She fell silent, lowering her head in frustration then closed her eyes. Crossing her arms, she held herself as if in an embrace. No one spoke. No one moved. There was a reverence in the moment that no one dared to break.
How much time passed, no one knew, but the little girl eventually lifted her head. And when she did, something had changed. Something was very different. Her face was calm and peaceful. For the first time in months, her eyes were bright and clear.
Her mother pulled her close.
Then the little girl broke into a smile.
* * *
Behind the thick veil that separated the natural and the supernatural worlds, other souls observed the funeral scene from the shadows of the trees. They were the dark and evil spirits the mortals never saw but often felt.
As had been the case since the beginning of man, these dark ones watched and listened, they studied and they plotted, their evil wafting like a heavy stench upon the world. And their power—Satan’s power—was growing, their devastation having already brought the world to its knees.
A lean-faced spirit named Balaam stood among the unseen crowd. One of the darkest of the evil spirits, he was aggressive and mean. But despite his aggression, he was also insecure, for he had failed his master a few too many times before. Now, he only thirsted for more. More blackness. More evil. He was never satisfied.
As the group of evil spirits looked upon the little girl, seeing her courage and her smile, as they looked out on the strength of her mother and the bravery of the soldiers who stood so near, the dark and evil swarm could not hold back their pain and fear.
Together, they let out a scream of hate so clear it echoed across the wet grass into the very bowels of hell.
Balaam howled loudest among them, for he hated what the mourners represented the most.
ONE
Eighteen Years Before
Prince Abdullah al-Rahman lay slightly inebriated on a beach on the southern tip of France. Behind him, the La Villa de Ambassador II rose above the shoreline, one of the finest resorts on the Mediterranean coast. The water was clear and a perfect blue sky shone overhead. Cyprus trees swayed in rhythm with the wind and the sand was so even it looked as if it had been raked. The grass above the beach was perfectly manicured, the air was clean and the water sparkled with a million diamonds from the Mediterranean sun. Behind him, on the other side of the wrought iron security gates that surrounded the Ambassador II, the beautiful resort towns of Monte Carlo and Nice lay equidistant, one city to the east, the other to the west. It was late afternoon as Prince al-Rahman sat alone on the sand, staring out at the sea.
Prince al-Rahman and his entourage had leased the entire La Villa de Ambassador II for the week; all 225 rooms, three gourmet restaurants, spa, golf course and private beach. For the next seven days it all belonged to him and his group of 97: bodyguards, concubines, wives and friends. Al-Rahman and his family had come to France to shop and get away from the desert heat, which meant that in addition to the cost of the resort, one of his wives had transferred several million dollars into their petty cash account.
But Al-Rahman wasn’t interested in shopping. He had other things on his mind.
At twenty-five, the prince was young and trim, with a finely sculpted face and almost European features, thanks to his mother, an Italian beauty herself. He had a fine nose and strong eyes over thick lips. And unlike most Arabs, the prince didn’t consider facial hair an indication of his manhood or his devotion to Allah, so he kept his face clean, his beard never more than three or four days old.
One of the wealthiest men in the world, Prince al-Rahman was the second oldest son to King Faysal bin Saud Aziz, monarch of the House of Saud, grandson of King Saud Aziz, the first king of modern-day Saudi Arabia. As a royal prince in the kingdom that held the largest oil reserves in the world, he and his family were unbelievably wealthy. There was no whim or desire, no pleasure or need that the prince could ask for and not have it given to him; and along with his wealth, the royal prince held the reins to great power, for the world economy revolved around oil and the politics of oil revolved around the Saudi Arabia peninsula.
Yet despite all his power and wealth, the prince was unsatisfied and always wanted more. It was as if he had an insatiable hunger, an unquenchable thirst. Like a starving man in the desert who was forced to eat sand, no matter how much he ate it did not satiate what he craved.
And now, what he had been given was going to be taken from him! His idiot father was going to pack up the kingdom and give it away. In the name of democracy, a completely foreign concept in this part of the world, his idiot father, King Faysal bin Saud Aziz, was going to destroy everything his ancestors had worked for in almost 300 years. He was going to give up the kingdom and institute a democratic regime.
All of it gone, in one generation, destroyed! Like a wisp of black smoke, his family’s wealth would disappear.
He had to put a stop to it!
But how? What to do? The prince was completely distraught.
Then he thought of his older brother, the Crown Prince, and his blood boiled even more. Could he trust him? Would he support him? He really didn’t know.
He cursed violently as the bitter rage grew inside him, a hot, burning furnace of equal hate for his father and lust for what he might lose. If it were not for his father . . . if al-Rahman had played his cards right he might have been king one day.
But his father wouldn’t let him.
He was going to give the kingdom away!
The prince pushed his hands through the sand as he sipped at his beer. He was frustrated and angry, more so than he had ever felt in his life. The day before, as he was preparing to leave for France, the prince had fought with his father, a bitter argument that had turned so angry three of the king’s bodyguards had been forced to step between the two men. And though the prince had argued and pleaded until he was blue in the face, his father hadn’t listened, but instead cut him off.
“Leave me, Abdullah!” his father had screamed in a rage. “Leave me right now and never speak of this again! I do not have to justify my decision to you. Now go and forget it. I will not discuss it again!”
And so it was that al-Rahman found himself on the beach, fuming, his dark heart growing cold, his mind constantly racing, trying to develop a plan. His father was a fool. No, he was worse than that, he was selfish and stupid, a conceited old man! He cared not a whit for his children! He was a slithering fool, a spider in the corner, a poisonous snake in the grass.
The sun moved toward the sea as al-Rahman raged, leaving a blood-red horizon above the hazy waterline where the prince sipped his beer and kicked at the warm sand.
Then he looked up and saw a withered old man. Al-Rahman had not heard him approach, and he stared up in surprise. Cursing angrily, he pushed himself to his feet. He looked around for his bodyguards, but they were nowhere in sight. The old man stared at him and grinned. “How are you Prince al-Rahman?” he asked in heavily accented English. His voice was weak and raspy, and he smelled of cigar smoke and dry breath.
The prince glared with contempt. “Who are you?” he demanded in a sour tone.
The man smiled weakly. He looked old and decrepit; fine white hair and large teeth were his predominate features, but he moved quickly and with an energy that belied his small frame. His eyes seemed to glow yellow from some inner furnace and al-Rahman wondered quickly how old the man was? He could have been 60 or 100, it was hard to say, for his face was blotched with liver spots but his eyes were young and intense. And though his face seemed ageless, he flashed a fast smile, his white teeth jutting brightly underneath a bony nose.
The old man pointed a slender hand to the east. “Your father is a fool,” he said without introduction.
Al-Rahman glared but didn’t answer. The old man waited, then ran a withered finger across his lips, wiping away a line of dried spit.
“Speak not evil of my father!” al-Rahman sneered angrily.
The old man scoff
ed, looked away, then glanced down the beach. “Al-Rahman, please, don’t play the loyal son with me. There’s no need to impress me. I know what’s in your heart, and I don’t have the time or inclination for role-playing right now. We need to focus on our enemies, those we both need to bring down.”
Al-Rahman shook his head uncertainly, then shot a quick look back at the resort. Three men stood at the top of the trail leading from the beach to the pool. Large men. Caucasian. Determined. Dark glasses and dark suit coats to hide their sidearms. None of the faces were familiar and he swore to himself. It was suddenly very quiet, as if the sound of the street traffic on the other side of the hotel had stopped. He glanced east, down the beach to a line of low trees and saw another stranger standing in shorts and an oversized shirt. An enormous beach towel was draped over his shoulders and al-Rahman knew where his pistol was concealed. Behind him, in the distance, barely a bird on the horizon, a gray helicopter hovered above the coastline.
He glanced left and right, feeling naked, his gut tied in knots and his underarms sweating. For the first time in his life, he knew he was alone.
Where had his men gone? Cowards! He would have them shot!
Al-Rahman glared at the stranger, then nodded toward the hotel. “Who are they?” he demanded.
The old man looked up and hesitated, as if he didn’t know.
Al-Rahman growled, “Come on, old man, tell me!”
The old man glanced at the bodyguards. “They work for me. That’s all you need to know.”
“Where are my people?”
“It seems they have left.”
Prince al-Rahman shook his head in disbelief. Could it be true? He will have them shot! The old man watched him, then reached down and adjusted his loose T-shirt, pulling it down over his bony hips. “Don’t blame your men,” he said softly. “They did their best. My people are better, that’s all.”
Al-Rahman felt the panic rising, a knot of fear growing tight in his throat. His eyes darted up and down the beach, thinking of how he might escape. Another man appeared near the tree line. Al-Rahman looked in the other direction where a small schooner had planted itself on the beach. The two men who worked the small anchor kept a focused eye on the intruder.
His mind began racing. Was this a kidnapping? A murder? One of his rival cousins? He swore and looked down at the sand, then glared at the old man.
The stranger read the look on his face. “No harm, no foul,” he said calmly. “You are not in danger. Your men are not far away. So relax and forgive me, but I wanted to speak with you alone.”
“Who are you?” al-Rahman demanded. “What do you want?”
The old man smiled, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a stick of chewing gum. He unwrapped it quickly and dropped the blue wrapper on the sand. “I want the same thing as you do,” he answered simply.
“How do you know what I want?”
The man smiled again, his glowing yellow eyes burning bright. “I know the hearts of most men. I know how they think and I know how they feel. I know what they desire and what they are willing to do. That’s what I know. And that’s what I know about you.”
Al-Rahman was quiet as the fear began to subside in his heart. He glanced past the old man. “How did you get past my bodyguards?” he asked. The old man dismissed the question, but waved a bony finger in front of his chest. “We need the royal family to hold on to power,” he said. “Your father, the monarch, must not go through with his plans. The last thing we need is another democracy in the Middle East. I’d say the filthy Jews are enough, don’t you agree?”
Al-Rahman certainly did, but he still didn’t answer, and the old man wet his dry lips again. “Your father will ruin everything unless we stop him,” he said.
Al-Rahman snorted in disgust. “My father is a fool,” he answered bitterly.
“No! You are wrong. You might as well say the sun comes up in the west as to call your father a fool. The king is a visionary! The most dangerous kind. But he is no fool, I promise, and until you understand that you will be useless to me.”
Al-Rahman stood silent. He wouldn’t quibble over words. Fool. Visionary. “Whatever,” he said.
The old man studied the prince, knowing he had not understood, but he also saw the fire of hatred and that was enough. “Your father isn’t the only enemy you have, Prince al-Rahman!” he continued. “You have more enemies than you know of, and I’m not talking about jealous brothers, bitter cousins or betrayed friends. I’m not talking about any man in the kingdom who could do you harm. I’m talking about the only real enemy you have, the only real force that could take from both of us what we most desire in this life.”
Al-Rahman stared at him. “What are you talking about?” he answered bitterly. Al-Rahman always spoke sharply—being raised as a prince made one prone to be rude—but his tone had changed now. His voice was soft and clearly interested.
“We can change things,” was all the old man said.
Simple words. Certainly not threatening. No indication of menace or obvious harm. But something inside the young prince trembled. We can change things. Yes, that was something he would like to see!
The prince thought a long moment, then pushed the trembling feeling aside. “Who are you?” he demanded in a demeaning sneer. “Who are you, old man, and what can you do?”
The man cocked his head toward his left shoulder. “Oh a few things,” he offered simply. “Like, I don’t know. For example, we caused the American invasion of Iraq. OK, I overstated. We didn’t cause it, at least not literally, but we certainly facilitated the natural progression of events. That’s no big thing, I suppose. Nothing, except for what did it lead to? Twenty trillion dollars of economic contraction. Governments toppled. Governments on the edge. People rethinking their expectations for the next entire generation. A reordering of the security relationship between citizens and governments all over the world. The U.S. government is certainly among those who have been affected, taking advantage of the crisis to reorder things, at least as much as they could, with the men that were in place.”
He paused, glancing toward al-Rahman. “Not bad, for a first step.” His voice was sarcastic and disdainful. “And we could do it again. In fact, there’s a chance that we will.”
Al-Rahman turned away when the old man looked at him.
“As to who we are,” the old one concluded, his dry spit bridging a white line between his lips. “Look where all the money goes today. Trillions of U.S. dollars being moved here and there. I know, I know, the saying is trite and overly simplified, but in this case it is at least partly true. Follow the money, and the power. That will tell you who we are.”
The prince didn’t move, the stiff breeze blowing back his hair. Although the fading sun shone upon him, he trembled again.
The old man turned to stare out on the water. “Now, do you want me to show you how to stop your old man?” he asked
Al-Rahman glanced around him, then was silent again.
The old man nodded. “Yes, I thought that you might. Now quickly. Come with me to the airport and I will show you a few things you need to know.”
* * *
A short flight later, the two men sat in a rented car parked on a side street, half a block from the American Embassy in Paris. It was dark and warm, and the Parisian streets were busy around them. Cement barricades blocked the street twenty yards in front of their black Mercedes-Benz SUV, and a contingent of gendarmes guarded the security booth near the barricades.
Prince al-Rahman shifted nervously in the back seat of the Mercedes Benz. A driver and another bodyguard sat in the front, but a dark, bulletproof glass separated the front and back seats. The old man sat beside him. Al-Rahman still did not yet know his name. The old man glanced at his watch, then began to explain. “The American ambassador is hosting a reception for the Saudi OPEC delegation,” he said. “You probably know that. It has been in the news. The public explanation for the reception is to strengthen the American ties to the
lead OPEC nation, but the real reason for the meeting goes far beyond that.”
The prince shot a look toward his new friend. “What else?” he asked.
The old man shifted, moving himself forward in the seat. “The U.S. secretary of state will be at the meeting. They will sign a document that will guarantee the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia will not reduce its output of oil for at least the next five years. It will also guarantee Saudi Arabia will exert its influence to ensure that none of the other OPEC nations will reduce their production as well. In exchange, the U.S. military will reassign the First Marine Expeditionary Force to the military base outside Dhahran. See, your father, King Faysal, knows the transition to democracy may be difficult at times and having a U.S. military presence established again in the kingdom will likely reduce the threat of bloodshed and instability. So everyone gets what they want. The United States secures its desperate need for oil as well as a reestablished military presence in Saudi Arabia, and the king gets the stabilizing influence of U.S. forces for the next twenty years. That is the essence of the secret deal that will be signed here tonight. No one will ever know.”
Al-Rahman nodded gravely. He had already heard rumors and he wasn’t completely surprised.
The two men were silent and the night grew darker around them. The old man reached to the console between them and pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit up, the orange-yellow glow illuminating his scrawny face. He offered one to al-Rahman, who took it and lit up with his own silver lighter. The old man pointed to one of the gendarmes who stood near the cement barricades. “Do you see the young sergeant there?” he asked. “The one in the black hat?”
Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 Page 2
