(Wrath-02)-Darkness of This World (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  There was a soft knock at his office door and, after a respectable pause, one of the most recognized and wealthiest people in the United States was escorted into his office.

  “My friend, good to see you.” The prince extended his hand. The venerable American walked toward him and shook it firmly. “Abdullah,” he greeted him, his voice raspy and thin.

  The Crown Prince studied his guest. He is growing tired, the Saudi thought as the man approached. He looked wrung out and defeated. We need to keep a close eye on him.

  He pointed to an arrangement of couches and leather chairs and the two men sat down. Black coffee was ready, and the prince poured for his American guest.

  “You are ready?” the American asked as he sipped at his coffee.

  “Yes, my good friend.” The prince sat back and relaxed against his leather chair.

  The two men gazed at each other, each playing his best poker face.

  “Before we get started, I’ve got something to show you,” Abdullah began. He opened a packet and threw half a dozen photographs on the table: mothers wailing in front of a smoky wall, children in various poses of death, small boys, even babies, all of them shot in the head or the chest. The American picked up the photos, his face unemotional. “Ugly work,” he offered. It was the only thing he would say.

  Al-Rahman held another collection of photographs in his hand and he tossed them on the table as well: American helicopters. U.S. soldiers. Weapons. Hard faces. Smoke and burning houses. The Americans walked through the village and stood over the dead. Although grainy and tilted, the images were clear.

  “This is the story I want you to put out,” Abdullah said. “U.S. soldiers are to blame for the assault on Agha Jari Deh. They were looking for al Qaeda. When the villagers didn’t cooperate, they punished them. We have witnesses. Testimony. Everything you will need. Al-Jazeera will run with the story when I give them the word. You take it from your side. You know what I want.”

  The American studied the photos. “They’ll deny it, of course.”

  “Of course they will. And eventually they’ll prove they weren’t involved. But the damage will be done. The truth doesn’t matter that much anymore. Those who hate the United States will believe it, not matter what evidence is eventually revealed. The New York Times will front page the story for weeks. It will weaken the administration and divert them from their work; there’ll be hearings in Congress, special investigations, the whole bit. And remember, all we’re after is another chip in the wall, another crack in the foundation, another scandal to weaken your country, and this will give us that.”

  The American picked up a photo showing a dead child on the street. A U.S. soldier stood behind him, smoking a cigarette while talking to his comrade and pointing away. The image was clear enough, he could read their nametags. Sanchez and . . . Brighton? Maybe Bingham? Either way, it didn’t matter, they were about to be famous, their images slapped across every newspaper in the world.

  “I’ll get some people on it,” he said, tossing the photograph on the table. “When will the story break?”

  “Later in the afternoon tomorrow.”

  “That isn’t much time.”

  “It’s a big story. It’s My Lai again. U.S. military atrocities make very good press so it will be hard to sit on a story, if you know what I mean.” Abdullah’s voice was curt and sarcastic, but he smiled as he spoke.

  The American sipped at his coffee. A few moments passed in silence. “On the other matter, you know, I’ve been thinking,” he finally said. “Asking around, getting a few opinions, talking in the abstract, of course, but trying to get a feeling for how this will be received. And I have to tell you, Your Majesty, that I believe you are walking on very tenuous ground.”

  “We know we are. But you will take care of everything.”

  The American was clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Your Highness. We can do many wonderful things, we’ve done miracles for you in the past. We are very powerful, our partnerships span the whole of the globe, our friendships very personal, our contacts cultivated and nurtured through the good and the bad. But there is, after all, only so much we can do, and this plan is far more than we had ever envisioned. Destroy an entire nation! How would you suggest we manipulate the political consequences of that?”

  “We won’t destroy them. We will move them. There is an enormous difference, my friend.”

  “But they will not be moved.”

  “That is their choice. If they stay, they will die, but I cannot choose for them. We can’t make them be reasonable, though Allah knows we have tried.”

  “They will not go away. They have nowhere to go. And even if they did, even if they were given other options, they would choose to die in their homeland. They have made that very clear. It is that important to them.”

  “Again I will say it; I cannot choose for them.”

  The American sat back in frustration. Although he had sanctioned human suffering many times, this was crossing the line! He pressed his lips together and his heart beat in his chest. “How many people will die?” he asked in a low voice.

  The crown prince adjusted in his seat. “It is not your concern.”

  “But Prince Abdullah, if you really want us to represent you, then you must. . .”

  Abdullah lifted a hand to cut him off. “I would be careful not to confuse our relationship or overestimate your input. You are to advise and represent, not to interfere or give counsel when it is not asked of you.”

  The American understood and bowed his head.

  “All right, then,” the prince continued, “now, if it would make you feel better, I will tell you that it probably won’t be as bad as you think. Two of the nuclear weapons are tactical in nature and are relatively small. What we are proposing isn’t much different than what has been done before.”

  The American shook his head. “How can you say that?” he cried.

  The prince leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. He spoke with indignation, his voice sharp and on edge. “Dresden,” he sneered, “twenty-five thousand civilians firebombed. London; two hundred thousand; twenty thousand dead in a single attack. Leningrad; three hundred thousand civilians killed in combat, another half million starved. Berlin; two hundred eight-nine thousand killed in the last month of the Bolshevik advance alone, and who knows how many in the months before that? And let’s not forget what your own nation has done. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Poof!” The prince brought his fingers together and blew them apart. “A hundred thousand gone. Poof! Just like that.

  “So get my point? This is nothing new. War isn’t for the weak. And we’ve seen this many times before.”

  The American frowned and swallowed. The prince’s eyes flickered yellow and his co-conspirator pulled back. Something stirred inside him! Where had he seen that evil flicker before? He swallowed again, forcing himself to relax. “I would like to know how many people will die,” he said before he lowered his eyes.

  The prince shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe twenty-five thousand in the initial attack. Perhaps another twenty from the radioactive fallout.”

  The American looked at his coffee and tried to steady his hands. “And your target is Jerusalem?”

  The crown prince sat back and laughed. “Jerusalem!” he snorted while shaking his head. “Do you think I’m stupid? Don’t you understand me yet?” The Crown Prince whistled in disgust. Did this man understand anything?

  The American started in confusion. “But if not Jerusalem . . . ?”

  The prince waved an impatient hand. “My target is Gaza.”

  The American almost choked. “Gaza! You’re kidding! It doesn’t make any sense! That’s a Palestinian area! A hundred thousand refugees live in Gaza.”

  “I know they do. And those who die will die as martyrs. Allah will receive them unto his own.

  “But Israel is the nation that you want to destroy!”

  “No, my good friend, we want to destroy the United States. But to do that, we have to sacrif
ice Gaza. Israel will be the second step. Once we have destroyed these two nations we can turn our rage on you. And by the time we are finished, a hundred million of your people will lie dead in your streets. Your nation will lie in ruin.” Abdullah’s voice had risen to a rasp and his face seemed to darken like a shadow across the moon. “The world will be changed forever,” he almost seemed to hiss. “Leaving it ripe to be taken. And that, my friend, is why you and I are here.”

  COMING IN EPISODE THREE…

  READ IT NOW! www.mercuryink.com/wrath

  The crown prince scoffed an angry huff of his breath. Democracy and Equality. What had gone through his father’s mind? Were these the tools Allah had intended for his kings? Were these the concepts the Great Prophet had taught? No. Not a one. And surely his father knew that. Which made him a heretic. No, he was much worse than that, for a heretic could sin in ignorance, a heretic could be foolish or blind. His father had not been deceived; he had knowingly chosen his path. He might have been a traitor, but he was no fool.

  • • •

  Behind the Great Master, his servants cowered in the shadows of the morn. Master Mayhem was foul now, and it scared them to be near him when he was in such a bad mood. Each day he grew more bitter, more quick to attack. So they stood as far away as they dared, out of sight, in the shadows, but always within earshot, knowing that he might call them and that they had to be ready to move.

  • • •

  What motivated the partners at the New York law firm Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs now was not money but power—the ability to influence the events of the world. The ability to call virtually any man on earth, be he president or prime minister, CEO or head of an illegal cartel, and have him be willing not only to talk to them but then to do what they wanted. Power was their heroin. Power was their meth. It was 100 percent addictive, 100 percent pure. And over the years, each of the partners had learned one vital truth: Power could drive a man to do things he would not ordinarily do. It could change him. Distort him. It made him different inside, altered in subtle and yet irreversible ways until he was no longer comfortable in his old world.

  • • •

  As Sam cursed bitterly, the black angel hunched beside him, kneeling, his arms at his side, his mouth pulled into a tight and hideous frown. His teeth flashed, the only white on his face, for his eyes were as dark and lifeless as the black hole in his soul.

  “You hate them,” Balaam whispered in the soldier’s ear. “These people are all idiots. Savages. Animals. They aren’t capable of freedom. They’re too stupid, too weak. They aren’t like you, so clever, so capable, and so strong. You are so much better than they are, so much smarter and good. Look at them all. Take a look at this place! Is there anything worth fighting for here? Is there any good in this land?”

  • • •

  The man holding Azadeh tightened his grip on her throat. It was clear from the rage in his eyes that he was going to shoot her. He jammed the blunt end of the pistol into her temple, moved his finger for the trigger, and pushed her head down by his hip so that he wouldn’t get splattered when he blew out her brains.

  • • •

  READ EPISODE THREE NOW…

  http://www.mercuryink.com/wrath