The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  “You know him?” the Iranian general wondered in surprise.

  Another moment passed in silence, the phone humming softly between the two men.

  Abdullah was impressed. Of course! It was perfect. His brother was brilliant. He never would have found him. The young prince would have been safe. He never would have looked anywhere outside of Arabia. If his brother hadn’t made the mistake of making the desperate radio call . . . if his people hadn’t heard it . . . all might have been lost.

  The Iranian broke the silence. “You know him, Abdullah?” he repeated.

  “I know him,” Abdullah answered. “He is a distant cousin, if you traced our lines many years.”

  The general filled the phone with laughter. “I could kill him,” he offered. “I could send him to prison, or I could bring him to you. Tell me what you’re after, what you want me to do.”

  Abdullah answered quickly. “There is a boy. A young lad. He is a . . . problem for me. I want you to eliminate the problem. Can you take care of that?”

  The general snickered foolishly, drawing conclusions in his mind. A young lad? Sent away? One of the prince’s wild oats. And now the princess didn’t want the competition around her legitimate sons. How many times had he seen this? It was the same everywhere. “This will be easy!” he chuckled. “I will see it is done.”

  “Yes, you will,” Abdullah answered. “And you will do it today.”

  “I’ll have one of my personal units up there within a few hours.”

  “Yes, that is good. Before the sun goes down.”

  “Sayid,” the general snapped, “I will report back to you. But you realize, of course,” his voice softened now. “This . . . task you have asked, it is outside the official responsibilities of my office. I do this as a favor, a personal favor to you.”

  “I understand, Sattam bin Mamdayh.” Abdullah knew how the game was played.

  “Then perhaps we could talk when I have completed this task.”

  “Yes, we will talk.”

  “I will report my success.”

  “And, General,” Abdullah added before he hung up the phone, “I don’t need to state the obvious, but we don’t want to leave any leftovers behind. We don’t want any talkers; we don’t want any eyes. We don’t want any children spouting wild stories to their friends. It would be better if there were no witnesses to tell of this tale—my cousin, this Pahlavi, his wife, or his kin. If we take care of the child, then you’d better take care of them. Otherwise we will have residual problems, if you know what I mean.”

  The general only snorted. “I know, Prince Abdullah, how to do my job. You let me take care of your problem; then we’ll talk again.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Distant thunder rumbled down from the mountain, and the air was heavy with the fresh smell of

  rain. Azadeh and her father were working in the kitchen, preparing their evening meal. The young prince was asleep, nestled under the covers in Azadeh’s bedroom, and the princess worked beside Azadeh, helping her peel potatoes and drop them into a boiling pot of salt and pork rinds.

  Rassa heard his name from the backyard and he stopped, then grabbed Azadeh’s hand. Azadeh held still, and the princess watched them, her eyes growing wide. She had been in their home for less than twenty-four hours, and she and Rassa had hardly spoken, but she didn’t have to speak to see the fear in his eyes.

  Rassa moved to the back window. The sky was dark with heavy clouds. The back courtyard was slippery with mud, and the animals were hunkered down under the small olive trees that lined the back wall. Rassa saw a flash of movement as Omar Pasni Zehedan pushed his enormous frame over the mud fence. He stopped and looked around, then ran toward the door.

  Rassa moved to meet him. Azadeh followed her father, but the princess stayed back. Omar, soaked and out of breath, stood at the foot of the stairs, his curly hair wet and hanging in front of his eyes. He was puffing and sweating despite the cold air.

  “Rassa,” Omar said, his eyes darting around. “There are soldiers in the village. They are looking for you.”

  Azadeh felt her heart crush as she gasped for breath. She reached for her father, but he pushed her aside. Moving through the doorway, he drew it half closed, but Azadeh stayed close so she could hear what he said. “What soldiers?” Rassa demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Omar shrugged. “I don’t recognize the uniforms. Special security forces, I think, but I didn’t recognize the unit and I don’t know where they’re from. But they are asking for you, Rassa, and they are only minutes away.”

  Azadeh moved to Rassa’s side and grasped his hand. The princess had heard, and she backed against the far wall, then turned and ran to the bedroom where her son was asleep.

  Rassa pushed the door back, then knelt and faced Azadeh. “Listen to me,” he demanded. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He fell suddenly silent. The crunch of heavy truck tires on wet gravel could be heard from the front of their house.

  Rassa turned to Omar. “Thank you for the warning,” he cried, “but you can’t help us now. Go. Get away. Get away while you can!” Without waiting for an answer, Rassa slammed the door in Omar’s face.

  Azadeh looked up at her father, her eyes wide with fear. Her father pulled her close, and she felt him shudder inside. He took a deep breath. “Stay here,” he whispered. Azadeh pulled on his fingers, not letting them go. “Don’t leave me,” she begged him. Rassa knelt beside her and held her in his arms. “Stay with the princess,” he told her. “Get into the back room!”

  * * *

  The rains had quit just twenty minutes before, and a heavy mist hung from the orchard, dripping and wet, moist fingers that sifted through the trees but never quite reached the ground. The fog moved silently, almost as if it were alive, searching for something among the tall leaves. The surrounding mountains cast shadows through the thick underbrush, bringing on darkness before the sun had fully set. Far in the distance, somewhere east of the river, the roll of thunder echoed back through the trees as the rain squall moved away, pushing up the mountains to the east.

  The army trucks sloshed to the center of the road and stopped. After years of oppression, Rassa recognized the sound of the trucks. Soviet-made APC-30s. Heavy. Armor-plated. Twelve troops apiece. He listened and counted. At least three, maybe four trucks came to a stop outside his house. Two full squads. Fifty troops. He sucked a quick breath.

  Azadeh moved to the back bedroom and huddled with the princess below the window. The young boy remained sleeping in his mother’s arms.

  Rassa moved to the front door and glanced through the lace curtains. He saw two trucks come to a stop in front of his house, one farther up the road and one at the base of the hill. The road was deserted, all of his neighbors having rushed into their houses, though he knew they would be watching from behind their curtains too. The soldiers spilled from the trucks, and Rassa studied their uniforms: black combat fatigues, dark berets, flak vests, and high leather boots. He pulled away from the window as the soldiers approached, then shot a terrified look at Azadeh’s bedroom, his mind reeling in fear.

  * * *

  The soldiers weren’t truly soldiers, at least most of them weren’t, but wild-eyed mercenaries who worked for their commander as his personal army of secret police, an off-the-books unit that reported to the general and nobody else. The conscripts were commanded by brutal officers, glaring and arrogant men.

  The senior officer, a young captain, emerged from the second truck, swatting the flies and smoking a thin cigarette. He was a squat man, with a thick neck and well-muscled thighs. His nostrils flared as he breathed, and his glare was intense. His job was simple. Do what the general told him—nothing less, nothing more. And never ask questions. Just do what he was told.

  The captain stuffed his hands into his front pockets, then took a deep breath. He barked out an order, pointing to Rassa’s home. “Empty the house. Bring them all out here!”

  His soldiers jumped at his voice. They moved to
the door and blew it off its hinges with a burst of machine-gun fire. Moving quickly in teams, they rushed inside. The kitchen was empty. They moved like mad men through the room, opening the small armoire, spilling the dishes from the counter, and knocking the chairs to the floor. Moving to the first bedroom, they kicked in the door. It too was empty. Four men gathered around the last bedroom, their guns at their chest. Their leader gave a quick signal, and one of the soldiers kicked in the door.

  They burst though the doorway and looked quickly around the dim room. The bedroom was empty except for a small bed, with some covers that had been thrown on the floor, and a small bureau with some dresses that hung from a rope in the corner. The window was open, and a cool breeze blew the curtains back.

  * * *

  Omar grabbed the princess and pulled her over the mud and brick wall. She held to her son, grasping him in her arms. The boy cried, and the princess pressed her mouth to his ears, whispering to him silently, “Don’t be afraid. Go to sleep!” Rassa followed, then Azadeh, and the five of them were over the wall.

  Omar glanced at the stranger and the young child in her arms. “The princess, I presume?”

  Rassa nodded quickly, pressing against the back of the wall. Looking around desperately, he began to crouch toward the small barn.

  “Come,” Omar whispered, nodding toward the trail that led up to the mountains.

  Rassa stopped and looked up at the rain-shrouded peaks that rose over the village, studying the rocky trail that disappeared in the cold mist. He heard the shots of gunfire, then a crash as the soldiers shot in the front door to his home. He shot a desperate look toward Omar, nodding to the princess and the son in her arms. “Take them,” he whispered. “Go. To the mountains, you know that trail as well as anyone. The mist is heavy; it will hide you. Now go! Get away!”

  Omar didn’t hesitate. He motioned toward the young stranger. “Come,” he hissed, and she moved to his side. Omar reached for her young child and took him in his arms. Crouching, he ran through the small orchard and slipped behind the barn. Rassa listened for a moment, hearing their footsteps fading away as they moved up the rocky trail. Then he turned to Azadeh. “Stay here!” he said.

  “Please don’t leave me, Father.”

  “Do as I tell you. Stay here. Out of sight.”

  Azadeh reached out to touch him, and he held her hand tight. “Father, you can’t leave me!”

  “It is the princess they are after, the princess and her son. They don’t want you or me. I think we will be safe.”

  “But, Father . . . what are you going to do, if you go back to them?”

  There came a loud crash from the house as one of the bedroom doors was kicked open. They heard the banging of footsteps and the soldiers’ curses.

  Rassa turned back to Azadeh. “I have to do something. I have to give them time to escape.”

  “But, Father, what about me? What am I to do?”

  “Stay here, like I told you. Everything will be okay. They aren’t going to hurt me; it is the royal family they want.”

  Rassa glanced toward the mountains. Omar and the princess had disappeared in the mist. Another crash sounded from their house, this time from Azadeh’s bedroom. More cursing, more yelling, and Rassa stood up. He glanced quickly to Azadeh. “I love you,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll be fine. But stay out of sight.”

  Rassa jumped the fence to his courtyard, then ran toward the house. Azadeh peeked over the fence, then started to cry. She reached out toward him but didn’t call his name.

  * * *

  One of the guards moved to the window in time to see Rassa running past. “Go!” the soldier screamed. “He’s running to the road!”

  * * *

  Azadeh crouched against the wall, then pushed herself back. She moved to the orchard and hid in the mist. She heard her father’s footsteps and the guards calling out, then a warning shot being fired as the guards dragged him down.

  * * *

  The guards worked quickly. They were brutal but well trained, and they knew what to do. First, they searched Rassa’s house, tearing it almost to pieces, knocking holes in the walls and tearing up the floors, looking for a hiding place or a secret trap door. Then they gathered Rassa’s neighbors, everyone who lived on the hill, and collected them together, herding them like sheep into a tight circle. The guards stood over them, sneering at their countrymen, ready to shoot the first one who moved. Other guards spread out. It only took minutes to tear up every house on the hill. They found Azadeh hiding in a small shed in the orchard, and they dragged her to the circle of cowering friends.

  Azadeh looked down on the village. The streets were deserted. The market was empty, and every shade had been pulled. “Soldiers in the village!” The call had gone out. The village looked like a ghost town. Everyone knew what to do when the soldiers showed up.

  Azadeh cried in her heart to her neighbors. “Please, help us!” she said. But she had lived long enough in Iran to know that help was not on the way.

  The captain of the guard approached Rassa. “Name?” he demanded.

  Rassa swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Rasa Ali Pahlavi,” he said.

  The captain nodded, his brown teeth protruding from receding gums. “The woman!” he demanded. “We want to know where she is!”

  Rassa stared at him blankly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The captain smiled a sick grin. “Someone came here last night,” he demanded in a raging tone. “They brought a young woman and a child, that much we know. Now tell us where they are, if you have any hopes to live.”

  Rassa shook his head weakly. “I don’t know, my Sayid.”

  The officer turned to the group of women and children that had been herded into the circle. He studied them carefully. All the women were old, the young and healthy ones having left the village for a better life somewhere else. A few children cowered at the back of the crowd, the older women gathering around them like old mother hens. The princess was not among them. And the child wasn’t there.

  He walked toward the captives. “All right,” he said. “We are looking for a young woman and a boy. It is very important we find them. Do any of you know where they are?”

  The villagers were silent. The hush was heavy and long.

  “If you do not help us find them, we will have no alternative.”

  Again, only silence. The villagers kept their heads low.

  He turned back to Rassa as he considered what to do.

  His instructions from the general were simple. Find the woman and child. Make sure they were dead. Not a difficult job.

  Who they were, why they had to die—he was not even curious. Following orders was all he had been trained to do. And he had seen what had happened to other officers who had dared question the general’s commands. Ugly and painful. They had lived far too long as they bore the consequences of their choices.

  So he would not make the mistake of thinking too much.

  Find the targets and kill them. A simple job. But there were a couple of ways he could accomplish his task.

  He thought awhile, then turned back to Rassa. Though he kept his head low, Rassa stuck out his chest. “Rassa Ali Pahlavi,” he said, “you know why we are here?”

  Rassa shook his head in terror. “No, sir,” he lied.

  “We will find them, Rassa. They have to be here somewhere. We will tear down your whole village if you don’t tell us what we need to know.”

  Rassa lifted his eyes. “Sir, I swear . . .”

  The captain swung violently, striking him on the side of the head. “Don’t lift your eyes to me, pig!” he screamed in a rage.

  Rassa forced his head to his chest, the skin on his neck folding into tight rings under his chin. The officer stepped to the side, clearing a visual path between the terrified man and the group of huddled women and children. “Rassa,” he asked, “do you have family in this crowd?”

  Rassa shuddered visibly, his shoulders slumping now. He looked across
the clearing toward the huddled group from his village. Azadeh cowered, seeking refuge behind the wall of human flesh, but she still caught his eye, and Rassa turned away. “I have no family, Captain,” he lied.

  The captain snorted. “We know you do, Rassa Ali Pahlavi. We just don’t know who it is. But it doesn’t matter. We don’t really care. You see, Rassa, there are other ways, other things we could do. Now this is your last chance. Where is the child?”

  Rassa lifted his eyes, knowing it hardly mattered what he said. The officer had made his decision, and his fate was now sealed. He knew from experience, from watching others die, that there was nothing he could say now that would change the outcome. Yet he felt almost calm, like a blanket of peace had settled over him. He looked at the captain, staring him in the eyes. “Look around you,” Rassa answered. “You can see he’s not here. And I doubt you will find him. He is gone. You have failed.”

  The captain snorted in rage, then turned abruptly and screamed to his sergeants, “Tie this man to the tree!”

  Four of the conscripts came forward and pulled the man by his arms, dragging him through the wet mud as he struggled to stand. Lifting him by the neck, they threw him against the nearest tree. The villagers were quiet as Rassa was tied and bound.

  There was no trial, no words, not even a condemnation of death, nothing to mark the decision that had already been made. The captain walked to the army truck that had carried him to the village. Reaching behind the front seat, he pulled out a large leather flask. He had come prepared for something new, something different today. The liquid sloshed in the flask as he approached the condemned man. Pulling the soft cork, he doused Rassa with diesel fuel. After soaking his hair, head, shirt, and trousers, he poured the last cup of fuel around on Rassa’s bare feet.

  A young lieutenant moved forward, his rifle in hand. “What are you going to do, Captain?” he hissed under his breath.

  The officer didn’t answer. Wasn’t it obvious?

  The lieutenant lifted his hand. “This was not our instruction,” he said.