Then a dark thought occurred to her, leaving a cold pit in her stomach. Might the soldiers trace her letter to Khorramshahr and come looking for her?
She thought a long moment, a cold shudder inside, then slid the pencil and blank sheet of paper into her small burlap sack and placed it under her cot.
She considered for three days, then finally made her decision. That evening, when the sun was about to set and mourning doves were calling to each other from the birch trees behind the last row of tents, she summoned her courage, feeling compelled to try. She took out the pencil and started writing, choosing her words carefully, the Persian script poetic and articulate from two thousand years of heritage.
Master Omar Pasni Zehedan:
It is difficult to consider the possibility that my words might not find you in good health nor even find you at all, but I remember with such deep emotion that night that you came to our home and I felt a need to thank you for your sacrifice and what you were willing to do.
My father, as you must know, has been called home to Our God. I think I knew my father as well as anyone on this earth and I can tell you without hesitation that he looked forward to your conversations on the old tower as much as anything in this life. It is my belief that he loved you, Master Zehedan, as he would have loved a brother had that gift been given to him, and I pray you will remember his soul in your prayers.
I find myself in a situation which, though not home, is safe and tolerable. I am here in Khorramshahr. There is no school, and few young people my age, but it is safe and we eat, and are generally provided for, so I will not complain. What am I to do, I have not yet formulated, but I maintain my faith that, over time, Allah will light the way. I take one step into the darkness, then wait for His light. Insha’allah. I trust in His will.
Were you to have opportunity, and were you to feel it appropriate for one such as yourself to show kindness to one such as I, I would look forward to hearing of your good health and well being.
I pray, as always, that Allah our God, will place warmth in your soul and peace in your mind.
Respectfully. Humbly.
Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi
Azadeh stared at the letter, reading it carefully, then folded it twice and placed it in the brown envelope. And though she had fantasies of Omar receiving her letter and sending some of his men to whisk her away, her main reason for writing was to establish some type of contact with the outside world. She was desperate to believe there was someone out there who cared.
Still, she almost smiled as she reviewed the brief note. She felt like a little girl writing to an imaginary friend.
After sealing the envelope, she realized she didn’t know Master Zehedan’s address. She struggled as she thought, then did the best that she could, using his full name and a guess of his home’s location on the north side of the Agha Jari Deh Valley, five kilometers north of the village.
Two weeks later the letter was returned, deficient address stamped across the back flap. She stared at the unopened and tattered envelope, a discouraged look on her face, realizing that if she were to get out of Khorramshahr it would be on her own.
* * *
As the weeks passed, Azadeh had taken to reading her letter again and again. She always carried it with her, tucked inside the white sash around her waistline, for it served as a reminder that she could not lose hope.
Though she had no idea what the outcome would be or where she would end up, she knew she was far better off in Khorramshahr than any alternative and she was grateful to be there, regardless of how bleak or hopeless it might seem.
She missed her father. She missed her village. She missed everything. Sometimes the homesickness washed upon her like a wall of cold water, leaving her shivering and lonely and cold. But she knew that God had something in store for her, for he had protected her until this very day. So she did not lose hope. There was reason to live.
And just as she had done since she was old enough to remember, she started each day with sala’h, or the first Morning Prayer. Turning toward Mecca, she joined with the true believers from all over the world who demonstrated their faith in Allah by falling to their knees.
* * *
Azadeh believed, because she had been taught by her father, that Allah was closer to humanity than a father was to a child, and that nothing in this world deserved an equal surrender of self.
As a united people, Muslims begin each day by prostrating themselves in worship of their God, whom they consider the creator of the universe and every being therein. Bowing to pray is a demonstration of their surrender to the Allah, for even the name of Islam means submission to His will.
Azadeh had also been taught that she must always face Mecca when she prayed, for that was where the great Ka’bah was.
The Ka’bah, a stone building shaped like a huge black cube, was far and away the most sacred structure on earth. Forbidden to non-Muslims, originally built by the Prophet Abraham and his son Ismai’l, the beautiful but simple structure was built for the purpose of worshipping Allah, and the ceremonies that were observed there had been performed by the Prophets for thousands of years.
Inside the Ka’bah, the Black Stone had been placed. Older than the creation of the earth, round and small enough to hold in two hands, the Black Stone was composed of several fragments of rock bound together by silver. According to Islamic tradition, God had given the Black Stone to Adam after plucking it from paradise.
Because the Stone came directly from Allah, it was revered by all Muslims as the most holy object on earth. It was His gift to man, evidence of His being, and every Holy Prophet from Adam to Mohammed had at one time touched the Stone.
As the centuries passed, the Ka’bah, which housed the Black Stone, was frequently damaged by calamities and war. In the early seventh century, a fire had ravaged the Ka’bah, and when it was rebuilt, the Arab tribes could not agree who should have the right to install the Black Stone back in its place on the wall inside. After many arguments, arguments that nearly escalated into war, the tribes finally agreed to let the next person who entered the courtyard decide who would be privileged to place the ancient stone in its place. As God had intended, the next person to come into the courtyard was Mohammed. A young man, not yet a Prophet, Mohammed placed a piece of cloth on the ground and set the Black Stone at the center. Then he asked each of the tribes to select a delegate to gather around the cloth. Together they lifted the cloth with the Black Stone off the ground and carried it to the Ka’bah, where Mohammed himself set it in place.
Azadeh had been taught that if one kissed the stone, which was smooth and soothing and emitted a pleasant fragrance from Abraham’s hands, it would bear witness to that person’s worthiness on the Judgment Day.
Several feet in front of the Black Stone was the Zamzam well, another reason why the Ka’bah was considered so sacred. Tradition told that while Abraham was away from Hagar and Ismai’l to visit Sarah at Mecca, the angel Gabriel had hit the ground with his wings on this spot to bring forth a flow of clear water from under Ismai’l’s feet.
For these reasons it was essential for all Muslims to face the Most Holy Mosque of Ka’bah as they began their morning prayers, and Azadeh had never even considered breaking this command.
Once she had prostrated herself on her prayer rug and faced the city that contained the Black Stone, she closed her eyes and repeated the words her father had taught:
“Oh Allah,
I am the daughter of my father, Your Servant
And the daughter of my mother,
Your gift to me.
My soul is in Your palm
I receive light by Your finger.
Your judgment is perfect,
Now I ask you by every name given to you by the Prophet
That you keep my life in Your palm
That you touch me with Your finger
to remove my sadness
and give me joy today.
Prophet Muhammad,
Peace be upon hi
m.”
And though Azadeh had great faith in this prayer, she had come to believe that there had to be something more, for she had been comforted and lifted beyond the words of such prayers. She’d been wrapped in a blanket that she could not explain, and the blanket seemed to grow warmer when she whispered other words. So she closed her eyes again and boldly added other words to the prayer, words of her own, words that had not been taught to her.
“Allah, my God,” she began in a quiet voice, “I don’t deserve this. In my heart I realize I don’t deserve what You have given to me.
“You have given me life. Yet I am a weak and unworthy child. You gave me a mother who wanted me, though I don’t remember her face. You gave me a father who loved me so much that he put aside everything that he cared about in order to take care of me. You gave me health and a strong body, and the opportunity to be here in this life.
“And while You have given me disappointments and heartaches, I accept them as well. I accept all of your gifts, both the good and the ill.
“You’ve kept me safe, given comfort, and brought peace to my heart. So please show me someone I can help, for I would like to do something for You today. Show me someone I can comfort in order to thank You for what You have given me.
“Show me Your will, God, and I will follow Your way.”
With those words, Azadeh took a deep breath. Standing, she moved to her tent flap to look out on the refugee camp, one of the most empty and lonely places in the world. Then she squared her shoulders and slipped into the harsh sunlight.
Chapter Seven
Washington, D.C.
Ammon and Luke Brighton met for breakfast at one of the little gut-food places that lined the Student Center building on the campus at George Washington University. It was midmorning. Ammon had just come from his first class. Luke had just come from the gym. They each bought a cinnamon roll, big as a saucer and with about a thousand grams of fat and sugar, then sat down at one of the small tables in the hall. Hundreds of rushing students passed by them, but they concentrated on their food. Five minutes later, no longer hungry, they sat back and relaxed.
“What you got going today?” Ammon asked.
“Not a lot. Econ quiz. Biology lab. Same old, same old. You think Dad is still planning on meeting us down at the harbor for . . . ”
“No. He called me earlier. Said he couldn’t make it. Said maybe sometime next week.”
Luke scoffed. “Yeah, right. When pigs sprout wings and fly.”
“Don’t be angry at him, Luke. He’s doing the best he can.”
“I’m way more than angry, but I’m not angry at him. I’m angry at them. The ones who put him under so much pressure. They ride him like a bad horse. They keep whipping and whipping. One day he’s going to fall down. You can only ride a horse so long, spur it so many times, before it blows out its lungs.”
“Pretty graphic,” Ammon smiled.
“I feel graphic,” Luke replied.
“Still, don’t be ticked off at Dad. And don’t worry about him either. You and Mom worry too much. I can see that God sustains him. Can’t you see it too? He’s doing something very important, and God knows that. I think he’ll be okay.”
Luke nodded, took a last bite of his bun, then stood up quickly. “Got to go,” he said. “Econ quiz. I’m not ready.”
“So what else is new?”
“You need a ride this afternoon?”
“No. I’ll take the Metro.”
“Okay. See you later, dude.”
“Good luck on your test.”
* * *
Luke had seen her before—many times, in fact. They were in the same freshman economics class, but then so were a couple hundred other kids. Sometimes he would see her at the gym. He lifted weights. She always ran. They passed each other in the hall, but they never spoke, for it seemed whenever he saw her she was never alone. He didn’t know where she was from, but it appeared that her entire high school class had followed her to college, for she was always surrounded by friends. But though they had never spoken, he had watched her. Icy blue eyes. Long, blonde hair. She was beautiful. And sophisticated. And where did she get that tan? She had a lot of money; he knew that from the way that she dressed. Those who had it, those who really had it—not just a few millions but much more than that—had a thing about them that was hard to hide (assuming they wanted to hide it, which, of course, they never did). If money talks, then big money screams, and everything about her screamed like a high-pitched cry in the dark.
Luke was sitting on a bench outside the university library when she walked up to him. It was a brisk fall day and a cool breeze blew, taking the humidity and smog of the district and flinging it east. He was reading—cramming, really—for the upcoming quiz when her shadow fell over his textbook. He didn’t look up. She waited for a while, then, apparently growing impatient, she took a step to the side, formed the silhouette of a pterodactyl with her fingers, and flew the shadow across his page. Luke looked up, his eyes growing large. “Hey there,” he said, keeping the book open in his hands.
She smiled shyly. A pure act. “Hi. You look busy.”
Luke flipped the book closed. “Not really,” he lied. “Well, kind of,” he admitted. “I’ve got a test in a couple minutes.”
“Well, that’s very important. I’ll just leave you alone.” Her voice was soft and deliberate. She oozed confidence.
“Are you kidding?” Luke jumped up. “I mean . . . ” he stammered. “It’s okay. I’ll do fine. In fact, it’s my economics class. We have it together.”
“Really?” she answered.
Luke slumped just a little. Hadn’t she ever noticed him?
He nodded to the bench beside him. She dropped her backpack and sat down. “Luke Brighton,” he said.
“Alicia Debonei. Yes, it’s French, which is a coincidence, because so is my father, but please don’t ask.”
An introduction like that raised a lot of questions, which was her point, of course, but Luke didn’t bite. He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s cool,” he said.
Alicia crossed her arms in front of herself. Her forearms were slender, but her legs were long and strong. She wore a light blue halter and a white skirt that was just a few inches too high. She had on leather shoes with an insignia he had never seen before, though he recognized it as Italian; a diamond ankle bracelet that was obviously real; no earrings, but a couple of diamond and sapphire rings on her fingers; and a soft fabric headband made out of something . . . shiny, he had no idea what it was. Turning toward him, she flipped a strand of blonde hair from in front of her eye. Her hair was a soft color, fine and silky. She was not a bleached blonde. He stared at the movement, mesmerized just a moment too long. She met his eyes and smiled. He looked away.
“Are you ready for the econ quiz?” he asked, the only thing he could think of to say.
“Are you kidding! I was completely lost in that class about five minutes after the professor introduced himself.”
“It can be kind of tough.”
“How are you doing?”
Luke hunched his shoulders. He had a 97 percent average, but if she had been struggling, that might not help him right now. “I’m doing all right,” he answered carefully. “But I have to work really hard.”
“All work and no play makes Jack a very bad boy,” she teased.
Luke laughed. “I don’t work that hard.”
She crossed her legs and seemed about to say something when her cell phone rang. She was holding the silver phone inside her palm, and she glanced at it discreetly as she silenced the tone.
“You want to get that?” he asked her.
“No. It can wait.”
“No big deal if you want to get it . . . ”
“Really, it can wait.”
She tucked the cell phone in her purse. Luke heard it ring again, but she ignored it and focused on him. Then a different ring-tone emanated from the purse. Embarrassed, she opened it and silenced a tiny, black phone.
“So sorry,” she sighed. There she went, tossing that pesky strand of hair once again. He really wished she wouldn’t do that. It was completely distracting. But then, so was her smile. So was everything about her. He had trouble thinking of the most basic thing to say.
“So, Miss Debonei-whose-father-is-French-but-let’s-not-talk-about-that-right-now, where you from?” he finally asked her.
“Okay, an average question. Not original, but safe. A casual icebreaker, good enough to get things started, but certainly not going to break any rules.”
“Okay,” Luke laughed, “I’ll try again. So . . . tell me about your father. Is it true he’s an American-hating French industrialist whose grandfather helped the Nazis during World War II?”
She stared at him, then started laughing. “Wow, I guess I was asking for that.”
He only smiled in return. But it was a good smile. His face was dark, his eyes bright and friendly.
She bit on her lip. “I guess I’m a little bit like you. I come from all over, not from only one place.”
Luke hesitated. “Your father was in the military?”
“Hardly!” she laughed.
“Then, I guess . . . ”
“Let’s not talk about that,” she cut in. “What I want to know is, how many times have you met the president?”
He hesitated again, surprised. “A couple. How did you know?”
“Oh, I know about you, Luke Brighton. I guess lots of people do.”
Luke was dumbfounded. “I didn’t think you knew who I was.”
“Of course I do,” she laughed. “I did a little asking around. It wasn’t hard to find out. In a school with a lot of famous people’s kids, especially from the government and the international diplomatic corps, how many of their fathers had direct access to . . . the . . . president.” She paused and accented each of the last three words. It was clear from her emphasis that she understood.
Few people recognized what it really meant to work for the president, to actually have access to him, to talk to him every day. Few people really understood what kind of power that could bring. Very few had felt the rare pulse of muscle, the tingle of adrenaline, the incredible flush that came from being near the man.
The Great and Terrible Page 57
