“You found me on the mountain. You saved me from the camp at Khorramshahr. No, more, you saved me from the man who came to take me. I know what he was doing.” She looked off, thinking of the slave traders, her eyes half open, her voice so low Sam had to strain to hear. “I was here, alone again, when you appear again.”
A shaft of sun finally broke over the tallest building, sending a thin beam of pale light through the small kitchen window. The two were silent for a moment. Looking at her, Sam couldn’t help but think about the first time that he had seen her on the burning hill above her village in Iran, a terrified and lonely girl, young, too scared to talk, watching from the edge of the ditch, reaching for her father, who had been brutally murdered for no more reason than that he had tried to protect a young prince. He remembered seeing her, catching the feeling in his soul. Combat had a way of humbling the hardest man, and he was susceptible to its influence because of the things that he’d been through. So he sensed it, almost hearing the words inside his mind: You know her. She is a sister. You were sent to help her.
It seemed so long ago now. Years. Another life. Another world. So little of it even seemed relevant to him anymore.
Watching Azadeh, he realized that she was older now, much older than she should have been, and no longer just a girl. She had always been beautiful, but there was something more about her, something wiser, softer, maybe more determined, certainly more aware. He watched her intently, almost happily. Just being there in the friendly stranger’s kitchen, a warm sun shining through, was enough to make him—he didn’t know—not happy, exactly. Maybe satisfied.
Azadeh looked up at him, her dark eyes reflecting her deep thoughts. She had her own memories, powerful to the point of overwhelming, and for a moment she was also lost in the past. Together they stood in silence, the pale morning light beginning to fill the room. Sam shifted his weight, comfortable with the silence, but finally he shook his head. “Azadeh?”
She focused on him.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, unsure of what to say.
He continued looking at her. Her dark hair was held behind a white and silver scarf, but several strands had escaped the shiny material and were hanging at the side of her face. Reaching up, she brushed them back. She wore a thin robe, worn but beautiful Persian silk; long cotton pants, something like pajamas; and white fabric sandals. “Are you all right?” he repeated.
She nodded. “I am fine.”
“You miss your country?”
She didn’t answer.
“Do you have any family?”
Her eyes half closed and she barely moved her head, the light scarf shimmering, another strand of dark hair escaping. Sam watched the ringlet bounce gently at the side of her ear.
“Do you have friends? People back in Iran you are keeping in contact with?”
“I have friends.” She thought again, a mental picture of Omar, her father’s only true ally, flashing into her mind. She envisioned the huge man whisking the young prince into his enormous arms, turning and heading up the mountain trail, rain and smoke and fog around him. She hadn’t seen him since the day her father had been killed. Then she thought of her fellow villagers rummaging through the remains of her burned-out house, leaving nothing behind but broken pots and garbage. “I had friends,” she concluded, talking mostly to herself.
Sam could see she didn’t want to talk about it and diverted his eyes, looking around the tiny apartment. “Are you hungry?” He reached for his pack.
“I have food.” She nodded toward the fridge.
Sam hesitated. He knew how little food was there.
“You need some water?” His camel pack was almost empty now, but he would share what he had.
“No. I am fine.” She motioned to the half-full plastic container with the melted ice from the freezer.
Sam pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and played with it, absently flipping the cover open and closed. Azadeh eyed the black-and-silver case. “Why do you have that?” she asked.
Sam tossed it from one hand to the other. “A relic of the past.”
“Does it operate?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Kind of. I mean, the phone itself would still work. I was underground in a subway—do you know what that is?” She shook her head. “An underground train.” She nodded quickly. “Being underground, my equipment was protected from the giant magnetic surge. That’s why I have a flashlight, a watch, this phone that still works. The problem is, none of the cell towers are operating . . . .” His voice trailed off. He had lost her, he could see that from the look on her face. “No cell phone. Not right now. Sometime they’ll rebuild the towers. Then it will work again.”
She stared at him and nodded. He cleared his throat awkwardly, then moved to the kitchen table and sat down. Azadeh hesitated, then followed. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
She thought for a moment before holding up nine fingers.
He counted. “Nine weeks?” That didn’t seem right.
She shook her head. “No. Sunsets . . . days.”
Nine days. “Not very long,” Sam said. He pressed his lips, almost smiling at the irony. She had barely made it to America before it had all come crashing down. Was that a good thing, being here after the EMP attack? He didn’t know. Truth was, there were lots of places he would rather be than in the United States right now. For the first time in modern history, this was the last place in the world anyone might want to be. “Your timing is ironic, isn’t it, Azadeh?”
She pulled the top of her robe. She probably had no idea what ironic meant, but still she seemed to sense his meaning. “I am glad I am here,” she said. “I have nothing here, that is true, but,” she nodded east, “I had less over there. It is bad in your country now, but it can be as bad over there. Or it will be. Soon. But all that does not matter.” She stopped talking as she thought. “I am a person here,” she concluded.
Sam stared at his hands, his fingers moving anxiously. “I have to go,” he said.
Azadeh looked suddenly terrified. “Go?”
“Yes. I have to check on my mom and brother. Then we’ve got to form a plan.”
“A plan?” Azadeh wondered.
“Yes. You know, decide what we’re going to do.”
She bit her lower lip. “What will you do?” Her eyes were wide now, fear showing through.
Sam reached across to touch her fingers. “Don’t worry about it, Azadeh. We’re going to work it out.”
She kept staring, finally whispering, “You will be going?”
Sam looked around, his eyes resting on the window. He knew the scene that lay outside. “I don’t think we can stay here.”
“You will take your brothers? Your mother? You will go?”
“Yes. Probably soon.”
She stared again, not saying anything, then looked around as if searching for something before bringing her eyes back to him. “I cannot go out there. A Muslim woman. An Iranian. It is not safe.”
Sam nodded, understanding.
“Please.” She motioned toward the back bedroom with her hand. “Mary? Kelly Beth? Me? Please. Can we go with you? If not, I do not know what we will do.”
Sam hesitated, looking at her in surprise. “Azadeh, did you think that I was going to leave you?”
She only stared at him.
“We’re not going to leave you. We are together now, kind of like a family.”
She looked down, too frightened to believe him.
He leaned forward across the old table. “I promise you, Azadeh, we’re going to stay together. It’s going to be OK.” He stood up and grabbed his jacket. “I’ve got to go and find my family now,” he said.
*******
Northwestern University Medical Center, Chicago, Illinois
The hospital was in utter chaos. There were no gurneys or wheelchairs available, so Sara and Ammon wrapped Luke in a blanket and propped him up, one of them under each arm. He stepped gingerly and winced once or t
wice, but Ammon was surprised at the strength with which his brother moved; his legs didn’t wobble and he seemed to hold his own weight. They walked slowly down the hallway toward the main entrance. Pushing the heavy door back, they found themselves in the covered horseshoe parkway jammed with several ambulances and other cars, all of them dead. Stepping into the light, Ammon felt grateful to be out of the hospital, which seemed like nothing but a black pit of despair.
He looked around, squinting at the sun. “Where do you think Sam is?” he asked his mom.
Sara looked up and down the crowded streets. There were many more people out now than there had been the night before. They gathered in the streets, on the corners, near the hospital door. They seemed angrier and more desperate. A nervous knot grew in her stomach. She searched the crowd for Sam, hoping his tall shoulders would stand above the growing mass of people. “He said he’d come back after he got Mary and her little girl back to their apartment,” she said.
Luke nodded toward the nearest bench. Sara and Luke sat down. Luke immediately bent over, resting his head on Sara’s lap. Ammon paced, looking up and down the street. “We need Sam,” he mouthed to his mother so that Luke couldn’t hear.
“He’ll be along,” she said.
“I don’t know what to do or where to go.”
“He hasn’t forgotten us.”
After about twenty minutes, Luke opened his eyes and sat up slowly. Ammon looked down at his brother. “Luke, buddy, you OK?” he asked.
His younger twin smiled. “Doing pretty good.”
“Do you think that you can make it?”
“What do you mean by make it?”
“We need to do some walking.”
“Yeah. I can walk.” Luke started pushing up.
Sara suddenly squealed and pointed toward the crowded intersection. “Look!” She stood up beside Luke. “There’s Sam. You can see his uniform.”
Ammon turned and looked. There, almost lost in the line of dead cars and the mass of people, a young man, taller than the others and dressed in a tan camouflage army uniform, was walking quickly toward the hospital entrance. Sara called his name, and he started moving toward them. “OK. Very cool,” Ammon said as he turned to Luke. “Sam will be able to help me hold you. He’ll know what to do.”
Sam approached them, almost at a run. Seeing Luke, he stopped suddenly and stared. A long moment passed. “What are you doing here?” he asked in disbelief. “You should be in the hospital!” He broke into a smile. “You know, with a bedpan and good-looking nurses all around.”
Luke laughed and caught himself, his hands shooting to his side. “Been there, done that, the whole bedpan thing.”
Sara threw a knowing look to Ammon before she said, “They kicked us out of the hospital. They don’t have room for him.”
Sam’s face turned angry. “Are you kidding me?” He motioned toward Luke. “Sit down there. Save your strength.” He turned toward the entrance and started walking. “Come with me, Ammon. We’re going to talk to them.”
Sara ran beside him, reaching for his hand. “Sam, Sam, it’s OK.” She tried to pull him back. “He’s going to be all right.”
Sam stopped, staring at her. “What do you mean? He’s clearly not OK.”
She looked into his eyes. “He’s OK,” she said.
“He isn’t OK. He’s been shot. They just don’t want to have to keep him. They want to—”
“No, Sam, he’s OK.” She emphasized the word. “He’s hurt, yes, and he’ll have to be careful, but he’s going to be all right.” Glancing around her, she motioned to the burgeoning mob of people on the street. “There isn’t enough time to explain everything right now. We’ve got to get him off the streets. We’ve got to figure out where we’re going, how we’re going to get there, and what we’re going to do.”
FOUR
The Paris Office of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs, Paris, France
Drexel Danbert was presumed dead. A new leader of the firm had been selected and put in place.
As the sun set, the lights about the city began to shine, a million dots beneath a haloed prism that had formed around the moon. The sky was clear of clouds but tinted with blood-red dust from the strong currents that stirred in the upper atmosphere. A faint smell of smoke and acid still drifted in the air.
The penthouse stood atop a glass high-rise building in the 2ème arrondissement, the primary business district just north of central Paris. Across the street and down one block, the Bourse, the French stock market, was still abuzz. The Bibliothèque Nationale was to the right, the Louvre directly ahead.
The recently elected senior partner of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs closed his eyes. He smiled, thinking of his old boss. Drexel Danbert had simply disappeared, leaving his apartment and walking off into the night, a fitting end to a life that was as storied as it was mysterious, as convoluted as it was corrupt. The problem was (and they had all known this would be a problem), the old man had retained some sort of conscience, and it had driven him insane. Too bad. He had been a great talent. The good news was they didn’t need his kind of talents anymore.
With the old man’s disappearance, Edward Kelly was the senior partner now. Thin, with white hair, bushy eyebrows, and a mean downturn in his lips, he stared in silence, sniffing the breeze that blew in from the partially open window. The air was warm but far below him, in the floodlights, the foliage around the Jardin du Palais Royal had turned prematurely red. No one could remember a fall that had come so early or so fast. It seemed that overnight every tree within the city had burst out in red and deep orange. Now, just a few days later, the leaves were falling, turning brown and lifeless just as quickly as they had ruptured into flame. The grass was also prematurely turning brown. And there was no reason for the sudden change. It hadn’t been cold, it hadn’t frozen, there had been plenty of rain. It wasn’t just the dormant sleep of coming fall, nature getting ready for the freezing snows and colder temperatures that December would bring. This was something different. Something none of them could explain.
The grass wasn’t hibernating, it was dying, turning brittle as strands of dry confetti.
Earlier in the afternoon, Kelly had walked along the rock-lined pathways that ran around the Palais Royal, pulling occasional tufts of dead grass and examining the roots beneath, all so dry he could blow them away with his breath. Wondering, he had stared. It was happening all over the city. All over Western Europe. Crops dying in the fields. Fruit shriveling on the limb. Vegetables decaying on the vine before they could be picked. Most suspected it was some kind of unforeseen effect from the nuclear attacks in the Middle East, United States, and Iran, but anyone who knew anything about the effects of radiation and nature knew that wasn’t true.
There was no correlation.
This was something else.
It was as if nature were completely disregarding the rules that had governed it before.
They would eventually understand it, Kelly was certain. There was no need for real worry. Still, it was curious and caused him just a hint of alarm.
He stared through the deeply tinted windows of the high-rise building. Below him, business carried on as usual, thousands of people going on about their lives, working late, putting in their time for the system they adored. Money. Always money. War, nuclear explosions, massive death and rage, whatever else, it didn’t matter as long as there was money to be made. And because the partners had been warned to move their headquarters from Manhattan to their building here in Paris, they were in a great position to make more of it. A lot more. More than they could count. More than they could ever comprehend.
He stared as the moon rose, casting a yellow shadow across the great city. Normally he loved this view, but with the city so brown and lifeless, it offered no beauty to him now. He breathed and stared another moment, then turned to his partner. “Drexel thought we went too far,” he stated matter-of-factly. “He told me that. He thought we pushed them beyond their ability to rebuild their
country.”
The other man smoked, a blue haze drifting toward the wood-paneled ceiling twelve feet over his head. He pretended to think, but he wasn’t really doing so—he had already made up his mind. “I think they will,” he answered slowly. “Some will try to stop them, and of course there will be many who won’t help, but most will buy our vision. When we step in with the answers, how could they possibly tell us no?”
Kelly grunted, unconvinced. There was a tension between the two, subtle but pervasive in everything they did or said. They were no longer friends but contenders in an always deadly game, especially since Kelly had been named managing partner of the firm. Theirs was a game for money, a race for power, for supremacy in the order. There were no friends. All of the partners walked around with targets on their backs. Still, he didn’t worry about it. He was prepared.
The smoking man, a former U.S. senator, lifted his heavy body from the Chippendale mahogany camelback sofa and moved to stand beside the window. For a moment the two of them were silent, looking out. The smoker finally spoke. “They will rebuild.” His voice was tight with impatience, as if he were speaking to a foolish child. “I don’t think that is the question. The question is, will they rebuild on our terms? I am certain that they will. They are pliable and open now. Vulnerable and defeated, beat down to their knees. It is hard, once the top dog, to get knocked off the pile. No, they’ll do anything to get it back, believe me, they will.
“And we have laid the foundation. Three generations of work have come to fruition. A constant dripping can hollow out the hardest rock, and we’ve been dripping on them a long time now. All around the world, their values and ideas are despised. Most of the Americans hate their own country as much as the world hates them now. Former government leaders—even one of their former presidents—academics, entertainers, educators, trusted officials, all of them have been our allies, helping to spread the word.
“We’ve actually convinced them that their country was the problem, not the answer; the cancer, not the cure. They think their nation was too powerful, too greedy, too racist and full of war. The time is right. It’s almost perfect. We have our man. We have a plan. They’ll listen to us now.”
Wolves in the Night: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Seven Page 3