an angular inscription consisting of three words: Allah, Muhammad, and Ali, devoted follower of the prophet. The name of Ali in the embroidery identified his household as a member of the Shi’a, or Shi’ites, those Muslims who consider Ali the legal successor to Muhammad. The entire house was liberally decorated with religious symbols and verses from the Qur’an, designed to chase evil away.
Was evil coming? Rassa felt a cold chill. Something was coming. He had felt this before.
Staring at his meager surroundings, he felt restless and on edge. He sipped at his hot tea, seeking its warmth. Standing, he walked quietly to Azadeh’s bedroom and pushed the door open a crack. She was sleeping soundly, and he sat down again. Picking up a copy of the Holy Book, he repeated the cleansing phrase, “In the name of Allah, most gracious, Most Merciful,” then started reading, choosing at random a verse.
“It is righteousness to believe in Allah and the Last Day; and the Angels, and the Book, and the Messengers; to be firm and patient in pain and adversity, and throughout all periods of panic. Such are the people of truth, the God-fearing. . . .”
He read the verse again, then looked up in thought.
“To be firm and patient in pain and adversity . . .”
He thought back to the sound that had startled him out of sleep.
A helicopter. Over the village. On this side of the hill.
Choppers in the village? That was never good news.
Pain and adversity. His village had had its fair share.
* * *
Crown Prince Saud unstrapped his seat belt, moved to the small door that separated the passenger cabin from the cockpit, and pulled it open. He was met by the dim, multicolored lights of the cockpit: four eight-inch computer displays, a terrain-following radar, and rows upon rows of digital gauges and multifunction switches. The two pilots sat side-by-side, both of them Saudi air force colonels, old friends, trusted and worthy, their faces an unearthly green in the reflected cockpit lights. Saud stood in the doorway and studied the ALQ-162 defensive/countermeasures CRT, an automated system that searched out ground threats—ground-to-air radars, shoulder-fired weapons, and other heat-seeking missiles. With the exception of the Operations Normal symbology, the screen was a pale, silver blank. Satisfied, he raised his eyes to look through the cockpit window. The world appeared crooked, for the pilot had rolled the chopper into a steep bank. The horizon tilted across the windscreen at an uncomfortable angle, the moon and stars filling the right window, the coastline and lighted highway filling the left. His head spun a moment, and he adjusted his weight to balance himself, then turned to the copilot, who gestured to the north. “Agha Jari Deh,” the pilot said, pointing to a tiny collection of mud and brick houses nestled tightly against the rising mountains.
The prince looked anxiously. Even in the moonlight, he could see that the village was surprisingly small; so small, the chopper would overfly it in a minute or less. There was only one road in or out of the village, and except for those who traveled to its market the village was almost completely unknown.
Saud studied the passing huts and small homes. It was so small. It was perfect. Allah had prepared a way. The prince understood that. Years before, in his perfection, Allah had seen the death that would come. And in his infinite mercy and wisdom he had prepared this way.
* * *
The chopper rolled level and began to slow down. The copilot lifted his hand to the collective and pressed his radio switch to answer a radio call. “Transportation is waiting,” he announced to the prince.
Saud nodded and watched as the chopper turned to line up on a grassy field, two or three kilometers south of the village. The circle of grass appeared as a dark bowl against the reflective rocks of the mountains. The village was quiet, less than a dozen lights shining to the north. He picked out the headlights of the waiting vehicles as the chopper descended through 300 feet and slowed below 120 knots. A powerful whoop emitted from above his head as the blades slapped the air, taking less of a bite as the aircraft slowed down. The pilot switched on the landing light, and the tips of the spinning blades reflected the powerful lamp. Saud nodded, nudged the pilot on the shoulder, then stepped out of the cockpit and closed the door. Moving to the princess, he sat down at her side. She stared ahead, unmoving, her determination building inside. The prince didn’t speak to her as he slipped her lap belt on.
The chopper sat down with a bump on the uneven field, and the pilot brought the twin turbine engines to idle and disengaged the rotors. Saud stood and worked the exit door, which dropped into the darkness, the folding steps exposed as the door slipped into place. He turned back to the princess, who was waking their son, and the three of them stepped out of the aircraft and into the cold mountain air.
* * *
Rassa heard his new dog. The young Afghan hound barked lazily from behind his house, out near the barn, along the narrow trail that led to the mountains. He stood up, moved to the window, and looked out on the courtyard that surrounded his backyard. The moon cast deep shadows that wavered as the clouds passed overhead. The air was calm and cold, and he saw no movement in the dim light. The trees stood tall and still. The geese and ducks had scattered to the small pond beyond the mud wall and, besides his dog, the other animals slept. As he stared at the shadows he heard his dog bark again, her head sticking halfway out of her shelter, only half interested in sounds that Rassa could not yet detect. But twenty seconds later he heard the sound of an automobile engine and the soft crunch of tires against the rock and gravel outside.
A sudden chill ran through him. He thought of the earlier whoop of the chopper blades and the roar of the engines. Out here, in the most remote parts of the country, where the warlords and tribal chiefs still had their way, a chopper could mean only one of two things: warlords from the south, coming up to collect recruits for their bloody turf battles, or the Jihadists from Iraq—the lawless Islamist fanatics who had adapted to the presence of Western forces in Iraq by hiding out in the Iranian deserts, where they planned their battles against the Great Satan and Jews.
Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Rassa felt his heart sink with a feeling of blackness and dread. He had seen many men disappear, pulled away in the night. Some had been suspected collaborators. Some had been hauled off to fight. Few were ever heard of again or returned to their homes.
He listened to the sounds of the car doors shutting, then soft footsteps on the porch. He glanced in a panic at the bedroom door, thinking of his little girl, then considered the old rifle stuffed behind the ancient cedar armoire in the corner of the room, a 30.06 that had been used by his grandfather during the First World War. The rifle was his own deadly secret. Having a weapon in Iran was strictly forbidden, but he made no move toward it. If they were coming for him, be it the warlords or the mullahs, it would be dangerous to fight them, especially with Azadeh in the next room.
So he waited, unmoving, listening to the footsteps outside his door. The wooden door rattled on its hinges, but Rassa didn’t dare move.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rassa finally pulled the door open and stared in the dim light onto his porch. Two middle-aged men stood in the darkness, both of them strong and well dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and maroon ties. Though they wore western suits, traditional turbans were wrapped on their heads. The nearest man almost blocked the doorway with his massive frame, and he moved one hand to his hip, exposing a thin leather holster. The second man stood slightly behind the other and off to the side. Rassa glanced past the first guard to see two dark cars parked on the road, their engines at idle, their headlights off. Without explanation, the bodyguards pushed into his home and swept through the room. Rassa stood speechless until one of them paused at the bedroom and glanced to his boss. “Is Azadeh in there?” he asked Rassa in a deep, husky tone.
Rassa moved toward the bedroom door. “Who are you?” he demanded, his eyes flashing with rage.
“Is she in there?” the bodyguard repeated.
&n
bsp; Rassa tightened in panic, and he shook his head. “You do not want her,” he hissed, his voice husky with rage. It was the voice of a fighter at the edge of a war. “It is me you have come for! Leave her alone!”
He took a quick step toward the guard, while glancing at the holster underneath the dark suit. If they had come for Azadeh, then he would die to prevent it.
The leader ignored Rassa and nodded to the bedroom. “Check it out,” he said.
The smaller guard nodded back and slowly pushed the door open. Stepping into the room, he pulled a tiny flashlight from his pocket and flashed it inside. He saw the sleeping girl, her head buried on the side of her pillow, then swept the light quickly around the room, taking in the simple bed, small chest, and white wicker drawer. A small collection of colorful dresses, silken Hajib head scarves, and full Burkas were hanging from a rope tied across the far corner. A silver tray of hairbrushes had been neatly arranged on top of the dresser. On the floor next to the bureau was a pair of sandals and another of leather shoes. He studied the room carefully, then stepped back and closed the door.
As the door closed, Azadeh immediately opened her eyes.
Rassa was waiting, a look of rage in his eyes. He relaxed his glare only slightly when the guard closed the door. “Who are you?” he hissed. “What are you doing here? I have nothing to hide! I have nothing you want!”
The two guards didn’t answer as they nodded to each other. The larger man moved to the front door, pushed it open, and raised his right hand. The automobiles turned off their engines. Rassa heard the car doors open, then the sound of soft footsteps. He waited, then moved to the center of the kitchen, placing himself between Azadeh’s bedroom and the front door.
A young woman entered the room, her face strained, her dark eyes bewildered and red. She was dressed in a dark burka and leather sandals, and she pulled a deep blue shawl tightly over her shoulders. She moved to a position beside the wall, then pushed her burka back, revealing a long mane of dark hair. Another man followed, dressed in an exquisite dark suit. Rassa saw him and stepped back, sucking in a quick breath of air. The intruder walked into the room with the confidence of a king, his shoulders square, his head high, his eyes constantly moving with suspicion but still clear and sure. Rassa dropped to one knee as the prince moved through the room, the social chasm between them demanding he bow with respect.
The prince moved toward him and extended his hand. Rassa stood, and the prince pulled him to his chest, kissing both of his cheeks in a display of respect.
Rassa dropped his eyes in confusion. What was this man doing here?
* * *
The prince stepped back and took in Rassa, measuring his appearance from his head to his feet. The woman remained near the doorway, waiting, her eyes dull with fright. The prince turned back to Rassa and gripped him by his shoulders. “Rassa Ali Pahlavi,” he asked, “do you know who I am?”
Rassa nodded as he answered. “Sayid, I know who you are.”
“Then who am I, Rassa Ali Pahlavi?”
“You are Crown Prince Saud, oldest son of King Fahd bin Saud Faysal, monarch of the House of Saud, grandson of King Saud Aziz, future Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques, keeper of the Holy Cities of Makkah and Madinah.”
Prince Saud nodded, his weary eyes shining bright. Good. That was good. His cousin might have been raised in one of the most remote villages in the mountains, but clearly he was not an illiterate fool. He had read. He remembered. And he was aware. Some of the prince’s own citizens would not have recognized him, and only one in a hundred Iranians would have known who he was. He nodded with approval, then motioned toward the young woman. “Do you know her as well?” he demanded.
Rassa kept his head low, clearly afraid of meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I do not know who she is.”
The prince nodded again. That was good too. She mustn’t be recognized if their plan was to work. And he had doubted she would be, not here in the Iranian mountains, so far from their home.
The royal sons were rarely photographed inside their own country, and it was strictly forbidden to photograph their children or wives. Saudi Arabia wasn’t England after all, with their maniacal fascination with the royal family. It was The House of Saud, the Kingdom of Arabia, Keeper of the Holy Cities. Theirs wasn’t a monarchy of fairy tales and magic castles, a kingdom of tabloids and gossip and family secrets revealed. The House of Saud was a kingdom of power, the kingdom of Allah; and pulp-fiction paparazzi were simply not tolerated in their press. The royal wives and their daughters led luxurious but anonymous lives. It had always been thus, and it would always be; for it would have been demeaning to Allah and his prophet for the women of the royal family to live publicly.
They were extremely rich but essentially unknown behind their security walls. Which meant the princess could stay here if she would not be recognized.
Prince Saud nodded to the princess. “You do not know who she is?” he asked again.
“No, my Sayid. Should I recognize her?”
Prince Saud watched Rassa closely as he searched for any shadow that he was not telling the truth. Did he truly not know her? Would his eyes give him away?
Rassa’s face didn’t change. He did not know who the princess was.
The prince breathed a shallow sigh of relief.
It might actually work.
He studied Rassa again. His men had been investigating his cousin for almost a year, and there was little about Rassa that the prince didn’t know. And though the final plans had been laid some months before, when the prince first became convinced they might actually come after his family, this was the first time he had seen Rassa, and he wanted to take the measure of him.
Rassa held the prince’s stare, never looking away. The prince saw in his eyes what he was thinking: This man might be a prince, but this is my home. And no man is my master, at least not in this place.
Over the years the prince had learned how to measure a man. He had learned to distinguish between enemies and friends, to measure secret ambitions and hidden desires, to recognize those who loved him and those who wished to bring him harm. Staring into Rassa’s eyes, he saw no guile in him. This was a good man, straightforward and honest. For the first time in days, the prince began to relax.
* * *
The crown prince took a step toward Rassa. “We are not strangers,” he said. “One of my grandfathers, your grandfathers, they were cousins.”
Rassa nodded. The genealogy was not unfamiliar to him. “It was many generations back.”
“Yes, that is true. But the bloodlines of royalty are extremely pure. We are far more closely related than you might at first guess.”
Rassa thought for a moment, getting past his surprise and fear. “Our forebears were enemies,” he added after reviewing his memory.
The prince smiled. “Yes, they traded a share of their men’s lives in battles; there is no doubt about that. But they were not unfriendly, I think. They were sheiks fighting for their kingdoms and to protect their gold, but when the day was over, I suppose they were friends. That was business and that was then, and of course this is now. So you and I, we are family. And the bonds of our ancestors that tie us are far stronger than any blood that has been spilt in the past.”
Rassa paused, then answered sadly.
“When the battle is over,
And the evening winds come,
When spear tips glint in the twilight,
And the skirmish is done,
Then I hope I am standing,
And, brother, I hope you are too;
For on the other side of the war ground,
I will be thinking of you.”
* * *
The prince stood without moving. The lines were comforting and familiar, but he didn’t know why. “Where did you hear that?” he asked Rassa.
The Iranian bowed.
“You wrote that?” the prince pressed.
“Yes, Sayid,” Rassa answered. “The words just come to
me sometimes. I didn’t mean to insult.”
The prince frowned, his eyes narrowing from the heartsickness inside. Then he repeated, his voice gentle, a mere whisper on his lips.
“Then I hope I am standing,
And, brother, I hope you are too;
For on the other side of the war ground,
I will be thinking of you.”
He stole a glimpse at his woman, who stared at him in grief.
Not this time. Not his brothers. They only wished he was dead. He stood in mute silence, then suddenly shook his head.
Rassa stood close by, waiting, as Crown Prince Saud looked at him.
“Rassa Ali Pahlavi,” he began, “I have come to you because I need your help. My life is in great danger. My wife is in great danger too. And the only son I have left, the son who will one day be king, is outside sleeping in one of my cars.
“I am bringing him to you for protection. I bring him to you so he will live. I am bringing him to you so he will one day be king. But his life is in great danger, for there are many around us who would not have it be so.”
The room became deadly silent. Rassa stared at the prince in disbelief, his mouth growing dry. Prince Saud nodded to his bodyguards, who motioned to each other and walked quietly from the house.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The men were seated on the wooden floor, their legs tucked underneath them as they leaned against round cotton cushions. A cup of chai sat between them, thick as molasses, sweet as raw sugar, and strong enough to give an almost instant rush of energy. The smell permeated the room, warm and syrupy, and a thin wisp of steam rose from their porcelain cups. The young princess sat beside her husband but didn’t say anything. She reached out her hand and he squeezed it, but then let go.
The bodyguards took up positions outside the small home. Rassa could hear their footsteps through the thin glass windows as they moved around the house and through the courtyard. As he listened, Rassa realized they were keeping to the shadows, never revealing themselves as they moved from the corner of the small house to the line of trees on the north and west sides.
The Great and Terrible Page 43
