“Not really. But it’s good to know you’re on board.”
“So when we doing it?” Bono asked.
“It’s got to be soon. We may not have enough time as it is.”
“So, you’re thinking . . . ?”
“Neither of our squads are scheduled for patrols this weekend,” Sam said.
The lieutenant smiled wryly. “Cool,” he replied.
Chapter Eleven
One measure of any tyrannical government’s willingness to control its people is the completeness with which it suppresses the rights of its most vulnerable citizens. Throughout the entire Persian Gulf, the ruling mullahs, presidents, and kings have enforced humiliating and sadistic rules on women and girls, enslaving them in a system that, at best, demands segregation and second-class status and, at worst, treats the daughters of Heaven no better than beasts in the field. In far too many locations, women cannot be educated, work, or drive. In many places it is illegal and immoral for a woman to be examined by a male doctor, but since there are no opportunities for education, few women doctors can be found. And there are many places where lashing and stoning are appointed for the most minor infraction of law.
It would be easy to presume that a thriving sex trade inside a theocracy would be an unsustainable contradiction. Most would think that a country founded and ruled by Islamic fundamentalists would decry such a practice. But a substantive look under the surface reveals why just the opposite is true. Exploitation is not only possible, it is almost inevitable in a culture that tolerates repression, a lesson that has been demonstrated again and again.
Although it is impossible to determine the number of victims, U.N. officials who have worked inside Iran say there has been a nearly 500% increase in the number of teenage girls in prostitution since the revolution. In Tehran alone, there are nearly 100,000 women and girls in prostitution. Most of them live on the streets. The lucky ones live in brothels. Many Iranian girls, some as young as age ten, have been sold into slavery in various nations around the world. The Interpol bureau in Tehran reports that the trade in young women and girls is one of the most profitable business activities in Iran. Many of the young women who find themselves caught in this evil web are girls from the countryside, where poverty and ignorance abound. Worse, slave traders seem willing to take advantage of any tragedy in order to fulfill the demand. Following the tragic earthquake in Bam, a disaster that claimed some 50,000 lives, orphaned girls were swept up and transported to slave markets in Tehran.
And Persian women aren’t the only victims of this flourishing trade. Young women from the ghettos of Gaza, the remote villages of Egypt, and crowded Kuwaiti city streets have been taken from their families, some even sold by their parents, and forced into prostitution in other areas of the world. Victims have been found in Qatar, Kuwait, and the United Arab Emirates. In the northeastern Iranian province of Khorasan, local police report that girls are being sold to Pakistani men. In the southeastern border province of Sistan Baluchestan, thousands of Iranian girls reportedly have been sold to Afghanis. Perhaps the most creative justification of prostitution takes place inside Tehran, where, in order to control the spread of HIV, officials of the Iranian Social Department of the Interior Ministry have proposed setting up “morality houses.” There, using the traditional religious customs, a couple may be married for as little as one hour.
And the West is not free of this sin. Police in Tehran have uncovered prostitution and slavery rings with ties to France and Germany, England, and Spain. Turkey is a hotbed of trade heading to the United States, with underground auctions not unlike those that operated in northern Africa some three hundred years ago. And the prices are astounding. A young girl may be bought for as little as a few thousand dollars. But, as with everything else, beauty commands a much higher price. Someone with just the right look might fetch ten or fifteen thousand dollars, maybe more.
Ghesha Ghetto
East of Kirkuk, Iraq
The store was a dilapidated slab of concrete floor and plywood and cement walls situated in the southeastern ghettos of Kirkuk. It was a dark place, a mean place, a place where the light didn’t shine and the darkness of evil settled on even the brightest day.
The Ghesha ghetto was a small, isolated triangle created by a fork in a slow, nasty river and some low hills to the north. There were only two roads leading to the ghetto, and a wall of rundown buildings and old warehouses formed a broken barrier that concealed most of the occupants within. The ghetto was off-limits to the U.S. military—the area was considered too dangerous and without any tactical interest—and even the local police rarely strayed between the banks of the river. Occasionally, when the sniping or pirating became entirely untenable, the regional Iraqi leaders would send in a heavily armored patrol, but they never stayed more than a few days before fleeing again, leaving the ghetto to feed on itself. Like a starving rat snake that was slowly swallowing down its own tail, the ghetto consumed all its young in turf battles and hate until there was very little left that was worth fighting for.
There was no law or authority in the ghetto, and the insurgents and foreign mercenaries took advantage of that, creating a world of darkness and pain for all of the residents. The business deals that were done here were nearly unspeakable. Everything was for sale in the ghetto: weapons, drugs, old women slaves, little girls, stolen pieces of art, counterfeits . . . other things. And the prices were cheap.
The store owner sat near the back wall of his shop, alone, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. The shelves were mostly empty though there were a few things to buy: cigarettes from Europe and Turkey, a few canned goods and household supplies. Outside, the streets were cluttered and noisy with the sound of belching autos, tiny motorcycles, and many people, their shoes thumping along on the ancient brick streets. Children could be heard laughing and calling to each other from where they played down the narrow street, and the store owner couldn’t help but scowl at the sound.
The owner’s face was rough and pockmarked and sunken under his eyes. His lips were fat and dry, with tiny specks of dry spit at the corners of his mouth. He glanced at his watch, then turned his eyes on the door. Five minutes later, exactly on schedule, the two men walked in, one American, the other . . . he didn’t know, maybe Middle Eastern, probably Afghani, judging by the way he was dressed, with his silk trousers, black vest, and thin canvas boots. The American was young and thick. He could be strong, or he could be overweight, it was hard to tell, for he hid his body under a loose-fitting jacket and oversized shirt. His long hair was bleached and tangled, as if he spent a lot of time in the sun. A beach kid. Venice Beach. The Arab had heard about them. Spoiled, rotten children with too much money and too much time, corrupted and carnal, thinking they could buy whatever they fancied in the world.
Yes, he knew about them. And yes, they were right. If they had enough money, they could buy anything.
The old man stared but didn’t say anything as he continued to smoke. The dark-skinned man, the Afghani, pretended to shop, picking up a rusted can of potatoes (one of the many supplies stolen from a U.N. relief convoy), but the other one nodded to the shop owner, then moved to the back of the store.
“You Kiraddak?” the Caucasian asked quickly. Being the customer, the one with the money, the foreigner was in the superior position and he wasted no time with small talk or friendly conversation.
The other man, the dark one, watched anxiously from behind a low shelf, his dark eyes always darting as if he expected disaster to strike. He was there to cover his master’s back, and he kept his head moving, searching for the ambush.
The shop owner didn’t answer but stared arrogantly. Yes, they were the buyers, and there were many other places these men could go (too many men now sold the same thing as he), but he also knew that they were desperate and hungry and anxious to close the deal. His contact had warned him. “These men are amateurs,” he’d been told. So though they held the money, the Iraqi knew he was in a position to take advantage of the
m.
He stared at the Caucasian. “Who sent you?” he asked.
The foreigner reached into his pocket and pulled out his own cigarettes. The Iraqi recognized the red and white packaging of the American smokes, the best cigarettes in the world, and stared as the American flipped the pack with his wrist. A single cigarette protruded from the half-opened top, and he extracted it with his lips, then took the cigarette in his fingers and offered it up. The Iraqi reached up with brown fingers and took the smoke, tucking it in his shirt pocket, saving it for a later time when he could enjoy the rich flavor by himself.
The American slipped the cigarettes back in his pocket. “You Kiraddak?” he asked again, this time more tersely.
The old man patiently placed his hands on his knees. “Who sent you?” he repeated as he leaned back against the cold wall.
The American fidgeted again, then answered. “Al Mohammad. From Istanbul. He said you would be waiting for us.”
The old man smiled slightly and nodded. “Okay,” he said.
The American moved toward the Iraqi. “We want to see the product,” he said.
The old man scowled and answered, “I promise, you will be satisfied.”
“No. We want to see some pictures before we close the deal.”
The Iraqi grunted and pushed himself up. Moving to the front counter, he lifted a key from a pewter key chain hanging around his neck and unlocked the bottom drawer. Sorting through a thick stack of pictures, he extracted a few and threw them on the counter. The two men moved forward. They were far too anxious, though they tried to hide their emotions behind their cold stares.
“These are from the territory we asked for?” the American asked.
The Iraqi grunted. “That’s what I’ve been told. They were emailed to me a couple days ago.”
The American leafed through the pictures quickly and tossed them aside. “No,” he said angrily, “none of these will do.”
The Iraqi grunted. Really, he thought, was it that big a deal? The shelf life of his product was just a few years anyway. Did it make that much difference? He grunted again. “What?” he asked with sarcasm. “Too young or too old?”
The American looked away, a flash of anger in his eyes.
The Iraqi shook his head. Turning back to the pile, he sorted again, then threw a couple more photos on the counter. The American looked at them quickly, then pushed them aside too.
“Help me,” the old man scolded. “What are you looking for?”
The American told him, and the Iraqi snorted, then thumbed through the photos again. “This is your last choice,” he huffed as he tossed a handful of black-and-whites on the counter.
The American froze as he stared at the pictures, his hands shaking heavily. He nodded, his eyes burning bright. His buddy gritted, his jaw closing in a smile.
This man was so anxious.
So close to a deal.
“How much?” the American demanded.
The Iraqi stared at the anxious eyes and doubled the price quickly in his head. “Twenty thousand,” he answered. “U.S. dollars. Nothing else. And we want half up front.”
The American scowled. “That’s not what we agreed!” he protested.
The old man nodded to the pictures. “But that was before you saw those,” he replied. He continued to study the American, who continued to stare.
The Iraqi knew that he had them; there was no doubt in his mind. Ignorant American, he laughed to himself as he watched the Yankee stare at the floor. He could have had the same thing for four or five thousand if he had just played it cool. But no, he was stupid. And the old man would make a huge profit, which would make his masters proud.
“Twenty thousand,” the Iraqi repeated firmly. “Half now and half later and not one penny less. Cash. All American. And you must decide now.”
The two men glanced at each other, and the American swore bitterly. “When will you be ready?” he demanded.
“The pipeline is in place. It will take only a few days. I only wish it was as simple to smuggle whiskey or cigarettes.”
The foreigners glanced again at each other.
“Okay,” the American finally said. “Twenty thousand. But I want delivery this week.”
The old man grunted. “It will take another ten days.”
“Ten days!” complained the American. “I thought you said it was easy . . . ”
“It is easy, friend,” the Iraqi replied. “But this is a special order, and custom orders take time. So stay, enjoy our hospitality. Sightsee for a while. Come back in ten days with the rest of the money and you will get what you want.”
The American picked up the photographs, his hands shaking again.
Though they had been taken from a long way away, the photographs had been cropped to show Azadeh’s face very clearly. She looked very scared in the first photograph, her lips drawn and tight as she gazed past the camera at something unseen in the distance. The second photo showed her checking through the in-processing desk at Khorramshahr, her dark eyes shining intently, a white scarf covering her hair. The last one showed her walking through the muddy camp, a burlap sack under her arm.
She looked vulnerable and lonely, yet there was a light in her eyes.
How long would that light shine? Not very long, the American was sure. Khorramshahr was a hard place, he knew very well.
The American’s voice took on a deadly edge. “Don’t disappoint me,” he threatened the Iraqi as he leaned toward him. “I want the girl in ten days, or you and I will have issues, my friend.”
Chapter Twelve
The Orchid Flower Presidential Palace
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
The royal Saudi family had been on a nonstop program of palace building since 1990. The king and his sons had been spending billions of dollars on their homes, including man-made lakes, gold trim, diamond-studded fixtures, marble floors, and other luxuries that beautified their palaces and those of their supporters as well. The security features, extensive, in some cases even formidable, were designed to protect the royal family from their own people as much as from their enemies around the world. Incredible gardens surrounded each of the dozens of palaces, gardens that required large amounts of water, often in drought-stricken areas. Beyond that, there were sophisticated waterfalls, interconnected swimming pools, aquariums, and deer farms, all of which required enormous quantities of water, all dredged up by the powerful pumps that had been dropped into the underground aquifer.
The Orchid Flower Presidential Palace had always been one of the king’s favorite retreats. Built over 4.2 square kilometers and completed in 1998, the palace compound contained a fabulous central home, with five smaller palaces for various wives and family members, a presidential compound and VIP residences for visiting dignitaries, all surrounded by three lakes, five man-made waterfalls, and two fishing holes.
But though the palace had been a favorite of the king, he was dead now, and the new king, Abdullah Al-Rahman, didn’t care for it much. It certainly wasn’t what he would have built, but it would have to do for now.
King Abdullah Al-Rahman sat in his enormous leather chair, smoking a thick brown cigar and sipping the illegal Jack Daniels whiskey his brother had brought back from his recent trip to New York. As he looked at the huge office around him, the Saudi king couldn’t help but smile.
If this was what it felt like to be king, he was going to like it. He was going to like it a lot.
Sitting there with his smoke and his whiskey, knowing the throne was now his, was the happiest moment in his life—a life that had, so far, been altogether too dull.
Prince Abdullah Al-Rahman was the second son born to King Fahd bin Saud Aziz, monarch of the House of Saud, grandson of King Saud Aziz, the first king of modern-day Saudi Arabia. From a young age, it had been clear that Prince Abdullah Al Qaeda-Rahman was not the preferred son. Highly intelligent and strikingly handsome but with an infrequent smile, the young prince had always fallen in the shadow of his older brother,
Prince Saud bin Faysal. From the time they were old enough to compete in soccer or wrestle together on the tile floors, the younger son had been overshadowed again and again, always beaten by his older brother no matter what they did. And Prince Abdullah knew from a very young age who would be the next king: the first son. The loved son. The preferred son of the king.
The first son owned the birthright.
The second son did not.
The first son owned the kingdom.
The second son didn’t own a thing.
But all that had changed. Death had changed everything.
King Abdullah thought, How many years, how many lives, how much pleasure and pain had gone into this moment? How much effort and planning had brought him to this point, when he could sit on the throne and go where he pleased, when he could hold the reins of power without constant fear—fear of his brothers, his father, fear of their kin, fear of the secret Palace Guards or one of the other half-dozen security organizations his father had created to maintain his great power.
The young king considered his brother, whom he had recently killed along with his brother’s family, his wives and their children, even most of his friends (better to make a clean sweep than to have to spend his nights wondering if he had missed anyone). Yet, here he was now. The first step complete.
Was he satisfied with his work? Almost perfectly so.
Was he anxious for the next action? He could hardly wait.
Smoking, the new king thought of his dead older brother and shivered with pride. Swiveling his office chair, he turned east. From where he sat, the Persian Gulf was a little more than two hundred miles away, but he had walked the gray sands that lined the Saudi beaches at least a thousand times, and he could picture the scene perfectly in his mind, the blue-green water, the pebbled beaches, the burning sun in the sky. The waters were infested with sea snakes and eels, and he knew that, even now, some unseen sea scavenger was nibbling on his brother’s corpse.
I waited. I was patient, he told himself. I paid the price, I bore the burden, and I deserve what I have.
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