The truth was, he knew Azadeh could be literally anywhere. Once she had been taken from Khorramshahr, she could have been smuggled to a dozen locations in the world: Asia, the Middle East, Europe, even the United States.
He frowned at the irony.
Who did he think that he was? Some kind of special super agent? An undercover spy? This wasn’t the movies, this was real. He was no hero, and certainly no superman.
He looked at his worn-out, brown suit and rubbed his thin knee. He was none of those things. He was a mouse of a man who had spent his entire life pushing papers from one steel desk to the next. From one U.N. assignment to another, it had been the same thing. He had never shot a gun, never interrogated anyone, and never investigated so much as a misplaced marker. Yet here he was, seeking to locate a young woman who had been taken from his refugee camp and now could be anywhere.
He shook his head in frustration. What were the chances of success? Maybe one in a thousand. Maybe much less than that.
But once Raule discovered that the American who had taken Azadeh had left behind a bitter enemy in Iraq, his mission would turn out to be a bit easier than he had though
NINE
Hyif El-Irbid Military Complex, Amman, Jordan
It was the last time these nine men expected to see each other on this side of the veil. It was the last time they would meet, for their association would be shattered once the final war had begun. Some would be dead. Others would be in hiding. And it would be far too dangerous for them to ever talk again.
But it no longer mattered. Their preparations were complete; there was nothing more to discuss. All they needed now was the king’s final word.
The meeting took place under the most secret conditions that could be possibly arranged. The various leaders, some of the most powerful and power-hungry men in the world, traveled alone, without their normal entourage of aides, assistants, secretaries, butlers, advisers, protectors, consultants, communications specialists, drivers, and security forces. Each man came to the meeting completely unescorted, except for the king, who even himself brought only one man. And they traveled in secret, disguising their faces underneath various hoods, veils, dark glasses, and flowing robes. They came in small vehicles, rusted taxies, and worn-out desert Jeeps. The commander of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine actually traveled as a woman, covered from the crown of his head to his toes in a flowing black burka. He took on the disguise easily, walking with small steps and deferring to any male who approached him while keeping his rough hands hidden under his long, full sleeves. And though he was one of the most cruel and bloodthirsty men in the world, the leader of the PLFP wasn’t the most notorious terrorist in the group. The disgraced imam Ali Omar al-Harazi, leader of al-Fatah, sat near the front. The presidents of Palestine Liberation Front and Force 17 were in attendance as well, as was the new leader of al Qaeda, now the most wanted man in the world. Second only to the leader of al Qaeda on the most-wanted list, the leader of the counterinsurgency in Iraq sat quietly in a corner, his head low, his dark lips parted, his thin arms folded impatiently on his chest.
The blood of a hundred thousand innocents had washed over these hands: Americans, Arabs, Europeans and Iranians; Christians, Jews and Muslims. It didn’t matter to them who they killed. It wasn’t a matter of religion. It was a simple matter of power.
Taken together, the nine men were the most dedicated and evil men in the world. And they all sat around the king of the House of Saud, waiting for his final command.
The room, with only a few candles on the table to provide light, was a small cement edifice with thick steel doors and a single metal shutter over a small, broken window. It was cool and drafty, and the candles flickered and swooned, dancing in the swirling air. The half-buried munitions bunker, a cement structure that was used to store contraband weapons and ammunition bound for the terrorist organizations inside Gaza and along the West Bank, was indistinguishable from the three dozen other bunkers in the compound. Located near the center of a tightly knit web of underground tunnels, semi-buried bunkers, raised wooden warehouses, and squat administration buildings, surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers, the Hyif El-Irbid Complex served as the conduit between the innumerable terrorist organizations that operated inside the Middle East and their suppliers in various locations throughout the world. During any given week, two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of military equipment might pass through Hyif El-Irbid, and on any given day, perhaps a million dollars in cash, all U.S. dollars, could be found in various hiding locations throughout the complex.
The meeting began a little after 1 A.M., allowing time for all the participants to travel under the cloak of darkness while also allowing enough time for them to conduct their business and disperse before the sun would lighten the desert sky.
The king stood before his men, who sat on the floor on small wicker mats. As they assembled around him, he eyed them carefully. The old man had warned him to look for any sign of squeamishness, any hint of weakness or hesitation, which could be so deadly now. And he had also prepared him. If he needed to make a statement of conviction, even among these most trusted men, then he was perfectly ready and capable of doing so. He would kill every one of them, right here and right now, if they so much as hesitated when discussing the plan.
But though he was cautious, he was not overly concerned. He knew in his heart that these men would follow him. Driven by the same lust, they were of one accord, and the king didn’t expect to lose any of the men.
As the conspirators gathered, they mumbled in excitement, though no one knew exactly why. The king was the only man in the room who knew the entire plan, the only one who understood completely what the process would be. Each of them held a small piece of the puzzle, each had been assigned a critical task to perform, but none of them understood entirely what the king was planning to do. All they knew was the outcome, which was enough for them now.
Standing at the front of the barren bunker, the king looked out of place in his elegant clothes. He was dressed in an Arab Dishdashah, a beautiful robe with a silver sash that was tied at the side of his waist. His Gutrah, a scarf-like head cover, was held in place by a diamond-studded Ogal, a narrow leather band surrounding the top of his head. He had grown a goatee, and it was perfectly trimmed. His teeth were white and perfect, his jaw broad and strong. He wore diamond rings on the middle fingers of both hands, and his dark eyes reflected the flickering light in the room. He looked absolutely magnificent. The king of his world.
The other men bowed as he stood, a sign of subjection and respect.
Al-Rahman glanced at his closest adviser, General Abaza, who nodded almost imperceptibly at him from the back of the room. The king knew that, despite agreed upon procedures, General Abaza was secretly armed with a 9 mm Glock®. The king didn’t expect the need to use it, but he wanted to be prepared.
Abaza stared at the king steadily and with just a hint of concern. The general didn’t like open meetings, not when he wasn’t able to confront or search all the participants or secure the surroundings with a team of his men. Al-Rahman read the look in his eye and felt an almost tender moment of affection. Abaza had proven so trustworthy, so reliable; the king felt almost a kinship for him. More than any of his younger brothers, more than any of his wives or his children, he cared for this man. He knew he could trust him, and if there was anyone in this world for whom he felt grateful, Abaza was that man.
The king cleared his throat and started speaking in a low, even tone. “Brothers, the time has finally come.”
The room took a sudden chill, and the men peered up at him.
The king nodded to the leader of the PLFP. “Your team in Jerusalem is ready?” he asked.
The PLFP commander nodded.
The king turned to another who was sitting directly at his feet. The commander of al Qaeda rested his hands on his crossed knees. Everyone in the room knew the al Qaeda leader hated the king. He hated all the Saudis, for they had betrayed
him many times. More, he considered their stewardship over the holy relics a dismal failure of oversight. But much as he hated the Arabs, he hated his other enemies more, and he was so weak now, he could no longer effectively fight them on his own. So he sat in subjection, still proud, a warrior in the holiest of wars.
“You have made arrangements with the Chinese?” the king demanded in an impatient tone.
The al Qaeda leader nodded. His beard was dark, but thin, with patches of gray beginning to show at the chin, and it brushed against his chest as he moved his head. “I will have the face-to-face meeting with them in the morning,” he said. “I remain optimistic they will do as we ask.”
The king leaned toward him. “It is important, my brother, that you close the deal. The shipments have to go east through China! It is the only option we have!”
The al Qaeda leader nodded. “I swear to you, my brother, I will see to this task. But to seal the deal with the general, you might have to meet with him yourself.”
Al-Rahman nodded. “Make the arrangements. I want it done by tomorrow.”
“I will see to it, I swear.”
The king’s dark eyes lingered a moment, then he turned to another man sitting at his right side. “The first of the warheads has been hidden?”
“It is in place, my Sayid.”
“They do not know?”
The man didn’t hesitate. “They do not, my King.”
The king nodded, a feigned look of sorrow beginning to furrow his brow. Although his heart remained cold and unfeeling as a glacier, his face appeared to soften by the thought of the approaching death of so many of his brothers. “There are many valiant men among them,” he said, referring to those who would die. “They will be granted mercy in heaven. A just title will be written and a generous home given to them.”
The mullah nodded in agreement, though he kept his eyes low.
As the king studied the head of the mullah, he couldn’t help but think. Yes, many of their best men would die. Tens upon thousands. Maybe many more. The price of their brothers’ blood was substantial, but it was a good price to pay, for what blood was too precious to see their mission complete?
In a week, maybe less, they would see the destruction of their enemies throughout the Middle East. They would see the Great Satan literally brought to its knees. They would see the destruction of its offspring. It would be pushed into the deep sea, forever destroyed.
Yes, they would pay a price. Many of their men would die. And their wives. And their children. But what choice did they have? The final battle was upon them. The time of the goat’s blood was here.
* * *
Lucifer watched his earthly angels, proud of their determination and very pleased with their work. They were so open to his whispers, so swallowed up in their pride, that they were as malleable to him as wet clay in his hands.
Through the centuries, he had deceived many men; many foul and evil souls had scrapped their way to him, but there weren’t very many he was more proud of than these. Who else had been so willing to cause the death of so many souls: their own people, their loved ones, even their own families?
A cold shiver ran through him.
How he loved this dark war!
Balaam was standing at the back of the room. Between him and Lucifer was a crowd of other dark souls, Satan’s inner circle of most trusted advisers. Balaam stared at their backs, feeling small and alone. How many centuries had he tried now! How many things had he done! He’d given up everything to be one of Lucifer’s trusted ones. But still Lucifer ignored him, always pushing him away, and Balaam finally realized that it would never be. Lucifer would never reward him for the sacrifices he had made. Lucifer had deceived him. It was that simple.
A feeling of deep sadness seeped into his lost soul. He often felt alone now. He knew that all of them did. But under the sadness was the constant, burning rage: rage at Lucifer for excluding him.
As Balaam glared at the angels who stood at Lucifer’s side, one of the favored spirits turned around and looked back at him. Her arms were so thin that he could see every bone, and a mat of long hair fell in a rat’s nest at her back. Her yellow eyes were wild and burning, her crooked smile fanged with rotting teeth. She smiled smugly, as if she had read his mind. “Get used to it,” she seemed to say with her smile. Balaam nodded and turned away.
Why they all had turned so loathsome, he didn’t understand. But they had and they knew it; they were ugly, raging souls. Without the Light, they were nothing but dreadful, deadly cores.
Balaam considered the angel, staring at her mat of hair. She had once been a beautiful woman with blue eyes and dark hair, and a face so fine and beautiful she could get anything she wanted with just a wink and a smile, which had been one of her problems, Balaam thought with a smirk. But now she was nothing but a loathsome, lying soul. She had no beauty. She was not happy. There was no light in her eyes. The only thing that she wanted was to make others share her pain, to cast her darkness on them, making them as unhappy and miserable as she was.
As Balaam’s mind raced, his lips cracked into a thin smile. He didn’t have a sense of humor—that had been lost long ago—but he had a bitter sense of irony that was sharp as a knife. And the irony was so obvious it simply could not be ignored.
In fighting to destroy the mortals we have only destroyed ourselves!
But the mortals didn’t understand that. They couldn’t see into his black soul. So they listened to Lucifer and his minions, always believing their lies. And the mortals would never understand how much the dark ones hated them—until the mortals had joined them in hell.
TEN
Washington, D.C.
Ammon Brighton walked out onto the porch and saw his twin brother sitting on the front steps in the dark. Ammon stood there a few seconds. Luke looked up and grunted wearily but didn’t say anything. He had turned off the porch lights, and the lights of the city hung over them like a soft, fuzzy bowl. Rain was in the air, flat layers of low clouds that reflected the bright city lights, causing a hazy, white glow. Their old Victorian house was built at the end of a narrow cobblestone street lined with huge oak and sycamore trees growing in old cement planters, and the soft wind blew now through the enormous branches. Some creaked as they moved, and their leaves fluttered lightly, creating a soft, rustling sound.
Ammon studied the clouds. “Think it will rain?” he asked.
“Supposed to,” Luke answered as he lifted his eyes to the wet sky.
“Going to be cool tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Luke spit. “You know what the temperature was in Baghdad today?”
Ammon shook his head. “No. But it should be cooling down by now.”
“Hundred and seven. Will drop to forty-nine in the desert tonight.”
“SWA’s a lousy place to be, ain’t it, bro.” SWA, short for Southwest Asia, was only one of the dozens of military acronyms the brothers had picked from their father. It was the military designation, and a more accurate geographical description for what most people called the Middle East.
“Got a short E-mail from Sam,” Luke continued as he peered into the dark. “He said he’s done some very cool missions the past couple weeks. Said he met a girl. Said it broke his heart, she was so beautiful, seeing how she lives and all.”
“Hmm,” Ammon hummed. “That’s kind of funny. Doesn’t sound like him. Think he’s falling in love?”
“Who knows. It’s a strange world. Maybe he’ll come home with a wife.”
The brothers looked at each other and started to laugh. Yeah, right! They were both thinking.
After a minute they settled down and were quiet. “You couldn’t sleep?” Ammon finally asked.
“I woke up a little after two. I’ve been kind of, you know, waiting for Dad.”
Ammon glanced at the driveway. His dad’s car was there, but that didn’t tell him anything since he was always chauffeured. “You check his bedroom?” he asked.
“Yeah. Mom’s in bed alone
.”
Ammon nodded. He went into the house, walked to the refrigerator for a couple of sodas, over to the pantry for a bag of chips and salsa, then back outside to the porch. Sitting down, he heard three soft chimes and glanced through the glass and oak door to the old grandfather’s clock that sat on the marble floor. Three a.m. A pretty good time to eat.
He pushed one of the sodas toward his brother. Luke nodded thanks, popped it open, and grabbed a handful of chips. Dipping into the salsa, he grunted and stood, disappeared into the house, and returned with a miniature bottle of Tijuana Fire Sauce. The bottle was lime green, with a Spanish label featuring warning signs with skull and crossbones. He took the bowl of salsa and, like a chemist mixing a dangerous concoction, let the drops fall slowly. “How many?” he asked, counting each drop by the light of the street lamp.
Ammon felt his stomach. “It’s pretty late. I would like to sleep at least a couple hours. Better keep it to five.”
Luke huffed. “O ye of little gastrointestinal capability. I scoff at your five.” He counted ten drops, added one more for good measure, and then began to stir the Tijuana Fire into the salsa with his finger.
“Nice,” Ammon said, nodding at Luke’s index finger that was dipped in his sauce.
Luke hunched his shoulders, pulled out his finger and stuck it in his mouth. “Don’t worry, brother, this stuff is more powerful than alcohol. They used to use it to clean the open wounds of rebel soldiers during the Civil War. There isn’t a germ alive that can survive contact with this Tijuana Green.”
Ammon scooted over, took a chip, dipped it, and shoved it in his mouth. “Not bad,” he mumbled through his mouthful of food.
“Want another couple drops?” Luke asked.
The delayed reaction of the peppers or whatever was in the sauce began to kick in. Ammon started sweating, his mouth on fire, and he grabbed a mouthful of chips, knowing he had to suffocate the flames with something dry; the soda would only wash the burn down his throat. Luke, having destroyed most of his taste buds already, watched him and laughed, then dipped another chip.
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