Four days later, a fisherman found the rotting body of the intruder in the swollen river, twenty miles downstream.
After spending a life in the service of his master, inflicting abuse and pain, the mortal had closed his final deal. He had listened one last time to his master and was now in his grasp.
Chapter Twelve
Two days after the fisherman dragged the bloated body from the river, another stranger pulled into Rassa’s small village, equally mystifying, though certainly not insane. He moved comfortably through the crowded streets, for he had been in the village before; in fact, he had been there several times in just the previous two weeks alone. He was a large man and well kept, though he wore unexceptional clothes. His face was hidden behind dark glasses and a neatly trimmed beard. He drove a Swedish sedan, which he parked on the south end of the open-air market; then he spent a couple of hours walking through the village, taking everything in. He talked to each shopkeeper he visited, asking a few questions and occasionally even writing things down. Then he browsed through the market, testing several possibilities before buying some potatoes and garlic sausage for breakfast, along with a cup of thick tea.
It was Saturday morning, the start of another work week, and the market was crowded and noisy and smelly from the usual crowd. A little after eight, after the first call to prayer, Rassa and Azadeh made their way through the market, collecting the supplies they would need for the next couple of days. Rassa bought two liters of goat’s milk and some sugar, then fifty nails and some wire to repair the fence around his yard. Azadeh picked out some fresh fruit and cabbage, then eight small carp, which were wrapped in old newspaper and tied with rough string. She dropped them in her basket, then ran to her father’s side.
The stranger watched them intently, always staying a comfortable distance behind and acting with care so he did not draw any attention to himself. As the sun rose, the air grew warm and the marketplace became oppressive. Their shopping completed, the father and his daughter left the market and walked the dusty road toward their home.
The stranger watched them go, then melted into the crowd and walked back to his car. Climbing in, he locked the doors, started the motor, then pulled out a satellite phone and dialed a number in Riyadh.
“Crown Prince Saud,” he said after his call was put through. He grunted and waited. “Muhsin Al-Illah,” he gave as his name.
Then he waited, his breathing heavy, his hands sweaty and cold.
“Sayid,” he said when the prince finally answered the phone. “I have been watching the target. There is nothing new to report.”
The Arab waited, then continued. “They appear to be of little means, Sayid, though they do have their own home, a small brick and mud house on a hill looking over the village. It is small but well kept. They do the best they can.”
The large man fixed the air vent to blow on his face as he listened, then answered again. “Yes, Your Highness, I agree. I have come to the reluctant conclusion that it might possibly work. It seems that no one knows, or at least no one cares any longer, that Rassa Pahlavi is a grandson of the Shah. He lives a quiet life, a simple life. And though I pray it never happens, and I hope you are wrong (blessed be your name, your Royal Highness, for I do not mean to ever disagree!), but from what I have seen I believe your plan would possibly work. If we were careful, and if we were left with no choice.”
* * *
A little more than five hundred miles to the west, Prince Saud, crown prince of the House of Saud, future king of Saudi Arabia, thanked his loyal servant, then slowly hung up the phone. He stared a long moment, considering what he should do.
Were they close? Was it real? Was the danger as near as he feared? Was Prince Abdullah as dangerous as his father said he was?
He knew he was. And there was no time to hesitate.
He huffed with emotion, then picked up his secure phone again and dialed the number to his old friend in the United States.
Young Warriors
“And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions. . . . And I will shew wonders in heaven above, and signs in the earth beneath.”
—Acts 2:17, 19
“Even as the Allies celebrated victory, the appalling costs of the war began to emerge. It had killed as many as 75 million people around the world. In Europe, about 38 million people lost their lives, many of them civilians, a majority of them in their teens and early twenties. The destruction defies belief. Numbers alone did not tell the story.”
—Prentice Hall World History
Chapter Thirteen
Major General Neil S. Brighton stood and stared through the large plate glass window of his home office in Chevy Chase, Maryland. The old plantation house, a classic two-story brick Victorian with lots of polished wood and white paint, was large and quiet and smelled of a pine disinfectant. The house was almost 125 years old but exceptionally well maintained. It sat atop one of the highest hills inside the beltway, and from his second story window the general could look south and see most of the downtown D.C. skyline. The Mall and national monuments were a little more than seven miles away. The George Washington Memorial, a pointed pillar of white bathed by enormous floodlights tracking skyward, jutted up to the east of the George Washington bridge. Even from this distance, he could see the glow of the lights that surrounded the Mall where he jogged four miles every afternoon, come rain, sleet, or shine; his secretary always kept his schedule clear between four and five p.m. It was the only time he ever had to be by himself, and it was also the most productive hour of his day. And though he couldn’t see it from his second-story window, he knew the White House was just a little more than a mile to the north of the Mall. He envisioned the security fences around the White House lawn, the covert bunkers for secret service personnel, and the hidden surface-to-air missiles on the government buildings next door.
The general was very familiar with the White House. He worked there every day.
Brighton took a deep breath and wondered again. Who am I kidding? I’m just a simple ol’ farm boy from Texas. What am I doing here?
He stood still for a moment, thinking back, then glanced at the old English clock on the fireplace mantel. Almost midnight, and here he was, just finishing supper and still dressed in his air force blues, the formal uniform he wore to the White House everyday. He felt the stiff fabric and the pressure of all the ribbons on his chest. He missed wearing his flight suits—they were much more comfortable—and he certainly missed flying, especially after days like today. His day had started with a private meeting with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, after which he had suffered through no less than fourteen appointments, then ended with a reception at the Libyan Embassy, a typically stuffy and formal affair, the kind his wife enjoyed and he absolutely despised.
Then he remembered how beautiful Sara had looked in her black satin dress and suddenly the evening hadn’t seemed like such a waste of time. “Sara, oh Sara,” he thought to himself, “when I asked you to marry me, did you know I would drag you from one corner of the world to the next? Did you envision the challenges of the life we would choose?”
He wondered, supposing not. It had been a wonderful journey, but not without cost.
The general breathed deep, then turned around and snapped off the small light on his desk. He had to get up in five hours, and it was time for bed.
Before leaving his office, General Brighton checked his wall safe, armed the security system, pulled the tab to synch up the secure telephone to the next code-of-the-day, then turned off the overhead light and walked from the room. His wife had turned on the night light in the hallway so he wouldn’t have to stumble to bed, and he started unbuttoning his uniform as he walked down the hall. When was the last time he and Sara had gone to bed at the same time, he wondered. Too long ago. And it made him sad. In the old days they would lie by each other and talk and lau
gh every night. But he was so busy with his new assignment as military liaison to the National Security Advisor, one of the most demanding jobs in the entire Department of Defense, that he hardly had time to think, let alone lie around talking in bed. Nothing was as demanding as the job he held now—not flying fighters, not commanding a combat wing, not even masterminding the air war in Iraq—nothing compared with the pressures he dealt with every day. Eighty-hour work weeks were the norm, and he was exhausted all the time. He knew his family was suffering, but he didn’t know what to do.
His only comfort, his only consolation, was that he had been assured this was what he was supposed to do. This was his calling, what the Lord needed him for.
He remembered the blessing his stake president had given him when he had felt so overwhelmed. “Your Father in Heaven is aware of your concerns. He will take care of your family during this trying time. And He wants you to know that this is one of the purposes for which you were brought into this world. This is part of the work that He wants you to do. The path lies before you. Step forward with confidence and don’t be afraid. He will take care of your family as you concentrate on this task.”
It had felt almost as if the Savior himself had placed his hands on his head. “And I will lay my hand upon you by the hand of my servant.” Major General Neil S. Brighton repeated that scripture all the time in his mind. And he thought of the blessing almost every day, for it strengthened and comforted him as he struggled to balance the demands on his time, especially during the many weeks when he was away. But because of the blessing, he understood a little better. It was like when he had been a bishop: there were many sacrifices, but this was also something he needed to do, part of his schooling, part of Heavenly Father’s great plan.
That didn’t mean it was easy.
But it meant it was good.
“Sometime soon,” Brighton frequently promised himself. “Sometime soon, things will change. Life will slow down. I promise it will.”
As he was reaching for his bedroom doorknob, his secure telephone started ringing, and he stopped in his tracks. “Please go away!” he mumbled to himself. “It’s late. I am tired. Let it wait until morning.”
But the phone continued ringing, and he turned quickly and walked to his office, hurrying to pick up the STU-III telephone before it woke anyone up.
“Yeah?” he said abruptly as he picked up the phone.
“Major General Brighton,” the communications specialist replied.
“Yes,” Brighton answered.
“Sir, this is Private First Class Bendino at the CIC communications center. I have a call from Prince Saud, crown prince of Saudi Arabia. We have traced and authenticated the phone number to verify it is coming from Riyadh, but we can’t confirm his identity. He wants us to patch him through.”
“Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal?”
“Yes, sir. This is who he says.”
“Then of course patch him through.”
“Sir, do we need to notify the operations desk of the call?”
“No, Private Bendino. I suspect this is a personal matter. I have known the crown prince for a very long time.”
“Okay sir. But you realize, of course, that as with all communications with foreign heads of states, these communications will be recorded and monitored.”
“Fine, Private, fine, now please patch him through.”
The secure satellite line clicked and then buzzed and then fell silent again. “Neil?” he heard the prince’s deep baritone.
“Your Highness! How are you? I hope everything is okay.”
“Okay? Yes, of course. Everything’s fine.”
Brighton considered the differences in time, knowing it was early morning in Saudi Arabia. “It’s good to hear from you, Prince Saud. It’s been a long while.”
“Too long, general, too long. Listen, I know it is late there, and I don’t have much time, but I heard you were flying over here to meet with some of my air force leaders. I would hope we could get together. Nothing special, just an hour or two to catch up on, how do you Americans say it . . . older times.”
“Old times, Prince Saud.”
“Old times. Yes, of course. Anyway, could we meet?”
“Anytime. Anyplace.”
“Excellent, Neil, excellent. Now listen, I’m going to be in Medina for most of the week, but I’m going to fly back to meet you in Riyadh. I’ll have my people give your staff a call and work out a schedule. Will that be all right?”
“Of course, Prince Saud. Whatever you want. But let me ask, is this important? Do I need to do anything to prepare?”
The line was silent a long moment, and Brighton could hear the prince breathe. “Nothing important, Neil,” he finally answered. “It is a personal matter. I just want to catch up.”
The general sensed the hesitation and was about to press, but the crown prince spoke again before he could say anything. “Same number at the Pentagon?” Prince Saud asked.
“The switchboard will always get you through.”
“Okay, then, my friend. I look forward to seeing you.”
The phone clicked and went dead, and the general placed the red receiver back in its cradle. He stared at it a moment, then turned again for the office door.
He read his scriptures as he always did, no matter the time, then knelt by his bedside to say a weary prayer. Then he lay on his pillow. But sleep didn’t come, for he kept hearing the nervousness in his friend’s voice.
The night was quiet, the darkness still and heavy, the moon having set below the horizon. Then a sudden wind blew, gusting through the dry leaves, howling like a banshee, though the skies remained clear. His bedroom windows rattled with each gust of wind, and he lay in the darkness, staring through the window at the blowing branches a few feet away. They swayed with each gust, sometimes bending out of sight, the fall leaves being ripped from the dry branches of the trees.
Brighton lay awake, agitated; he had been restless all day. He had been restless for a week, and he didn’t know why. Something was coming. He could feel it deep in his bones, something moving, something watching, something that brought evil change. He could feel the frustration, but he didn’t know what it was. He glanced at his wife, who was asleep on her side, her blonde hair tossed about her, the streetlight on her face. For a long moment he watched her sleep, her breathing heavy and slow; then she winced and pulled back, as if in her dreams, she felt it too. Neil reached out to touch her, placing his palm on her cheek, and she pressed against his fingers and leaned into his touch. But she didn’t wake fully and soon was in a deep sleep again.
Neil lay back and listened to the leaves rustle in the yard. He felt anxious and tight, a sprinter ready to explode from the blocks. He fought the anxiety, then finally sat up on the side of the bed.
He shook his head to clear it, but the fear only settled deeper in his chest. The blackness seemed to consume him, like nothing he’d ever felt before. He glanced at his wife, then pushed himself out of bed.
He walked down the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs. He placed his hands on the rail, feeling the beautifully carved oak. He listened for a moment to the grandfather clock ticking at the foot of the winding stairs, then took a deep breath, fighting the anxiety within. He stood a long moment, alone, in the dark.
Then he thought of his sons and turned suddenly for their room.
His two sons shared a bedroom at the top of the stairs, and he opened the door just enough to let in a crack of light from the hall. As he pushed the door open, he got a whiff of the smell—sweaty jerseys, leather basketballs, gym bags, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn—the tangy smell of youth that he knew so well.
But his sons were no longer children. They were growing into men.
They stirred under the blankets, but neither of them awoke. The older son, Parley Ammon, the blond, eleven minutes older than his brother, lay asleep on his bed, his hair, like his mother’s, in a tousle on his head. His younger brother, Benjamin Luke, dark haired and
tan, rolled to his side and turned away from the light.
As he stood in the darkness, in the hallway, in the quiet of his home, having been driven from his bed by a dark power that seemed to move across the land, Neil looked at his children and was reminded again of who they really were. They were greater than he was—he knew that inside—more valiant, more clever, more dedicated to the right. “My brothers,” he muttered as he stood in the hall. “What are your missions? What is the reason you’re here?”
He lowered his head as a sudden warmth filled his chest. He trembled and stepped back, a look of awe on his face. He shook his head suddenly and brought his hands to his eyes. He stumbled, his legs so weak he almost fell to his knees.
“Pray for them,” the Spirit told him as he lowered his head. “Pray for your children. Pray for your sons. Pray they will grow into the men that I intend them to be! Pray for Samuel Porter, for he was once a great leader who has lost his way. He is alone now and lonely, and I need him on my side. He has no one to turn to, so you must pray for him too.”
Neil shuddered, then pushed himself away from their bedroom and sat on the stairs. All night he knelt in the darkness and prayed as the Spirit had directed him to.
* * *
Balaam watched him, all the time cursing, with Lucifer at his side. They sneered at the father, mocking his prayers. “You’re not worthy. You’re not worthy,” Lucifer lied in Brighton’s ear. “What kind of father are you? You are hardly ever here! Your sons, all their faults, you know they get them from you. You’ve been a terrible example. And yet you pray for your sons. You are tired. God is busy! Why don’t you go to bed?”
On and on it went, lie after lie, distraction upon distraction, sneer upon sneer.
But Neil Brighton fought through it. And the God of heaven heard his prayers.
Chapter Fourteen
The Great and Terrible Page 28
