The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  But not if . . . not if . . . The prince cursed quietly to himself.

  He shuddered in anger and raised his eyes back to the coast.

  Once loaded with oil, the tankers would steam out to sea, passing the huge cargo ships that were on their way to Saudi ports. Abdullah turned to the docks on the east side of the city and watched the multicolored container ships unloading their wares: luxury cars, electronics, food, soda, clothing, frozen meat, furniture, steel, plastics, wood, cables, heavy equipment, office supplies, golf clubs, boats, cotton balls, medicine, cement, and scientific equipment. The list of imports was as long as the docks that paralleled the sea, for his nation imported almost everything needed for survival. The dock work was a precise and well-oiled machine, and he was reminded again that this was where the cycle was complete. Oil for cash. Cold cash for things. Oil revenues in exchange for the beautiful things of the world.

  He watched in satisfaction. The kingdom was in order. The sun rose; the sun set; there was peace and prosperity. His subjects were well-fed and happy. It was as it should be.

  So why did his idiot father insist on screwing it up?

  He turned quickly and stared at his two younger brothers, weak men whose only asset was that they always did what he said, two evil and cold-hearted boobs who hated the thought of losing their power almost as much as he.

  He studied their faces: twentyish, handsome, identical dark hair and mustaches, fine teeth, and round shoulders. Yet they were so needy, so dependent, it was almost comical. Neither of his younger brothers had worked a day in their lives, and it disgusted Abdullah that they were so incapable of taking care of themselves. They didn’t know how to drive, how to cook, or even make their own beds. They hardly knew how to get dressed without their valets selecting their clothes, and neither could draw his own bath without screaming in frustration when the water flowed too hot or too cold. And they certainly didn’t know how to fight—that’s what their bodyguards were for—though they seemed to fight and scream at each other at the drop of a hat.

  Still, Abdullah had learned his younger brothers weren’t entirely stupid. Indeed, they had proven they were capable of learning if they were motivated enough. And the plans of their father had motivated them now.

  “Are you here alone?” Abdullah asked the younger of the two brothers.

  The youngest prince had recently taken a habit of traveling with a young woman he had met in Greece, dragging her around like a security blanket. It seemed she was always around, lurking in the next room, and Abdullah didn’t like it. He had to get rid of her.

  His youngest brother glanced at the window and snorted. “Of course I’m alone. I’m not stupid,” he replied.

  Abdullah stared at him in a cold-hearted smile. Yes, he was stupid. And when he started a sentence with “Of course,” one couldn’t presume that was necessarily what he meant.

  Abdullah turned away from the window and sat down at his gold-accented, mahogany desk. His brothers watched him carefully, sitting on the edge of their seats. Abdullah lit a cigarette while they waited, taking a long drag, then leaned back and held the smoke in his lungs.

  The older prince smiled almost sadly. Sometimes he wished his brothers could be more like him. But they weren’t. And the old man had taught him that they never would be. Motivated by short-term pleasure and money, they couldn’t see beyond the next day. So he would use them, then kill them. It was the order of things.

  Abdullah stared at his cigarette, letting the smoke drift from his nose. He bit on his lip, feeling a piece of stray tobacco there. “Did you show your face like I told you?” he asked.

  “Yes, brother, I did.”

  “And what was her reaction?”

  The younger prince thought, then shot a quick look to his brother. “I’m not certain,” he answered. “It all happened pretty quickly.”

  Abdullah waited, inpatient. “Did she die quietly?” he demanded. “Or did she say anything?”

  The brother lit his own cigarette and pulled a nervous drag. “She said something . . . I don’t know, something about Allah and the kingdom.”

  Abdullah listened, then smiled. Yeah, that sounded like Tala, always praising their God. “All right, brothers,” he concluded, “you did a good job. That will be all for now.” Finished with them, he wanted them out of the room.

  The two princes looked at each other, then stood up together. The youngest one turned for the door, then glanced back to Abdullah. “And Crown Prince Saud?” he wondered quickly.

  Abdullah waved an impatient hand. “Don’t worry about the crown prince. That is not your concern.”

  The younger prince stared at his brother. “You know our father, the king, will certainly figure this out. That will not be a good thing. We have to be ready to defend ourselves.”

  “The king is a coward,” Abdullah shot back. “He will not do anything.”

  “But he still holds great power . . .”

  “Which is exactly my point! He holds the same power that he wants to rip from our hands. He plans to dismantle our kingdom and turn it over to them.” Abdullah shot an angry hand toward the docks. “But does he pay the price of his decision? Of course not. We do! He waits until he grows old, enjoying a life of great ease, then commands his oldest son to take our kingdom apart. But I will not allow it.” Abdullah cursed. “I swear that on his grave. It is he who betrays us! He is disloyal to the prophet and disloyal to me. He has been planning our destruction since before we were born!”

  The older prince slapped both hands on the table, then pointed a finger at them. “Remember this, my brothers,” he hissed one final time. “We are trying to save the kingdom. That is all we do. We are trying to save the kingdom from this selfish man and his son.”

  The youngest prince lowered his head in subjection as he backed for the door.

  Abdullah looked away from his brothers and shuffled some papers on his desk. He pushed a hidden button near his knee and the automatic office door opened. Having been dismissed, his younger brothers nodded to each other and walked from the room.

  * * *

  Prince Abdullah stared at their backs, then closed the automatic door. Seconds later, a side door to his office swung back.

  The old man stepped slowly into the office. He walked painfully, shuffling between the chrome handles of a walker, and it seemed to take him forever to make his way to the couch, where he sat down wearily, then looked at the prince.

  Abdullah noted the sick eyes and hollow face. His skin was so thin and waxy, he almost looked dead. Abdullah glanced to the side door that led to a small, private study, knowing the old man’s doctor was waiting there, then turned back to look into the red-rimmed eyes again. The old man coughed deeply, hacking the collected phlegm from his chest.

  Abdullah waited for him to spit, then reported. “His family is dead,” he announced.

  “Good, good,” the old man answered weakly. “You have made me proud.”

  Abdullah waited, unconsciously gripping a gold pen in his hand.

  “Now we must take care of Crown Prince Saud,” the old man struggled to say. “That will be the last step. Then we will be ready to move.”

  The prince relaxed his grip on the pen. After all of these years, it was what he had been waiting to hear. “I have your permission then?” he asked quickly.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Do what you will. But remember, Prince Abdullah, if you don’t take care of all the offspring, then you still leave a mess. You’ve got to cut out all the cancer or it will kill you one day, and the crown prince still has another wife and a son.”

  The prince quickly answered, “I will take care of them.”

  The old man hacked again, then breathed deeply in a raspy and crackling breath. The prince knew he was dying; he had a few weeks, maybe less. But they were so close. Everything was in place. In a very few weeks they would have the warheads.

  Through sheer force of will, the old man had done what he promised, living to see their success. Abdull
ah thought back on that spring day in Monte Carlo, some twelve years earlier. What had they laughed about? The burning glory, he remembered. And here it was, so close. His good friend had been right.

  “When will you do it?” the old man asked between gasping breaths.

  Prince Abdullah thought a long moment. “Soon,” he finally answered. “He’s still mourning over the bodies. He’s been there for hours. And he knows now, of course; he knows it was me. And he will act, I am sure. A few days, a few hours—he won’t wait very long. I mean, we just killed his family—do you think he will wait? But he has a mountain of troubles to sort through before he can do anything. He doesn’t know who to trust, and if he can’t trust his brothers, who can he turn to? So he will take care of his son first and ensure he is safe. And he will do it alone. He won’t trust his last child to anyone else. He knows there are snakes in the nursery, and he will want to kill them himself. Until then, he is vulnerable; so we have a few hours.”

  The old man rasped, then warned him. “Crown Prince Saud is no fool,” he said. “It would be a mistake to underestimate him, so be careful, Abdullah. We’ve come too far, we’ve been far too patient, we’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to let it slip through our fingers this late in the game.”

  The prince pressed his lips. “Yes,” he answered simply. “It is a dangerous time, I agree.”

  “Yes, it is; yes, it is. So take care of Prince Saud before he takes care of us.”

  Abdullah started to answer when the personal phone at the side of his desk buzzed quietly. He picked up the receiver and listened, then grunted a few instructions and hung up the phone. The old man stared at him, and Prince Abdullah smiled. “Seems Crown Prince Saud is planning a little trip,” he said.

  “Where to?” the old man questioned, a hint of concern in his raspy voice.

  “I don’t know,” Abdullah answered. “But we are going to find out. He has requested his private helicopter. They are completing the preflight now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Princess Tala and her children were buried in a secret and private funeral at the royal family’s ancient cemetery on the outskirts of Medina. Only Crown Prince Saud, his father, and a few trusted kin stood over the dark graves as the gold-plated coffins were lowered into the dry ground. There was no press release, no public offering, no notification to the world that the princess had been killed, and, incredibly, word of the assassinations hadn’t leaked to the international press.

  The royal family could be discreet when it had to. And when it came to interfamily homicide there was good reason to be mum. The kingdom had been thrown into chaos, and it was about to get worse. Each of the players was holding desperately to his cards.

  * * *

  Seven hours after the funeral, the crown prince of the House of Saud was driven to one of his personal helicopters, which always stood alert. The chopper blades were spinning when the prince showed up, and the helicopter took off in the darkness without turning on its navigational lights.

  The prince watched through the window of the American-made Sikorski S-92, a four-bladed executive chopper that had more gold and leather than could be found in any executive suite looking down on midtown Manhattan. The highly modified cabin, originally designed to seat seventeen passengers, had been modified into a six-passenger configuration, with opposing leather couches running down each side of the cabin, a fully stocked bar, a small office and lavatory, and two massive reclining chairs just behind the bulkhead wall. The carpet was deep maroon and so thick it felt like you were standing on grass. Highly polished teak and mahogany accented the trim, and the seats were white leather, soft as velvet, and emblazoned with the royal flag.

  Crown Prince Saud watched in silence as the warm waters of the Persian Gulf passed underneath his chopper, but the night was so dark it was nearly impossible to get a sense of their speed. The winds had picked up, moving down from the north, and the ocean was white-capped with rippled lines of foam reflecting the light of the yellow moon. The chopper flew east, toward the Iranian border, and with each passing mile the emptiness inside him grew more dark and intense. He leaned against the window that looked out the right side of the chopper and felt the vibration of the rotors spinning over his head. The chopper passed the first of the many offshore oil rigs that dotted Iran’s western shore, and he knew they would soon be over land. The crown prince could imagine the view from the cockpit—the miles of white-caps below them, the enormous oil derricks casting shadows under the moon, the deep black sands and rising foothills of Iran’s western shores, the moon in the pilots’ faces, and the enormous saucer of stars overhead. He glanced at his watch. A little after one in the morning. They had been in the air for an hour and would soon land.

  The crown prince took a breath and turned in his seat. The cabin was silent except for the sound of her cry, a soft and heart-broken tremble that she tried to hold in. The prince stared at his second wife, and she wiped her eyes quickly to hide her tears. He reached out and took her hand and held it to his chest, then placed his other hand very gently on the four-year-old boy who was sleeping beside her. “Do you want our son to live?” he asked simply.

  The young princess nodded and squared her shoulders in reply.

  “Then be strong,” the prince demanded, his voice strained but firm. He pressed her hand against their sleeping child’s head. “Be strong for him. Be strong for our family. Be strong for the kingdom. Be strong for me.”

  The princess wiped her cheeks as she stared at her lap.

  The prince saw a vision of the four bodies, a single bullet in their foreheads, their faces peaceful and calm. He glanced at his last son, a four-year old angel who slept, his head resting on his young mother’s lap. His face too was peaceful. His heart broke again.

  The family. His honor. Their future. Their king. That was all that mattered. The prince knew that was true.

  He studied his young wife, reading the pain in her eyes. She looked as if she were dying, as if she were already dead. She looked so lonely, so abandoned. “Are you certain?” she pleaded. “Is there no other way?”

  The prince shook his head. “I have decided. We will discuss it no more.”

  The young princess sat back, her eyes fearful and wet. Her lower lip trembled. She was trying to be brave; she was trying to be strong . . . but this was so unexpected and so frightening. She stared straight ahead, her face strained with fear.

  “Why can’t I go home to my family?” she muttered. “Why can’t I stay in Saudi Arabia? I know nothing of Iran.”

  “Which is why we must do this! Are you so blind you can’t see? Your life is in danger. And so is my son. Now quit crying of your suffering. Would you rather be dead? Would you rather I have to bury him like I buried my other sons?”

  The princess stroked the sleeping boy’s face. “But my husband . . . Iran? Why not the southern province? My people are from that region. I want to live . . .”

  “That’s right! You want to live! So you must do as I say!”

  “But it is so far away!”

  “Pray it is far enough!”

  The princess fell silent, and the prince knew she would not say any more.

  Prince Saud leaned his head back and stared blankly at the darkness, a trail of tears rolling down to his chin.

  Minutes passed; then the prince leaned toward her again. “You are strong, Ash Salman,” he whispered. “There is a determination, a wisdom inside you that is rare in my people. You have already shown more courage than most men I know. I will not leave you alone. I do have a plan. But there is a scourge in the kingdom. We suffer a deadly disease, and it will take me some time to hunt my enemies down. This threat, these assassins—I know who they are, but I don’t know how deep it goes or who all is involved. It will take me some time to figure out who I can trust and who I should kill. And until they are dead, I need to know my son is safe. It is we they are after, myself and my son. And if they come to power, if they take the kingdom from us, the
n the move toward democracy will be aborted before it can be born. So until this danger passes, you must hide away.”

  * * *

  The princess took a deep breath, then turned back to her window to watch the darkness outside. The helicopter passed over the Iranian border and climbed to five hundred feet. She saw a dark ribbon wind along the foothills to the south—the Khorramshahr highway that ran to the heart of the oil fields. She tried to remember the map she had studied the night before. The tiny village of Agha Jari Deh was but a little farther inland.

  The chopper leveled off, then descended again.

  The mountains rose up to meet them.

  She was almost there.

  * * *

  Rassa Ali Pahlavi lay still in his bed, awake but unmoving, the bedroom cool in the spring mountain air. Something had awakened him, something far in the distance, the low sound of beating rotors passing over a hill. He lay there and thought, then pushed himself out of bed and pulled on a thin shirt and dark trousers.

  He walked silently out of the bedroom and quietly closed the door. Moving into the kitchen, he set a blackened copper kettle on the stove and turned on the propane, setting the flame on high. He moved carefully, making no noise, knowing the walls that separated the kitchen from Azadeh’s bedroom were paper-thin. The water boiled quickly under the oversized flame, and he sprinkled in two measures of black tea, stirred quickly, then poured the tea into a ceramic mug and held it tight, letting it warm his hands. He sipped once. The tea was bitter, and he pressed his lips appreciatively as he sat down at the table.

  All around him were reminders of his Muslim religion. A large and beautifully framed embroidery hung on the wall,