Life wasn’t perfect, but on this night at least, it was very good.
After some time, Rassa moved away from the bed, stripped off his clothes and pulled on a nightshirt. Moving carefully, he lay down close to the child, eager to keep her warm against the cool mountain air. As he lay on his back and wearily closed his eyes, he suddenly remembered the silent words again.
“What is about to happen, know that it is my will.”
He felt his chest tighten and his mouth seemed to grow dry. It was a warning, he realized, and for the first time he grew scared.
He lay tense; his eyes open, staring into the dark, wondering again what God was trying to say. But eventually sleep overcame him and he slept restlessly.
He woke at the first light of the sun. Moving carefully, he pushed himself out of bed, then turned to look at his wife and daughter. Azadeh was staring at him, her eyes dark and wide. She followed his movements as he walked around the bed. Sashajan was still asleep and he bent carefully to kiss her cheek. It was cold, almost clammy, and he carefully studied her face. Her lips were tight and so dry that they almost looked blue. He placed his hand on her forehead and felt the shiver of cold. He panicked, his heart racing, as he bent to her side. “Sashajan!” he whispered, trying to wake her.
But a blood clot had already lodged firmly in her brain.
She never regained consciousness and by afternoon, she was dead.
*******
After the spiritual rituals and cleaning of the body had taken place, Rassa led a procession of mourners up a winding, dirt trail. Behind a small hill, ancient stones had been set into the soil in an intricate pattern, establishing the area as holy ground with the same rights and benefits as a mosque. Tucked away in a small dell, the cemetery was a little square of grass completely out of sight from the village. Although it was small and almost 800 years old, there was always enough room for one more. The mountain villagers were practical people, having been taught by hard life, and they accepted death easily. Out of sight, out of mind, was their thinking when it came to their dead and once the mourning was over there was no need to be reminded of those who were no more.
But Rassa wasn’t like his people. And he didn’t accept Sashajan’s death. Like his ancestors, the ancient Persians, he was romantic and soft-hearted, and he missed her so much that his heart ached in his chest, each beat pounding at him like a drum of pain and despair. He hardly saw the sunlight around him, so thick was the blackness inside.
And though he didn’t see it, it was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, with a light breeze from the sea. The sycamore trees were in full color, and the grass was still green and full. In another month, the cemetery would be covered with dead grass and brown plants, but for now it was beautiful, alive and green.
Rassa led the mourners while desperately holding his child. Dressed in a white gown that flowed from her head to her feet, she was a sparkle of light in a sea of black turbans, long robes, dark scarves and long veils.
Rassa laid Sashajan to rest, somehow believing he would see her again, then dropped a handful of dirt on her pine casket and walked away, following the winding path that led to his home.
That night, he held his newborn baby in his arms while feeding her a bottle. She watched him intently and he couldn’t help but smile as she stared into his eyes. “What are you thinking?” he wondered. “What emotions are you hiding behind that deep stare?”
Azadeh looked away, then yawned deeply, clenching her fists to her side. She fell asleep quickly and Rassa held her tight. The house grew quiet and dark, the rocking chair creaking on the wooden floor. Rassa kissed her cheek then sang in her ear:
“The world that I give you
Is not always sunny and bright.
But knowing I love you
Will help make it right.
“So when the dark settles,
And the storms fill the night,
Remember I’ll be waiting
When it comes,
Morning Light.”
*******
Two weeks after the funeral, Sashajan’s sister came to him and insisted that she be allowed to take the child. “It is not a man’s job to raise her,” she demanded.
Rassa turned away and looked at Azadeh sleeping contentedly in her crib. She had grown full and healthy in her first few days of life and the formula that he fed her seemed to keep her satisfied. He watched her a moment, then shook his head.
Allah had sent her to him. She was all he had left. He would keep her and raise her. It was Allah’s will.
*******
The next day came and then passed, then another after that. A week, then a month, then another month came and went. It was summer, it was fall. The snows came, and then the spring, then another spring after that.
Rassa fell into a routine. And though he had opportunities to remarry, he never could find the heart, for the image of Sashajan’s face never quite left his dreams. Every year, on the week of the anniversary of her death, he left the child at Sashajan’s sister and disappeared for a day of private mourning. No one knew where he went, though a few of his friends tried to guess, and when he returned he always brought wildflowers, which he placed on her grave.
Azadeh grew into a stunningly beautiful young woman. Rassa continued to love her more than he loved anything, for the emptiness inside him seemed to disappear when she was near.
And the time that passed soon slipped into years.
SEVEN
Eighteen years had passed since the night Major Brighton had stood outside his son’s bedroom door, listening to the frightening wind while fighting the silent fear.
Since that night, he had left his assignment at the White House to lead a fighter squadron in Alaska, came back to Washington, D.C., to be fill the dreaded staff job at the Pentagon, then down to take command of the First Fighter Wing at Langley Air Force Base, where he earned his first star. From Langley, the new general took an assignment at NATO, then back to the Pentagon (very happy that he and Sara had decided to keep the old house), then on to Central Command where he’d overseen aerial operations over Southwest Asia, the most hostile and war-torn region on earth.
The day he earned his second star, he got another call from the White House. A new president had come to power. The president knew of General Brighton.
It was time for him to come back to Washington, D.C.
*******
Major General Brighton stood at the office window of his home in Chevy Chase, the old plantation house that had been the family home for almost half of his military career. Everything about it was familiar. The smell. The old wood. The creak on the stairs. The slope of the basement floor. Although they had moved every couple years, it seemed they always ended up back here and his family considered the Victorian house to be their permanent home. It was full of happy memories and he was glad to be back in the old house.
He looked out on the city, seeing the glow from the lights on the National Mall, thinking of the huge floodlights that illuminated the grounds around the White House where he worked once again. He had a slightly larger office than he had before, though it was still tiny compared to others he had occupied throughout his military career. The underground parking lot was larger now, the environment more chaotic, the security procedures he had to go through every day far more thorough.
He took a deep breath and wondered for the thousandth time, “Who am I kidding? I’m just a farm boy from Texas. What am I doing here?”
He stood still for a moment, thinking on the passing years. Since his first assignment at the White House, so much had changed. The world was different now. So much had gone wrong.
At 45, Brighton was still tight and lean, with a strong jaw and laugh lines on the corners of his mouth, but over the past couple months his hair had taken on a hint of gray. His job was prone to do that. Truth was, he hadn’t slept a full night since returning to Washington, D.C.
The thrill of being a White House insider had long since faded away, suf
focated by the stress of working in the most demanding environment on the planet. A military officer inside a very civilian White House. Staffers viewing him as an enemy at every turn. A boss who was as demanding as Genghis Khan, the weight of the world upon his shoulders. The world going crazy all around him. He remembered a time when working at the White House, the White Thrill as staffers called it, made up for the sacrifices he had to make. But those days were long gone, leaving little that he enjoyed about his job.
He glanced at the old English clock on the faux mantel. Almost midnight, and here he was, still dressed in his air force blues, the formal uniform he wore to work every day. As military liaison to the national security advisor, one of the most demanding jobs in the entire Department of Defense, he hardly had time to think. He took his secure cell phone with him to the bathroom, the shower, running, outside while working in the yard. He kept it by his bed at night. It was like his pants and underwear, he felt utterly naked without it. And it didn’t just ring with an emergency every once in awhile. It rang every day. Sometimes every hour. Nothing was as demanding as the job he held now; not flying fighters, not commanding a combat wing, not masterminding an air war—nothing compared with the pressures he dealt with daily. Eighty-hour workweeks were the norm. He was exhausted all the time. He knew his family was suffering. Surely his sons resent it! How could they not? But he didn’t know what to do.
His only comfort, his only consolation at all, was that his wife had assured him that he was doing what he was supposed to do. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll take care of things at home. What you’re doing is important. I think it is part of the reason you were brought into the world. Besides, someone’s got to do it. And I really believe that no one else will do it as well as you.” Sara had written the words of encouragement on a yellow slip of paper and tucked it in his uniform pocket one morning several months before. After reading the note, he had folded it up and kept it in his wallet. He was certain she didn’t even remember writing it, but during the most difficult times he found himself pulling out the wrinkled slip of paper and reading her words again.
He stretched, feeling the stiff fabric and the pressure of all the ribbon bars on his chest. He missed wearing his flight suits, they were much more comfortable, and he certainly missed flying, especially after days like today. His morning had started with a private meeting with his boss, the national security advisor, after which he had suffered through no less than 14 appointments, then ended with a reception at the Libyan Embassy, a typically stuffy and formal affair, the kind his wife enjoyed and he absolutely despised.
Then he remembered how beautiful Sara had looked in her black dress and suddenly the evening didn’t seem like such a waste. “Sara, oh Sara,” he thought to himself, “when I asked you to marry me, did you know I would drag you from one corner of the world to the next? Did you envision the challenges of the life we would choose?”
He wondered, supposing not. It had been a wonderful journey, but not without cost.
“Sometime soon,” he frequently promised himself, “things are going to change. Life will slow down.”
The general breathed deeply, knowing it probably wasn’t true.
He glanced at the clock again, then turned to check the wall safe and security system before turning off the lights. He had to get up in five hours and it was time to get some sleep.
As he was reaching for his bedroom doorknob, his secure cell phone started ringing, stopping him in his tracks. “Please go away!” he mumbled. “It’s late. I am tired. Let it wait until morning.”
But the STU-IV secure cell phone continued ringing and he turned to pick it up, noticing on the digital screen that the call was coming from the CIA. “Yes,” he said as he put the phone to his ear, the delay from the encryption providing a noticeable delay.
“Sorry to bother you, boss.” Brighton recognized the voice of a junior member of the security team. “Colonel Jensen and the night watch have a little problem with the PDB.”
Brighton shook his head. The Presidential Daily Brief. Every morning at the White House. The president attended. No screw-ups were allowed. None. No forgiveness. Another beast that had stolen his life away.
“Do we need to take care of it tonight?” he asked, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.
“The watch supervisor said it can wait until morning, but they need you in by four.”
“OK. I’ll be there.” He glanced at his watch. Then he remembered. “No, no, I almost forgot. I’m leaving for Saudi Arabia day after tomorrow. I’ve got briefings with the guys at the Pentagon in the morning to wrap up a couple things before I go. You’re going to have to call my deputy.”
“Of course, sir. The watch supervisor must have forgotten. I’ll give Colonel Hampton a call.”
“Tell him I’m sorry, but he’s going to have to handle it.” Brighton wasn’t worried. Important as it was, the PDB was one of the least of his concerns. “Anything else?” he asked.
“No sir. Sorry for bothering you. Have a good trip, sir.”
“Thank you, Patty. Good night.” Brighton hung up the phone.
He had barely turned out the light again when the secure cell phone started ringing a second time. He stared at it in anger. “Brighton!” he said abruptly as he jammed it to his ear. He hadn’t noticed the call was coming from the White House.
“Major General Brighton?” a communications specialist asked.
“Yes.”
“Sir, this is Sergeant Bendino at the CIC communications center. I have a call from Prince Saud, crown prince of Saudi Arabia. We have traced and authenticated the phone number to verify it is coming from Riyadh, but voice recognition has not confirmed his identity. He wants us to patch him through.”
“Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal?”
“Yes, sir. That is who he says.”
“Then of course, patch him through.”
“Sir, do we need to notify the operations desk?”
“No, Sergeant Bendino. I suspect this is a personal matter. I have known the crown prince for a very long time.”
“Yes, sir. But you realize, of course, that as with all communications with foreign heads of states, these communications will be recorded and monitored.”
“I understand, sergeant. Now please patch him through.”
The secure satellite line clicked and then buzzed and then fell silent again. “Neil?” he heard the prince’s deeply accented baritone.
“Your Highness! How are you? I hope everything is OK?”
“OK? Yes, of course. Everything’s fine.”
Brighton considered the differences in time, knowing it was early morning in Saudi Arabia. “It’s good to hear from you, Prince Saud. It’s been a long while.”
“Too long, general, too long. Listen, I know it is late there, and I don’t have much time, but I heard you were flying over to meet with some of my air force leaders. I would hope we could get together. Nothing special, just an hour or two to catch up on, how do you Americans say it . . . older times?”
“Old times, Prince Saud.”
“Old times. Of course. Anyway, could we try to get together?”
“I’d be honored, your Highness.”
“Excellent, Neil. Now listen, I’m going to be in Medina for most of the week, but I’m going to fly back to meet you in Riyadh. I’ll have my people give your staff a call and work out a schedule. Will that be all right?”
“Of course, Prince Saud. Whatever you want. But let me ask, is this important? Anything formal? Do I need to do bring my staff or do anything to prepare?”
The line was silent a long moment, and Brighton could hear the prince breathe. “Nothing important, Neil,” he finally answered, “It is a personal matter. That is all.”
The general sensed the hesitation and was about to press but the crown prince spoke before the general could say anything. “Same number at the Pentagon?” Prince Saud asked.
“The switchboard will always get you through.”
The phone clicked and went dead and the general pocketed the secure cell phone in his pants. He turned again for the bedroom door.
EIGHT
During the millennia that passed since Balaam had been cast to earth, he had claimed many souls; a million, perhaps ten million, he really didn’t know, for once he had destroyed them he never thought of them again. And though he and his fellow fallen angels had mastered the art of destruction, it was not always easy, and this one lesson they had learned: never give up. Everyone had a weakness. Even the great could fall. Think of Cain. Think of Judas. Think of King David and a million other souls. Many of the strongest had been taken and everyone was fair game.
Through the years, Balaam had seen it all until he reached the point where there was no pain or disappointment, no depravity or torture, no betrayal, hate or hurt he had not mastered. He had been there and cheered when Cain had lifted the stone. He had witnessed Abel’s blood flow and learned the power of greed. Soon after, he and the other fallen angels realized the astonishing power of lust and its incredible potential to destroy. It was a short step from lust to far greater sins. Soon, there was no aberration or depravity they had not introduced to the world.
Over time, Lucifer’s followers had developed a real love for the blood and horror of war. How many battles had they started, then watched the outcome with glee! Armies were their playthings, the cries of the dying sweet music to their ears. In his mind, Balaam could smell the smoke from the fires and the stench of dead flesh. He could hear the cries of broken mothers as their children had been tortured and taken as slaves.
In one particularly brilliant display, Balaam had convinced a young mother to sacrifice her own children to a pagan god, a moment they all remembered with particular pride. And they had called it religion! Even Lucifer had laughed. On another night, Balaam had laughed while Judas put a rope around his neck, promising the mortal he’d keep on fighting to the end of the world.
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