The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  He shot a quick look over his shoulder. His boss and two soldiers had come up the road and were watching in silence from twenty paces away. They didn’t move toward him, letting him talk to the girl.

  Sam leaned a few inches toward Azadeh. “I’m sorry,”

  he said. He spoke slowly in English, hoping she would understand.

  She forced herself to stop crying and lifted her eyes.

  And Sam saw it, a flicker of recognition, as if she knew him too!

  He thought desperately, searching for the right Farsi word, then gestured to the body. “Your father?” he asked, keeping her locked with his eyes.

  She nodded in despair, then turned away from the tree.

  “Your mother?” he asked her.

  She only stared back.

  “Mother?” he repeated.

  Azadeh shook her head while saying something in Farsi that he couldn’t understand.

  “You are . . . alone?”

  She looked at him. “Now . . . yes . . . I am.”

  Sam leaned slowly toward her and reached for her hand. “Look at me,” he told her.

  Azadeh kept her head low, and Sam lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “Khorramshahr,” he asked her. “Do you know where I mean?”

  She backed away from him slowly, her face uncertain with fear.

  “A refugee camp,” Sam said in English, pointing with one hand to the north. “Khorramshahr,” he repeated. “I will have someone waiting . . . someone will be looking for you. Go there. We will help you.”

  Though she nodded slowly, Sam could see she did not understand.

  “Khorramshahr!” he repeated. “If you can make your way there . . .”

  “Sam!” Brighton heard his platoon leader’s voice. The captain moved to his side and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Sam, we have to leave. Come on, man, let’s go.” He pulled on Sam’s shoulder, then put a hand under his arm, lifting him up and pulling him toward the road.

  “Khorramshahr!” Sam repeated. “I will have someone waiting, they will be looking for you.”

  Azadeh moved away from the platoon leader, who was tugging on Sam’s arm. Sam reached for her desperately as he was pulled to the road.

  “Khorramshahr,” he called, but she disappeared in the grass.

  * * *

  Forty seconds later, the choppers took to the air, flying over the village to keep away from the mountain peaks on the east. Sam sat at the open door in his chopper, his feet hanging over the side. And though they flew directly over the village, the smoke was too thick to see if she was still there.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Azadeh remained hidden in the grass until long after the sounds of the choppers had faded away. By then it was dark and the smoke had cleared from the air, though the sky was still obscured by high clouds. The night turned chill, and her muddy clothes clung to her skin. She started to shiver. She felt bitterly cold. Forcing herself to her feet, she walked in a daze toward her gutted house. Their furniture, their dishes, their books, and their clothes—almost everything they owned had been tossed through the windows and the broken front door. She stared at the scattered belongings, then walked into her home, her teeth chattering from the cold and despair.

  She moved to her bedroom, her eyes adjusting to the light, and looked around desperately, feeling a sudden sense of panic. Her room was in tatters, with her mattress and clothes on the floor; but under the broken dresser she saw her brushes and mirror. She picked them up quickly, clutching them to her chest, then fell on the mattress and buried her head in her arms.

  She was alone. Completely alone. She had no mother, no father, no family, no friends. Even the house wasn’t hers—a young woman couldn’t own property, so the house would be taken and sold, and she would be left on the street.

  “Father,” she whispered in her crushing despair. “I want to come with you. I want to be with my mother. How will I survive? Can I please come with you?”

  In that black moment, Azadeh felt all the pains of her world: the aloneness of her breaking heart, the bitter buffetings of Satan as he cackled in her ear, the agony of spirit as she remembered the past: the happy days with her father, the warm home, the warm bread, and the sadness of knowing that it was all gone. She felt a crushing doubt and deep anguish as Satan and angels laughed at her.

  Did any of it matter? Was there any sense in the world? Was there any good, any love, any devotion at all? Her father had spoken of hope; he had used the word faith—but none of it mattered, for it all was gone. None of it made any difference. None of it was real.

  The only thing that was real was the darkness and the tattered remains of her home. The only thing that mattered was that she was alone.

  “Please, Father,” she whispered, “please don’t leave me here by myself. I did everything you’ve asked me. I have tried to be good. But now you have left me. So tell me now, Father, what am I supposed to do?”

  Then Azadeh rolled to the floor and started to pray, a universal reaction to what she had been through, a human reaction, not Muslim, not Christian, but something even more, something deeper, more permanent than the religions of the world, a reaction from her spirit that hovered within.

  “Great Allah,” she prayed as she prostrated herself on the floor. But that was as far she went, as far as her teachings could take her. She didn’t know what to say or how to ask any more. “Dear Allah . . . dear Allah . . .” she repeated again.

  Then her mind started drifting, thinking of her father again, the best example of love she had ever known in her life. But she didn’t think of his burning or how he had died. She thought of his living and how she wanted to see him again; she thought of her longing to look in his eyes, to feel his arms around her and see his kind smile. But mostly she thought of the words he would say. He had a way of making her feel better, of making her feel strong, like life was worth living and everything would be okay.

  “You were always proud of me, Father,” she wept. “You always made me feel better. Can you comfort me now?”

  * * *

  Rassa Ali Pahlavi knelt beside his daughter as she lay on the floor beside her bed, and stroked her face lightly, feeling the softness of her cheek. And though he looked at her sadly, the hurt in his own eyes had passed, for he was beyond the pains of this earth. The world didn’t hurt him; he had completed his mission and passed his great test. “I am proud of you, Azadeh,” he whispered in her ear. “You are strong, you will make it, and God will be at your side.”

  He continued to gently stroke her face. “I love you, Azadeh. And we will be waiting and watching and caring for you.” He leaned down and lightly kissed her brow.

  It was time that he go, at least for a short while. Sashajan was waiting. And there was a great work to do.

  * * *

  Azadeh felt a soft breeze, and she shivered again. She felt a soft touch on her temple, and she opened her eyes. And though she didn’t see him, she knew he was near. Then the Spirit of God whispered to her, “Your father still lives. He loves you. He is proud of you. And I am proud of you too. I promised I would never leave you. And I will comfort you now.”

  Then she felt a warm blanket falling over her soul. It was soft and so gentle. It wrapped completely around her, from her head to her feet, and kept the piercing arrows of Satan from touching her heart.

  She slipped away into a deep sleep, where a deep comfort waited. She slept peacefully through the night, dreaming of a far better world.

  Epilogue

  Karachi, Pakistan

  The Palestinian moved through the crowd easily, for he was comfortable there. Though he was not among his own people, the sounds and scents were the same. He felt the constant press of flesh against him, the movement of the crowd, the chatty voices of women and the guttural growls of men, too busy, too grand to respond to their wives. He smelled the tang of old bodies and felt the gritty dirt on his feet. He felt the uneven pavement beneath him and the glare of the sun, white hot and oppressive, wring
ing great drops of sweat from under his arms and around the small of his back. Everyone sweated in Karachi; they sweated to keep cool, and they sweated to survive. No one was clean in Karachi. That was just the way it was.

  The Palestinian moved around a brown and rusted cement hole in the sidewalk, one of the public toilets that was built without the benefit of even a curtain for privacy. He moved through the crowd, working his way toward a small, open-air market half a mile down the street. In the distance he heard gunfire, a series of quick pops and ratta ta taps in reply, but he paid no attention, for it was almost a full block away, and gunfire in Karachi could be heard every day. In any given twenty-four-hour period, half a dozen citizens lost their lives to petty thieves, gang wars, drug runners, hate, or revenge. The slave trade that flourished on the outskirts of the city was a significant source of the dangerously high murder rate, but also a significant contributor to the local economic machine. Teenage captives from China, India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan were harbored in Karachi before being shipped off to brothels throughout the Pacific Rim. Even as he walked, the Palestinian passed a group of three teenage girls bound together. For thirty dinre he could have bought any one of them.

  Stopping on the corner, the Palestinian waited for a break in the traffic. He glanced quickly around him, turning his back on the street to look in the direction from which he had come. To his side, a roughly mortared brick wall sported an old movie poster. Tom Cruise smiled at him, his long black hair drooping over one eye. The Palestinian frowned and turned quickly away. A break came in the traffic, and he moved into the street.

  Ten minutes later, he sat down at a wooden table at an outdoor café. The owner moved toward him, then recognized his face and instead turned for the kitchen. Seconds later, he emerged with a mug of hot cheka tea in hand.

  “Amid,” the owner said as he placed the mug on the table. “God be blessed, you are safe. It is good to see you again.”

  The Palestinian, a tall man with dark eyes and enormous ears, nodded to the restaurateur. “How is your fish?”

  “Very fresh, Sayid,” the café owner lied.

  The Palestinian grunted and pointed to his plate. The restaurateur nodded and moved through an open door and into his kitchen.

  Minutes later, the Palestinian was eating his meal: a charcoaled slab of sea trout, with its head and bones still intact, and a bowl of white rice with hot mustard sauce. The crowd thronged around him, moving up and down the street. An occasional automobile passed by, forcing pedestrians onto the narrow sidewalk and around the small tables of the outdoor café. A group of children played in the street, gleefully chasing each other. A mule pulled a decrepit wagon with one wheel on the sidewalk and the other on the street.

  Halfway through the Palestinian’s meal, a Pakistani man emerged from the crowd, approached, and sat down without saying a word. In contrast to the Palestinian, who was dressed in a traditional flowing dakish, the Pakistani was dressed in black slacks and an open white shirt. Neither of the men was distinguishable in the crowd.

  As the Pakistani sat down, Amid looked up and held his fork to his mouth.

  The Pakistani lit up a smoke. “Amid Safi Mohammad, how is your meal?” he asked.

  Amid Mohammad didn’t answer, but pushed in another mouthful of fish. The Pakistani watched him chew, then leaned forward in his chair. Mohammad pulled away as he caught the whiff of cologne. He studied his supplier, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Brother, I have to disagree with you on this meeting place,” he said in a heavy voice. “I don’t believe it is wise.” The Palestinian paused and glanced to the sky, almost as if he expected to see an American satellite hovering there. His eyes darted down the street. “The rats have eyes, eyes like spiders—they can see everything.”

  The Pakistani nodded. He appreciated his fellow warrior’s fear. But they were in his territory now, and he was not concerned. This was his city, his territory; his tribe controlled everything, and he knew every movement of the American spies. His crew had identified every one who was near, and they kept a close eye. And yes, the Americans got around, but he also had evidence they were not watching today.

  He dramatically crushed out his cigarette. “Mohammad, you have to trust me,” he answered knowingly, while nodding almost imperceptibly to the roof of a squat cement building on the other side of the street. “The Great Satan has many eyes, but this is my lair. We are safe here, I assure you; my people are near. That is, of course, unless you allowed yourself to be followed . . .” the Pakistani’s voice trailed off. The accusation was clear.

  “No, no,” Amid Safi Mohammad quickly replied. “I was careful. I followed your instructions to the letter.”

  “All right then.” The Pakistani sat back and picked at his teeth. “Now let’s get it done.”

  Amid Mohammad pushed his dirty plate aside. “This will be our last meeting. Our work is almost complete.”

  “Good. I agree. It has been a dreadfully long year.”

  “You have done very well, doctor. My people are pleased.”

  The Pakistani only nodded. If Mohammad only knew! If he had any idea what the Pakistani had gone through! For more than twelve months, he had lived on the edge of a knife, a simple breath away from being discovered. He wanted this over. He wanted it done. It was time to relax, time to enjoy his money. He took a deep breath and forced a thin smile. “The arrangements for the final delivery have been made,” he said. “All we have left is to transfer the money.”

  The Palestinian nodded. “How is your memory?” he asked.

  The Pakistani frowned. “Not good, as you know.”

  “Then get out a pencil and start writing this down.”

  The Pakistani reached quickly into his back pocket and pulled out a small pen. He grabbed a napkin as the Palestinian started to speak.

  “The payment will be deposited into an account drawn on the Soloman Bank of Malaysia. The account number will be forwarded to you by private messenger later tonight. The withdrawal instructions and authentication codes are thus—authenticate zulu, one, four, whiskey seventy-nine . . . that’s seventy-nine, not seven nine, then today’s date and my birthday.”

  The Pakistani scribbled furiously.

  “The money will remain in the account for only three minutes,” the Palestinian continued. “That’s three minutes,

  Dr. Atta, not one second more. If you haven’t transferred the money out of the account within the three-minute window, we will take repossession and move it ourselves. And if that happens, it is over. Our business is done. We will have the hardware, and you won’t have anything.”

  The Pakistani looked up from his writing and frowned. “That will not be necessary,” he answered defiantly. “I will make the transfer; don’t you worry about that.”

  The Palestinian glanced down the street. “I’m not worried, Doctor Atta, but the instructions from my client are clear.”

  The Pakistani nodded. Amid went on. “Our people at the bank will be monitoring every transfer. Once the money has been deposited into this first account, you will immediately move the money into another account at the same bank. A second messenger will provide you with the specifics pertaining to this account. Once again, the money will remain there three minutes. Three minutes to make your transfer, or we take possession again. From there, you will move the money into twelve separate accounts drawn on various banks in the Philippines. After that, you are on your own. We wash our hands of the paper trail.”

  The Pakistani looked up from his paper. “And the messengers?” he asked.

  “Same men as before. You will recognize them both.”

  The Pakistani sat back and pulled out another cigarette. “Fifty million?” he confirmed.

  “As we agreed.”

  “And the final installment?”

  “Upon delivery of the last nuclear warhead,” The Palestinian wet his cracked lips.

  The Pakistani tightened his fingers around the butt of his brown cigarette. Suddenly
, without reason, he began to sweat like a pig. He pressed his lips together and folded the paper napkin into a small square. He studied his client. “So that is it?” he concluded.

  The Palestinian nodded. “I believe it is.”

  “We will not meet again.”

  “There is no reason to.”

  “So tell me, before we separate, I would dearly like to know. Where did you get your money? One hundred million U.S. dollars—that is not a small sum. Who is your financier? I’m dying to know.”

  “A poor choice of words, Dr. Atta. Be careful what you ask for, or you might get your wish.”

  The Pakistani scowled. “I am providing you with five nuclear warheads, not an easy thing to do. I am taking an enormous risk, more than you could ever know. I control many generals, but I do not control every one. I have put my neck in a noose here, and I deserve to know who is financing this operation.”

  The Palestinian pushed himself away from the table. “Too many questions, Dr. Atta, is not a good thing. The money will be delivered. That is all you need to know. We want the third warhead by Friday. Now our business is done.”

  The Palestinian dropped a couple of dirty dinres on the table and moved for the street.

  * * *

  Two days later, a rusted container ship, an enormous old freighter loaded with barrels of refined kerosene, lubricants, and refurbished electrical generators, left the port at Karachi bound for the Straits of Hormuz. It took only three days to reach the port of Ad Dammam, the huge Saudi port on the eastern shore of the Persian Gulf.

  On the burning pavement of the seaside dock, two enormous but nondescript crates were loaded onto the back of a two-ton army truck. The truck pulled away from the warehouse and turned to drive south. Overhead, two helicopters followed its path.

  That night, the third, fourth, and fifth nuclear warheads were placed in an underground storage facility on the Saudi air force base of Al Hufuf.

  * * *

  Twenty hours after the last warhead was delivered, Dr. Abu Nidal Atta, deputy director, Pakistan Special Weapons Section, principal advisor on national security to the Pakistani president himself, didn’t wake up after his customary afternoon nap. When his wife couldn’t rouse him, she immediately called for his personal doctor. He arrived within minutes, but it was already too late. The doctor’s heart had ruptured. There was not a thing he could do.