Balaam stood beside the Dark One and listened, a cold chill on his spine. The master was so convincing, even at these most vile lies. He almost laughed in delight.
Then he heard a voice from behind him and felt a hot stab of fear. He saw the light, he felt the power, and he almost fell to his knees. Then his master felt it too, and he turned around and screamed.
* * *
Azadeh woke suddenly and looked quickly around. There was a fire . . . no, a light. And she felt peaceful and calm.
A lone figure stood over her, causing her to squint in the dark. Then he reached down and touched her, wiping the frozen tear from her eye. She felt his bare finger and shuddered, feeling instantly warm. “Azadeh,” he said to her, and she pulled a deep breath.
“Father!” she whispered, excitement and relief in her voice. “Father, is that you?” She struggled to stand.
Rassa Ali Pahlavi stood over her, an expression of worry and deep concern on his face. But though he looked like any father would look staring down at his freezing child—his eyes were drawn with sick worry, compassion, and alarm—he appeared much younger and lighter, much happier and more pure, as if the cares of this world could not affect him so deeply now. It was as if, though he watched her, he knew there was something more. He was assured of the outcome, and the moment didn’t seem to trouble him so.
He bent down and touched Azadeh’s shoulders, helping her stand, then put his arms around her and held her close to his chest.
“Azadeh,” he said simply, “you’re going the wrong way.”
He held her more tightly, and she sensed his deep warmth again.
“Father,” she said, “I don’t understand.”
“You’re going the wrong way, Azadeh. Omar isn’t at his home tonight. Remember, he had to flee from the army. He left with the young princess and her child. And even if he was at his house, Azadeh, the soldiers are waiting. You would be in great danger if you were to go anywhere near.”
“But Father, what do I do, then? Where am I to go?”
Rassa pulled away but kept his hands on her shoulders. “What did the American tell you?” he asked patiently.
Azadeh thought, her mind clearing. “Khorramshahr,” she whispered.
“Yes, Azadeh, Khorramshahr. Do you know where that is?”
Azadeh pondered this. “West of the border, along the Persian coast,” she finally said.
“Yes, that’s right. You must turn around. You are in danger. Stay away from the village. Do not try to find Omar. Do you understand, Azadeh? Will you do as I say?”
Azadeh didn’t hesitate. “Of course I will, Father.”
Rassa stepped back. “Azadeh, I can’t stay here long.”
She almost wept with disappointment. “Please, Father, you cannot leave me now!”
Rassa stepped back, and Azadeh saw another man standing there. Beside him, nestled between two huge juniper trees, a beautiful fire roared. Near the fire, dozens of soft pine tree boughs had been cut and piled to form a thick blanket on the ground, and the boughs from the lower branches had been pulled down and tied to form a roof overhead. A steaming cup of stew was being kept warm by the fire.
Rassa took her hand and led her forward. “This is John,” he said.
The other man smiled at Azadeh. He was so beautiful, young and strong, with brown eyes and long hair. There was something about him that drew her to him. He bowed humbly in her direction, but he moved with such confidence that she felt instantly safe and secure. He smiled at her quickly, and she felt her knees quake.
Rassa helped her sit down, and she huddled up to the fire as John handed her the warm stew. She ate hungrily, growing instantly warm. Rassa moved away, near the outer ring of the fire, all the time looking out, as if he were on guard. When she finished eating, he moved quickly back to her side.
“Sleep now,” he told her.
“But Father . . . ”
“No, Azadeh, it is time that you rest.”
She stared at him, exhausted, then started to plead.
He reached out and touched her lips, and she fell silent again. “I need you to remember something for me, Azadeh.”
She nodded wearily.
“Remember my final words, for they may be the most important thing I can say. There are times in your life when you feel completely alone, times you feel abandoned, as if there is not a soul in this world who cares about you. But when you feel that way, Azadeh, remember there is another world. There are others watching over you from the other side of the veil. We watch. We listen. And we understand. We never leave your side, Azadeh. Someone is always near, someone who knows you and loves you and wants you to succeed. You are never alone. There is always someone there. Think of that, remember, and it will give you the strength that you need.
“Now there is nothing more I can tell you, nothing more I can do. It’s time that you sleep now. Lie down. Close your eyes.”
Azadeh wanted to answer, but she was so exhausted, her body so heavy, her eyelids great weights. Even staring at her father, she felt her mind drift away. Sleep. Yes, she would sleep. She felt peaceful and warm.
She lay on the soft pine boughs and curled into a tight ball. Rassa moved toward her and tucked his leather coat around her neck. Then John came forward and laid a thick blanket on her too. The boughs overhead kept the rain back, and the heat from the fire warmed the side of her face.
“Sleep now, my daughter,” Rassa whispered in her ear. “Then rise in the morning and turn your feet west. Go down to the coastline; it will be warmer and safer there. There will be early vineyards and berries. Keep the sea on your left and stay away from the road.” Rassa touched her eyes. “Sleep now,” he whispered. “John will keep the fire going, and I will watch over you.”
In seconds she was breathing very deeply and slowly.
Then the rain stopped falling and a warm south wind blew, coming up from the waters of the Gulf, sweet with the smell of grass and honeysuckle from the valleys below.
John looked over and smiled, and Rassa nodded in gratitude.
* * *
Azadeh slept peacefully until midmorning. By then the sun was shining brightly and it was growing warm.
Waking, she looked around her and rubbed her eyes, completely confused. Where was she? What time was it? Why was she alone? Then the memory came crashing back and she drew a quick breath. Jumping to her feet, she looked around desperately.
“Father!” she cried. But there was no one there. “Father,” she called again. But she knew that she was alone.
She looked at her bed. She had slept with her father’s coat on top of a few broken pine boughs, but it was not as she had remembered from the night before; there was no thick bed of cut pine boughs. She turned and looked behind her, searching for evidence of a fire. The earth was clean and smooth. There had been no fire there. She rubbed her eyes, disbelieving, half in awe, half in dread.
Had she become delirious? Had she lost her mind?
She turned in a circle, holding her hands at her head. Had it all been a dream? Wasn’t any of it real?
Then she saw something shining and looked down at her feet. Her silver brush and mirror had been carefully arranged on a large maple leaf, the bright silver handles catching the light of the sun.
She cried out, moving her hand to her mouth, then swallowed painfully, catching the lump in her throat. Her eyes welled with tears and her heart burst in her chest. Lifting her head, she looked up at the sky.
“Thank you,” she whispered, though she didn’t know to whom she spoke. But she couldn’t help smile as she lifted her head.
Now this was Insha’allah.
This was God’s will.
* * *
Azadeh followed her father’s words, doing exactly as he said.
She turned west and started walking toward the lowlands that defined the coastline on the east side of the Persian Gulf. The going was much easier, for she was walking downhill, and the air had turned dry and warm. Making her wa
y through the forest, she quickly realized that she had been walking in circles most of the night before, disoriented and lost in the dark. Breaking from the forest, she saw the green valley that spread down to her right, the green slopes gently bending toward her village, which was just a little more than five kilometers away. On the edge of the forest, she found a wild patch of berries and ate until she was full, drank from a small stream, then lay in the sun to feel its warmth. Moving quickly then, her heart feeling inexplicably bright, she turned for the main road that led from the Agha Jari Deh Valley to the lowlands along the Persian Gulf. Agha Jari Deh was tucked against the mountains at almost seven thousand feet, but the terrain to the west dropped evenly toward the sea, the landscape shifting from steep slopes and rocks to gentle hills covered in orchards and finally ending in the sandy bluffs that extended to the shore.
It would take her three days, maybe four, to make her way to the U.N. refugee camp on the southwest border of Iraq. Thinking of it, she felt peaceful inside. Before, she had heard stories of the camp, stories that had filled her with fear. And it was illegal for an Iranian to enter the camp, but she didn’t care. She didn’t fear Khorramshahr. Her father had told her to go.
Putting the mountain range behind her, she walked toward the shimmering waters .
* * *
By late afternoon, Azadeh had reached the descending terrain on the west side of the mountains. Though she stayed away from the road, afraid of being picked up by one of the many military convoys that patrolled the roads every day—or worse, by one of the Mutawwa, the religious police—she still made good time making her way down the trail.
Just as evening was coming on, a rickety bus loaded with migrant farm workers pulled up beside her. The bus—faded blue paint and rust from the front tires to the rear exit door—creaked and belched smoke as it slowly rolled to a stop. The front door swung open, and Azadeh peered in carefully. The inside of the bus was crammed with four or five destitute-looking Sunni families who were likely heading up north to help with the planting on the potato farms.
The driver, an old man with a faded gray turban, salt-and-pepper beard, and thick glasses, studied Azadeh for a very long time. “Where you going, child?” he finally asked her, just as she was stepping away.
Azadeh hesitated. What was she supposed to say? She clenched her teeth and answered defiantly, “Khorramshahr.”
The old man studied her a little longer. “You in trouble?” he demanded.
Azadeh shook her head. “No, Sayid,” she replied.
“You running from the authorities? Are the Mutawwa after you?”
Azadeh shook her head again. “No, my Sayid.”
The old man stroked his long beard while two dozen sets of eyeballs stared from the tattered seats of the bus. She heard the cries of several babies and smelled a propane griddle cooking flour cakes from somewhere at the back. She glanced hopefully toward the smell, her stomach growling so loudly she was sure that everyone heard. The old man cocked his head, then pointed to the back of the bus. “Get on,” he told her.
Azadeh hesitated. “Sayid, are you sure?” she replied.
“Get on,” the man repeated. Then, turning in his seat, he called over his shoulder. “Irshad, come up here. Get this poor girl something to eat.”
* * *
The next day, as evening was coming on, Azadeh hid in the thick brush on a gentle hill that looked down on Khorramshahr. She studied the road along the border, which was guarded and narrow. She knew there were two guards in the guard shack, but they seemed uninterested. As she watched, the road remained empty, as it had been all day.
The Iranian position regarding Khorramshahr had changed over the past year or so. Though it was still illegal for an Iranian to enter or seek refuge in the compound, the Iranian leaders had decided they were more than happy to send their discontents and disgruntled into the U.N. refugee camp. Most of those who left were only troublemakers anyway, and it served no purpose to try to keep them in.
So, although the soldiers still manned the guard shack, it was pretty clear they didn’t care one way or another if any of their countrymen tried to slip across the border. As night came on, the two guards settled in, getting comfortable for the night.
Azadeh waited until darkness. Then, before the moon rose, she slipped from the shadows of the brush and climbed down the hill. Moving quietly, she crawled through a small trench that defined the border between U.S.-occupied Iraq and Iran.
Twenty minutes later, she was inside Khorramshahr.
Chapter Four
In the High Mountains above the Agha Jari Deh Valley
Twenty kilometers southwest of Behbehan, Iran
The rains came down in steady sheets, then turned to snow, which accumulated so quickly it completely covered his tracks. Omar was a huge man, and strong, and he climbed like a goat, steady and powerful and with very sure feet. But he was hungry and cold. And afraid for his life.
He paced himself carefully, keeping a constant gait. He knew if he stopped he would freeze. Stop and die. Walk and live. And it was the same for the child.
So he huffed and kept walking, his head bent, his legs sure but slow.
He glanced down at his chest. Using part of his robe, he had fashioned a tight pouch. The young prince slept near his body, his face pressed against his chest. His large coat wasn’t buttoned, but tied around his middle now, leaving room for him to move more freely and for the young boy to breathe.
Omar climbed. His hands were nearly frozen, but his feet were still warm, the constant exertion keeping the blood circulating down to his legs and toes. He glanced at his watch; a little past two in the morning. Thirty-six hours now since the soldiers had first appeared, thirty-six hours since he had tried to save his good friend and ended up with the child.
Slipping on a rocky spot on the trail, Omar grabbed a branch to stop his fall, then paused and turned around, struggling to catch his breath. The snow had quit now, and the clouds parted suddenly, the strong winds of the mountains seeming to push them aside. The storms had come without warning, appearing out of nowhere, but they disappeared the same way, melting into nothing at the sweep of a hand. Behind him, the tops of the mountain were still capped in white clouds, but the moon was high now, the snow fresh and white. His eyes had adjusted to the night and he could see almost as clearly as if it were day. He saw the lights of the village, many thousand feet below, and farther in the distance, the starlit shimmer of the sea. To his left, he saw the treeline and the giant boulders that stood at the crest of the Agha Jari Deh Valley. In the moonlight, he could just make out the tiny, rutted road that followed the nearest canyon, running toward the top of the mountains before it sputtered out, becoming a narrow, rocky trail. For the past day and a half, he had stayed away from the main trails. He knew that was where the soldiers would be. As they were too lazy and too inexperienced to find their way through the mountains, he knew he would be safe if he stayed away from the roads. The trail he followed now was a game trail, and not used by men.
He stood there and breathed a long moment. He was thirsty. And hungry. But he was almost there.
Kilometers below and behind him, the young princess was hidden in a small cave, too frightened and weak to go on. She might be dead now, he knew that, but there was nothing he could do. She couldn’t walk anymore, or chose not to, so he had left her hidden there. He would send someone back for her as soon as he could, but he didn’t know what they would find. If she was strong, and if she wanted to, then she would be alive when they found her. If not, it didn’t matter. Either way, he had done the right thing.
Turning, he started walking again, picking his way carefully.
Half an hour later he saw them. They had been waiting for him.
The smugglers, three men in long beards and dark clothes, had been following Omar for almost two kilometers. In addition, they had been watching him from a distance for almost the entire day. With all the soldiers searching along the lower trails and roads, w
ith the fires in the village, the sounds of gunshots and helicopters, they had to be on their guard, willing to take no chance, their long-time friendship with Omar aside. Yes, they trusted him, and yes, he had helped make them rich. And yes, they had known him since they were little boys, but there was friendship and there was business, and this was business now.
So they had waited and watched until they were sure it was safe. Now they emerged from the trees and stepped onto the trail.
Omar knew they had been following him, but still, he was surprised to look up and see the three men standing there.
“Praise Allah, blessed be his Great Name,” he said in a weary sigh of relief. “I need you, my brothers. Come! Help me here!”
The mountain men walked toward him, their huge coats flowing behind them like dark sheets in the night. Under their garments, blunt-nose machine guns protruded from their hips. Behind them, Omar could hear their horses and smell the animal sweat. As the men moved toward him, he undid the leather belt around his waist and lifted the sleeping boy.
“What is this!” the lead smuggler cried, causing the young boy to stir.
Omar shook his head to silence him. “You won’t believe me,” he whispered. “But trust me, my brothers, he is worth far more than gold. Far more than his weight in diamonds. Now, hurry, he is hungry. And I am so weary, I fear I might die.”
Chapter Five
New York City, New York
The firm of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs had their main lobby on the seventieth floor of the Iron Gate building in midtown Manhattan. The reception area was breathtaking, with wood panels, granite steps, marble pillars, and oak floors, all hand-crafted pieces of decorative architecture from Italy, Turkey, and Greece. A thin, sunlit shaft of an atrium extended five floors above the center of the lobby, and original pieces of fine art lined every wall: Rembrandts and Picassos, a single Renoir, two Rubens. Ancient (and illegal) pottery artifacts from Mexico and China were displayed in glass cases along the main hall. And though the décor hadn’t been updated since the firm had moved into the building back in 1952 (how does one improve on perfection?) it still exuded an air of timelessness and beauty that rivaled most any building in the world.
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