The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  The prince turned toward Rassa and folded his arms. “I’m going to ask you a question,” he said.

  Rassa’s back stiffened, and he drew a tight breath.

  “Do you understand why you are here?” Prince Saud asked in a low voice.

  “Why am I here?” Rassa answered, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Yes. Do you know why you’re here?”

  Rassa stared at him blankly, confusion narrowing his brow. “I am here, Crown Prince Saud, because . . . well, because this is my home.”

  The prince shook his head. “No, Rassa Ali Pahlavi, that is not what I meant. Why are you here? Why did God give you life? For what purpose were you born?”

  “The purpose of life is to surrender my will to Allah,” Rassa answered automatically, repeating the first words he had learned, the same words he had repeated every day since he was no more than two.

  The prince nodded impatiently. “Yes, Rassa, of course. But think beyond the scripture. I want you to tell me more.”

  Rassa thought in bewildered silence. “Your Majesty . . .” he whispered, his voice trailing off. He stared at his chai, keeping his eyes on the floor.

  Saud waited, then put his small cup aside. Rassa thought in bewildered silence, but only became more uncertain. He finally shrugged his shoulders tightly. “Your Majesty . . .” he stumbled, “I do not know what to say.” He bowed his head lower, and the prince leaned toward him.

  “I have spent most of my life studying the holy teachings of the Qur’an,” he said. “I am both by nature and training a deeply religious man. I have responsibilities to the kingdom, but more, I have responsibilities to God. Because of this, I have spent my life studying with the masters, the best-educated Muslim philosophers anywhere in the world. And this is what I have come to believe. The Holy Qur’an teaches that each man has a reason for living. Allah fates certain things. And he has brought me here, Rassa, to speak with you tonight. He has a purpose for you, Rassa, and I know his will.”

  “Whatever you ask, I will do it,” Rassa trembled in reply, before quickly adding Insha’allah. If it is God’s will.

  Saud lowered his voice and shot a quick look at the princess. “My kingdom stands on the edge of a precipice,” he whispered in anguish. “We stand and look over a terrible and deadly abyss. And there are those within my country, even those within my own family, who want us to fall. There are those in my councils who crave a final battle with the West. And they are willing to do whatever it takes to make their dreams come true.

  “They are dangerous. Extremely dangerous. They are a secret band of brothers, bound by blood oaths and lies. And they are not driven by a dedication to Allah. They are not driven by religion or a vision of a greater Islam. They are driven by power. They are driven by hate. They are evil and deadly men who want to conquer our world.

  “And like the shadows that spread when the sun has gone down, they grow more and more dark as the evening comes on. Yet no one takes note of their growing power, for the darkness settles so slowly it is nearly imperceptible. But their influence is spreading. And I’m the only thing that stands in their way.”

  Rassa stared open-mouthed. It was impossible! This was the most powerful man in Arabia, next to the king himself. One of the most powerful men in the world. He could not understand it. But as he stared at the prince, he experienced a cold look of fear he could not deny.

  Prince Saud dropped his eyes and a shadow crossed his face. “Early this evening I buried my family,” he explained. “My first wife and our children. A daughter. Two sons. Another son who was not even born yet also died in his mother’s womb.” He shot another pained look at his wife, then slowly went on. “The only son I have left is outside in the car. I have brought him to you, Rassa, because you are my kin. I have brought my wife and child to you because I need to keep them safe. There is nowhere in the kingdom that they could not be found. But here . . . in these mountains . . . in this tiny village in Iran, they will be safe for a few days, and that’s all I need to defeat my enemies. But until I have done that, I need a safe place where my wife and young son can hide, somewhere outside the kingdom, somewhere outside of their reach.”

  Rassa bowed in submission, then gestured to his simple house. “But Sayid,” he questioned, “look at my home. It is unworthy of the princess. It is unworthy of your son.”

  “My poverty is my pride,” the prince quoted the Qur’an in reply.

  “But I am a simple man, Your Highness. A simple man, a family man, trying to survive on my own.”

  “Which is why this will work. They will never suspect. And, Rassa, this isn’t a decision I came to rashly. I have thought this through, and I know in my heart this is the right thing to do.”

  “But Sayid,” Rassa argued, “a young prince. In my home!”

  “Listen to me!” Saud answered quickly, his voice growing strained. “You are Rassa Ali Pahlavi! The royal blood runs through your veins as it has run through your fathers for almost two thousand years. You cannot dismiss that. And they can’t take it from you. We share royal blood, Rassa. That is why I came to you.”

  Rassa was silent, and the prince pointed a finger. “They will be looking for him,” he prodded, his voice weakened by fatigue and fear. “They will search through my kingdom; they will turn every rock, every reed, every rill. They will follow my movements, always searching for clues. But they will never suspect that I would dare take him out of the kingdom. And to Persia no less! They would not dream I would do this, and that is why this will work.”

  Rassa stared ahead in silence. He did not know what to say.

  Saud watched him, then stood quickly. His gestures indicated that he was finished explaining and it was time for him to go. He nodded to the princess, and she stood up at his side. Turing to Rassa, Prince Saud made his final point. “The time is soon coming when Islam will rise from the ashes of the Ottoman Empire,” he said. “She will rise and reclaim her rightful position of leadership in this world. For more than one thousand years, while the West rutted through the dark ages and wallowed in decay, the people of Islam stood as the military, economic, and spiritual leaders of the world.

  “And yet from the day Napoleon marched into Egypt, we have reacted like a stunned bull. One shot and we fell in a quivering heap to our knees.

  “But the time is soon coming when we will rise again. There will be a Pan-Arabia! But it will take a new way of thinking; it will take a new world; it will take a new kind of leader to lead us there. A new king is required, someone who can purge Islam of her poison and lift her again as a symbol to the world of wealth and peace.

  “I am that man, Rassa. And my son will follow me. So we must keep him safe. Now do you understand?”

  Rassa nodded gravely, then pushed himself to his knees. “I will do as you command,” he whispered as he bowed at the prince’s feet.

  The prince put his hands on his shoulders. “You must speak of this to no one,” he said. “Do you understand, Rassa, how important that is? You will call the princess a cousin who is visiting from Riyadh. Tell no one I have been here, or we both are dead.”

  Rassa kept his eyes low as he nodded his head.

  “Do you understand that, Rassa? Do you see how important our secrecy is?”

  “I understand, Sayid.”

  The crown prince gripped his shoulder, then looked at his wife. He nodded to the princess. “Go and get him,” he said.

  The princess left the house quickly and returned with her son. The small boy stood shyly, holding tightly to his mother’s hand. He had round eyes and dark hair, and he smiled wearily. His father knelt before him and pulled him to his chest. Looking up, he nodded sternly to Rassa, looking him straight in the eyes. “Keep him safe,” he demanded as he let his son go. “It will be only a few days, a few weeks at the most before I come back for him. Keep them safe, and I’ll reward you beyond your wildest dreams. But if any danger befalls them, then I will hold you responsible. This is your charge, your great purpose, an
d you simply cannot fail.”

  Rassa nodded and bowed. “Sayid,” he replied.

  “It could be dangerous for you, Rassa.”

  “Sayid, I will serve.”

  Prince Saud pressed Rassa’s shoulder, then turned sadly to the princess and reached for her hand. “I will come back for you, Ash Salman,” he whispered, leaning his mouth to her ear. “I will not leave you, not a day, not an hour more than I have to. But for now we must do this. We must do this for our son.

  “Now stay here. Be strong! Take care of my child, and I will call for you soon.”

  The princess nodded, her eyes hard, her face firm and proud. Saud leaned over and kissed her cheek softly, then turned and walked from the room.

  After the prince left, the young mother stood silent against the wall, holding the child prince in her arms.

  Rassa stared at her blankly, a dumbfounded look on his face. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He opened his mouth, then shut it, thinking it better to not sound the fool. The young princess stared at him, then let her eyes drift to the floor. Her young son stirred, looking sleepily around the room.

  “Mother, where are we?” he wondered. “Where did Father go?”

  The princess knelt down to him. “Abd Illah, your father has gone. We are going to stay here for a few days.”

  The prince looked around the bare room, then reached up for his mother, pulling into her arms again. “I want to go home,” he whispered. “Why are we staying? I want to go with Father. Why did he leave us here?”

  The young boy started to cry. The princess was not far from tears herself as she lifted him in her arms.

  Then the bedroom door opened, and Azadeh walked into the room. She shot a knowing look at her father, and he realized she had been listening. “Azadeh,” he asked her, “how long have you been awake?”

  She ignored the question as she walked to the princess and her son. “Princess Ash Salman,” she said as she bowed deeply with a graceful sweep of her arms. “My name is Azadeh Ishebel Pahlavi. I am Rassa’s daughter. Welcome to our home.”

  The princess stared at her, her eyes hopeful at seeing the girl. Azadeh took the young prince from her arms and said, “We don’t have a lot to offer, but anything we have is yours. It is an honor to have you with us, and we will do all we can to make your stay comfortable.”

  Rassa took a step toward Azadeh. “How much did you hear?” he whispered quickly.

  “Everything,” Azadeh answered. “I woke up when they first knocked at our door.”

  “Then you understand . . . ?”

  “I understand the princess has had a very long day. I understand the crown prince is in danger, and so is this child. Now we will make them safe and comfortable. We will treat them as our own.”

  Azadeh turned to the princess, who looked so young and vulnerable. An instant bond formed between them, and the princess smiled wearily. Azadeh held the young prince and moved toward her bedroom door. “You are tired,” she said, as she held him close. “Come. You two have my bed. I will sleep here by the fire. Come. You are tired. We will talk in the morning. It will seem brighter then.”

  Rassa watched in grateful amazement as Azadeh took care of their guests. She got clean sheets and clean towels and placed a bowl of warm water by their bed. She offered them tea and a biscuit, which both of them declined, then shut the door behind her, leaving them alone in her room.

  Rassa stared at her a long moment. “Thank you,” he said.

  * * *

  Rassa waited until the others were finally asleep and the house had grown quiet, then slipped out the door and through the backyard, heading toward the center of town.

  He found his friend Omar Pasni Zehedan in the back room of one of the dark warehouses he owned along the old docks on the river. Though it was after three in the morning, he knew Omar would be about his business. His friend often worked at night—some things were best done in the dark, and why should he sleep when there was cash to be made.

  Walking through a side entrance of the old wooden warehouse, Rassa paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the light and listened to Omar berate one of his lieutenants in the next room. Above him, in a hidden attic, behind a trap door, Rassa knew he would likely find a cache of hand-woven Persian carpets on their way to illegal transport to Europe and the United States. He also knew Omar made more money on one pirated shipment of rugs than Rassa could make in a year. But he didn’t envy Omar’s money. He would have died from the stress.

  Rassa listened to Omar go after his subordinate, took a deep breath, then gently knocked on the door. The voices on the other side of the door turned deadly silent, and he heard the shuffle of furniture and footsteps; then Omar slid the bolt back, his thick beard and huge frame filling the doorway. “Rassa!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk with you,” Rassa answered.

  Omar glanced over his shoulder. “Could it wait?” he said.

  “No, Omar, please.”

  * * *

  Omar stared at his friend, seeing the concern in his eyes, shot another look over his shoulder, then nodded his head. “All right,” he answered as he quickly pushed through the door frame. Pulling the steel door closed, he offered, “Let’s take a quick walk.”

  They walked along the river. The moon was just dropping behind the plains to the west, and the lamps along the docks cast a dull yellow glow. “What do I do?” Rassa questioned after he explained everything.

  Omar stared at Rassa, his face firm, his eyes narrow. He shook his head in disbelief. His young friend was in deep water, in way over his head. He was in the middle of the ocean.

  Did he know how to swim?

  Omar shook his head intently. “You’ve got a problem,” he said. “And the truth is, good friend, you are too naïve and too kind to realize how big it really is.”

  Rassa looked at him, his eyes wide. “Just tell me what to do,” he pleaded.

  “You have no choice,” Omar answered after some thought. “The crown prince of Arabia will not be trifled with. You must do as he asked you to do; you don’t have any choice anymore. You are already committed. But you are also in danger. Are you wise enough to see that? Prince Saud is so desperate, he has played his last option, and that option, unbelievably, has led him to you. But he has powerful enemies, Rassa; he lives in a hard, cruel world. It is harsh. It is mean. It is a dog-eat-dog world, even with family. A world that is difficult for you to understand. There is no good and no bad, only the weak and the strong. It is survival of the fittest, and not a thing else. Now is Prince Saud the strongest? We don’t know that yet. But those men who seek to destroy him will seek to destroy you as well. So if I have any advice for you, friend, it would be to stay out of sight. Keep your head on a swivel, and keep your eyes open wide. Don’t sleep too soundly, Rassa, not for a few days. The first forty-eight hours will be critical. If they are coming for you, I think they will be here by then.”

  Rassa looked confused. “But you don’t think they

  would . . .”

  “Absolutely they would. You are a friend of the crown prince; you are their enemy now. And if they are after the princess, then you stand in their way. The main question—really the only question—you need to consider is whether they will find her. How determined are they? How far will they go? Can Prince Saud protect her? Did they follow Prince Saud? Do they have spies around?”

  Rassa stopped and stared out on the river and slowly shook his head. “I would never do anything that would endanger Azadeh,” he said.

  “Everyone is in danger, Rassa. It is the times we live in.”

  Rassa didn’t answer, but started walking again.

  Omar watched him a moment, noting the slump of his shoulders and the drag of his feet. His friend was in trouble. Omar committed to help. He would keep his eyes out; he would keep his own men in the square; he would watch the roads and highways and see what popped up. And he would warn Rassa if the wrong men
came around.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Sikorski S-92 flew low and fast over the water as it crossed the Gulf on its way back to Saudi Arabia. The moon was setting in the western sky, and a band of thick sea fog was developing below it. The moonlight cast shadows across the top of the fog, creating an illusion of flying over a landscape from the moon, endless miles of smooth and barren nothingness that stretched into the darkness of space.

  Crown Prince Saud sat alone in the luxurious cabin. The lights were turned down, and though his eyes were closed, he was not asleep. His body was almost numb with heartbreak and fatigue, and sleep was far from him, for he was in too much pain. Over the past forty-eight hours he had lost everything he had ever loved: his wife and three children and his son yet unborn, his second wife and his last son, who were hiding now in Iran, his kingdom, his power, everything of any value to him—it was slipping away, a fistful of fine sand. He felt a blackness settle over him, a suffocating blanket of defeat, and he stared at the darkness and sucked in a sudden, deep breath.

  The helicopter vibrated around him, a smooth hum that developed from both the tail rotor and main mast spinning over his head, a comforting vibration that settled into his bones. At the front of the cabin, one of the flat screen TV monitors had been tuned to Arabic All News, but the sound was turned down and the prince paid no attention, though the television screen cast black and silver shadows through the cabin, causing his face to reflect in the oval window by his seat.

  As the helicopter flew toward Arabia, the crown prince plotted in silence, his mind determined, almost bent, the rage and grief mixing like a black storm inside. He wasn’t thinking clearly and he knew it, but he didn’t care anymore. Clarity was for cowards and fools. It was time that he act. Prince Abdullah had killed his family. He knew it was Abdullah; he had known all along. His private intelligence officers had warned him there was a growing danger. Now he had to move quickly to protect what little he had left. His father. The kingdom. It was all in danger. They were not finished with their killing. Abdullah would strike again.