The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Azadeh felt as if the Great Statue were speaking to her now.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp . . . ”
Keep your mullahs, your landowners, your shahs and religious police. Keep your grand officers of society, your rich and powerful. Give us your human trash, those whom you hate, and we will take those wretched souls and create the greatest nation on earth. We will take your destitute and homeless and build the most free nation in the history of man.
Azadeh was one of the masses, homeless and tired. She was poor and, like the others, she had yearned to be free.
She was part of that wretched refuse: she had been left to die.
Yes, she was outcast.
But now she had a home.
She started to weep.
Her father would have been so proud.
Al Kuwayt International Airport
Kuwait City, Kuwait
Sebastian Raule stood at the ticket counter, shifting his weight anxiously from one foot to the other. He smoked, keeping an unending chain of French cigarettes in his mouth. It would be a long flight, non-smoking, and he had to stoke up before he got on the plane. While he waited for the ticket agent, he pulled another smoke from the black-and-white carton and stuck the brown filter in his mouth.
It irritated him that he’d had to come down to Kuwait to get on a flight to Kirkuk, but it was far easier to make the two-hour drive to Kuwait City and then fly to northern Iraq than to chance the four-day, life-and-death adventure of trying to make his way north in a car.
It had been a long time since the liberation of Iraq from the madman Hussein, but the country was still a far cry from safe. Since the U.S. had pulled out most of their troops, things had only gotten worse. It was clear now that it would be many years before the nation’s infrastructure was put fully back in place, if indeed that could ever happen. There were too many gunmen, too many bombs, too much confusion as to who was in charge—the government or the insurgents who fought against their fellowman.
The Kuwaiti ticket agent typed a moment, then looked up to Raule with a disinterested stare. “Sir, it appears that all of the flights into Kirkuk are completely booked for the next week or so. I apologize, but you are traveling without any notice, and the flights in and out of Iraq are always very full.”
Raule knew he would have to pay the bâj; the only question was how much it would be. He decided to start out low. Who knew how many flights he would be on for the next couple of weeks? He nodded to the ticket agent, then slipped a ten-Euro bill across the white counter. The attendant slipped the bill in his palm, then turned back to his screen and hit a few keys.
“Mr. Raule,” he continued after tucking the Euro into his vest pocket, “it looks like we might have something . . . maybe tomorrow afternoon.” He didn’t look up, but continued to stare at his screen.
Raule slipped another twenty Euros across the top of the counter and the attendant typed again, hardly missing a key as he reached up and pulled the money down to his side. “Good news, Mr. Raule, it looks like something just opened up on the 12:15 flight. It is in coach, however. Is that acceptable to you?”
The attendant looked up and waited, measuring the French U.N. officer. If he demanded first class, then he would bump him again. No way he’d let this guy into first class for a mere 30 Euros.
But the foreigner didn’t hesitate. “Coach is fine,” he said in remarkably good Arabic.
“Fine, sir, fine.” The ticket agent continued typing, holding Raule’s U.N. passport in his left hand, then looked up and said, “Mr. Raule, I see you have requested follow-on travel to Baghdad and Pakistan. You realize, of course, that it will be very difficult to book these flights. Travel is fairly restricted in and out of Pakistan, and I’m not sure even your U.N. papers are going to be enough to get you there.”
Yes, Raule realized that, and he smiled sarcastically. He had been working on the travel arrangements for more than a week. The greedy ticket agent hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. “Can you do it?” he demanded.
The agent shook his head. “I’d suggest putting your travel itinerary on request when you get to Kirkuk.”
Raule shook his head, then huffed as he placed his suit bag next to the counter. The agent started tagging his bag. Raule thought as he watched.
Yes, he was aware how difficult the travel arrangements would be, but the truth was, that was the very least of his concerns. Trying to find Azadeh would be far more difficult than arranging a flight to Pakistan.
And he had a lot of work to do before he even knew where he would be flying to next. He knew that the man who had taken Azadeh had bought his forged documents from a black market printer in southern Kirkuk. (It hadn’t been difficult to determine the origination point of the documents; the U.N. had seen enough of the forgeries to trace them fairly easily now.) And though he suspected the printer wouldn’t help him, he felt like he had to try. So he would climb on a flight to Kirkuk, track the printer down, ask a few questions, be rejected, then go on his way, knowing nothing more after the trip than he knew right now.
Where would he go after that? He really didn’t know. The stranger who had taken Azadeh had mentioned a small town in western Pakistan. He figured he would likely start there, not because he was overly optimistic but because he lacked a better plan.
The truth was, he knew Azadeh could be literally anywhere. Once she had been taken from Khorramshahr, she could have been smuggled to a dozen locations in the world: Asia, the Middle East, Europe, even the U.S.
He smiled at the irony.
Who did he think that he was! Some kind of special super agent? An undercover spy? This wasn’t the movies, this was real. He was no hero, and certainly no superman.
He stared at his worn-out, brown suit and rubbed his thin knee. He was none of those things. He was a mouse of a man who had spent his entire life pushing papers from one steel desk to the next. From one U.N. assignment to another, it had been the same thing. He had never shot a gun, never interrogated anyone, never investigated so much as a misplaced marking pen. Yet here he was, seeking to locate one single girl, a girl who had been taken from his refugee camp and now could be anywhere.
He shook his head in frustration. What were the chances of success? Maybe one in a thousand. Maybe much more remote.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hyif El-Irbid Military Complex
Amman, Jordan
It was the last time these nine men expected to see each other on this side of the veil. It was the last time they would meet, for their association would be shattered once the final war had begun. Some would be dead. Others would be in hiding. And it would be far too dangerous for them to ever meet again.
But it no longer mattered. Their preparations were complete; there was nothing more to discuss. All they needed now was the king’s final word.
The meeting took place under the most secret conditions that could be possibly arranged. The various leaders, some of the most powerful and power-hungry men in the world, traveled alone, without their normal entourage of aides, assistants, secretaries, butlers, advisors, protectors, consultants, gunners, communications specialists, snipers, drivers, and security forces. Each man came to the meeting completely unescorted, except for the king, who even himself brought only one man. And they traveled in secret, disguising their faces underneath various hoods, veils, dark glasses, and long, flowing robes. They came in small vehicles, rusted taxis, and worn-out desert Jeeps. The commander of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) actually traveled as a woman, covered from the crown of his head to his toes in a flowing black burka. He took on the disguise easily, walking with small steps and deferring to any male who approached him while keeping his rough hands, clearly manly, hidden under his long, full sleeves. And though he was one of the most
cruel and bloodthirsty men in the world, the leader of the PFLP wasn’t the most notorious terrorist in the group. The disgraced imam Ali Omar al-Harazi, leader of al-Fatah, sat near the front. The presidents of Palestine Liberation Front (PLF) and Force 17 were in attendance as well, as was the leader of al Qaeda, the most wanted man in the world. Second only to the leader of al Qaeda on the most-wanted list, the leader of the counterinsurgency in Iraq sat quietly in a corner, his head low, his dark lips parted, his thin arms folded impatiently on his chest.
The blood of a hundred thousand innocents had washed over these hands: Americans, Europeans, Arabs, and Persians; Christians, Jews, and Muslims. It didn’t matter to them who they killed, their brothers, their kin. It wasn’t a matter of religion. It was a simple matter of power.
Taken together, the nine men were some of the most dedicated and evil men in the world. And they all sat around the king of the House of Saud, waiting for his final command.
The room, with only a few candles on the table to provide any light, was a small cement edifice with thick steel doors and a single metal shutter over a small, broken window. It was cool and drafty and the candles flickered and swooned, sometimes bending left, sometimes dancing in the swirling air. The half-buried munitions bunker, a cement structure that was used to store contraband weapons and ammunition bound for the terrorist organizations inside Gaza and along the West Bank, was indistinguishable from the three dozen other bunkers in the compound. Located near the center of a tightly knit web of underground tunnels, semi-buried bunkers, raised wooden warehouses, and squat administration buildings, surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers, the Hyif El-Irbid Complex served as the conduit between the innumerable terrorist organizations that operated inside the Middle East and their suppliers in various locations throughout the world. During any given week, a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of military equipment might pass through Hyif El-Irbid, and on any given day, perhaps a million dollars in cash, all U.S. dollars, could be found in various hiding locations through the complex.
The meeting began a little after one in the morning, allowing time for all the participants to travel under the cloak of darkness while also allowing enough time for them to conduct their business and disperse before the sun would lighten the desert sky.
The king stood before his men, who sat on the floor on small wicker mats. As they assembled around him, he eyed them carefully. The old man had warned him to look for any sign of squeamishness, any hint of weakness or hesitation, which could be so deadly now. And he had also prepared him. If he needed to make a statement of conviction, even among these most trusted men, then he was perfectly ready and capable of doing so. He would kill every one of them, right here and right now, if they so much as hesitated when discussing the plan.
But though he was cautious, he was not overly concerned. He knew in his heart that these men would follow him. Driven by the same lust, they were in one accord, and the king didn’t expect to lose any of them.
As the men gathered, they mumbled in excitement, though none of them knew exactly why. The king was the only man in the room who knew the entire plan, the only one who understood completely what the process would be. Each of them held a tiny piece of the puzzle, each had been assigned a critical task to perform, but none of them understood entirely what the king was planning to do. All they knew was the outcome, which was enough for them now.
Standing at the front of the barren bunker, the king looked out of place in his elegant clothes. He was dressed in an Arab Dishdashah, a beautiful robe with a silver sash that was tied at the side of his waist. His Gutrah, a scarf-like head cover, was held in place by a diamond-studded Ogal, a narrow leather band surrounding the top of his head. He had grown a goatee, and it was perfectly trimmed. His teeth were white and perfect, his jaw broad and strong. He wore diamond rings on the middle fingers of both hands, and his dark eyes reflected the flickering light in the room. He looked absolutely magnificent. The king of his world.
The other men bowed as he stood, a sign of subjection and respect.
Abdullah glanced at his closest advisor, General Abaza, who nodded almost imperceptibly at him from the back of the room. The king knew that underneath his garment, and against every arrangement, General Abaza was armed with a 9mm Glock, one of the most reliable and accurate handguns in the world. He didn’t expect they would use it, but he wanted to be prepared.
Abaza stared at the king steadily and with just a hint of concern. The general didn’t like open meetings, not when he wasn’t able to confront or search all the participants or secure the surroundings with a team of his men. Abdullah read the look in his eye and felt an almost tender moment of affection. Abaza had proven so trustworthy, so reliable, the king felt almost a kinship for him. More than any of his younger brothers, more than any of his wives or his children, he cared for this man. He knew he could trust him, and if there was any man in this world for whom he felt grateful, Abaza was that man.
The king cleared his throat and started speaking in a low, even tone. “Brothers, we are ready. The time has finally come.”
The room took a sudden chill, and the men stared up at him.
The king nodded to the leader of the PFLP. “Your team in Jerusalem is ready?” he asked.
The PFLP commander nodded.
The king turned to another who was sitting directly at his feet. The commander of al Qaeda rested his hands on his crossed knees. Everyone in the room knew the al Qaeda leader hated the king. He hated all the Saudis, for they had betrayed him many times. More, he considered their stewardship over the holy relics a dismal failure of oversight. But much as he hated the Arabs, he hated his other enemies more, and he was so weak now, he could no longer effectively fight them on his own. So he sat in subjection, still proud, a holy warrior in the holiest war.
“You have made arrangements with our yellow-skinned brothers to the east?” the king demanded in an impatient tone.
The al Qaeda leader nodded. His beard was dark, but thin, with patches of gray beginning to show at the chin, and it brushed against his chest as he moved his head. “I will have the face-to-face meeting with them in the morning,” he said. “I remain optimistic they will do as we ask.”
The king leaned toward him. “It is important, my brother, that you close the deal. The shipments have to go east through China! It is the only option we have!”
The al Qaeda leader nodded. “I swear to you, my brother, I will see to this task. But to seal the deal with the general, you might have to meet with him yourself.”
Abdullah nodded. “I will do it. Make the arrangements. I want it done by tomorrow.”
“I will see to it, I swear.”
The king’s dark eyes lingered a moment, then he turned to another man sitting at his right side. “The first of the warheads has been hidden?”
“It is in place, my Sayid.”
“They do not know?”
The man didn’t hesitate. “They do not, my Good King.”
The king nodded, a feigned look of sorrow beginning to furrow his brow. Though his heart remained cold and unfeeling as a glacier, his face appeared to soften by the thought of the approaching death of his brothers. “There are many valiant men among them,” he said, referring to those who would die. “They will be granted mercy in the heavens. A just title will be written and a generous home given them.”
The mullah nodded in agreement, though he kept his eyes low.
As the king studied the head of the mullah, he couldn’t help but think. Yes, many of their best men would die. Tens upon thousands. Maybe many more. The price of their brothers’ blood was substantial, but it was a good price to pay, for what blood was too precious to see their mission complete?
In a week, maybe less, they would see the destruction of their enemies throughout the Middle East. They would see the Great Satan literally brought to his knees. They would see the destruction of his offspring, the goatish daughter herself. She would be pushed into the deep sea, forever
destroyed.
Yes, they would pay a price. Many of their men would die. And their wives. And their families. But what choice did they have? The final battle was upon them. The time of the goat’s blood was here.
* * *
Lucifer watched his earthly angels, proud of their determination and pleased with their work. They were so open to his whispers, so swallowed up in their pride, that they were as malleable to him as wet clay in his hands.
He smiled as he watched, feeling their dark power. Through the centuries, he had deceived many men; many foul and evil souls had scrapped their way to his hell, but there weren’t very many he was more proud of than these. Who else had been so willing to cause the death of so many souls: their own people, their loved ones, even their own families?
A cold shiver ran through him.
How he loved this dark war!
As the Master gloated, Balaam stood behind him, listening to Abdullah give his final instructions to his men. Standing between Balaam and his Master was a crowd of dark souls, Satan’s most trusted advisors from the previous world. Balaam stared at their backs, feeling small and alone. It made him so angry not to be part of his Master’s inner circle. How many centuries had he tried now! How many things had he done! He’d given up everything to be one of his Master’s trusted ones. But still the Master ignored him, always pushing him away, and Balaam finally realized that it would never be. The Master would never reward him for the sacrifices he had made. Lucifer had deceived him. It was that simple.
A feeling of deep sadness seeped into his lost soul. He often felt alone now. He knew that all of them did. But under the depression was the constant, burning rage: rage at his Master for excluding him, rage at being robbed of all hope.
As Balaam glared at the angels that stood at Lucifer’s side, one of the favored spirits turned around and looked back at him. Her arms were so thin that he could see every bone, and a mat of long hair fell in a rat’s nest at her back. Her yellow eyes were wild and burning, her crooked smile fanged with rotting teeth. She stared, then smiled smugly, as if she had read his mind. “Get used to it, my friend,” she seemed to say with her smile. Balaam nodded at her and turned away.
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