from her room, she hurried down a small hall to a larger one, passing a set of double doors leading onto a terrace. Her footsteps echoed in the gigantic hall, both the floors and walls decorated in white and gold marble.

  The apartment was a grand penthouse suite on Dashti Street in the Elahieh District, the most affluent neighborhood in Tehran, where all the city’s notable people dwelled: politicians, diplomats, expatriates, and famous artists. The place was sparsely decorated, but somehow still managed to look gaudy. It felt more like a mausoleum than a home, and she couldn’t begin to imagine children here…as if her prehistoric husband could even get her pregnant.

  She skidded to a stop. Oh, no! Voices were coming from Raham’s study! Ugh. She was in no mood to be introduced to one of Raham’s stuffy business associates. She would have to sneak by. Creeping up to the door, she peeked around the jamb, checking to see if it was safe to dart across.

  Her husband was talking to a man with a short beard who was also dressed in a navy suit. They were facing each other next to Raham’s large, polished oak desk, which was the length of a coffin or longer, with a chair behind it and two cushioned armchairs set in front. To the right of the desk was a large globe of the world on a wooden stand. To the left, set on a high pedestal, was a carved stone bust of Raham himself. Against the wall running parallel to the door—so she couldn’t see them right now—were a fax machine and a copier. On the wall behind the desk, directly across from the door, was a massive painting of a team of British polo players, mallets swinging at a ball. Why this picture, she didn’t have any idea.

  The bearded man handed Raham a stack of papers, saying, “Here are the latest bank statements, Minister. And I pass on gratitude to you from Osama for your contribution.”

  Raham smiled and preened. “Bin Laden does Allah’s work.” He walked behind the desk.

  The bearded man nodded. “Your funds will help him build more camps, thank you.”

  Raham opened the polo painting like a cabinet door, revealing a wall safe.

  Nasrin gaped. She’d never known!

  There was a combination lock, and Raham began to turn it.

  The bearded man stuck his hands in his pockets, the gesture pushing the sides of his blazer back. “Osama has big plans for the United States. Mark my words, Minister, the attack on those infidels will be devastating.”

  “Good.” Raham pulled open the safe and put the papers inside.

  Nasrin frowned as the conversation began to take hold. Bin Laden. Osama. She knew that name, didn’t she? On the news, yes—that’s where she’d heard about Osama bin Laden. He was a man considered to be a sadistic terrorist by some people, a near-prophet by others.

  Raham closed the safe and the polo painting. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help?”

  “Of course.” The bearded man inclined his head. “We will be in touch with you as we need more funding.”

  Raham came out from behind his desk.

  Nasrin’s pulse leapt in a panicky start. The two men were preparing to leave the study! Whirling around, she raced back down the hall, her heart running as fast as her feet. At the end of the hall, she catapulted herself out the open double doors leading onto the terrace. Breathlessly, she pressed back beside one of the doors, out of sight.

  Once the male voices faded and the front door clicked shut, she slumped against the wall. Praise Allah she hadn’t been caught. She didn’t have any excuse for eavesdropping on her husband talking about…

  Talking about…

  She straightened off the terrace wall. Mark my words, Minister, the attack on those infidels will be devastating.

  Attack…

  She sucked in a sudden breath. Raham and the bearded man had been talking about a terrorist attack on America. And…

  And…!

  Her husband was financing it!

  But…what…what did this mean exactly…? She stood in place, twisting her hands together. An icy shroud of realization slowly crept over her. It meant that Raham was no better than a terrorist himself. He might wield his bank account rather than bombs, but his actions still led to innocent people dying.

  Revulsion shut off her throat. The next moment, she jolted, her whole body jerking down to the marrow in her bones. She wasn’t a philosopher, but it seemed to her that there were events—times, thoughts, things—that could happen to change a person completely. Like life had turned off, then back on in the blink of an eye, everything returning to the mind as different.

  This was her moment.

  Everything was different now that she’d found out her husband was a terrorist. What duty did she have to stay married to Raham? Not any. What responsibility did she have to ensure her parents’ continued financial well-being? None, not when it turned out Souzan and Ebrahim had consigned their daughter to a monster. It changed all of Nasrin’s obligations.

  She’d wanted freedom. Now she would have it.

  In fact, she would leave today. Setting her shoulders, she stepped into the terrace doorjamb to—

  To what?

  How in the world did she think she was going to leave Raham? Just skip off to her bedroom and pack, then wave her suitcase at her husband on the way out, telling him she was leaving him because he was a murderer? She could see his face now, one eyebrow lifting in indulgent patience, asking her to explain.

  And she would tell him…what? I overheard you plotting with the bearded man? That would be unbelievably stupid and naïve. Raham could easily deny it, and without proof of his crime, it would be her word—the word of a fifteen-year-old girl—against his, the respected Minister of Petroleum. She wouldn’t free herself at all, but instead give away to Raham that she’d spied on him. She dared not think what he might do then.

  This morning her husband had turned into a man capable of anything.

  She bit into her bottom lip, apprehension prickling her skin. What was she thinking—she couldn’t do this. It was a stupid idea. Even if she could get away, where would she go? Her parents wouldn’t take her in—certainly not while they struggled to recover from the ruin Nasrin’s actions were about to leave them in.

  Selfish girl!

  She gulped back a tide of rising emotion. Quit dreaming impossible dreams, and learn to be happy with your lot. Straightening stiffly, she scanned the large terrace, forcing herself to admire the beautifully constructed peach stone and brick. Look! Every available luxury is given to you. There was a sparkling pool, a spacious patio area, a towering barbeque station where Raham frequently entertained important guests. Parties where Raham made her dress in her most demure clothes, then paraded her in front of the other ancient government officials with his chest puffed out.

  AHHHH! A scream built inside her chest. BUT I HATE HIM SO MUCH!

  There had to be some way she could take advantage of the information she’d overheard today to help her escape from her husband. Maybe she could have Raham arrested. She would just need to find someone who actually cared that Raham Reza Behzadi, Minister of Petroleum, was a terrorist. Not a soul came to mind. After all, the only people his actions would affect were American “infidels,” and…

  She went still.

  America.

  The United States would definitely find value in information outlining an attack on their country.

  Enough value, maybe, to trade for all the things she needed: protection from Raham, a new home, freedom?

  Her heart sped up, excitement racing through her veins. All right, but think… The United States wouldn’t take the word of a fifteen-year-old girl any more than anyone else would. She would need proof. She stared at her husband’s open study door. What she needed were those bank statements.

  She started down the hall, her pulse thrumming at her neck. How was she going to open the safe behind the British polo picture? She didn’t know the combination. She could guess it,
maybe, enshāllāh—Allah willing.

  Maybe it was the date of Raham’s birth…

  She crept inside the study.

  Or maybe it was his shoe, pant, and coat size put together…

  She stole behind the large desk.

  Or maybe it was his mother’s birthday…

  She opened the polo painting as she’d seen her husband do.

  Or maybe—

  She gaped at the safe.

  The door of it hadn’t clicked all the way shut.

  It was open!

  She pressed a hand to her chest. Was this a sign from Allah about the rightness of what she was about to do? Well, she was going to take it that way. She opened the safe and carefully pulled out the sheaf of bank statements, then hurried over to the copier machine. She set the first page inside and pushed the start button. Holy heaven! The copier was loud as a trash truck! She cast a furtive glance at the study door, willing the maid to clean on the other side of the apartment and the cook to mind his business in the kitchen, where he belonged.

  The stripe of neon green light cycled sluggishly back and forth beneath the lid. If the machine wasn’t plugged into the wall, she would’ve sworn it was operating on half-dead batteries. It was moving so slowly! Cold dread spun a tighter and tighter web around her, compressing her pulse. If I get caught…

  Don’t think about it! Focus on the next part of your plan.

  She massaged a hand over her forehead, pushing her hijab up to her hairline. Page after page gathered in the paper tray. Where would she go with these statements? Obviously, she needed to contact the United States, but how? Ever since the American embassy had been attacked in 1979, there hadn’t been a US presence in Tehran.

  She would need a go-between, someone to contact the United States for her. A lawyer? No. Maybe a US ally… Yes!

  An ally like…like, England!

  That was it. There was a British embassy in Tehran.

  First thing tomorrow, that’s where she’d go.

  Chapter Twelve

  With her throat convulsing in hard throbs, Farrin pointed the pistol toward the entrance of the post-op ward. The weapon joggled almost comically in her shaky hand, because…

  The door was opening!

  Her laundryman walked in, and… Oh, thank goodness.

  Exhaling a noisy breath, Farrin let the heavy pistol droop back down to her side. “Kaleem!” Her knees went a little wobbly in relief. At least one person in her alien-abducted aid station had returned. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Worried?” Kaleem’s brow puckered. “I’ve just been behind shower tent to fix pipes, ma’am.” He came down the aisle dividing the post-op beds into two rows. “Showers were taken and caused a problem.”

  She inhaled-exhaled again, relieving more pressure from her chest. See? Horses, not zebras; a logical explanation. Jason obviously hadn’t spotted Kaleem behind the shower tent. “I’m glad to see you’re okay,” she said as he halted in front of her. “Something strange is going on. My patients have disappeared.”

  “Ah, yes. I know.”

  “And those dirty uniforms…” She stopped. He knew? Farrin just began to process the strangeness of that when Kaleem snatched the pistol from her.

  She gaped. What…?

  “I removed them.” Kaleem’s voice dropped into a low, malevolent register, and his face transformed, his normally affable expression becoming obliterated by ugly lines of hatred.

  Her mouth slacked open. But… Her mind seemed to be running behind, unable to catch up to what was going on.

  “The guardsmen, too,” he added. “Everyone must needs be out of the way. Friends of mine are injured in a fight with Americans at the site of a crash of a helicopter, and they will be here soon.” He rested the barrel of the pistol at the top of her left breast. Directly over her heart. “You will treat them.”

  Reality slammed into her, fear coming the hardest—a solid, knockdown, battering ram to her chest. She stumbled backward, choking. Kaleem followed her step for step—her dear, sweet Kaleem—keeping the barrel flush against her skin.

  “O-of course,” she stammered. “If they’re your friends, I’ll gladly help.” She thrust a hand out to steady herself, and her palm blindly found Shane. His shin. “You don’t need to do this.”

  “I do.” Kaleem gave the pistol a shove, and the metal barrel bit into her flesh.

  “B-but why?” A quick blip of her logical mind pointed out the complete irrationality behind thinking that if she hadn’t asked this question, Kaleem wouldn’t have done what he did next. Very silly, but…

  “Because I hate Americans,” he snarled.

  The fabric of the world tore in two, one side spinning out in fast motion—Kaleem turning and pointing the pistol across the room at the one-eyed pilot—the other side cranking on rusted wheels into slow motion—Farrin lurching forward, her body moving through water as she tried to stop Kaleem, one hand reaching out…slowly…so slowly.

  Kaleem pulled the trigger. BLAM!

  Over on the fast-motion side, the pilot’s head ripped into pieces, chunky blood splatting against the wall behind him like a Damien Hirst painting.

  On the slow-motion side, Farrin shrieked, high and shrill—a warbling soprano note.

  The noise woke Shane. Her screaming plus the loud report of the pistol. Still groggy with anesthesia drugs, the SEAL started to lift his head unsteadily.

  Kaleem grabbed Shane by the hair, setting the snout of the pistol at the SEAL’s temple.

  Time and motion limped and hobbled….

  Shane’s hand slowly, so, so slowly, groped out, his fingers wrapping around the rifle Jason had left on the gurney. But there was nothing he could do…

  Because they were back in fast motion, everything happening too quickly—

  BLAM!

  Red liquid blew over Farrin.

  Eyes wide, she stood immobile in disembodied shock, her arms held out before her in an aspect of supplication. Not her arms. Someone else’s arms were covered in streaming rivulets of blood. Someone else’s chest had chunks of brain matter rolling down the front of blue scrubs to glop onto the floor at her feet. Someone else’s mouth was open but dried up, lungs pumping to produce bellows of screams but none coming.

  Jason materialized from the front of the post-op ward and charged down the aisle, his rifle held in a flexed fist at his side. He slammed to a halt at the foot of the one-eyed pilot’s bed. “Paul!” Jason’s face emblazoned with red. “Fuck!” He aimed his rifle at the ceiling and shot at the roof over and over, the butt of the weapon braced against his thigh. Blam! Blam! Blam! Canvas pieces of tent fluttered down on him, like butterfly wings. Too peacefully. Too wrong for this horror. He hollered some more, then stopped abruptly, his chest laboring.

  “Well,” Shane drawled, now propped up on his elbow on the gurney, “what a fuckah this is.” He nodded down at Kaleem, laid out on the floor with half his skull rolled back. The bullet from Jason’s rifle had hit the laundryman in the middle of his forehead, and the power of the shot had done more damage than just leave a neat hole, like in the movies.

  Farrin hiccupped bile onto her tongue. She’d seen plenty of gunshot wounds before, but never in the making.

  “Now your kill total is higher than mine,” Shane added blandly.

  Farrin blinked. H-how could Shane be so callous about this? Although…his comment did seem to bring Jason back from a ledge of sorts.

  Shutters snapped down over Jason’s pupils, and he lowered his rifle. Shifting his attention over to her, he asked through thin lips, “Are you okay?”

  She nodded mutely. The gesture was a lie. Physically, she supposed she was fine. Emotionally, she was someplace very bad. Don’t let anyone through this door but me. That’s what Jason had said. But she’d let Kaleem in, and…and… But it was Kaleem, dear, sweet Kaleem, a family man. She knew his children!

  “You?” Jason aimed at Shane.

  Shane’s expression remained blasé
. “You tell me. Did the doc patch me up even bettah than before or not?”

  Jason stalked back toward the front of the post-op ward. “It’s my understanding that Dr. Barr had to spend extra time on your ass.” Jason snatched an object off of Farrin’s large desk—the lockbox for her satellite phone!—and strode back to them. “Apparently over the years your head has spent too much time up it.”

  Shane narrowed his eyes.

  Jason tossed the lockbox on the bed nearest to her. “Please open this. No offense to your aid station, but this place sucks. I want us out of here five minutes ago.”

  Nodding, still mute, she sat down on the bed and grabbed the combination lock. Her hands were covered in blood, slick and trembling. The lock slipped out of her grasp. And again.

  Don’t let anyone through this door but me.

  Paul! Fuck!

  Jason splayed his fingers through his hair. “Look…maybe you should go clean up first, take a moment…”

  “We don’t have a moment.” She peered up at Jason. Her eyes felt heavy, weighted with too many images best left to nightmares and the nightly news. “Kaleem told me he has friends coming.” And she doubted meeting Kaleem’s friends would be any more enjoyable than meeting Kaleem’s alter ego had been.

  Jason exchanged a glance with Shane. Clearly the two men felt the same. Jason pointed his chin at the lockbox. “Yeah, calling in the extraction now is probably the better plan.”

  She returned her attention to the lock and watched her fingers spinning the knob. She moved her lips, speaking the combination below her breath, forcing her concentration to remain with her, to walk a straight line. She popped the lock and opened the box.

  Empty.

  No phone.

  One, two, three. For three seconds she sat there, a dumbstruck stupor gripping her. Then—

  Blood, brains, betrayal…her own naïve stupidity: it all took hold. She shot to her feet and yelled, “It’s gone!” Somebody stole her phone! Somebody went into her tent! Rifled through her personal belongings—made off with her one means of communicating with the outside world. Without her satellite phone, she had no way out of a country where men were executed in front of her eyes. She was trapped in an aid station that was…what? About to play host to Kaleem’s other murdering friends?