The sun finally peeked over the horizon, sending a great shaft of light across the gray sand. He stood and watched the day break, then took a long, angry breath.
Yes, he was the Son of the Morning. He was so powerful. There was much to fear from him as his majesty grew.
He smirked and turned away, turning his back on the sun.
If his enemy was shortening time, then he could work harder too. He would accelerate the battle. He would drive his angels in a fury of heat, sweat, and fear. His heart slammed like a hammer. “Go!” he hissed to his angels. “They are waking now in this part of the world. I want you waiting for them
the moment they open their eyes. Do your work. Say your whispers. You all know what to do!”
Washington, D.C.
It was late in the evening when General Neil Brighton was driven home from the White House. He sat in the backseat, reading and tapping at his Blackberry, trying to respond to the insufferable amount of email he had received that day while his driver maneuvered expertly, using the HOV lane although the traffic wasn’t so heavy as to slow them down anyway, it being almost midnight on the east coast. Brighton looked up occasionally to watch the passing cars as he thought, then returned to his work, thankful for a few minutes of quiet time. After receiving the third death threat in a month, he had recently been assigned a security detail, a decision that he had originally objected to but now was grateful for. It gave him time to work as he traveled to and from his office at the White House, and he had grown to be amazed at how much he could get done.
The driver pulled off 495 and turned inside the Beltway, varying his route through the side streets but generally heading south. He doubled back once, then made his way through a quiet neighborhood before coming to a stop in front of Brighton’s house.
“Sir,” he announced their arrival, and General Brighton looked up.
The general tapped at his PDA device, then slipped it inside his blue Air Force jacket.
“What time in the morning, sir?” the driver asked as Brighton pushed open his door.
“Plan on five,” Brighton answered wearily.
“Going to sleep in, are we, sir?”
Brighton smiled. “You know, every once in a while.”
The sergeant turned and rested his massive arm on the back of the passenger seat. He wasn’t merely a driver, he was a security specialist, and Brighton figured the sergeant could have lifted the car and thrown it across the street, judging from the size of his arms. But he also understood that wasn’t why he had been selected to the Pentagon’s Special Security Detail. The sergeant had been picked for his brains, not for his muscles. It was his responsibility not just to fight his way out of trouble but to avoid getting into it, a task that demanded far more than a six-pack chest and thick arms.
Still, Brighton couldn’t help but be impressed. He thought back on his and Sam’s recent fight in the German bar. There wouldn’t have been any trouble if this guy had been there.
His thoughts raced again, lighting on Sam, wondering where he was tonight. Then he patted the driver on the shoulder. “Thank you for the ride, Sergeant Hamilton,” he said. “Sorry to keep you up so late again.”
“Happy to help out, sir. But I won’t be here in the morning; I’ve got small-arms training at the range. It will be Master Sergeant Dawson if that’s okay with you, sir.”
“That’s fine,” Brighton nodded, then stepped out of the car and made his way across the lawn. Hamilton started the engine, but the car didn’t move.
The lamp on the street corner cast a weak, yellow light, and as he approached his front door, Brighton realized that he hadn’t seen his house or his yard in the daylight for several weeks now. It had been going on—what?—seventeen days since he had had a day off, and his schedule was always the same: up before the day broke and home after dark.
Stepping onto the porch, he turned and nodded to Hamilton, who waved back before slowly pulling away from the curb.
Neil Brighton stood a moment, watching the car drive away. It was cool, fall was coming on, and the evening air was not as heavy and humid as it had been just a week before. A dozen tiny moths flirted with the porch light that Sara had left on for him, but the front door was locked and he reached into his pocket to pull out his keys. Unlocking the deadbolt, he slipped inside the house.
A single, small bulb burned over the range in the kitchen, casting a dim light down the hall and into the enormous living room, but the house was otherwise dark and quiet. He knew Sara would be reading upstairs on their bed. She generally waited up for him, no matter how late he got home—said she couldn’t sleep without him anyway, so she no longer tried.
Standing in the hallway, Brighton realized that he wasn’t alone.
He didn’t move for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Then he heard the breathing and saw a slow movement and he stepped toward the figure sitting in the wooden rocking chair.
“Luke, what’s up?” he asked.
His son sat in the dim light with his eyes closed, his arms folded on his lap, his feet square on the floor. “Hey, Dad,” he responded simply, but didn’t say any more.
Brighton placed his briefcase on the steps (he would have to lock it in his security safe before he went to bed), pulled off his jacket with his medals, and dropped his flight cap on the steps next to the briefcase and coat. Loosening his tie, he walked into the warm living room. The house was peaceful and smelled of cinnamon and apples from the candle that Sara frequently kept burning near the kitchen sink.
Brighton didn’t turn on the lights. He sat down on the couch and leaned back wearily.
“Long day, Dad?” Luke asked.
Brighton took a deep breath and considered the things he had been dealing with for the last couple of days: the assassination of the Saudi Royal Family, the assault in Iran, all the children who had been killed. And that was just the beginning. It got much worse than that. Prince Abdullah, the Crown Prince and heir apparent to the throne of Saudi Arabia, had become unpredictable. And now there were reports, very troubling, coming out of Pakistan. Too many meetings among the wrong men. Movements of al Qaeda soldiers. Rumors of something happening—something deadly, something big. It all had to fit together, but Brighton had no idea how. All he knew was that for the last week the hairs on his arms had seemed to stand constantly on end.
It was coming. And he knew it. He just didn’t know when—
“Long day, Dad?” Luke repeated, his voice penetrating the dark.
Brighton realized that several minutes had passed and he hadn’t answered. “Yeah. Kind of long. You know how it is.”
Luke nodded slowly. He knew this job was killing his dad, sucking the life from him like the air from a balloon. But he knew he couldn’t change that. It was just the way it was. His father would never even think about asking for another assignment. That would have been cowardly, weak. His father would die from exhaustion at this post if that was what he had to do. U.S. soldiers died every day, that was nothing new, and there was no way he would quit just because it was hard.
But Luke couldn’t help worrying. He had seen a real change in his dad.
The two sat in silence for a long time, neither of them feeling much of a need to talk. It was enough just to share a moment together in the dark. It seemed the silence said more than words could express anyway. So they listened to the clock on the mantel as it ticked time away. A few cars passed outside, and the old house creaked as the wood cooled from the heat of the day.
Luke rocked, his eyes closed, a peaceful look on his face. “Hey, Dad?” he finally said as he rocked back and forth.
Brighton lifted his head. “Yes, son?”
“It’s true, isn’t it, Dad.”
Brighton was silent a long moment before he finally said, “Yes, Luke. It’s true.”
“I know that now, Dad. I think I really know.”
“I’m glad, Luke,” Brighton said.
Luke let the rocking chair come slowly to a stop. �
��Thanks for teaching me, Dad. And thanks for knowing yourself.”
“I love you, Luke,” Brighton answered.
“I know you do, Dad.”
“For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers,
against the rulers of the darkness of this world . . . ”
—Ephesians 6:12
Chapter Two
Agha Jari Deh Valley
Eastern Iran
Azadeh sat alone on her porch.
The afternoon had grown late, and though the sun was low it was still bright and yellow in the mountain air. Lifting her hand, she pulled her light chador around her neck and thin shoulders. The long cloak covered her head but not her face, and she pushed the light silk back, tucking it behind her ears, exposing her eyes to the afternoon sun.
The villagers worked quickly around her, solemn, quiet, a great depression hanging like a black mist in the air. The men and women kept their voices low and their backs bent as they concentrated on the cleanup and rebuilding. There was so much to do, such a mess to take care of, and that evening, before the sun would set, there would be a community funeral for all those who had been killed.
Azadeh shuddered suddenly as she looked at the devastated village around her.
So many dead children. So many shattered homes.
But the villagers had grown used to living with death, and the passing of their children was not the only thing they feared. It could get worse. It would get worse. There was a dark brooding in the air.
Azadeh sat in a stupor. She didn’t think, she didn’t feel, she hardly even breathed. She occasionally sighed, her shoulders shuddering from a long night of tears, but otherwise she didn’t react to the commotion around her. And no one stopped to talk or give her comfort; indeed, no one paid her any attention at all. The villagers, her neighbors, those who had previously been their friends, those who had known her father and her mother since before she was born, those men and women and their families who had shared the same food, the same holidays, the same mosque and prayers, acted as if they were blind to the young girl. They all looked by her or through her, around her or past her, but no one looked at her, for she was poison to them now.
The villagers had known it would happen. Some of the older ones had been saying it for years, especially those who had lived through the revolution that had thrown out the Shah. No good could come from having a grandson of Shah Pahlavi living here. How many times had they said that? Now they had been proven right. The army had returned to the village.
The Iranian Special Forces had come back. Black uniforms. Darkened faces. No mercy. Only fear. They had accomplished their tasks, always deadly and thorough. Then came the American choppers, terrifying as well, coming on the wings of black beasts with long stingers protruding from their noses and black guns spouting fire from their open chopper doors.
The armies had come, just as the old men had said that they would. Though they had come looking for Pahlavi, it was the village children who had been killed.
Oh, the children! Why the children? And why only sons? It was madness! It was evil. But the villagers had seen evil before.
In the end it all came down to Insha’allah. It had to be Allah’s will. Who were the villagers to presume they could understand his ways?
So the old men had been right. The name of Pahlavi was cursed. And now Azadeh was the last Pahlavi, which meant that she was cursed too.
She knew that she couldn’t stay here. The soldiers would return. They would come looking for the young boy. They would come looking for her.
Two village men walked by her on their way up the road. Azadeh watched them hopefully as one of them caught her eye. The bearded man stared, then pointed at her, and the other man sneered. Making a slicing motion, he moved his hand across his face, drawing a line with his finger from his eye to his throat, indicating the scar of an outcast who had been banished from home. Then he pointed at her, making his message clear.
Azadeh glanced painfully toward the scorched tree that stood against the afternoon sun, its black limbs reaching upward like bony fingers for the sky. Someone she didn’t know, an old man from the village council, had come and wrapped her father’s body in a blanket and dragged it away. Had she had the courage to watch, she would have seen the shallow trenches in the soft dirt form under her father’s burned and brittle legs, but instead she had kept her eyes on the black marks that had scorched the old tree, blankly staring at the singed leaves and blackened soil where fuel had been spilled.
Azadeh glanced again at the tree, then dropped her eyes to her lap.
No! This wasn’t Insha’allah! This could not be Allah’s will! No god could have wanted all this misery, death, and fear.
And if he did, she didn’t love him. Not if this was his will.
The image of her father’s murder flashed again in her mind and she passed a trembling hand in front of her eyes, trying to push the memory away. But the memory was so vivid it was all she saw now: the expression on his face as the flames grew around the base of the tree, his clothes growing dark and then bursting into flames, his hair curling back, and the final sound of his cries.
She shook her head and focused, trying to think of something else, some kind of happy thought, a pleasant memory. She tried to think of his face in a peaceful context: cooking breakfast in the morning, fishing in the small stream on the south side of the village, working in his fields. She tried to think of him shearing their lambs, one of his favorite things to do. She tried to think of his strong hands, his shy smile, his deep eyes. She tried to think of his rough cheeks, always stubbled, or the warmth of his arms as they wrapped around her shoulder when he kissed her good night. But she couldn’t picture any of it. All of the details were gone. It was as if he had vanished—as if he had never been. All she could picture was his suffering, the pain in his eyes. All she could hear was the whoosh of fire and the sound of his cries.
She sighed in sadness, thinking of her father’s words. Zaman öekast dâdan hame delöekastegi. Time defeats all heartbreaks. He had tried to believe it. She had tried to believe it too. But she knew it was a lie, for this was a heartbreak that would never heal. Not completely. Not in this lifetime. It was a part of her now.
She lifted her eyes and gazed again to the sea. Behind her, the mountains rose up to meet the blue sky, which was growing cloudy as the wind picked up. A storm was brooding in the mountains up north, along the border, and it was headed her way.
Azadeh took a last look around her, then pulled a deep breath.
No. This wasn’t right. This could not be Allah’s will.
So she sat, rebelling a moment, refusing to move. She knew what she had to do; she had known it all along. It wasn’t as if she had to make a decision. The decision was made. There was nothing to think about, nothing to plan, no options to weigh. There was nothing left for her. She had no choice now.
The soldiers would return. She was an outcast. She had to leave.
Standing, she turned for the ramshackle house and made her way through the debris the soldiers and scavengers had left behind. Moving into the kitchen, she found a stranger still there, a few pieces of silverware protruding from the old woman’s clenched fist. Azadeh stared at her defiantly and the old woman stepped back, then suddenly turned away. Azadeh watched in silence as she left the house.
Moving down the narrow hallway, Azadeh stepped over pieces of broken furniture and spent rifle shells, making her way into the back bedroom, where she quickly looked around. The floor was covered with the tattered remains of her mattress, broken pieces of plaster, torn curtains, and pieces of older clothes. She moved to the center of the room and fell to her knees, throwing aside the clutter, searching desperately through the rubble.
But she knew she wouldn’t find them. Her only treasures, the brush and hand mirror, were gone.
She sat down near the window. Then she saw the old burlap sack where she had hidden the clothes. Crawling toward it, she pic
ked it up and held it in her lap. The string around the opening of the sack had been pulled open, and it appeared to be stuffed with nothing but old, tattered rags. Pulling on the pieces of cloth, Azadeh emptied the contents onto the floor. Underneath the rags she had hidden her father’s leather jacket and a pair of thick boots.
She pulled on the boots, then stuffed the coat back inside the burlap sack and tucked it under her arm. The rough burlap scratched her skin, but she hardly noticed as she stepped cautiously back down the hall.
Reaching the kitchen she paused a moment, then passed through the archway and onto the porch.
Azadeh walked away from her home, keeping her head low. Her neighbors ignored her as she made her way to the narrow road that dropped over the hill to the village below. At the base of the hill, the suq was completely deserted. All the stalls were empty, the movable kiosks out of sight. There would be no open market today. Azadeh walked around the three-foot-high brick wall that identified the market. For some reason she couldn’t identify, she did not want to go in. Before her, to the west, she could see the rolling hills descending toward the waters that the Saudis had recently started calling the Arabian Gulf, but that everyone else still called Persian. Behind her, the el Umma rose in the afternoon sun, and Azadeh stopped and turned to look on it a moment, the old guard tower jutted out of the rich valley soil, the granite walls the same color as the mountains behind, the bulwark deep gray though spotted in places with black moss. Azadeh knew that it had been one of her father’s favorite places to be. She squinted at the tower. “You did not warn him,” she whispered, as if it could understand. “He was your friend. You didn’t warn him. You failed in your task.”
She stared at the tower as if expecting a reply. “It’s okay,” she then whispered. “I forgive you anyway.”
Turning her back on the tower, Azadeh started walking, leaving the village behind. The terrain sloped gradually toward the sea, and she picked up the winding road leading to the main highway that ran north and south along the foothills of the great Zagros Mountains. As she walked, she kept on the left side of the road, using the well-worn pathway, though she tended to stay closer to the protection of the tree line and bushes than the path sometimes ran.
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