“Sebastian Raule. I’m the assistant—”
“Yes, Mr. Raule, I know who you are. Let me see if Mr. Conner is in.”
The telephone hummed again as he was placed on hold, then he heard the American pick up the phone. The director of the U.N. mission in Baghdad answered in a hurried tone. “Conner,” he said.
Raule swallowed tensely.
The director of the U.N. mission in Baghdad was the big dog at the top of the pile. The Americans were calling most of the shots in Iraq—a fact that drove the other U.N. representatives crazy, especially those from the E.U.—and Conner was the point man for all the U.N. officers working in-country.
“Yes, Mr. Conner,” Raule began, his voice diminutive and polite. “My name is Sebastian Raule. I’m calling from the Khorramshahr refugee camp—”
“Yes, yes, Sebastian.” The American chuckled. “I know who you are. And I think I know why you’re calling.” He laughed again.
Raule couldn’t help feeling that the American was laughing at him. He hesitated, and then asked, “Well yes, sir, I don’t suppose you are surprised I might call. I have the message from your office, and I must say I find it remarkable. It raises so many questions. Honestly, I’m not sure how to proceed. But before I did anything, I wanted to confirm that this was legitimate?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Raule. It is perfectly legitimate, I assure you.”
“And you think I should—”
“What I think, Mr. Raule, doesn’t matter a lot. She is your responsibility. But I have every confidence you will handle the situation with appropriate courtesy and dispatch.”
Raule was silent a moment, then said, “Sir, there is the issue of repatriation.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“Then, sir, you might also be aware there is the possibility she may not be amenable to an offer.”
Conner wasn’t surprised. He had been briefed by his staff, and they had indicated that might be the case. Her family, all killed. Nowhere to go. Miserable as it was, after half a lifetime of waiting, Khorramshahr had become her home. “After almost twenty years, I can see why she might have lost some interest,” Conner said. It wasn’t a personal dig at Raule, just a dig at the system that could fail so miserably.
Raule exhaled, embarrassed. “Yes, Mr. Conner, it’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” Conner answered, a bit more acidly. “The U.N., I’m afraid, is not very good at these things.”
“Yes, yes,” Raule answered, then let his voice trail off. “But sir, that could create some . . . ah, interesting issues if she does not want to go.”
“Yes it would, yes it would. With that consideration in mind, maybe you ought to head down and have a long talk with Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi.”
Raule was silent again. “It is an awful lot of money,” he then added, almost speaking to himself.
“Yeah, you could say that. And I understand she isn’t well?”
“No, sir, not well. Not well at all.”
“Then I wouldn’t hesitate, Mr. Raule. I would talk to her today.”
The French assistant to the administrator was silent. That was one of the problems with the Americans. They were a sentimental bunch. They all loved a good story, an underdog, come-from-behind, happy ending. But this might not end so happily. He thought of Pari and how poorly she had looked the last time he had seen her. Since Azadeh had been taken, her health had fallen dramatically.
“Mr. Conner,” Raule questioned, “if I could, sir, just one more thing before I let you go. Can you tell me why the sudden change of mind? I mean, not only about the money, but also clearing her husband’s name. After all these years, can you tell me what changed?”
Conner hesitated. “The administration is exerting enormous pressure on the regime,” he finally said. “The E.U. is also pushing. The president of the E.U. had a meeting with the Iranians last week. Apparently one of the messages he gave them was to clean up the camps. ‘Take care of them or the United States will take care of them for us,’ he said. It would be much worse for the mullahs if that happened, much worse for everyone. So the Europeans, your countrymen, are running interference for the Iranians. God bless their wicked little hearts, the last thing they want now is for the United States to get involved. So the Iranians have decided to clean up the camps, and they know they can’t leave her out there. Her old man knew too many people, and they’re not going to forget. Better to free it up and get it behind them, then move on to the next phase.”
Raule listened, shaking his head. He knew there was something more to the story, something much deeper—not obvious, but something he didn’t know. Did Conner know the story? Maybe. Maybe not. But this much was clear to anyone who could think: The mullahs had not made their decision because they were afraid of the U.N. Nor had they agreed because they suffered from a streak of sudden generosity.
The United States had something on them. He was certain of that.
There was an untold story somewhere under the dirt. But it really didn’t matter. It was what it was, and now it was in his lap.
The silence grew long as Raule considered.
“Anything else, Mr. Raule?” Conner asked, ready to end the call.
“No, sir,” Raule answered.
“Call if I can be of any help.”
“I will, sir, I will.”
“You know, Mr. Raule, I wouldn’t delay meeting with Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi. Maybe I’m going out on a limb on this,” Conner stopped to laugh, “but I suspect she might be one of the wealthiest women in your camp.” Conner laughed again. So delicious. A happy irony. “She’s not an everyday refugee,” he continued. “Never was. Never will be. Maybe it’s time some of your folks down there realized that was true.”
“I suppose so,” Raule answered dryly. “Good day to you, sir.”
He hung up the phone. Staring at the receiver, he took a deep breath. And, as he thought, he couldn’t help it. His lips slowly turned into a smile.
Justice was fickle, moody and unpredictable. Sometimes she was gracious, but far more often she was vague and ambivalent, even apathetic, always ready to turn a blind eye. Raule had seen it, grown used to it, and accepted it; he had seen too much injustice not to have grown cynical. After forty-five years, he knew that justice was not the norm, although he conceded that God still might wield it in the next world.
But the stars had aligned before his very eyes, and, for whatever reason, justice was going to be served. Yes, it was late, but it was justice, and he couldn’t help but smile.
*******
Later that evening, Mr. Raule made his way down the hill to the long row of huts below the administration building. Picking out Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi’s quarters, he knocked, waited, then pushed the door back and found Pari lying in her bed in deep sleep, her chest moving the thin blanket as she labored to breathe. Raule entered the small hut and woke her gently, then pulled the small chair over to the side of her bed.
“Miss Pari,” he started, “I have something to tell you.” She tried to sit up, and then lay back again.
“Miss Pari, there’s been a significant change with the government of Iran’s disposition toward your late husband’s standing and estate . . . .”
Pari lifted her hand, pushing herself up on the bed.
*******
The old woman and Raule talked through the late afternoon. The sun eventually set. Raule turned on the small lamp, the only light in the room, and they talked an hour longer. Then Pari, exhausted, fell asleep with Raule at her side.
Raule could not believe his potential good fortune. He studied her, his face tight, fantasies of sudden and unexpected wealth dancing around in his mind.
He watched her sleep for a few minutes, and then pulled the blanket up, tucking it under her chin. Standing, he checked the heater to make certain it was on, cracked the window half an inch to let in just a breath of fresh air, and moved back to the chair by the side of the bed.
Listening to her labored breathing, he was suddenly terrified.
He stood guard a few minutes, then leaned down and planted a dry kiss on her bony cheek.
Walking out the door, he had no doubt that Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi had just become the most important person in his life. More important than his children. More important than his wife. Far more important than his boss. More important than anyone.
She was his best friend, his salvation, his ticket out of this hole. She was the unexpected rainbow in a dark world of storms.
So she’d better not die now—at least, not for a few days.
SIX
Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iran/Iraq Border
It was late at night and the camp was very quiet. A warm wind moved gently up from the sea, moaning sadly as it moved through the cracks in the poorly sealed windows of the camp administration building. There was a smell of fresh rain in the air, and Raule couldn’t help but stop and take a deep breath. He glanced at his watch. Almost 4 A.M. He had napped quickly between 1 A.M. and 3 A.M., but the fire inside him kept him going now—that and a constant supply of harsh coffee, black, with huge spoonfuls of sugar, thick bread, and even an occasional cup of cheap wine from his secret stash in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.
Raule sat back and rubbed his eyes, then glanced at his desk. The papers were piled high: thick government folders, excerpts from history books, newspaper clippings, files he had printed from the net (Khorramshahr had a single computer connected to the Internet, and the time on it was rationed and strictly enforced), transcripts of conversations with government representatives in Tehran, Belgium, Baghdad, and France, and notes from bankers in Europe, Iran and the United States. The paperwork spilled off his desk and onto the floor, arranged in a semicircle around and behind his chair. At first glance it appeared that Raule was surrounded by an indecipherable mess, but each pile had been neatly organized, alphabetized, and prioritized. Atop every pile were pages of his personal notes, each written in his careful script, a synopsis of the information that the separate stacks of papers contained.
Raule listened intently to the sound of the wind. He sniffed again, taking in the smell of the coming rain. In one sense, he hated the rain—it turned the camp into a muddy and miserable mess. But he did love the smell of the coming storm, which reminded him of his home and his years growing up on the small farm, the rolling hills around him, gray in the late winter but green as a postcard from early spring until fall.
He pushed his weight back and pictured his own fantasy farmhouse in his mind: small barns in the back, ducks in the yard, and two sheepdogs resting on the front porch. As his imagination wandered, he found himself almost slipping into a dream. There was light smoke from the chimney. A warm fire inside. Stacks of neatly cut wood near the front door. A small fishpond in back. A few cows, a few goats, a horse, maybe a sheep or two.
It was not enough land or animals to live off, but that was not the point. It was an ideal situation for a gentleman farmer, a man of means, a man who only raised things for the satisfaction of watching them grow, a man who needed nothing, not more money, not attention, not interaction with the world.
He shook his head again, bringing himself back to Khorramshahr.
His fantasy was reachable. If he could just make this work. He looked down at the papers and grunted again.
The death of Mr. al-Faruqi many years before had left an incredible mess. The years had tainted too many memories, and the paper trail had grown cold, but he thought that he had it. Most of it was here. He was close; he had the basis. Now he needed the lawyers and bankers to take it from here.
He squeezed his lips with his fingers as he thought. It was an incredible story. At one time, Pari’s husband, the late Mr. al-Faruqi, had been one of the most wealthy and ambitious men in all of Iran. Special assistant to the shah, responsible for developing the Parsi oil fields, some of the largest oil fields in all of Iran, he was rich and connected, which had been his downfall. Being too closely tied to the royal family was a dangerous thing in 1978, and when the shah had fled Iran, his friends had been left out to dry. Stripped of his power, wealth, position, and prestige, his in-country financial assets stolen by those men who had ousted the shah, his out-of-country assets frozen by every foreign bank, Mr. al-Faruqi had been left with nothing. He died soon thereafter, leaving his widow, Pari, utterly destitute.
Now many of his enemies had also passed away, and, thanks to pressure from the United States and U.N., what remained of his foreign assets, any money that had not been looted before, was being released to his widow, the longest tenured resident of Khorramshahr.
Raule considered the story while he studied the papers around him, then went back to work. He wasn’t focused any longer on locating the money left behind by Mr. al-Faruqi—that task was complete. He had accomplished all he could there.
He had more unpleasant work now: verifying the mistake he’d made with Azadeh’s release. Bending over his desk, he started reading again.
At 7 A.M., he sat back in his chair and stretched, lifting his hands high above him, then took a deep breath. He studied the papers, realizing there was nothing more he could do. It was what it was. His actions might kill the deal, but he couldn’t change that now.
He took a quick sip of coffee, and then headed down to Pari’s hut.
*******
“You don’t know where she is?” Pari demanded an unbelieving tone in her voice. She was growing weaker, Raule could tell, but she was animated now, her eyes burning, her face agitated, her hands constantly moving in frustration and anger.
Raule hesitated, then answered, “No, Miss Pari, we do not where she is.”
“But you said she had been released to her uncle!”
“Yes, well, that was what we had been led to believe.” Raule’s voice had turned suddenly quiet, and he paused now too long. Pari stared at him, the heavy silence a great weight in the air. She had been in the camp long enough, had seen enough young girls come and go, that she immediately understood. Her face became tense with rage, her jaw set tight as she struggled against the emotions that were building inside.
“You knew, didn’t you, Sebastian?” She wasn’t accusing. She just wanted to know.
“No, Miss Pari, that simply isn’t true. Did I suspect? Yes, perhaps. But even if I did, there wasn’t a thing I could do. Our rules are straightforward and my superior is very demanding. I could not ignore our protocols. I had no choice. The man had documents proving the family relationship. He had the release forms; everything was in place. There was an uncle in Pakistan. We had to follow procedures—”
“What then is the problem? Go to her uncle and get her.”
Raule looked away. “He does not exist,” he explained. “Miss Azadeh Pahlavi has no uncle in Pakistan. We know that now.”
Pari shook her head and coughed weakly, keeping her eyes on the floor. She had to bite her tongue or she would regret what she might say. Money or no, she had a place in the world. She took a couple of deep breaths, pushing her anger down.
Raule watched her carefully, knowing he had to get everything out. This was his last chance at redemption, and he wanted to make a clean start. He had one chance to convince Miss Pari al-Faruqi that he was on her side. But to do that, he had to come clean and tell her everything.
He glanced at the close walls, the murals and flowers, and then turned back to Pari. “The documents he provided were forged,” he said. “We know that. He is gone; he took the girl. He didn’t go to Pakistan. He went to northern Iraq.”
Another long silence filled the air. Pari struggled to breathe, and then fell into a violent coughing fit. Raule looked away as she hacked, each lunge of her chest a little weaker than the one before. When her fit had passed, he stood, moved to her bed, and knelt on the floor. He handed her a handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat from her brow with another cloth.
She looked at him de
sperately, her anger having already slipped away. Dying had a way of softening one’s emotions, even the bitterest kind. They sat silently for a while, staring into each other’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Raule said in a soft voice. “I mean that, Miss Pari. It tears at my heart. Yes, I suspected. I thought that something wasn’t right, but please, you must believe me. I tried to help her. I did all I could. Was it enough? Clearly not. But I ask you to forgive me and let me help, if you will.”
Pari took his hand in hers. She held it a moment, measuring the feeling in his soul. Looking into his eyes, she saw the pain and anguish there. Was his disappointment for real? Was he a good man? Was he loyal? Was he a man she could trust?
She looked at him a long moment, then concluded that he was.
SEVEN
Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iran/Iraq Border
It took several days for Raule to gather the lawyers, bankers, and government representatives and have them draw up the documents. It was very complicated, more so than he ever could have predicted, and the more he got into it, the more complicated it became. Yet he worked frantically, sometimes twenty hours a day, all the while watching Pari anxiously as her health continued to decline. He tried convincing her to move to his private quarters where it was warmer, but not cleaner, and much more comfortable. But she would have none of it. Her hut had been her home for more than twenty years, and if it was good enough for her last week, as a penniless pauper, then it was good enough for her now, as a multimillionaire.
So Raule worked while Pari died. It was a race against time.
As he worked with her, Raule came to realize that if it hadn’t been for the young Azadeh Pahlavi, Pari would already have given up, letting herself slip away. “I’m tired of watching those I love come and go,” she explained. “I don’t want to be left alone here anymore. I want to go home to my husband. I hear him calling my name.”
Raule understood. But still, he watched Pari linger, fighting for a few more days. She wanted to live until she could sign the papers. It was as important to her now as it was to Raule.
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