Abdullah didn’t hesitate. “I swear it,” he said.
“You will bring down this building?”
“Kill them all!” the prince commanded.
The old man looked at him a long moment, then smiled and relaxed. “So be it, Abdullah. And welcome, my friend.”
The old man leaned forward to tap on the glass, and the driver started the Mercedes and turned it around.
* * *
As the black SUV drove away, the French guard in the black hat stood and stared down the street at its red taillights. He knew the prince’s answer was yes, and he sighed wearily; the massive dosage of Valium was the only thing that kept him calm. He was a dead man anyway; whether he went in a sudden explosion or was tortured to death, it was all the same. If he tried to hide they would find him; they had already proven that. He had a debt. They wanted payment. It was as simple as that. So he had agreed he would do this so he could go with only the briefest burst of pain. In return, they would take care of his daughter and the debt would be satisfied.
He sighed again sadly, then turned away from the receding taillights of the car.
At exactly 9:15, the guard turned and walked toward the embassy door.
* * *
The SUV was two miles away and driving down Lefainte Boulevard when Abdullah saw the flash of orange light behind him. He didn’t hear the explosion or feel its expanding concussion, but the flash and rising fireball were strong enough to light up the night.
Chapter Two
Two days later, the old man and Prince Abdullah al-Rahman sat together at a small café in the Place du Casino. The golden square of Monte Carlo sparkled around them, a sensory overload of beautiful sights, smells, and sounds. Both men had checked into the Hotel Hermitage the night before and were rested and comfortable in the morning air. They wore summer suits and dark shirts, and they smoked as they talked. Native peace lilies, roses, and daisies created a natural bouquet around them; the air was heavy and warm with the smell of flowers in bloom. It was a lovely spring day, and the flower shops, boutiques, art galleries, and small cafés bustled with tourists, most of them overweight working stiffs from elsewhere on the continent and the United States who had come to bask in the reflected glory of the young and beautiful. A few locals hurried through the crowd on their way to minimum wage jobs that couldn’t buy them a closet in the city, let alone a flat or small home. Because it was Monte Carlo, constant wealth was on display, and the prince and the old man mingled comfortably with the ostentatious crowd.
More than a dozen security men subtly worked the sidewalks and streets, some of them Prince Abdullah’s, some of them belonging to the old man. The two sat at a small table on a narrow and crowded sidewalk near a flowing fountain. For almost three hours they sipped French coffee and nibbled tiny pastries, deep in conversation. The old man did most of the talking. Prince Abdullah sat straight, his eyes intense, sometimes incredulous, sometimes unbelieving. But behind his stare, he smirked constantly.
He had made a good decision. The old man had a plan. Just hearing his ideas was worth the small price of the blood on his hands.
“You will be responsible to establish liaison with our Pakistani agent,” the old man said in his final instructions. “We have planted the seed for this plan, but it will be your responsibility to nourish it and bring it along. It will take several years of your undivided attention. We will take care of the security, but the rest will be up to you.”
“And the objective?” Abdullah asked. The old man had been talking around it for hours, and the prince was growing inpatient.
The old man smiled smugly. They had finally arrived. It was time to complete his knowledge. He leaned across the table and whispered, his breath strangely dry and foul.
The Saudi prince listened, then pushed away from the table, his mouth hanging open, his eyes smoldering. “Impossible!” he sneered. “Do you think you are the first ones to try this? It has been tried many times before. Everyone who has tried it has failed. You will fail too.”
The old man snapped angrily back in his chair. “Are you stupid?” he asked, an irritated father scolding his child. “Haven’t you been listening?”
Abdullah slowly nodded. “I have heard every word . . .”
“Then how can you doubt us?”
“I don’t doubt you, my friend.”
“Of course you doubt me. Isn’t that what you just said? Have I completely misjudged you? Haven’t you heard anything?”
“Friend, I only wonder if you’ve completely thought this thing through. Many of the best men have tried, and none of them found success. There are too many countermeasures, too much security. Everyone who has tried it has ultimately failed. And I’m sorry to say this, but it is my objective judgment that you will fail too.”
The old man thought a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said softly.
“But why not?” Abdullah prodded anxiously. He wanted to believe him. He really did.
“Because we are patient,” the old man explained. “Because we invest in the future. We don’t demand results right now. We know it will take time, maybe ten or twelve years; but trust me, Abdullah, we will succeed. By then I will be very old, perhaps even dying, but I will live to see it. I will live to see our success.” The old man sipped at his coffee, then took a deep breath and leaned forward again. “I will live to see the burning glory,” he smirked sarcastically.
Abdullah shook his head. He couldn’t help but smile. “The burning glory,” he repeated, almost laughing out loud. “Oh, that is perfect,” he snorted. “Burning glory! Yeah, that’s good!”
The old man laughed with him, then stiffened suddenly and turned serious again. “Take care of our man in Pakistan,” he commanded. “That is your only job. And you must learn to be patient. This will take many years. But the payoff will be worth it; I assure you of that.”
* * *
A little more than three weeks later, Prince Abdullah al-Rahman made his way to Karachi, Pakistan. For five days he checked out the city, traveling anonymously, moving through the slums and markets, staying in a classic but not luxurious hotel. He posed as an oil-supply businessman from Riyadh hoping to land a $500,000-dollar deal. He camped out at the Hotel Karachi, an old brick and marble structure that dated back to the colonial era, one of the very few centers of international commerce in Pakistan. He brought with him only four bodyguards, and he never talked to them or acknowledged them in any way, though he noticed them around him from time to time as he walked.
It was the first time he had ever been in Karachi, and he found it nearly as despicable as he had been told. It was noisy. It was hot. It was the murder capital of the world. Men and women relieved themselves in the open, right out in the street, squatting over rusted holes drilled into the sidewalks before moving on. The children looked hungry and thin. And everything smelled: the food, his hotel room, the taxis and streets—there was a permanent odor of humans, animal feces, garlic, and sweat in the air. Standing beside his bed, he sniffed at his suit. It too smelled like the street. He would have it burned the second he got back to Saudi Arabia. He looked out on the crowded alley outside his hotel window, noting the abject poverty below. How in the world had these people developed the technology to build a nuclear weapon? It was an incredible irony he could not understand.
But they had. And he hadn’t. And so he was here.
For five days, he moved around Karachi, feigning low-level business meetings, looking and watching, wondering when it would come. He knew his contact was watching him, testing his patience while making certain he wasn’t being trailed. So he waited, passing the time as convincingly as he could. By the third day he was growing impatient. By the fifth day he was furious. Who did this man think he was? Didn’t he know who he was dealing with? Didn’t he have any sense?
Abdullah had been told to wait until he was contacted; until that time there wasn’t a thing he could do. He was completely at their mercy. But the whole arrangement made him furious, a
nd he raged inside like a chained bull.
Then, on the evening of the fifth night, Prince Abdullah was sitting alone in a small bar in the back of the hotel. It was quiet and growing late when a small, mustached gentleman approached his table and nodded to him. “Come with me,” he commanded without introduction.
Abdullah glanced around. Two of his security people sat and talked at the bar. He caught one by the eye, and the bodyguard turned away, though Abdullah could see he was still watching him through the smoky mirror behind the bar.
Abdullah didn’t move, but his heart suddenly skipped. “Excuse me?” he said.
“My master would like to speak with you,” the stranger answered curtly.
“And who is your master?” Abdullah replied, drawing a quick breath.
The stranger lowered his voice. “Dr. Abu Nidal Atta, deputy director, Pakistan special weapons section, principal advisor on national security to the Pakistani president.”
Abdullah nodded slowly. This was why he was here.
He nodded quickly to his bodyguards, then stood and followed the man.
The meeting took place in a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel. It was a short discussion, direct and all business, and both men left satisfied.
It would be almost thirteen years before Prince Abdullah would see the Pakistani scientist again. Though they would work closely together, they agreed they would never meet face to face, always communicating through intermediaries, a very few men they could trust.
At the end of the process, the Pakistani scientist would become one of the richest men in the region, and Prince Abdullah would have his treasure of nuclear warheads.
Elizabeth
“And I will give children to be their princes,
and babes shall rule over them.”
—Isaiah 3:4
“For behold, angels are declaring it unto many at this time in our land: and this is for the purpose of preparing the hearts of the children of men to receive his word at the time of his coming in his glory.”
—Alma 13:24
Chapter Three
She was young and beautiful, literally heavenly so, far more beautiful than anything that could exist in the mortal world. She was slender and solemn, and she kept her eyes low, waiting, submissively awaiting what was to come. Yet she had been waiting so long that she was prepared, her readiness supported by the determined square of her shoulders. She was nervous, but also confident, and though her face was uncertain, her eyes almost danced with anticipation and hope.
She had the look of a young woman, innocent and sweet, but she did not appear foolish and certainly not naïve—she had witnessed the bitter, and she knew what that was about, and she surely wasn’t blind or unaware of what lay ahead. But she had chosen the better part, and was anxious to begin.
Dressed in a seamless white robe that reached to her ankles and was tied with a small bow at her waist, she brushed her dark hair back, then walked forward slowly until she stood directly in front of him.
Teancum, her trusted friend and sometime-protector, turned to face her, taking her by the hand. “Let me look in your eyes, Elizabeth. Let me see the courage and love that I know is there.”
Elizabeth gazed at him, eyes beaming with hope and excitement. Then she smiled, a smile that seemed to light up the stars. It was so perfect and natural, a smile without guile, as if there was a great joy inside her that burst to get out.
“Are you ready?” he asked her after looking into her eyes.
Elizabeth nodded. “I’m ready. At least I think I am.”
“You miss your brothers who have gone before you?”
“I do. I want to be with them. I think that they need me, and I need them too.”
“And have you had your visit with the Father?”
“I have. It was marvelous beyond words.”
Teancum nodded his head slowly; Elizabeth’s pending departure forced him into a rare moment of introspection. How could the Father love his children so much that he would send them into the dangerous world? he wondered. How does he prepare them for the dangers that lay ahead? It never was easy, and this one had to have been particularly difficult. Teancum knew something of what lay ahead for her.
Teancum had seen many such farewells, each one different. There was always a mixture of sadness and joy. There were words of final counsel, unique to each child. And there was a special sharing of love and affection.
Elizabeth watched him carefully but didn’t say anything.
Finally Teancum took her hand and held it, suddenly feeling tender. “What he really wants for us, Elizabeth, is for us to come back to him.”
Her bright eyes burned with determination. “I swear to you, Teancum,” she whispered, “I will return!”
He gazed at her sadly. He knew that was the standard response. “Do you realize that you are entering a battle from which most don’t return? And Satan desires to have you, Elizabeth. You are special to him. He remembers how you fought him here in the premortal world and he now lies in wait, looking for the day when he can fight you again.”
Elizabeth stood silent. Finally Teancum turned to her slowly and pointed away. “Elizabeth, do you remember Jerusalem? The pools of Bethesda, the porch and the water where the lame and halt used to wait for the angel to stir the water for them? There was a beggar there. His body was broken and feeble. He was so weak and lame, he was unable to walk, unable even to stand. Do you remember him, Elizabeth? Do you know who I mean?”
“Yes, I remember. He was one of the crippled. And my Brother healed him.”
“Do you remember how long he waited?”
“I don’t remember specifically, but it was a long time.”
“Thirty-eight years, Elizabeth. Almost his entire life. Thirty-eight years he suffered alone, waiting patiently. Yet whenever the angel came, he never could reach the water in time, for he was too weak and feeble to be the first to the pool. Can you imagine his discouragement?! Can you imagine how he felt? Thirty-eight years he suffered, waiting for a miracle. He felt so sick and abandoned, so completely alone, for there was no man to carry him and no one who cared.
“And sometime in your mortal life, you will feel like this man. You will feel sick and abandoned, unable to deal with the challenges of the world. You will want to be healed, but there will be no one there. And when you feel that way, Elizabeth, I want you to remember this man. Remember that Christ healed him when no one would carry him to the pool. When he felt most alone, after patiently waiting so long, the Savior came out of nowhere and made him whole. There will be times you feel you have been abandoned, but that is never so. Your Brother will heal you. Our Father will always look after you. And from time to time I may be able to help you as well.”
“But Teancum, how can all this be true? With the entire universe to manage, how can we matter so much to the Father? With all the suffering in the world, all the long prayers and urgent cries, will he still have time for me when I pray?”
Teancum took a step toward her and looked straight into her dark eyes. “He controls the heavens,” he answered. “He controls the seas and the universe and the armies of men. He controls the course of each nation and the course of each man and woman. The sun will rise as he tells it to, and he can make kings of men. And if he can do all this, Elizabeth—and you know that he can—then can he not hear your prayers and give you help when you ask? The galaxies, they are nothing, when compared to his love for you. He can make you holy, and he can answer your prayers. And remember this, Elizabeth, for this is important too. It is a plan of happiness he has created, not a plan of misery. He sends us to be happy! And he will provide a way.
“So you must trust him, Elizabeth, and trust in the plan. You must have faith when the answers don’t come immediately. On earth, when you hear it, the truth will sound familiar to you. Seek for this spirit, then perhaps the Spirit of God will help you remember the feelings and the covenants you made with him when you were here.”
“Dear Tea
ncum,” she answered after a pause, “I am scared and I’m nervous, but I think I’m prepared.”
Teancum thought of the evil men on the earth, those who conspired already to lay their evil plans, plans that would affect this daughter so deeply. He thought of the old man who was Lucifer’s servant and the prince he had recently pulled into his service too. He shuddered; then he took her hand and squeezed it again.
He wanted to warn her, but what more could he say? Things would be as they were, and she would find out soon enough.
Chapter Four
The young Persian was tall but slender, with brown eyes, a clean face, and short, wavy hair. He was handsome, almost regal, with a fine Roman nose and the high cheekbones and widely spaced eyes of a prince. Indeed, in another time, under different circumstance, he would have been one of the kings, for the royal blood that ran through him was a thousand years old, and the fact that he wasn’t was but a twist of timing and fate. Had he been born a few generations before, he would have sat on a throne, nobility along with his cousins and uncles, all of them tracing their roots to the trunk of that great royal family.
But it wasn’t so. Instead, Rassa Ali Pahlavi was a Iranian sheepherder and sod farmer, a man who scratched out an existence, living from one season to the next, praying for rains, then praying for sun, praying for a harvest that could carry him through. And it was this same twist of fate that sent him to the harsh Agha Jari Deh Valley along the western coast of Iran instead of to the old royal compound in downtown Tehran.
Here, in his country, the old royal family name meant nothing at all, nothing but memories of disappointments and the failures of generations long past.
So despite the fact that Persian royal blood ran through him, it bought him no advantage, and he preferred to keep his lineage a secret, unwilling to be reminded of how his grandfathers had failed. His own grandfather, the Great Shah Pahlavi, last in a line of Persian monarchs dating back to Cyrus in 559 b.c., had, through arrogance and corruption, lost the claim to his kingdom and been expelled with his family, leaving behind but a few, all of whom were stripped of any prestige, money, or power. When he thought of the royal family’s exile, Rassa pictured the ancient royals of Persia packing up their caravans and slipping into the desert. His family, too, had literally packed up their wealth and slipped into the night; they had transferred enormous sums of money into overseas accounts, loaded their jewels and their paintings, the riches of their kingdom, and sulked away with their caravans of wealth, disappearing into the dark. With the fall of the Shah, his family’s power and wealth—and worse, their ambition—had slipped into the desert and completely disappeared. Most of Rassa’s family lived in lands far away, fat and discontented but too scared to come home.
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