The Iraqi returned his cold stare, dead rage in his eyes. “I would kill you even now if I were given the chance.” He spoke in a guttural, almost animal sound. “Give me the chance, you harâmzâde, and I would reach down your throat and crush your heart in my fist.”
Sam stood back and smiled. “Yes, I suppose that you would. And maybe one day, if you’re lucky, you just might get the chance. But until then, let me give you some advice. I have friends. We have ears. We have eyes. We have feet. We get around. We listen and we watch. And I will be listening and watching for you. And know this, my merchant friend, if I ever hear your name, if I ever hear even a whiff of a rumor that you are back in business, I will send you to hell. I will hunt you and kill you. I promise I will.
“So remember me, because I will remember you. Your next day in business will be your last day on this earth. I will hunt you like the sewer rat that you are. I know you believe me; I can see it in your eyes. You know I’m not afraid of the sewer. It doesn’t matter where you hide, I will come after you.”
The Iraqi glared at Sam, and then slowly nodded.
“Go!” Sam commanded.
The Iraqi turned and ran.
Sam took a breath and turned to Azadeh again. “You be careful, Miss Azadeh. But be happy, too. You are off on another adventure, but this is a good one, I swear. Now go with Amina. She’s your friend.
“I’ll remember you, Azadeh, and one day I’ll check up on you. And when I do, I want a good report. I want to hear you speak in English. I want to hear that you’re doing well in school. I want to hear about your new friends and your family. But mostly I want to hear that you’re happy. That’s all I ask.”
Azadeh smiled and nodded, wiping a tear from her eye.
Sam stood and nodded to Bono, then turned for the riverbank. He climbed into the small boat, and his friend pushed it back before climbing in as well, his wet legs splashing water across the side of the boat. Reaching into his vest pocket, Sam pulled out a small pen flare, held it away from his body, and turned his head. Pulling and releasing the firing pin, he sent a flare into the dark sky, where it exploded with a burst of red light.
“Wait here,” he commanded as his boat drifted away. “A friend will come to get you in a blue Nissan pickup. You can trust him. You go with him. He will take you back to Baghdad and deliver you safe.”
Azadeh started to run toward him, but it was already too late. The dark hull drifted into the current, then disappeared silently, slipping into the dark.
TWO
The new king of the House of Saud sat alone in a small office in the presidential penthouse atop the Royal Saudi Oil company headquarters building in Riyadh. He slouched at his desk, his head low, his eyes tired. A small reading lamp was the only light that illuminated the dim office, and there were deep shadows in the corners and across the wood furniture. The king preferred the semi-dark. He didn’t know why—it was just more comfortable to him now. He liked how the dim light softened all the features, making everything a little less harsh, a little less intrusive. The darkness invited open conversation. People were less aware of themselves, more willing to say things. The king had learned a lot of secrets from conversations in the dark, and he had grown comfortable with the night.
King Abdullah al-Rahman was holding a highly classified document in his slender fingers. Although he had read it already, he read it again, this time more slowly, considering its contents carefully.
It was a handwritten report by General Sattam bin Mamdayh, head of the ultra-secret Iranian Interior Police. As director of the highly classified security force, the Iranian general was in a very powerful position, able to operate almost entirely on his own. But he was also three or four layers down in the food chain. Like everyone, he had many superiors whom he had to please. And though his commanders were all powerful men, they had one thing in common: fear of the Saudi king.
King al-Rahman was not Persian, but he controlled many things. Many people. Many organizations. His reach extended much farther than the borders of his land, and there was much he could influence beyond his own shores.
The king had to squint to read, for the general’s handwriting was thin and imprecise, his Arabic adequate but barely readable. It told of the general’s attack at Agha Jari Deh, the destruction of the village, the burning of the man, the search for the young one. It told of their frustration, briefly describing the failure of his men to find the last prince.
Although they had done everything possible, they had not succeeded in finding the child. Then the American soldiers had appeared, forcing his men to flee.
American soldiers! Al-Rahman thought, his mouth growing dry. U.S. soldiers had dared to move openly inside of Iran! There had been rumors, even sightings of Special Forces units working inside Iran, searching for hints of their nuclear program, listening, watching, looking for things, but this had been different—these were combat troops. And they had shown up at the village at the very worst time.
The king swore angrily, his gut burning inside.
The Americans were watching. No, they were doing more than that; they were actively working against him, all of it under the table, all of it in secret. And they had stopped the Iranian general before his work was complete.
The king finished the report, stared a moment into the darkness, and then glanced at his watch. At a predetermined time, the general was going to make contact, and the king was waiting up for him.
At ten past one in the morning, the secure telephone rang. Al-Rahman let it ring five times, and then picked up the receiver.
“Yes,” he said simply.
The Iranian General Sattam bin Mamdayh’s voice filled his ear. It was a deep voice, powerful and demanding. “This is General Sattam—” he began.
“I know who you are,” Al-Rahman cut him off in an impatient tone. After reading the general’s report, he was not in a good mood. “I’ve been waiting for your phone call. Now, what’s going on? It’s been almost three weeks; I want to hear some good news.”
The general cleared his throat. “My men have been through the village again. They have searched all the mountains—”
“Save me the details. I’m a very busy man. It’s late. I’ve been waiting. Did you find him or not?”
The general paused. And with the silence, the king knew.
“You have failed me,” Al-Rahman said before the Iranian general could respond.
“I have not failed, my Sayid, but it is proving difficult. Much more difficult than we expected, more complicated, I’m afraid.”
“We’re talking about a child!” Al-Rahman sneered in disgust. “A little four-year-old boy. I didn’t ask you to take over the Iranian army. I didn’t ask you to conquer some foreign land. I asked you to do one little favor, to take care of one simple thing. I told you where to find him. I told you how I wanted it done. I did everything but pick up the gun and pull the trigger for you. And you’re telling me this is difficult. You’re telling me the child still lives!” The king cursed again bitterly, his voice hard and dry.
“But,” the general defended, “the Americans came with their—”
“You can’t be serious, Sattam. Please, tell me you are not that incompetent.”
“The child was taken to the mountains. A local man was helping them. He warned the family we were coming, and then helped the boy and his mother escape. They are up there somewhere, hiding in the mountains. It has been a difficult task. And then—”
“And then what, General Mamdayh? What terrible thing happened then? Your gun jammed? You broke a nail? Got some dirt or blood on your hands? Xodâvând, General Mamdayh, this was such a simple task!”
“He had friends. They were helping him. I know the Americans are watching, which means my superiors will be watching. I have to be careful now.”
The Saudi king shook his head. He had heard more than he could take. If the handwritten report from the general wasn’t discouraging enough, listening to his whining explanations was simply mor
e than he could stand.
The phone was silent a moment as both men fell into thought: the general desperately considering how he might save his neck, the king thinking how he would kill the Persian general when he was given the chance.
The soft hum continued until the king finally said, “General Mamdayh, you understand, of course, that I can do good things for you?”
“Yes,” the general answered. “You can help me, I know.”
“You know I have friends at the Iranian Ministry. The mullahs. Friends at the Iranian palaces as well. There is no place in all of Iran that my hand can’t reach. And money, General Mamdayh, I have plenty of that. And I am willing to help you. I am a man of my word. I can reward you generously. I can do many things. Do you understand that, general? Do you know what I’m saying is true?”
The general hesitated. He knew what was coming next, and he didn’t want to respond.
“Answer me, Mamdayh. Do you know what I can do for you?”
“Yes,” the general answered his voice low and cool.
“Then you also understand, General Mamdayh, there are two sides to my sword. I can help you if you help me, but I can hurt you as well. One word and you would simply disappear. One phone call to my friends in Tehran, and you would never be heard from again. And not only could I have you killed, General Mamdayh, I could determine how. Fast or slow, I could tell them. If I wanted, I could have them cut off one of your fingers every day for ten days and have it delivered to me. Then your toes. Then your elbows. Then your knees and your arms. I could have you taken apart, General Mamdayh, piece by piece, bit by bit, and have you delivered to my palace in an overnight pouch. And then I could turn to your family and do the same thing to them. I could do all this and more. So I want you to listen to me, general, and consider what I have to say.”
Al-Rahman heard the general swallow painfully on the other end of the phone.
“You made a pact,” the king sneered harshly. “Now, do you understand what I want?”
“Yes, Sayid, I understand.”
“And do you remember what I told you?”
“You said you wanted the child killed.”
“Yes! That is right. He is the last of his offspring, the last of his seed. He will remember, he will grow, and he then will come after me. So I asked a simple favor, and now I’m going to ask you again: Can you find this child? Can you find him and kill him? It is a simple thing, General Mamdayh. And it’s all that I ask.”
The general didn’t hesitate. “Yes, King al-Rahman, I can do this for you.”
Al-Rahman nodded slowly. “That is good, General Mamdayh. Now, go back! Search every mountain. Search every rock! Search every blade of grass if you have to. You have taken too long already! I want to see results now. I want to see a body. I’ll give you three days General Mamdayh. That is all you will have. Three days to find this young boy and his mother, and kill them. Then report back to me.”
The general was silent.
He and his men had already done everything they could do. They had searched every corner, every canyon, every inch of that mountain. They had torn apart the village, interrogated everyone.
It would take months to search the mountains up and down the coast of Iran.
He didn’t have enough time.
Which meant he was dead.
*******
The Iranian general slumped in terror as he hung up the phone. His red-rimmed eyes watered with fear and dread while his hands shook uncontrollably on the top of his desk.
He should have known better than to enter an alliance with someone like Al-Rahman. He should have known that it was dangerous to jump into such a slimy swamp. He had heard things; he had been told things.
He had tried to kiss the snake. And now he had been bitten.
A helpless, hopeless feeling sank into his dark heart. He thought of Al-Rahman’s words, a cold sweep of terror running down his spine: “I can help you if you help me, but I can hurt you as well. . . . One word and you would simply disappear. . . . I could have you taken apart, General Mamdayh, piece by piece, bit by bit.”
It was true. The general acknowledged the king as a man of his word.
Which left him no choice. Not if he wanted to avoid a most excruciating death. Not if he wanted to protect his family and himself from such pain.
He could not choose if he died; that decision had already been made. But he could choose the timing and the method, which was a worthy thing to do. And in a society that didn’t place that much value on life, the decision was not especially difficult.
*******
Lucifer watched as the general suffered at his desk. Looking upon the broken mortal, Lucifer was neither distraught nor pleased. Another man. Another misery. That was all the general was to him; another failed human standing at hell’s door.
The only thing that concerned Lucifer was the lack of a result. And for this, he was very angry, his breath so hot it almost misted in the air. The mortal could die or live, Lucifer really didn’t care, but the fact that the mortal not been able to locate the prince was almost more than Lucifer could bear.
Fools, they were! Idiots, all! How could they be so incompetent?! How could another mortal fail him yet again?!
If only they would try a little harder to listen to his voice! If only they would try a little harder to feel his spirit near. If the general had only taken to the promptings that his angels had planted in his mind, he would have found the boy already and the prince would now be dead.
Hovering over the distraught soldier, Lucifer seethed in hopeless anger. He’d have to find another useful mortal. Another path, he’d have to go. But that didn’t worry him particularly, for if there was one thing he had learned it was that there was always another myrmidon willing to do his work. Some did it for passing pleasure. Some did it out of anger. Some out of pride or for revenge. Some did it because they were bored and there was nothing else to do. Some did it because they hated. Some did it because they loved. Either way, it didn’t matter. Plenty of mortals would help him if they could.
So he leaned toward the general.
“Abdullah will kill you!” he breathed into the general’s ear. “He will tear you apart; a finger, an ear, a piece of flesh at a time. He will prolong the suffering until you beg for death! So come unto me, mortal. Embrace me. Fall into my cold and waiting arms. Come into my world, for there is no hope for you here. Walk into the black eternity that is ready for you now. Walk into the shadow where there is never any light.”
He was finished with him now.
*******
General Mamdayh’s body was found early the next morning by one of his maids. He had slumped at his desk as if he had simply fallen asleep while at work, his hands resting peacefully on his lap. The empty bottles of Valium® and OxyContin® were found on the floor. And though he died with his eyes open, his lips were pulled back in what looked like a smile of relief, as if the life he expected could not be worse than the one he had left.
THREE
He knew it was coming. The forecast had warned them: Di kulâk on its way. Devil’s Storm. The Sudden Darkness. It would be here within the hour.
It happened two, maybe three times every year. The great sandstorms rolled in from the desert to fall on the city like a wave.
Something about the Di kulâk excited the new king to the bone. In the old days, his ancestors had lived in terror of the storms. But Al-Rahman loved them. They connected him with his land, making him feel as if he were a part of the desert that he cherished so much.
So he stood at the window, waiting for the great sandstorm to appear. He knew it would come from the east, across the great plain, and he stood watching, surrounded by luxury while waiting for the huge wall of sand.
King al-Rahman thought as he waited. There was much on his mind.
He was standing at a window in the presidential penthouse in Riyadh. Surrounded by gold and teak and every fine thing in the world, the king was alone in his private lounge. To hi
s left, a forty-foot, custom-made plasma screen—one of the largest privately owned plasma screens in the world—showed a satellite feed from Al Jezzera TV. Under his feet, fifteen other television screens had been inlaid in the marble floor and covered with glass. Each television was tuned to a different satellite feed from the West, and the flashing images on the screens added an unnatural texture to the light in the dimly lit room, creating shifting shadows and flashing contrasts everywhere. The muted televisions inlaid in the floor were obviously not designed to be watched, they were only for decoration, but they did make a statement as to how the king felt about the western culture that flashed on the screens. To his right was an exquisite bar stocked with the finest liquors of the world. The liquor was only for his foreign guests, of course, alcohol being prohibited in the kingdom, but if the king were to indulge from time to time, who would dare to question that?
Did it bother King al-Rahman that his kingdom developed, funded, taught, spread, and advocated Wahhabi fundamentalism, the strictest and most repressive interpretation of Islam anywhere on earth, while the king exempted himself from almost all of its teachings—the use of alcohol, for example, or, say, murder for another? The answer was clearly no. Al-Rahman did what he did for the good of the kingdom, and he had long ago gotten past the irony of his hypocrisy. To those around him, his closest advisers, his brothers, his few friends, the king made his personal feelings very clear: Allah had given the royal family religion as a means of controlling their people. That was its only purpose. It meant nothing more. The only thing Allah truly cared about was keeping the kingdom pure to sustain the royal family, the chosen vessels on earth.
Wahhabi Islam, with all its teachings and prohibitions, was a tool given to them. And it was a good tool. Important. But it was not the only tool they had. Allah had provided other means to keep his children safe from the great influences of the world.
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