“Mr. Raule . . . ?” the administrator prodded, still looking down.
The assistant’s jaw tightened up, and the Arab scowled as he leaned his weight toward the smaller man and pressed his lips in a frown.
Raule cleared his throat, his mind racing ahead. “Miss Pahlavi is still in the temporary quarters,” he finally said.
The French administrator signed the last document, then looked up and said, “Then will you go fetch Miss Pahlavi. And tell her to pack all her things.”
Chapter Nineteen
Khorramshahr Refugee Camp
Iran/Iraq Border
Raule walked through the neat rows of plywood and tin shacks, making his way down to the tent-city where the newest refugees were housed. Approaching the tents, he slowed his pace, then glanced down at the note he had written on a small piece of paper. Row B, tent 12. Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi.
He stopped outside one of the tents. It was set back six feet from the main road, and a narrow, rock-lined path curved toward the half-open flap. The rocks that lined the small trail, none of them bigger than his fist, had been painted green and blue by some previous occupant, and a ten-inch plywood sign had been posted in the dirt at the head of the path. Tent 12 was painted on the worn plywood, though the dark letters were so faded they were barely readable. Underneath the tent number was a long line that was blank. Years before, the tent occupant’s name would have been written in grease pencil in the now-empty space, a small gesture of welcome and ownership, but the habit had long since been abandoned, overcome by events. Raule stood outside the tent and called Azadeh’s name. He listened. It was quiet. He called her name again, then moved toward the tent, careful not to disturb the painted rocks on the narrow path. He pushed the tent flap aside and looked through the netting. The tent was empty inside.
Raule felt a sudden surge of relief. She wasn’t here. He couldn’t find her. The stranger in the admin building would have to come back another time.
A horrible image flashed like a dark movie in his mind. He knew the truth. Like his boss, the camp administrator, he knew that the burly Arab was not who he said he was. A lost uncle. A paid servant sent to find an orphaned child. The lie was so thin, it was like peering through a torn veil. Yes, the Arab’s paperwork was flawless, but that didn’t mean anything. In his heart, Raule knew they were about to send Azadeh into a dark and terrible world, a world where she would spend the next ten years working for her masters, then be tossed on the street if she had not died already of disease.
He stared at the empty tent and smiled. The Arab would have to come back another day.
He would go back and lie. He would tell the stranger waiting in his office that she had left the camp. He could say that she might have been gone for days; some refugees came and went, it wasn’t as if there was any kind of roll call. He could pretend to mount a search, buy a little time. His boss would know what he was doing, but he might play along. He had many more things to worry about than his assistant’s efforts to save a young girl.
Raule’s hands started to tremble as he worked out the plan. He would delay a few minutes, then go back to the admin building and report that Azadeh was gone. Feigning surprise and distress, he would tell the Arab to leave while they searched, to come back the next day. He didn’t need much time to get her out of the camp. When night fell, he would take her away. After that . . .
He heard voices behind him and quickly turned around. Azadeh was walking toward him, her hair covered with a white scarf. Raule glanced down the trail toward the admin building, then around at the crowded pathways and dirt roads that wound through the camp.
“Master Raule,” Azadeh said brightly as she walked toward him. Then she saw the look on his face and came to a stop. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked in a worried tone.
“Miss Pahlavi,” Raule started, then halted for a moment. Did he really have the nerve? He quickly stepped toward her. “Miss Pahlavi, come quickly. We need to talk.” He pushed her toward her tent, but she resisted his hand.
“Sayid, what is it?” she asked him. Raule looked around nervously again.
“You have an uncle?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “I told you, Master Raule, I have no one.”
“No, Miss Pahlavi. Think. You came from a large family. You have many uncles and cousins. They scattered to the wind. When your grandfather left Persia, all of them followed him. Now think, did your father have a brother who went to Pakistan?”
Azadeh didn’t hesitate. “No, my Sayid. My father had no brother.”
Raule nodded firmly. It was as he had thought. “Listen to me, Azadeh,” he started to say, his hand squeezing her elbow in a firm grip. “There is someone here for you . . . ” Then he looked back.
The Arab was standing twenty feet away, at the head of the dirt path. The camp administrator stood beside him, an irritated look on his face. The Arab scowled, then moved quickly, making his way down the trail. “Miss Azadeh!” he shouted, extending his arms to the girl. “Thank Allah, I have found you! Grace and peace be to Our God. Allah has protected you. And I have found you safe.”
Azadeh stared at him, a puzzled look on her face. “Do I know you?” she asked as the stranger swept her up in a powerful embrace.
“No, Miss Azadeh, you do not,” he whispered quietly in her ear. “But my master is waiting. You will come with me, my dear.”
Azadeh pushed herself back. “Who are you?” she asked anxiously.
The Arab didn’t answer as he turned to Raule. “Thank you,” he said, victory flashing in his eyes.
Raule looked away, conceding defeat. The Arab had known his intent, or at least he had suspected. There was nothing to do now. He glanced at his boss, who nodded to his watch and spun his fingers in a circle, indicating, “Let’s go.” Time was wasting. He was pressured. There were important papers to sign, important decisions to make, and his office hours ended at four.
Raule glanced at Azadeh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Miss Pahlavi,” he told her, “this man represents your uncle who lives in Pakistan. He has come to retrieve you and take you to his home.”
Azadeh’s face was a blank. “I have no uncle,” she said.
“Yes, Azadeh, you do. We have the paperwork. It is in order—”
“I have no uncle!” she cried. She turned to the stranger and shivered, looking into his dark eyes. “I do not know who this man is, but I will not go with him.”
“But he carries proof. We have checked it.”
“Come!” the administrator called from the path. “Pack your things. We are waiting. You’re going to your new home, child.”
Azadeh’s face grew taut, her eyes glaring and bright. “I will not go!” she answered, backing up to her tent.
And that was all that the stranger would have. “In my master’s house, a young woman is taught to do as she is told,” he said icily. “She does not challenge her master. She may do it once, but only once; she’ll never do it again. The rules of Sharia hold true in our home. It is not your place, as a woman, to tell me what you will or won’t do. You will do as we tell you. And you will remember what your place is in this life.”
The Arab seemed to swell as he stood over her. She shrank, pulling back, conditioned to retreat. Raule stepped between them and looked Azadeh in the eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but it’s true. You must go.”
Azadeh shook her head, not in defiance but in disbelief. “I cannot. I cannot. Look at him,” she whispered, leaning into Raule. “You know what he is. You know it, I can see. Please, Master Raule, please.”
“Come!” the camp administrator shouted, growing angry now. “Tell her to gather her things and let’s go!”
Raule nodded sadly. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
The Arab stepped between them, pushing Raule to the side. “You should be grateful,” he sneered as Azadeh stepped away. “My master sent me here to save you. I’ve traveled many days. We have both sacrificed, and this is t
he thanks that we get. Now get your things, Azadeh, and come gratefully.”
Azadeh shot a pleading look toward Raule, the only man who could help, but he did not look at her now. He had done all he could. He had done more than he should have. He glanced back at his boss, who was walking toward them, an angry glare on his face.
The Arab opened the tent flap and moved inside. It took him less than two minutes to throw her things into a rough burlap sack and reappear, ready to leave.
“Miss Pari,” Azadeh gasped, thinking of her only friend. “I need to tell her good-bye.”
“Who? What?”
“There is an older woman. My friend. Please, you must let me tell her good-bye.”
The Arab looked around, then huffed impatiently. “What time is it?” he asked. Arab people rarely wore watches; time seldom mattered to them.
“Four-twenty,” Raule answered.
The Arab shook his head. “No time,” he said impatiently as he moved down the trail. “The train heading north from Khorramshahr leaves in less than an hour. We will have to hurry to catch it even now. And I will not spend another night in this land.”
“But Sayid, please, I have a friend. She lives not more than a five-minute walk from here. Please, if I could just go and tell her—”
Her new master shook his head again. “Come now!” he said, as if speaking to a disobedient dog. “And remember, Miss Pahlavi, what I said about Sharia and accepting your place in this world. We can do this easily, or with difficulty. It is up to you.”
Ghesha Ghetto
East of Kirkuk, Iraq
The meeting had been arranged for 9:40 p.m., enough after sunset to be dark but still early enough to allow the parties to get off the streets before the 10 p.m. curfew. Not being a fool, the American had refused to enter the ghetto—not while carrying $10,000 cash, not with the enemies that he had already made there. And the Iraqi had been reluctant to allow the transfer without his supports around. After bitter negotiations, they had decided to meet on the ghetto side of the bridge that joined Ghesha Ghetto to the main highway on the other side of the river. There was a turnoff there, a dirt road that led down to the river and was out of sight of the main road.
At 9:40, the American was standing in the middle of the dirt road. Behind him, forty meters in the distance and hidden behind a stand of stunted trees, his friend was waiting, his automatic weapon trained on the road. The moon was still low, and the dirty air stole most of the starlight, leaving the night dark and still. The American glanced at his watch as he waited, then turned his eyes back to the road. At 9:43, a dusty Mercedes moved slowly toward the bridge and turned off onto the dirt turnaround. The American didn’t move from the center of the road, and the driver of the Mercedes kept his lights on bright as he approached. The American turned away and closed his eyes, anxious to retain his night vision.
The Mercedes rolled to a stop not more than two feet from him. The driver cut the engine and then finally the lights. The American turned back to the automobile. His face was dark and hard and he watched silently as the back door opened and his contact got out. The American peered past him through the deeply tinted glass. Another man was sitting in the front seat, but he was barely a shadow behind the dark glass. There was movement from the backseat, but he couldn’t see who it was.
The Iraqi slave trader approached the American and stood near the front of the car. They summed up each other with menacing glares.
“Where is she?” the American asked, a hard edge on his breath.
The Iraqi didn’t answer. “You got a cigarette?” he asked.
The American shook his head. Not tonight. No time to be nice.
The Iraqi nodded to the low trees. “How many men do you have back there?” he asked.
The American bent down, pulled a blade of dry grass from between the ruts in the road, and stuck it between his teeth. “Where is she?” he countered, ignoring the question altogether.
“Where’s my money?” the Iraqi asked.
“Who’s in the car?”
“Where’s your other man?”
The two men stared at each other, neither of them wanting to give. The American finally tightened his jaw and said, “I’ve got one friend with me. You met him before. He’s back there in the trees. Other than that, we’re alone.”
The other man nodded. He believed it was true. They had been watching the riverbank for the past two hours or so. They had seen the American, but not his buddy hiding down in the trees, although it didn’t take a genius to figure that was where he would be.
The Iraqi studied the American and smiled. There was something about him that he simply didn’t like, that made his skin crawl. He had no right to be here. Ghesha ghetto was for Iraqis, not Americans. So he would rob him, then kill him, along with his friend in the trees.
The Iraqi looked around, searching for their car. “And how are you proposing to get out of here?” he asked.
The American nodded to the river. Up against the bank, mostly covered over with cattails and brush, a low boat had been hidden, small but speedy and perfectly adequate.
Glancing at the boat, the Iraqi sensed for a fleeting moment that something was wrong. If the American was a stranger to Iraq, where did he get the boat? And why was he always with his buddy? The Iraqi’s military background suggested the pattern of working in teams this way, but he didn’t dwell on the thought. His mind was too full with the prospect of a pile of thousand-dollar bills. “Where’s the money?” he demanded again, shrugging off the boat.
The American reached under his jacket and pulled out a thick wad of cash.
The Iraqi stared and then turned, slapping the hood of the car. The back door swung open and a huge man emerged. Azadeh followed, a dark coat over her shoulders, a burlap bag in her hand. She looked up in fear.
And the American smiled.
Forty meters upriver, the man hiding among the trees adjusted his weight on the ground. He was lying on his stomach, his elbows at his side to support the weight of the automatic rifle with its night-vision scope. Watching through the scope, he saw the scene as clearly as if it were day. From his angle, he had a clear view of the American’s back and sometimes the side of his head. He also had a clear view of the Iraqi and the front of the car.
He saw his target slap the hood of the Mercedes, then another man crawl out, followed by the young girl.
The woman beside him rested her hand on his arm. “Is that her?” she whispered directly into his ear.
The shooter nodded slowly.
The woman breathed a sigh of relief. “Please, will you put the gun down now?” she asked.
The man only grunted. No way he would leave Sam exposed.
“Please,” the woman begged him. “We’re here to save someone, not get anyone hurt.”
“No one’s going to get hurt. Now, will you be quiet, please.”
She recognized the command, knowing it was not a request, and lowered her head to the grass, peering all the time through the trees.
Sam Brighton looked at Azadeh, and for some reason he winked. She stared at him, bewildered. Where had she seen him before! Then she faltered as the memory came flooding back. The soldiers. Her father. The helicopter. His smile.
“I know you,” he had told her.
It couldn’t be true!
Not him. He was a good man. She felt her heart break.
The Iraqi watched her carefully, noting the recognition on her face. “You know this man?” he asked her in surprise.
Azadeh dropped her eyes, but the man could see that she did.
The Iraqi was confused. Then his heart slammed in his chest, his instinct for survival finally slipping into gear, forty years of training standing the hairs on his neck on end. The smugness about him melted into a feeling of fear.
All the questions washed over him, the things he should have thought of before. The boat. The American. Far too fearless. Too confident. Willing to pay too much money. In a hurry. Insisting on this girl.<
br />
Now it was clear that she knew him.
A chill ran down his spine.
He reached for the handgun that was strapped to his chest. But the American had already pulled a pistol from some unseen holster under his jacket. A 9-mm Beretta, U.S. Government issue. A Special Forces handgun.
The Iraqi feinted for his weapon, but Samuel Brighton moved forward with amazing speed, grabbing his hand in a crushing grip. The Iraqi felt a jab of cutting pain as the American put pressure on the joint of the thumb and his wrist. He tried pulling back. The grip tightened. “I wouldn’t,” Sam said calmly. “Not if you want to live.”
The huge man next to Azadeh reached out and grabbed her by the throat, his fat fingers crushing into the soft skin. He jerked a small pistol from his sleeve and jammed it to the side of her head.
Sam stared at him coolly, his eyes narrow, his face firm and blank. He showed no emotion, no anxiety, not a worry in the world. The Iraqi watched him, noting the look in his eye.
That look! How he hated it. So smug and so cool. They all walked with the same swagger and carried the same arrogant glare.
Looking into the American’s face, he finally understood. This wasn’t some rich boy from the city looking for a sick thrill. This wasn’t some Yankee thug looking to make a quick buck on a deal.
This was an American soldier.
His world came crashing down.
He felt the American’s grip on his wrist, firm as cold steel. He saw the handgun, U.S. issue, and the confident smile.
And he panicked, his mind clouding, his thoughts irrational, paranoid. Who were they! What did they want?
Why was the American armed? Was he going to kill him? Who was his friend in the trees?
Were they going to steal his girl? After all the work he had done! No. They couldn’t have her.
Not if she was dead.
And he would certainly kill her before he would give her away.
“Let’s keep this simple,” Sam said in a calm voice. “No one needs to get hurt here. All I want is the girl.”
The Iraqi hesitated, years of hatred and resentment bursting inside. “You’re a U.S. soldier,” he stammered in fury, staring into Brighton’s eyes.
The Great and Terrible Page 70
