Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  Azadeh shook her head. “It is not fair,” she whispered, speaking more to herself. Feeling a bitter swell of emotion, she wiped at her eyes.

  Pari pressed forward and kissed Azadeh’s cheek. When she pulled back, her face was peaceful and she smiled, her eyes calm. She reached for Azadeh’s hands and intertwined their fingers. “Azadeh, you and I are so much alike. I keep smiling. You keep smiling. We both see the good in this life. And we have so much in common; I mean right here and now. Your entire life lies before you, bright, perhaps uncertain, but still beautiful. We have both seen our share of shadows, but there are such bright days ahead. You have so much to look forward to. I know that you do.

  “But listen to me, Azadeh, for you have to know this is true. You have so much to look forward to. But so do I, dear. You have this life. I have another. You have this world. I have the next. There are bright days ahead, bright days for you, but bright days for me as well.”

  Azadeh nodded slowly, her eyes rimmed in red.

  Pari pressed her fingers, and then kissed her cheek again. “Now listen to me, Azadeh, for I know this is true. All of us have a special mission, a special work in this life. I did. And so do you. God will direct you. He will help you. I know that He will. So don’t you worry about me, Azadeh. Instead, we’ve got to worry about you.”

  * * *

  The stranger stood on the low hill outside the fence, looking over the camp. The sycamore branches hung low, and he kept in the shadows. He was an Arab, poorly dressed, but the gear in his pockets was worth a great deal.

  His master wanted a final confirmation that the target was still in Khorramshahr. So he waited and he watched, ever patient.

  A little more than an hour after entering Pari’s cabin, she appeared at the door once again. She paused on the threshold to pull on her shoes, then shut the door behind her and made her way down the path. Even from the distance, he recognized her. She was too beautiful.

  He quickly pulled out the camera with the powerful telephoto lens and snapped a dozen pictures.

  Yes. It was her. There was no doubt in his mind.

  Twenty thousand dollars was a very fine sum. But she was worth it, he could see that. She was worth that, and more.

  EIGHTEEN

  Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

  After learning of Pari’s disease, Azadeh worried and stewed, the frustration simmering until she could no longer sleep. After three days, she walked up the hill to the camp administration building and talked to a burly man standing guard, who told her she would have to wait.

  Hours later, she was admitted through the front door and escorted to a small office near the back of the building, where a worn and tired man was waiting behind a worn and cluttered desk. His nameplate read:

  MR. SEBASTIAN RAULE

  Special Assistant to the Administrator

  The assistant studied her carefully. This one, he remembered from when she first came to Khorramshahr. He smiled at her, a wry and pleasureless turn of his lips. “How may I help you?” he asked as he sat forward in his chair.

  Azadeh spent the next five minutes explaining the situation with Pari. Raule appeared only to half listen while he doodled on a yellow pad.

  “There was political influence that tried to keep her here,” Azadeh concluded in a determined voice. “Then she was diagnosed with tuberculosis, and improperly treated, as you surely must know. But she is no longer contagious. There is no reason to make her stay here anymore.”

  The thin man checked his watch and impatiently bounced his pen.

  “Can you help her?” Azadeh begged him. “There must be something you can do!”

  Without answering, Raule swung around in his chair and pulled a small, leather binder from the cheap credenza at his right. He flipped through the pages until he came to Pari’s name, reviewing the administrative notes, though he pretty much knew what they said.

  “Her case has been sent to the review panel in Kuwait,” he explained. “From there it was passed on to the Red Cross office in either Belgium or Washington, D.C. Once the paperwork leaves the camp, there’s not a thing I can do.”

  “You could call. Write a letter. The poor woman has been waiting for years!”

  The assistant shook his head and forced a look of sadness onto his face. “I’m sorry. There is nothing. Now if you have anything else—”

  “NO!” Azadeh shouted, leaning toward the old desk. “You can’t dismiss her with a simple wave of your hand! You can’t dismiss Pari al-Faruqi as if she were some nameless thing!”

  Mr. Raule shook his head. “I’m sorry, but she’s a problem. We do the best that we can.”

  “She isn’t a problem, she’s a woman! A human being, you fool!”

  Raule sat speechless for a moment, then lifted up in his chair. “Let me remind you,” he started, his voice low with rage.

  Azadeh’s face had already turned gray. She huddled in the chair, her eyes wide in horror. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered, almost falling to her knees. “I’m so sorry! It was wrong . . . I was wrong to say what I did. I’m sorry, my Sayid.” She kept her head bowed as if expecting a blow, not daring to look. “It is not like me to say such a thing, Master Raule. It is not how I have been taught. You are no fool. I was wrong. I’m very sorry, Sayid.”

  Raule sat back down, glaring at the girl. He let the moment linger, the silence hanging painfully in the air. Azadeh waited before carefully lifting her eyes. She wondered if she dared go on. “Master Raule, please,” she finally whispered, “couldn’t you try to find some way to let her go home?”

  “She has no home now, Miss Pahlavi.”

  Azadeh started to speak, then fell silent again.

  “She has no home,” Raule repeated. “She has nowhere to go.” Azadeh looked up, her dark eyes growing wet. Raule shifted his weight as he pulled uncomfortably on his pen. There was something about Azadeh that he couldn’t resist and he finally leaned toward her, placing his arms on his desk. “She is better off here,” he said, his voice soft now. “I’m not just saying that, Miss Pahlavi, I believe it is true. She has nowhere else to go.”

  He stopped and watched her. “But even if what I just said wasn’t true, I am but one tiny cog in a world of grinding, meshing gears. There is very little I can influence. Very little I can do.

  “Now, if you will let me be honest, I will tell you the truth. It is extremely unlikely that your friend will be granted a release from Khorramshahr. She is old. She has little to offer, and no family or friends to take her in. Even if she were to leave Khorramshahr, she would only end up in some other camp, a different name, but another place just like this. I’m sorry, Miss Pahlavi, but I have seen this before. It would be best to accept it. I know Mrs. Al-Faruqi has.”

  “But she has only accepted it because she knows nothing else. You have beaten her down, robbed her of any hope. If you were to give her the option, if you found her a home, I believe she would leave here. Look around! Wouldn’t you? Please, isn’t there something, isn’t there anything you could do?”

  The assistant stared a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “I am powerless,” he answered. And it was the truth. The U.N. bureaucracy was the largest and most vicious in the world. He knew the old woman would die here. And she wouldn’t be the first.

  He stared blankly at Azadeh.

  Azadeh closed her eyes and cursed.

  NINETEEN

  Ghesha Ghetto, East of Kirkuk, Iraq

  The two Iraqis stood facing each other in the back of the store, the sounds of the overcrowded slum penetrating the thin windows and cracks around the poorly fitted door that faced out on the alley. The faint smell of sewage and stewed cabbage drifted through the shutters of the darkened window, and the room was still chilly from the cold cement walls.

  The men wore dark, unsmiling faces.

  Former lower-ranking members of Saddam’s ruling Baathist party, for years these men had ruled through intimidation and fear, assisting in the rape of Iraq and I
raqi women as these men sought to satisfy their slightest desire. Now they were left with nothing but bitterness and hate. Having tasted power, they were going through the equivalent of heroin withdrawal, and it was clear from their actions they valued nothing now—not their families, not their country, barely even their lives.

  The leader was a short man with a thin neck whose head strained awkwardly when he looked up to talk. Although he had a dark beard, he was bald, and his baldness reflected the light of the single bulb overhead.

  “Why is he willing to pay so much for this girl?” the short leader demanded his voice thick with sha, the opiate tea he drank every day.

  The store owner frowned. “I don’t know,” he replied defensively, many years of resentment boiling in his thick voice. A former army officer, he was not used to being questioned, and his eyes flashed with anger, his brow furrowing into a deep scowl.

  The leader gritted his teeth. “I don’t like it,” he sneered. “You can buy a girl, any girl, I don’t care how young or beautiful, for ten thousand American dollars. He is paying two times the market. Something is going on.” The leader stared at the shop owner, who hunched his shoulders and scowled. “Who is he? Where did he come from? Why does he want her so badly?”

  The shop owner stood square, staring into the young leader’s face. “I’ll tell you why he wants her! Because she is young and beautiful. And he is American. They think they can buy anything! Twenty thousand dollars! That may be little more than a month’s wage to him! I don’t know. I don’t care!” He swore bitterly. “Who are you to question when I make a good deal? If I had sold her for ten thousand, you would be angry too. I bring you a deal with enormous profits, and you are worried because I don’t know who the buyer is! Do we know any of our buyers? No. Not a one. Now, are you going to get the girl or should I go somewhere else?”

  The smaller man stared defiantly, glaring into his subordinate’s eyes. There were issues here, he could see that, issues he could not ignore, but he would deal with them later. There was always time to make adjustments in the attitudes of his men. Working in Saddam’s political chambers had taught him many things.

  He took two deep breaths, then frowned and nodded toward the wooden door that led into the shop. “Is the American out there?” he asked.

  The other man nodded yes.

  “I will talk to him,” he said, walking toward the door.

  * * *

  The American was waiting beside the counter near the front of the nearly empty store. Emerging from the back door, the Iraqi leader walked toward him; the American turned and waited until the two men stood face-to-face. This was the Iraqi’s land, his neighborhood, and he stood with confidence, not intimidated by the American’s money or wealth. The American was the stranger in this part of the world, and the Iraqi stood too close, knowing it would make him uncomfortable. He studied the stranger, making a swift appraisal of him. Soft hands were a sign that a man could not take care of himself, and he glanced down. This man’s hands were dark and hard. Many days in the sun. A long way from soft, and certainly not manicured. The Iraqi grunted, a little surprised; most of the Americans he had dealt with were soft-padded poodles from the city who couldn’t change a flat tire or load a weapon if their lives depended on it. He moved his eyes up to the man’s shoulders, which were broad and strong. Many Americans strengthened themselves—part of how they worshipped their bodies—and there was nothing unusual about the strength of his arms. But there was something lean in the muscles. They were taut and quick. These were the muscles of a fighter, not a fool who spent his time mindlessly lifting weights.

  The Iraqi felt the first stab of fear.

  Then he studied the face, the shaggy hair and hard eyes.

  There was something about this American, something familiar. He had not seen this face, but he’d seen that look before.

  The Iraqi bit his lip, even more uncomfortable. “You came to discuss the girl?” he snorted in barely understandable English.

  The American nodded toward the shop owner, who was standing near the back of the store. “He said he could get what I wanted, but it would take two weeks. Things have changed. I want her now.”

  The Iraqi was suspicious. “What’s your hurry, good master?” he asked.

  The American glared. “Does it matter?”

  “No, my Sayid,” the Iraqi answered sarcastically as he bowed. “But these things can be difficult.”

  “Can you do it? Yes or no?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. It’s just that—”

  “I’m leaving the country in three days. Can you get her by then?”

  “Oh, no, my Sayid. It will take longer than that.”

  “How long?”

  “At least a week. She is inside Khorramshahr, which you must know is a U.N. refugee camp. If she were in Iran or a village under Iraqi control, I could have her tonight. It would be easy, my friend. But the refugee camps are much more difficult—you must know that is true. Perhaps I could interest you in another one of our—”

  “No,” the American snapped. “I only want her.”

  The Iraqi stepped back and forced a smile. “You must be buying for a very, ah, how do you say in your language? Ah yes. A very particular buyer.”

  “Who I buy for doesn’t matter. All I want to know is, can you get her by Saturday? It’s a simple question, Mr. Zubaida.”

  The Iraqi scowled with anger. How did this man know my name?

  He shook his head. “Very difficult. Maybe, if we were to pay the right people, pull a few strings here and there—but it will be much more expensive. Our cost would go very high. I will say we can do it, but it might cost another five or six thousand dollars.”

  The American leaned toward the Iraqi, his eyes bright and intense. “Then you will take it out of your profits, which were already very generous, my friend. I will come back in three days, and I want that girl. Have her here, we are all happy. Disappoint me, and I shut you down.”

  “Shut me down?” the Iraqi scoffed as he turned away. “Don’t make me angry, you American fool! You cannot touch me, not here. If we were in Baghdad, in the American sector, then maybe, but this is not your world, my friend.” He snorted again. “Shut me down! What an idiot! What are you going to do?”

  The American took a step forward. “I did not mean shut down your business, my friend.”

  The Iraqi took another step back, glancing anxiously toward his partner, who was standing quietly near the back door. Who was this American? His gut tightened up.

  The American moved his hand, flipping aside the open flap on his jacket. The Iraqi saw the pistol and glared angrily.

  “There are things I could do,” the American said through clenched teeth. “Things you are familiar with. Things you have done too.” His eyes glinted in the dim light, and the Iraqi saw that look once again, that look he had seen too often before.

  “You and I are the same,” the American hissed. “We understand each other. You know that we do. Now, I’m coming back on Saturday, and I want that girl.”

  The Iraqi pressed his lips together and nodded.

  The American turned and walked out the front door.

  The Iraqi cursed at him, keeping his head down until he heard the door close.

  Oh, how he hated the Americans. How he hated them all!

  Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

  The former Baathist party leader was escorted through the front gates at Khorramshahr. The camp looked like any other he had been to, and he kicked his feet through the dirt and dead grass, not noticing the few trees and wildflowers along the fence on the east.

  The man wore dark pants, white shirt, and black turban. He didn’t remove his dark glasses, which he wore to hide his red eyes. He waited impatiently on the wood porch of the administration building, listening carefully to the sounds of the camp. It was afternoon, and the sun was hidden behind a thin haze, enough to soften his shadow and reduce the afternoon heat but not enough keep him from sweati
ng profusely, a steady stream of perspiration beading on his heavy brow.

  The administration building was built on a small hill overlooking Khorramshahr. A ten-foot barbed-wire fence surrounded the camp, but it was in disrepair and generally unnecessary, as none of the camp’s occupants had anywhere to go. To the north were the cafeteria and improvised school. Rows of identical plywood huts had been built on the flats to the west, and south of them were rows of multicolored tents, which housed the newest refugees. The stranger stared at the tents, hoping to get a glimpse of the girl. Behind him, up near the trees, some refugees were burning the contents of the latrines, an inky black smoke drifting from the fifty-gallon drums.

  A little after 3 p.m., Mr. Raule came out on the porch where the Iraqi was waiting. “The administrator will see you now,” he said. The Iraqi followed the pasty-looking French officer into the building.

  The administration building was simply laid out, with small cubicles lining both sides of the tile-covered room. Little furniture, no decorations, a small clock on the wall. Four offices took up the space at the back of the building, and Mr. Raule led the Iraqi to the largest of them.

  The camp administrator was a French career civil servant, a man who had spent his entire professional life working through the monstrous bureaucracy that was the U.N. He had finally, and proudly, reached a place where he owned his own kingdom and he exuded an air of smugness that was almost tangible and repugnant. He was an overly neat man, small, with a tightly trimmed white mustache and a hairline that had receded past the midpoint of his head. His office was sparse, clean, and all business: metal desk, metal cabinets, metal wastebasket, metal chairs. A single window looked out on the camp, but the blinds were closed. As the Iraqi was escorted into the room, the U.N. administrator stood and moved quickly from behind his desk, every motion efficient. He had little time.

  The men shook hands, but the French administrator did not invite the Iraqi to sit down. “What can I do for you?” he wondered, getting right to the point.