Al-Rahman thought, but didn’t answer.
The old man waited, then turned. “I promised, King Abdullah, that I would show you the truth.”
The king thought. Yes, he remembered now, those had been the old man’s words.
The old man pulled out a thin cigarette, lit it quickly, and shoved it in his mouth. “Do you want the truth now?” he asked.
“Of course,” Al-Rahman said.
The old man stood before the king, then smiled bitterly. The brilliant sunlight shone behind him, casting his outline in a shadow that spread across the room. “The truth, my King Abdullah.” His voice was wicked and sarcastic now. “The truth is, my King Abdullah, that I was lying to you then. I promised you everything, but none of it is real. None of it will last forever. It will all come crashing down. We can fight, scratch and murder. We can lie, cheat and kill. We can plot and plan and muster, but we are never going to win. The sun will still rise in the morning. Light will always chase the dark. We cannot win. We never could.
“And that, my friend, is the only truth that really matters. You have sold your soul for nothing.” He stopped and put his arms around the king. “You have sold your soul for nothing,” he repeated more softly. “Now, welcome to my world.”
EIGHTEEN
Mount Aatte, North of Peshawar, Pakistan
The storms came, deep and cold, the clouds covering the mountain peaks in crowns of gray and white. The steady rain fell in fat drops before the temperature plunged to almost freezing, turning the cold rain to thick snow, breaking limbs away from the fruit trees and burying the wheat under a heavy blanket of snow.
Then the storm clouds passed just as quickly as they had come, blowing north toward the mountains that towered twenty thousand feet above the fertile valley floor.
The shepherd waited out the storm from a shallow cave in the granite mountain. As the dark clouds bore down, his hot breath turned to mist and he pulled his leather jacket close.
Glancing to the back of the shallow cave, he watched the young boy sleeping. The child was lying on his side, rolled up in a rough, goat-hair blanket, his eyes fluttering lightly as he dreamed. He was a good lad, gracious and accommodating, deferential and bright. But he was strong, the shepherd could see that. There was a sturdy will inside him that was even greater than his own.
Was he going to be a child-warrior? The Pashtun didn’t know.
Eight hundred years before, his people had fought the terrible Genghis Khan when the Mongol and his army had come sweeping from the north, killing, eating or destroying everything in their path. Legend said the Pashtun boy-warrior was only fourteen when he was called to lead their army against the coming hordes. For years the boy had commanded a guerrilla campaign, hitting the Mongol armies in the mountain passes, then disappearing with his soldiers like a ghost into the night.
Some thought the story of the child-leader was just a legend, but the Pashtun shepherd knew that it was real. God could send His warriors. Sometimes He chose the old ones. Sometimes He chose the young.
The tribal leader pulled his worn jacket around his shoulders again, then turned and walked toward the sleeping child. Reaching under the rough blanket, he touched the slender chain on the young boy’s neck. The diamond was pure and perfect, and even in the dim light it reflected a dozen shafts of brilliance. He fingered the diamond slowly, knowing full well its worth.
Kneeling, he lifted the young prince and held him close. The boy squirmed but didn’t waken as the shepherd held him safe against his chest.
COMING IN EPISODE SEVEN...
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For more than a hundred years, New York City had it all.
Pulse. Action. Demands and rewards.
The city was as animated as any living thing: breathing, growing, exerting an undeniable force, never sleeping, always moving.
For more than a hundred years, New York City had shone as a jewel in the crown of mortal glitter.
More than a hundred years to reign.
But only two weeks to die. Two weeks to transform into a quivering muddle of death.
* * *
The dark spirit stared at the old man, looking deeply into his eyes. He knew the veil of separation lying between them now was so thin that the mortal could feel him when he was near. He took a small step toward the man and snarled.
The mortal kept on staring, hunching his shoulders against his cold.
* * *
The smoking man, a former U.S. senator, lifted his heavy body from the Chippendale mahogany camelback sofa (circa 1770, $464,800 U.S. dollars) and moved to stand beside the window. For a moment the two of them were silent, looking out. The smoker finally spoke. “They will rebuild.” His voice was tight with impatience, as if he were speaking to a foolish child. “I don’t think that is the question. The question is, will they rebuild on our terms? I am certain that they will. They are pliable and open now. Vulnerable and defeated, beat down to their knees. It is hard, once the top dog, to get knocked off the pile. No, they’ll do anything to get it back, believe me, they will.
* * *
“I’ll try the number for the emergency switchboard at the White House. They might have, they must have transferred that number to a working phone.” She punched the cell phone as she talked, excited once again. She listened, holding her hand up by her face in anxious expectation. “Ringing . . . ringing,” she whispered. “It sounds like . . .” she turned her head suddenly and talked into the phone. “Yes, yes, can you hear me?” She took a step toward the edge of the roof. “Can you hear me? Yes, I can barely hear you. My name is Sara Brighton. My husband was General Neil Brighton, Special Assistant to the President. This is an emergency. I need you to connect me to the Secretary of Defense. Yes, Secretary Marino’s office.”
* * *
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(Wrath-06)-Smoke & Dust (2012) Page 14