by Dale Brown
But his eyes were also automatically drawn to her hands. Every other generation of men of the Qagev dynasty—possibly the women too, but they were probably discarded as newborns rather than have them grow up with any sort of deficiency—had suffered from a genetic defect called bilateral hypoplastic thumb, or missing a thumb on both hands. She had pollicization surgery as a young child, which makes the index fingers function as thumbs, and left her with only four fingers on both hands.
But rather than becoming a handicap, Azar had made the deformity a source of strength, toughening her up beginning at a very young age. She had more than made up for her perceived deficiency: rumor was that she could outshoot most men twice her age and was an accomplished pianist and martial artist. Azar reportedly rarely wore gloves, letting others see her hands both as a symbol of her legacy and as a distraction to her adversaries.
Azar had secretly lived in the United States of America since she was two years old, under the protection of her bodyguards Najar and Saidi, who posed as her parents, separated from her real parents for security reasons, who had also lived in hiding as guests of the U.S. Department of State. When Buzhazi’s coup erupted, the Qagevs immediately activated their war council and headed back to Iran. The king and queen—who were supposed to be in hiding yet ran a Web site, regularly appeared in the media blasting the theocratic regime in Iran, and openly vowing to someday return and take control of the country—were still missing and presumed killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps or al-Quds terrorist forces, with the help of the Russians and Turkmenis. But Azar did make it into Iran, using her wits, natural-born leadership skills—and a lot of help from the American Battle Force and a small army of armored commandos—and joined up with the royal war council and their thousands of jubilant followers.
“I’m impressed, Highness,” Buzhazi said, taking off his helmet and pouring a bit of water on his face before taking a deep drink. “I was looking specifically for you, but you blended into the crowd perfectly. Obviously the others had no idea who you were, because no one tried to form a defensive shield around you when I approached. You hid your mun well.”
“I’ve been hanging around the city trying to listen to these young people to find out what they want and what they expect,” Azar said. Her American accent was still thick, making her Farsi hard to understand. She removed the Iranian national soccer team headband to reveal the long waist-length ponytail, the mun, typical of Persian royalty for centuries. She shook her hair, glad to be free from the self-imposed but traditional bonds. Major Saidi, a horrified look on her face, stepped toward her, silently urging her to hide her mun before anyone on the streets noticed. Azar rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and tied the ponytail up again under the doo-rag. “They know me as one of the displaced, that’s all—like them.”
“Except with a hundred armed bodyguards, a council of war, a secret war chest bigger than the gross national product of most of central Asia, and several hundred thousand followers who would gladly step in front of a line of machine guns to see you back on the Takht-e-Tavous, the Peacock Throne.”
“I’d trade all that I control to convince you and your brigades to join me, Hesarak,” she said. “My followers are loyal and dedicated, but we are still far too few, and my followers are loyalists, not fighters.”
“What do you think is the difference between a so-called loyalist and a soldier, Highness?” Buzhazi asked. “When your country’s in danger, there is no difference. In times of war, citizens become fighters, or they become slaves.”
“They need a general…they need you.”
“They need a leader, Highness, and that person is you,” Buzhazi said. “If half your loyalists are as smart, fearless, and daring as that bunch that you were hanging around with back there, they can easily take control of this country.”
“They won’t follow a girl.”
“Probably not…but they’ll follow a leader.”
“I want you to lead them.”
“I’m not taking sides here, Highness—I’m not in the business of forming governments,” Buzhazi said. “I’m here because the Pasdaran and the insurgents they sponsor are still a threat to this country, and I will hunt them down until every last one of them is dead. But I’m not going to be the president. John Alton said, ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ I know my power comes from my army, and I don’t want the people to be ruled by its military. It should be the other way around.”
“If you won’t be their president, be their general,” Azar said. “Lead your army under the Qagev banner, train our loyalists, draft more fighters from the civilian population, and let us put our nation back together.”
Buzhazi looked seriously at the young woman. “What of your parents, Highness?” he asked.
Azar swallowed at the unexpected question, but the steel quickly returned to her eyes. “Still no word, General,” she replied firmly. “They are alive—I know it.”
“Of course, Highness,” Buzhazi said softly. “I have heard your council of war won’t approve of you leading your forces until you reach the age of majority.”
Azar sneered and shook her head. “The age of majority was fourteen for centuries—Alexander was fourteen when he led his first army into battle,” she spat. “When projectile warfare became more advanced and weapons and armor got thicker and heavier, the age of majority—the word comes from majour, the leader of a regiment—was raised to eighteen because anyone younger could not lift a sword or wear the armor. What relevance does that have in today’s world? Nowadays a five-year-old can use a computer, read a map, talk on a radio, and understand patterns and trends. But my esteemed council of stuffed-shirt old men and cluck-clucking old women won’t let anyone younger than eighteen lead the army—especially one that is female.”
“I recommend someone get your battalion commanders together, nominate a commander, get it approved by your war council, and get organized…soon,” Buzhazi warned. “Your raids are completely uncoordinated and don’t seem to have any purpose other than random killings and mayhem that keep the population on edge.”
“I’ve already said that to the council, but they’re not listening to a little girl,” Azar complained. “I’m just a figurehead, a symbol. They would rather quibble over who has seniority, who has more followers, or who can bring in more recruits or cash. All they want out of me is a male heir. Without a king, the council will make no decisions.”
“Then be the Malika.”
“I don’t like being called ‘Queen,’ General, and you know it, I’m sure,” Azar said hotly. “My parents are not dead.” She said those last words angrily, defiantly, as if attempting to convince herself as well as the general.
“It’s been almost two years since they’ve disappeared, Highness—how much longer are you going to wait? Until you turn eighteen? Where will Persia be in fifteen months? Or until a rival dynasty asserts its claim to the Peacock Throne, or some strongman takes over and has all the Qagevs back on the run?”
Obviously Azar had asked herself all these questions already, because it pained her that she didn’t have any answers. “I know, General, I know,” she said in a tiny voice, the saddest one he had ever heard her use. “That’s why I need you to go before the council of war, join us, take command of our loyalists, and unite the anti-Islamist forces against Mohtaz and his bloodthirsty jihadis. You are the most powerful man in Persia. They would not hesitate to approve.”
“I’m not sure if I’m ready to be the commanding general in a monarchist army, Highness,” Buzhazi said. “I need to know what the Qagev stand for before I’ll throw my support behind them.” He looked at Azar somberly. “And until your parents appear, or until you turn eighteen—maybe not even then—the council of war speaks for the Qagev…”
“And they cannot even decide if the royal flag should be raised before or after morning prayers,” Azar said disgustedly. “They argue about court protocol, rank, and petty procedures rather than tactics, st
rategies, and objectives.”
“And you want me to take my orders from them? No thank you, Highness.”
“But if there was a way to convince them to support you if you announced that you would form a government, Hesarak—”
“I told you, I’m not in the business of forming governments,” Buzhazi snapped. “I took down the clerics, the corrupt Islamist leadership, and their hired goons the Pasdaran because they are the true obstacles to freedom and law in this country. But may I remind you that we still have a Majlis-i-Shura that we elected that supposedly have the constitutional authority to take control and form a representative government? Where are they? Hiding, that’s what. They’re afraid they’ll be targeted for assassination if they poke their little heads out, so they’d rather watch in their comfortable villas with their bodyguards surrounding them while their country tears itself apart.”
“So it sounds like you just want someone to ask you to help them, is that it, General? You crave the honor and respect of having a politician or princess beg for help?”
“What I crave, Highness, is for the persons who supposedly lead this country to get off their fat asses and lead,” Buzhazi said hotly. “Until the Majlis, your so-called war council, or someone else decides it has the stomach to squash the Islamist insurgency, take charge, and form a government, I’ll keep doing what I do best—hunting down and killing as many of the enemies of Persia as I can to save innocent lives. At least I have an objective.”
“My followers share your vision, General…”
“Then prove it. Help me do my job until you can talk some sense into your war council.”
Azar wanted to argue, for her people and their struggle as well as for her own legitimacy, but she knew she had run out of answers. Buzhazi was right: they had the will to resist the Islamists, but they just couldn’t get the job done. She nodded resignedly. “All right, General, I’m listening. How can we help you?”
“Tell your loyalists to join my army and pledge to follow my orders for two years. I’ll train and equip them. After two years they are free to return to you, with all the equipment and weapons they can carry on their backs.”
Azar’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “A very generous offer.”
“But they must swear during their two-year enlistment to obey my commands and fight for me, all the way and then some, upon penalty of death—not by any war council, court, or tribunal, but by me. If they are caught passing information to anyone outside my ranks, including you, they’ll die in humiliation and disgrace.”
Azar nodded. “What else?”
“If they will not join my army, they must agree to pass on clear, timely, and actionable information to me, on a constant basis or on demand, and to support my army with everything they have to give—food, clothing, shelter, water, money, supplies, anything,” Buzhazi went on. “I’ve ordered my security details spread out to make it easier for your people to pass notes, photos, or other information to them, and I will provide you with blind drops and secure voice and e-mail addresses for you to use to leave us information.
“But you must help us, all of you. Your loyalists can follow the Qagev, such as you are, but they will help me, or they will stand out of the way while my men and I fight. They either agree that I fight for Persia and I am deserving of their complete and total support, or they will lay down their weapons and stay off the streets—no more raids or bombings, no more roving gangs, and no more assassinations that serve only to terrorize the innocents and cause the Pasdaran and Islamists to increase their attacks against the civilian population.”
“That will be…difficult,” Azar admitted. “I simply don’t know all of the resistance leaders out there. I frankly doubt if anyone on the council knows all of the cells and their leaders.”
“You attend the war council meetings, don’t you?”
“I’m allowed to attend general meetings of the war council, but I’m not allowed to vote, and I’m discouraged from attending strategy meetings.”
Buzhazi shook his head in exasperation. “You’re probably the smartest person in that council meeting—why you’re not allowed to participate is a damned mystery to me. Well, it’s your problem, Highness. I’m telling you that your loyalists are part of the problem, not part of the solution. I don’t know if the person with the gun at the other end of the block is an Islamist or one of your loyalists, so I’m going to blow his head off regardless before he tries to do the same to me. That’s not the way I want it, but that’s the way I’ll play it if I have to.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, General.”
“You can, Highness, if you just drag yourself back into the twenty-first century like I know you can,” Buzhazi said, donning his helmet again and pulling the straps tight.
“What?”
“Come on now, Highness—you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Buzhazi said irritably. “You’re a smart woman as well as a natural-born leader. You’ve lived in America most of your life and you’ve obviously learned that the old ways won’t work anymore. You know as well as I that this court of yours and this so-called council of war is what’s hamstringing you. You’ve voluntarily imprisoned yourself in this six-hundred-year-old cage called your ‘court’ and you’ve committed to cede authority to a bunch of spineless cowards—half of which aren’t even in this country right now, am I correct?” He could tell by her expression that he was.
Buzhazi shook his head in disappointment quickly turning to disgust. “Pardon me for saying this, Highness, but get your royal head out of your pretty little ass and get with the program before we all die and our country becomes a mass graveyard,” he said angrily. “You’re the one out here on the streets, Azar. You can see the problems and are smart enough to formulate a response, but you won’t take charge. Why? Because you don’t want your parents to think you’re taking over their thrones? This is the twenty-first century, Azar, for God’s sake, not the fourteenth. Besides, your parents are either dead or cowards themselves if they haven’t shown themselves in almost two—”
“Shut up!” Azar screamed, and before Buzhazi could react, she had spun around and planted her right foot solidly in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Buzhazi went down on one knee, more embarrassed at being taken by surprise than hurt. By the time he got back on his feet and was able to take at least a half of a normal breath, Mara Saidi was shielding Azar, an automatic machine pistol pointed at him.
“Good kick, Highness,” Buzhazi grunted, rubbing his abdomen. Obviously, he guessed, one of her accommodations for having defects of the hands was her ability to fight with her feet. “The rumors said you could take care of yourself—I see that’s true.”
“The meeting is over, General,” he heard a man say behind him. Buzhazi turned and nodded at Parviz Najar, who had run out of hiding in the blink of an eye and had another machine pistol pointed at him. “Go quickly.”
“After you both lower your weapons,” they heard another voice shout. They all turned to see Major Qolom Haddad hidden behind the rear end of the smoldering truck, an AK-74 rifle leveled at Najar. “I’m not going to repeat myself!”
“Everyone, lower your weapons,” Buzhazi said. “I think we’ve both said what we needed to say here.” No one moved. “Major, you and your men, stand down.”
“Sir—”
“Colonel, Captain, stand down as well,” Azar ordered. Slowly, reluctantly, Najar and Saida complied, and when their weapons were out of sight, Haddad lowered his. “There are no enemies here.”
Buzhazi took his first full deep breath, smiled, nodded again respectfully, then extended his hand. “Highness, it was good to speak with you. I hope we can work together, but I assure you, I’m going to keep fighting.”
Azar took his hand and bowed her head as well. “It was good to speak with you too, General. I have much to think about.”
“Don’t take too long, Highness. Salam aleikom.” Buzhazi turned and headed back to his men, with Haddad and two m
ore soldiers who had been carefully hidden nearby covering his back.
“Peace be unto you as well, General,” Azar called after him.
Buzhazi turned halfway to her, smiled, and called out, “Unlikely, Highness. But thanks anyway.”
THE WHITE HOUSE RESIDENCE
THAT SAME TIME
Chief of Staff Walter Kordus knocked on the door of the President’s sitting room on the third-floor family residence of the White House. “Sir? She’s here.”
President Gardner looked up over his reading glasses and set down the papers he was reviewing. He had a large flat-screen TV on to a boxing match but with the sound muted. He wore a white shirt and business slacks, with his tie loosened—he rarely wore anything else but business attire until moments before bed. “Good. Where?”
“You said you didn’t want to meet in the West Wing, so I had her brought up to the Red Room—I thought that was appropriate.”
“Cute. But she asked to see the Treaty Room. Have her brought up.”
Kordus took a step into the sitting room. “Joe, are you sure you want to do this? She’s the chairwoman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, probably the most powerful woman in the country besides Angelina Jolie. It’s got to remain business…”
“This is business, Walt,” Gardner said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Got those notes I asked you for?”
“They’re on the way.”
“Good.” Gardner went back to studying his papers. The chief of staff shook his head and departed.
A few minutes later, Gardner made his way down the Center Hall, now wearing his suit jacket, straightening his tie as he walked. Kordus intercepted him and passed him a folder. “Hot off the press. Want me to—?”
