Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  The president frowned. He had been a huge fan of the Saudi king, but he disliked his sons. “What about that arrogant man, what’s his name, Abdullah? What’s going on with him?”

  “Sir, we’re hearing a few rumors—Jordan’s King Mohammad has been very helpful and a few others as well—but that’s all we have right now, rumors and whispers. Still, it appears that Prince Abdullah al-Rahman has already ascended, or will soon ascend, to the throne. But again, that’s only rumor; we really don’t know. He certainly isn’t the only one interested in being king. If he has consolidated power already, it would be remarkable. And as you know, sir, the House of Saud is a tight little family. They hate each other, yes, but they never talk. It was easier for us to split the atom than to crack the secrecy around the royal family. They all might have been killed by falling meteorites, and we wouldn’t know. Until we hear something definitive, all we can do is guess. So while we are attempting to make contact with Al-Rahman or his subordinates, right now we have to sit tight.”

  “I’ve never liked Abdullah,” the president said. “He’s a spoiled little twit. He’s got a few guns, he feels invincible, but he’s nothing without his posse and some cash in the bank.”

  “If he’s the next king, we have problems,” Grison replied.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about Abdullah. I can take care of him,” the president said.

  Brighton sat forward in his chair. He knew the royal family perhaps better than anyone, and the president’s estimation of Al-Rahman was clean off the mark. “Mr. President,” he said, “I must respectfully disagree. Abdullah is a dangerous man. Maybe very dangerous. We’ll have to approach him carefully.”

  “He’s nothing!” the president shot back. “He’s a spoiled kid, oversexed and over-moneyed. No brains. No ambition. No direction. No core. If he’s the next king, that’s fine. I know how to deal with him. I’ve dealt with worse men before.”

  Brighton shook his head slowly. “No sir, that’s simply not true. You don’t know him. None of us do. It would be foolish, even stupid, to underestimate this man.”

  The room fell suddenly silent, the general’s words hanging like a chill in the air. No one talked to the president of the United States that way. It was an incredibly stupid thing to say. Undiplomatic and unacceptable in every sense of the word.

  The president stared at Brighton. The general returned his gaze, never blinking. The president smiled.

  “Sir,” Brighton continued, “forgive me for speaking so bluntly. I certainly don’t mean to offend. But the truth is, Mr. President, something is going on. We’ve got high leaders throughout the Arab world dropping like flies. The Saudi king. The crown prince. His family. Now it has spread beyond Saudi shores. General Sattam bin Mamdayh, head of the ultra-secret Iranian Interior Police. Abu Nidal Atta, deputy director of Pakistan’s Special Weapons Section. Both of them dead. Their governments deny it, but we know it is true. And the one thing all of these men held in common was their association with Prince Abdullah al-Rahman.”

  The general sat back, feeling a trickle of sweat move down the side of his ribs.

  The president placed his fingertips together and lifted his hands to his face, covering his mouth and resting his chin on his thumbs. Muted voices could be heard in the hallway, and a security helicopter flew overhead, vibrating the windows gently against their old wooden frames.

  Brighton lifted his eyes and leaned forward in his seat. “I’m just saying, Mr. President, and you’ll forgive me for being so frank, but I’ve got a bad feeling. I think we need to presume the worst.”

  “You always do, General Brighton.”

  “That’s why you pay me, sir. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

  Grison looked at Brighton, and then cut in anxiously. “There’s another little thing, Mr. President that we need to talk about. It may be nothing, and we hate to bring this to you when it is so preliminary, but some of my staff,” Grison glanced at General Brighton again, “particularly General Brighton feels this is something worth bringing up.”

  The president waited, sipping his southern tea.

  “You remember our Jackson Teams?” Grison said.

  The president frowned. “They are what, some guys up in New York? They monitor the SEC or something, right?”

  “Sort of, Mr. President. The team consists of Homeland Security agents, SEC investigators, some guys from Justice as well. But the team leaders are all FBI agents, and the team is under FBI control. The Jackson Team is tasked with monitoring suspicious trends in trading, securities, currency markets, that sort of thing.”

  The president sipped again at his tea, studying his security advisers over the rim of the glass. “Sounds like law enforcement,” he said. “Why are you guys involved?”

  Brighton sat back in his chair as he explained, “Sir, the Jackson Team was put together with the 9/11 Commission’s recommendation. It is based on the theory that, before we would see another major attack, there would be some indicators on Wall Street.”

  The president scowled. Out of the hundreds of issues he discussed every day, national security was his highest priority. But it had been clearly overshadowed by a crumbling economy now that was not getting better. The American people were nearly in a panic. They were demanding action. Jobs. A ray of light amid the chaos. A sense that things were going to move forward! That an entire generation wasn’t going to be lost. For good or bad, these were the things now that kept him awake at night.

  On the national security front, there were ten thousand security programs and procedures that had been put in place, or were being put in place, or were being considered, or were being funded, or studied, or talked about by his staff. There was simply no way he could remember them all. So while this whole Jackson thing was faintly familiar, it was still full of holes. “I don’t see how Wall Street can give us warning,” he stated suspiciously.

  Brighton continued. “Sir, the Jackson Team operates on the premise that before a terrorist organization or hostile government were to launch a major attack against the United States, they would provide some kind of warning to their financiers. You have to consider, Mr. President, every terrorist organization, whether al Qaeda or a hostile government, gets its funding from somewhere. We know that a lot of that money comes from wealthy individuals throughout the Middle East, individuals who have, ironically, financial interest in the West. And we hope that, before we would see a major attack on our soil, we would see some movement in the market as these individuals begin to liquidate their U.S. assets—”

  “Their terrorist comrades would warn them before they attacked?”

  “We think that they might.”

  “So they could cash in their assets? Jump like a rat from a ship?”

  “That is our hope.”

  The president shook his head. It seemed unlikely to him that was clear from the look on his face.

  “You have to remember, Mr. President,” General Brighton went on, “the financial cost of the 9/11 attacks to our nation was more than ten trillion dollars. The market tanked. The dollar fell. The recession lasted almost three years. Then, after 9/11, when we were going back through our records, we discovered a very interesting thing. Several extremely wealthy Saudi princes started diversifying their U.S. assets just a few weeks before the attacks.”

  The president’s tea froze in midair. “They shorted us? They made money predicting how our markets would fall?”

  “Not really, sir. It appears they weren’t so much interested in making money from the market’s collapse as they were interested in not losing everything they had invested over here.”

  “OK,” the president answered. He glanced at his watch, and then turned back to Grison. “So, where are you going with this, Bo? What do I need to know?”

  Grison folded his hands on his lap. “Mr. President, our Jackson Team has seen indications that have caused us concern. Significant Saudi holdings have been moved from U.S. markets to various holdings overseas. Almost ten billion
dollars have left our country in just a few weeks.”

  “Are you telling me the Saudis are dumping their U.S. assets before another terrorist attack?”

  “We don’t know, Mr. President. But we think it is worth looking at.”

  The president caught his breath. “It might be a purely financial decision,” he countered. “I mean, you have the Saudis, the Europeans, the Chinese and Japanese, most of the world moves in and out of our markets every day. We live in a global economy; trillions of dollars cross our borders in any twenty-four-hour period. Our unemployment rate is stuck in the stratosphere. Gas prices have started climbing again. Another bitter fight over the debt limit coming up. Don’t you think it might be nothing more than a reaction to the market?”

  The general moved his head slightly but didn’t say anything. This wasn’t a reaction to high unemployment and fuel prices. He was certain of that.

  “A purely financial adjustment?” the president prodded.

  “We can never be certain,” Grison replied. “But it is a significant adjustment, if that’s all it is.”

  General Brighton leaned forward again, but Grison’s eyes warned him off. He had been cautioned before the meeting, and he had already said too much. But General Brighton knew there was something else—something the president really needed to know.

  The royal families of the House of Saud weren’t the only ones dumping U.S. stocks and securities. A firm up in New York City was dumping as well—dumping so much and so fast, it would have been impossible not to take note. Jackson Team or no, it was obvious.

  Which meant one of two things: They were either stupid or scared.

  And the men of Drexel were not stupid.

  So the general swallowed hard.

  FIVE

  Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iran/Iraq Border

  Mr. Sebastian Raule, special assistant to the camp administrator at Khorramshahr, stared at the paper that he held in shaking hands. His mouth went dry. His heart beat like a butterfly wing in his chest.

  It was not possible! He read the dispatch again and again, and then held it up to the light to study the signature.

  It appeared to be real.

  What was he going to do?

  He put the paper down and turned to his telephone. The yellow light in the corner of the black receiver was blinking weakly; there was only one line into Khorramshahr and it was already in use. He was almost relieved. He didn’t know what he would say when he made the call anyway. He turned back to the dispatch and read it for the fifth time, then turned again to the telephone. The light was out. He picked up the receiver and dialed with a shaking hand, his pointer finger jammed into the rotary dial.

  His knees bounced anxiously as he waited for the call to go through. The telephone clicked and hummed through forty-year-old communications switching machines, then fell silent. Yes, there was cell phone coverage in some of the most remote villages in Africa, but not here at Khorramshahr! He was just thinking he might have been cut off when he heard a man’s voice, “U.N. Baghdad mission headquarters.”

  “Yes, this is Sebastian Raule calling from Khorramshahr. I need to speak with Mr. Conner. Is he available?”

  “Mr. Conner. Let me see. May I ask again who is calling?”

  “Sebastian Raule. I’m the assistant—”

  “Yes, Mr. Raule, I know who you are. Let me see if Mr. Conner is in.”

  The telephone hummed again as he was placed on hold, then he heard the American pick up the phone. The director of the U.N. mission in Baghdad answered in a hurried tone. “Conner,” he said.

  Raule swallowed tensely.

  The director of the U.N. mission in Baghdad was the big dog at the top of the pile. The Americans were calling most of the shots in Iraq—a fact that drove the other U.N. representatives crazy, especially those from the E.U.—and Conner was the point man for all the U.N. officers working in-country.

  “Yes, Mr. Conner,” Raule began, his voice diminutive and polite. “My name is Sebastian Raule. I’m calling from the Khorramshahr refugee camp—”

  “Yes, yes, Sebastian.” The American chuckled. “I know who you are. And I think I know why you’re calling.” He laughed again.

  Raule couldn’t help feeling that the American was laughing at him. He hesitated, and then asked, “Well yes, sir, I don’t suppose you are surprised I might call. I have the message from your office, and I must say I find it remarkable. It raises so many questions. Honestly, I’m not sure how to proceed. But before I did anything, I wanted to confirm that this was legitimate?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Raule. It is perfectly legitimate, I assure you.”

  “And you think I should—”

  “What I think, Mr. Raule, doesn’t matter a lot. She is your responsibility. But I have every confidence you will handle the situation with appropriate courtesy and dispatch.”

  Raule was silent a moment, then said, “Sir, there is the issue of repatriation.”

  “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “Then, sir, you might also be aware there is the possibility she may not be amenable to an offer.”

  Conner wasn’t surprised. He had been briefed by his staff, and they had indicated that might be the case. Her family, all killed. Nowhere to go. Miserable as it was, after half a lifetime of waiting, Khorramshahr had become her home. “After almost twenty years, I can see why she might have lost some interest,” Conner said. It wasn’t a personal dig at Raule, just a dig at the system that could fail so miserably.

  Raule exhaled, embarrassed. “Yes, Mr. Conner, it’s been a long time.”

  “Too long,” Conner answered, a bit more acidly. “The U.N., I’m afraid, is not very good at these things.”

  “Yes, yes,” Raule answered, then let his voice trail off. “But sir, that could create some . . . ah, interesting issues if she does not want to go.”

  “Yes it would, yes it would. With that consideration in mind, maybe you ought to head down and have a long talk with Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi.”

  Raule was silent again. “It is an awful lot of money,” he then added, almost speaking to himself.

  “Yeah, you could say that. And I understand she isn’t well?”

  “No, sir, not well. Not well at all.”

  “Then I wouldn’t hesitate, Mr. Raule. I would talk to her today.”

  The French assistant to the administrator was silent. That was one of the problems with the Americans. They were a sentimental bunch. They all loved a good story, an underdog, come-from-behind, happy ending. But this might not end so happily. He thought of Pari and how poorly she had looked the last time he had seen her. Since Azadeh had been taken, her health had fallen dramatically.

  “Mr. Conner,” Raule questioned, “if I could, sir, just one more thing before I let you go. Can you tell me why the sudden change of mind? I mean, not only about the money, but also clearing her husband’s name. After all these years, can you tell me what changed?”

  Conner hesitated. “The administration is exerting enormous pressure on the regime,” he finally said. “The E.U. is also pushing. The president of the E.U. had a meeting with the Iranians last week. Apparently one of the messages he gave them was to clean up the camps. ‘Take care of them or the United States will take care of them for us,’ he said. It would be much worse for the mullahs if that happened, much worse for everyone. So the Europeans, your countrymen, are running interference for the Iranians. God bless their wicked little hearts, the last thing they want now is for the United States to get involved. So the Iranians have decided to clean up the camps, and they know they can’t leave her out there. Her old man knew too many people, and they’re not going to forget. Better to free it up and get it behind them, then move on to the next phase.”

  Raule listened, shaking his head. He knew there was something more to the story, something much deeper—not obvious, but something he didn’t know. Did Conner know the story? Maybe. Maybe not. But this much was clear to anyone who could think: The mullahs had not made their decis
ion because they were afraid of the U.N. Nor had they agreed because they suffered from a streak of sudden generosity.

  The United States had something on them. He was certain of that.

  There was an untold story somewhere under the dirt. But it really didn’t matter. It was what it was, and now it was in his lap.

  The silence grew long as Raule considered.

  “Anything else, Mr. Raule?” Conner asked, ready to end the call.

  “No, sir,” Raule answered.

  “Call if I can be of any help.”

  “I will, sir, I will.”

  “You know, Mr. Raule, I wouldn’t delay meeting with Mrs. Pari al-Faruqi. Maybe I’m going out on a limb on this,” Conner stopped to laugh, “but I suspect she might be one of the wealthiest women in your camp.” Conner laughed again. So delicious. A happy irony. “She’s not an everyday refugee,” he continued. “Never was. Never will be. Maybe it’s time some of your folks down there realized that was true.”

  “I suppose so,” Raule answered dryly. “Good day to you, sir.”

  He hung up the phone. Staring at the receiver, he took a deep breath. And, as he thought, he couldn’t help it. His lips slowly turned into a smile.

  Justice was fickle, moody and unpredictable. Sometimes she was gracious, but far more often she was vague and ambivalent, even apathetic, always ready to turn a blind eye. Raule had seen it, grown used to it, and accepted it; he had seen too much injustice not to have grown cynical. After forty-five years, he knew that justice was not the norm, although he conceded that God still might wield it in the next world.