(Wrath-01)-Wrath & Righteousness (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  Besides being angry at the world, the five men had been unemployed for going on three years and were nearly drunk despite the early hour. So they watched the U.S. officer and the local kid (probably selling secrets about the anti-war movement), whispering and cursing all the time. They quickly decided they detested the Yankees more than the sight of spilled beer.

  “Look at him!” the largest German sneered. “Big shot American cowboy, just like Bush used to be. On his way to kill Afghans. That’s all they do is kill!”

  His buddies shook their heads in agreement. Stinking Americans. All cocky and proud.

  “You remember Wolf?” one of them asked. The other men stared. “You know, Wolfgang Struttger, runs the printing service downtown. He married an American, some woman who got a divorce from her soldier when she got over here. Then she dumped old Wolf and took off with most of his cash. Cleaned him out completely, then made off with his son. He’s seen the kid but one time since she left. She’s back in the United States now, but he doesn’t know where.”

  The other buddies swore. “Filthy, arrogant bitch!”

  They stared at each other and sipped miserably at their beer.

  “He shouldn’t be here,” the largest man finally sneered to his friends. “This is our place. Our country. None of them should be here. They bring only death and destruction. They only care about war! They only fight when there’s oil they want to get their hands on! They only fight when it suits them. And have you ever noticed, they always fight against us. Look at all the wars of the past hundred years. Did the United States ever help us? No! Never once. They claim they’re our ally, but isn’t it funny how we always find ourselves looking down the barrel of their guns!”

  His buddies all mumbled, boiling even hotter with rage.

  “Jew-loving Amris!” the leader hissed. “Arab-hating scum. Closed minded bigots and self-righteous crusaders is all that they are. How many nations have they exploited and crushed through the years!”

  The other men mumbled, content to hate from afar. But the fat one had had too many beers. “I’m going to get him!” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I hate these stinking Americans and it’s time I let them know.”

  *******

  General Brighton and Sam were working hungrily through a heaping plate of sausage and sauerkraut when Brighton saw the men approach out of the corner of his eye. Four of them followed their leader, who was a large man, tall as he, but at least 50 pounds heavier. He had a dark beard and short hair and he wore common work clothes. They all looked to be in their 30s and for a second Brighton thought they were coming to talk to him about flying. Back in the old days, it wasn’t uncommon for the locals to want to talk about the air force or what it was like to live in the United States. Then he saw the angry looks on their faces and realized these men were not in a talking mood. These men wanted trouble. And they were coming for him.

  “Heads up,” he whispered to Sam as the five men approached.

  Sam had already seen them coming. “I’ve been watching them,” he answered.

  Brighton put his glass down.

  “This isn’t going to look good,” Sam whispered. “A general and his son cracking a bunch of local guys’ heads.”

  “We’re the ones who might take the cracking. We’re outnumbered pretty bad.”

  “No prob, Dad,” Sam answered as he slowly pushed his chair back. “Just remember, strike to do damage. You’ve got to take them out of the fight. If the only thing you do is hurt them, then all you’ve done is piss them off.”

  Brighton glanced around quickly, wishing he had brought his bodyguard, not because he was scared, but it would have made it much easier to get out of the café without trouble. Although he had popped a head or two in his early days, and been a pretty good boxer in college, he still swallowed tensely. General officers weren’t supposed to get into a fistfight with the locals. It was . . . unbecoming of their rank. And if the German press got wind of trouble, they would have a field day. He could almost see the headlines. White House Military Officer Brawls in Local Bar. His boss would freak. And Sara would faint!

  He cursed himself silently. How had he gotten into this mess? He shot a quick look to Sam. “You OK?” he asked.

  Sam only nodded.

  “If this gets ugly, stay together.”

  “I’ve got your six.”

  “Don’t challenge them. Keep your head down and maybe they’ll leave us alone.”

  The five men drew near. Sam cut a hunk of greasy sausage with his fork and lifted it to his mouth. Keeping his head down was the last thing on his mind. A soldier always watched his enemy as they approached.

  Brighton heard a deep growl from over his shoulder. “Er sieht so hungrig aus. Er kommt sicherlich von dem tÖten vielen Irakishen kindern zÜureck,” the huge German mocked.

  He struggled to translate, pulling the German words from way back in his mind. “Look at him, so hungry. He surely comes from the killing of many Iraqi children,” or something close to it, the German had said.

  The five men laughed as Brighton looked up and smiled weakly, feigning ignorance.

  The German shot a dark look to Sam as if to say “get out of here boy,” then turned back to Brighton, summing him up. “Big shot,” he sneered in German to his friends. “Fancy stars on his shoulders, but not smart enough to learn German. Another ugly American soldier, that’s all we have here.”

  Brighton turned away. He felt his back tighten and his chest muscles grow taut, but he kept his head down and his eyes on his plate.

  Sam looked up and smiled. “Hey guys,” he said in English, “we’re just having a quick bite to eat. We don’t want any problems. Give us a few minutes and we’ll be out of here.”

  The thug nodded to his buddies then reached out and tugged on Sam’s hair. “You need a haircut,” he sneered, leaning across the table toward him. “I’ve got a knife in my pocket. Do you want me to cut it for you?”

  Brighton leaned across the table, putting his arm between the fat man and Sam. Sam shook him off angrily, pushing his hand away. Brighton stared at the strangers and nodded. Five against two. Hardly a fair fight. And they probably had weapons, which made it much more dangerous and far more difficult.

  The German leaned across the table and stuck his fat fingers in Brighton’s food. “Looks good,” he snickered. “Don’t mind if I do.” He swirled his fingers through the meat juice then licked them and wiped his hand on Brighton’s shirt.

  His buddies laughed loudly, prodding him on. The German turned to Sam. “Why don’t you leave,” he said. “This isn’t about you. This is between this U.S. soldier and me and my buddies here.”

  Sam pushed himself away from the table and stood. “You got problems with Americans,” he snorted in anger.

  “Sit down,” Brighton told him, then turned quickly to the man. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said softly, being careful not to give any excuse for offense.

  Their leader bent toward him. “You’re in Germany,” he sneered, spit spraying on Brighton’s face “We don’t speak English or wear cowboy boots here!”

  “We were just leaving . . . .”

  The German stood in his way. “I said speak to me in GERMAN, or I’ll cut out your Yankee tongue and shove it down your throat!”

  “Get him!” his buddies taunted. “Take him out, Freidrich. You can do it!” they cried.

  Brighton breathed deeply as he shot a look to Sam.

  “You don’t want to do this,” he told him.

  “Yeah, pig, I do.”

  Brighton sighed again and the German sneered. “No stomach for a fight, boy. You just want to kill babies. Is that all you do!”

  The German shoved the American’s shoulders and Brighton caught a glimpse of the knife sheath underneath his oversized shirt. He shot a quick look to the others, wondering if they too were armed. The German poked a fat finger in his ear. “I’m talking to you, Pigdog,” he shouted. “ARE YOU NOT HEARING ME!!”

 
“Walk away,” Brighton warned him.

  “No way, Amri, not till I have some fun!” The German grabbed Brighton’s shirt and cocked his fist back.

  Brighton bolted to his feet, sending the small table crashing to the floor. He grabbed the German’s wrist and twisted, almost breaking his hand, then swung him around and jerked his arm up behind his back, forcing the man to squeal in pain. His nearest buddy pulled a knife from his pocket and lurched toward Sam. Sam grabbed the metal fork from his plate and slashed it down on his arm. The man cried in agony as the fork penetrated to his bone, just below the shoulder, digging four prongs into the muscle. It stuck from his bicep and he dropped his knife to the floor. Sam kicked it aside and waited for the next assault. The other men hesitated, then rushed him as one. Sam stepped back and twisted, kicked his right foot high in the air. He smashed his boot in the lead man’s throat and he fell back, grasping his shattered Adam’s apple, sucking desperately for air. The third man grabbed Sam’s hair and jerked his head back while another approached him with a small knife in his hand. Sam grabbed the German’s arm and twisted, bringing all of his weight against the elbow while extending his hip and pushing down. There was a soft crack and a cry as the man stumbled backward, holding his broken arm.

  Three down. Two left standing. It was all even now.

  Brighton held the huge German and jammed his arm upward again until he felt the muscles in his shoulder begin to tear. The fat man screeched in agony, then pulled away violently, using his weight to try and knock Brighton to the side. Brighton moved with the German, using his momentum against him, then smashed his forearm across the German’s face, forcing his chin to one side until his neck almost snapped. Reaching under the German’s shirt, he gripped his collarbone and held it, using it as a handle to keep pressure against the German’s face. The fat man shrieked again, almost fainting, then fell suddenly still. It was too painful to scream. It was too painful to move. Brighton jerked the German’s switchblade from his sheath, flipped it open and tossed it in the air, then caught the handle. He held the knife loosely against the German’s neck and felt him grow limp with fear.

  There was only one other German standing. He froze, his buddies rolling on the floor around him, all of them crying from their pain, then made a weak feint toward Sam before stopping again.

  Brighton tugged on the fat one’s collarbone and whispered in his ear. “Look what you’ve done to your buddies. Some of them got hurt. I think you should apologize!”

  The huge man huffed in pain. “I’d die first, Pigdog.”

  “Your choice!” Brighton waved the knife in front of his eyes. The German cried in pain. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed.

  Brighton almost laughed. “Now what is there in this situation that would lead me to believe that!” he asked. “I’m mean, look at this Freidrich! Help me understand.”

  Sam took a step toward his father. “Don’t kill him!” he stammered. “Don’t kill this one, General. Just let him go.”

  Brighton felt the German’s knees buckle and he jerked his arm again. “But I haven’t killed anyone this week,” he shot back to Sam. “Not a single Iraqi child! I need to taste some blood!”

  “But you’re on your way to Iraq. You can kill someone there!”

  “Oh yeah,” Brighton answered and the German realized they were jerking his chain.

  “Help me!” the fat one coughed, but his buddy didn’t move. He wanted no more of this. Sam took a quick step toward him and he cowered again.

  “You think I’m a killer!” Brighton hissed. “Should we find out if you’re right!”

  “Nein, nein!” the German cried, his eyes wide in pain.

  “I just came here for a quiet lunch. Now is that too much to ask?”

  The German groaned in agony. “Nein, mein herr, nein. That is not too much trouble. No sir, not at all!”

  Brighton swung his hand sideways, crashing the switchblade into the brick wall. The knife blade broke at the hilt and he dropped the handle on the floor. “Now perhaps we have an understanding,” he said in a calm voice. “You don’t want trouble. I don’t want trouble. It seems we agree.”

  The German nodded eagerly. “I don’t want any trouble, no sir.”

  “Then I’ll make you a deal. I’m going to let you go. Then you and your buddies are going to get out of here. I think your wives are calling. Is that what I hear?”

  “Yes, sir, they’re calling. It is time to go.”

  Brighton relaxed his grip and the German almost fell to the floor. He crawled away from the general, holding his hands to his neck. Brighton nodded to the waiter, who was standing wide-eyed by the bar. “How much I owe you?” he questioned.

  “Nothing there buddy. Just get the hell out of here.”

  Brighton stared at him, then nodded. He and Sam walked past the fallen Germans and through the front door.

  They stood alone in the alley. Sam looked back at the café. “That was interesting,” he said.

  Brighton stared back at Lelas and shook his head sadly. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered.

  “Hey, Dad, let’s get this straight. We didn’t ask for a fight. And that guy would have killed you if we had given him the chance. He was too drunk and too stupid. And they all were carrying knives. You didn’t do anything wrong here. Those goons were looking to fight us before I even sat down.”

  Brighton looked ashamed, then turned quickly to Sam. “Not a word of this to Sara. She would die if she knew this. Not one word, right.”

  Sam smiled and patted his shoulder. “No worries, Dad.”

  Brighton watched him, then turned. “Let’s get out of here before those goons call their friends.”

  Sam followed him to his car. “You know, Dad, that was pretty good work back there. If you ever decide you want to join the Deltas, I know a few people. It’s a pretty tight club, but I think I could get you in.”

  “No thanks,” Brighton answered. “I’m too old for this.”

  “Apparently not,” Sam answered, glancing back to the café.

  “I just held my own. You did all the hard work.”

  Sam just shook his head. “You’ve got to go?” he asked his father.

  Brighton glanced at his watch and nodded. “I was hoping we’d have more time to talk.”

  “Next time, I guess.”

  “Next time,” Brighton answered.

  The two men stood in silence. “When are you going back to Afghanistan?” Brighton asked as he unlocked his car.

  “A couple days, from what I’m hearing. By the end of the week.”

  Brighton looked at his son intently. “Be careful,” he told him.

  “Always, Dad.”

  Sam stepped back and saluted. “General,” he said.

  Brighton braced himself and returned the salute. “Captain,” he replied.

  NINETEEN

  Two days after the fisherman dragged the bloated body of Azadeh’s assailant from the river, another stranger pulled into Rassa’s village, equally mystifying, though certainly not insane. He moved comfortably through the crowded streets, for he had been in the village before, several times, in fact, in the previous two weeks alone. He was a large man, well kept, though he wore unexceptional clothes. His face was hidden behind dark glasses and a neatly trimmed beard. He drove a Swedish sedan, which he parked on the south end of the open-air market, then spent a couple hours walking through the village, taking everything in. He talked to each shopkeeper he visited, asking a few questions and occasionally even writing things down, then browsed through the market, testing several wares before buying some potatoes and garlic sausage for breakfast along with a cup of thick tea.

  It was Saturday morning, the start of another workweek, and the market was noisy and smelly from the usual crowd. After the first call to prayer, Rassa and Azadeh made their way through the market, collecting the supplies they would need for the next couple days. Rassa bought two liters of goat’s milk and some sugar, then fifty nails and some wire t
o repair the fence around his yard. Azadeh picked out some fresh fruit and cabbage, then eight small carp. The fish were wrapped in old newspaper and tied with rough string. She dropped them in her basket, then ran to her father’s side.

  The stranger watched them intently, always staying a comfortable distance behind and acting with care so as to not draw any attention to himself. As the sun rose, the air grew warm and the marketplace became oppressive. Their shopping completed, the father and his daughter left the market and walked the dusty road toward their home.

  The stranger watched them go, then melted into the crowd and walked back to his car. Climbing in, he locked the doors, started the motor, then pulled out an encrypted satellite phone and dialed a number in Riyadh.

  “I will speak to Crown Prince Saud,” he said after his call was put through. He grunted and waited. “Muhsin al-Illah,” he gave as his name.

  Then he waited, his breathing heavy, his hands sweaty and cold.

  “Sayid,” he said when the prince finally came on the phone. “I have been watching the target. There is nothing new to report.”

  The Arab waited, then answered. “They appear to be of little means, Sayid, though they do have their own home, a small brick and mud house on a hill looking over the village. It is small but well kept.”

  The large man fixed the air vent to blow on his face as he listened, then answered again. “Yes, your Highness, I agree. I have come to the reluctant conclusion that it might work. It seems that no one knows, or at least no one cares any longer, that Rassa Pahlavi is a grandson of the shah. He lives a quiet life, a simple life. And though I pray it never happens, and I hope you are wrong (blessed be your name, your Royal Highness, for I do not mean to ever disagree!), but from what I have seen I believe your plan could possibly work. If we are careful. And if we are left with no choice.”

  *******

  A little more than seven hundred kilometers to the west, the crown prince of the House of Saud, future king of Saudi Arabia, thanked his loyal servant then hung up the phone. He stared a long moment, considering what he should do.