Short! Time was short! And still so much work they had to do!
Yet, as he stared down on the Iranian village, he felt the pull of something large. Something strong and great and powerful. Something that brought him great fear. It was here. Something dangerous lived in the village.
Someone who could hurt him.
He had to discover who it was!
NINE
The ground above the Agha Jari Deh Valley rose sharply to the west. There, on a rocky spot looking over the haphazard village, an ancient guard tower rose like an arm and fist from the ground. The tower was made of stone cut from the mountain and stood almost sixty feet above the sloping terrain. The base of the tower was some forty feet wide, the granite walls six feet thick, with a large and high-ceilinged room inside. A single metal door allowed access to the ground floor room and a narrow set of wooden stairs along the back wall wound up to the top of the tower. In ancient days, the tower was manned constantly to provide warning to the villagers when an attack was imminent. In the early years, or the lean years, when the population of the village was small, most of the village’s women and children could be crammed inside the base of the tower. There they would huddle while they listened to the sounds of the battle outside.
The tower, known as el Umma, or the community, had through the years fallen into deep disrepair. The huge metal door was nearly rusted off its hinges, and the steps were so dry and rotten they sagged mightily under even a little weight. But the tower was one of Rassa’s favorite places to think, and through the years he had retreated there many times to ponder and pray.
The day before Azadeh’s eighteenth birthday, he got up early and hiked the steep trail that led to el Umma. It was spring, but the hay was coming near to full, and his day would be busy for there was much work to do.
Rassa entered the tower just as daylight was beginning to break. Inside, el Umma smelled of mold and dust and ancient, rotting wood. Four-inch slits in the rock walls provided light to illuminate dimly his way as he climbed the stairs and every ten or twelve feet the walls were scorched and black from where oil-soaked torches had been attached to the walls, suspended by steel latches that were embedded into the mortar and stone. He climbed carefully, testing each step, though he was familiar with most of the weakest boards. The sun was just rising between two of the highest peaks when he emerged at the top of the tower. A round rampart with a short wall provided a barrier to keep him from stepping into space. Rassa knelt, facing Mecca, and bowed his head for prayers, then sat back and leaned against the tower, the rising sun to his back.
He kept his eyes open, looking out on the sea. The sky was clear, and a cold front had moved through in the night, clearing the air of haze and humidity. From where Rassa sat, he could see most of the eastern coastline of the Persian Gulf, the dark waters stretching north and south, lapping at the brown sands and dry foothills that made up the Iranian coast. The sea was hazy and gray, and sparkled in the rising sun. Looking north, he could clearly make out the oil platforms and pipelines that crossed the shallow waters of the gulf. Further out, he could see the drilling platforms and pumping stations of Khark and Ganaveh, the heart of one of the richest oil fields in the world. A row of tankers, perhaps four in all, lined up at the Bandar-e Bushehr offshore pumping station to take on their load. Even from this distance, he could see those that were already loaded with oil, for they sat much lower in the water than those that were waiting to be filled. After filling their holds with Arabian crude oil, the tankers would steam south and east, through the Straits of Hormuz and into the Arabian Sea. It would take the tankers several weeks to reach their destinations in Japan, Taiwan and the southern U.S. gulf ports. Rassa watched with only casual interest, for the Iranian oil fields meant very little to him. He benefited not at all from the incredible wealth that was generated through Iranian oil production, and because he had been watching the oil tankers since he was a child, there was little there he had not seen before.
Yet as he stared to the west, something did catch his eye. Far out at sea, maybe twenty kilometers off the coast, a monstrous ship steamed into view. It started as a gray dot on the southern horizon, but grew quickly, and Rassa watched it carefully. As the ship moved closer, he saw the deck and the enormous, steel mast, and he knew it was an American aircraft carrier. The carrier cut through the water, its sharp bow slicing through the three-foot seas, and made good time as it cruised to the north. If it hadn’t penetrated Iranian coastal waters, it must have been very close. Minutes later, Rassa saw one, and then two, aircraft launch from its deck, pointed-nose fighters that disappeared for just a fraction of a moment below the carrier’s deck, then formed up together and turned to the west. Rassa could tell from their shape of their wings that the aircrafts were F-18 Hornets.
The fighters accelerated, then pulled their noses steeply into the air and disappeared beyond a high strand of gray clouds. Rassa watched them, curious, then something else caught his eye. To his right, along the mountains, he saw two Iranian fighters, old Iraqi MiG-29s that Saddam Hussein had sent over the border to Iran during the first hours of the Gulf War and which the Iranian government had never returned. The MiGs screamed in from the north, low and fast, following the contours of the mountains before turning toward the brown sands of the coast. The MiGs always stayed away from the international waters, and certainly never ventured near the American carrier as they circled over the coast, though one made a feint for a U.S. destroyer before quickly turning away to fly back over the coast. They were flying very fast and they soon disappeared behind him, heading back to their base, already running low on fuel. Like everything made in Russia, the fighters were loud and fast, but they drank fuel like an elephant drinking water from a glass.
Rassa watched with interest. He had seen the game of cat and mouse before; an American carrier group would move up the coast, flanked by escorts and destroyers while launching their Hornets on combat air patrols. The Iranian (or, in the old days, Iraqi fighters) would follow the American ships, watching and teasing in their own show of force. Rassa wasn’t a military man, but he suspected if the U.S. fighters ever got serious, if they ever made a turn for Iranian fighters, his brothers would run. It was one thing to tease. It was another to get blown out of the air.
As Rassa watched, he realized such scenes were far more common over the past several months than they had ever been before. And he had witnessed other things, things which worried him and were only whispered about by a few. The government was very close to maybe six nuclear warheads. Such would be a game changer, everybody recognized, even poverty stricken people in remote villages such as his. And with unstable governments springing up throughout the region, everyone was on edge, including his masters in Tehran. Now there seemed to be a constant line of army convoys moving up and down the coastal highway. Some said these army units were there to act as a barrier to the constant flow of insurgents and foreign fighters who hid out in the Iranian deserts, where they had established base camps from which they would train and prepare for strikes into the struggling Iraqi democracy. Some claimed the Iranian army wasn’t there to stop the rebels, but to provide them training, as well as food, money, ammunition and aid. Rassa had also recently seen many more American warships than he had ever seen before. Normally, the Americans would keep their battle groups much farther to the south, rarely venturing much farther north than the northern coast of Bahrain, but lately the American ships regularly docked at the Iraqi ports near Umm Qasr, as well as the ports at Kuwait. And there seemed to be many more western oil tankers in the Gulf. He glanced again to the offshore loading docks at Bandar-e Bushehr. On any given week, he might see one or two tankers load up at the port, but over the past year or so, and especially over the past several months, the number of American tankers had doubled, even tripled. And Rassa wondered why.
As he watched, the American aircraft carrier turned forty degrees to the west and was soon out of sight, though an escort trailed behind, staying between the carrier
and the coast. There were no longer any fighters in the air, and Rassa shifted against the tower to look on his village below.
Agha Jari Deh was an ancient town, with maybe a little more than four thousand people, a number which hadn’t changed much over the past couple centuries. From where he sat, on the top of the tower that was uphill from Agha Jari Deh, Rassa watched his town come to life. He saw a pair of mutawwa, the religious police, walking the streets dressed in their black turbans and white robes, ready to enforce the morning call to prayers. In the center of the village, a new civic center was being built, a modern brick building going up alongside ancient mud huts reinforced with palm leaves and logs. The suq, or village market, was exactly as it had been for almost five hundred years. The money changers were out, already clinking their coins to advertise their business as the merchants set out their wares—flour, copper, peaches, fine rugs, ancient spices (catalyst of too many wars), coffee, tea, sugar, holy water from Mecca, pistachios, goat meat and finely thin cuts of lamb—everything needed for daily life could be bought in the market. The streets were busy with pedestrians, bicyclists and motorcyclists, but there were also many more automobiles than there used to be, including Mercedes Benzes and Land Rovers brought in from Europe. Islam had never preached that it was a sin to grow rich, and many of the villagers had grown relatively wealthy working the offshore oil fields or trading with those who came to the market daily. From where Rassa sat, he could see the fault line that ran almost straight through the middle of the town. Every hundred years or so, a powerful earthquake shook apart his village, but afterwards, whatever houses or shops that were shaken down were quickly rebuilt. His people were not easily rattled and what they lacked in resources, they made up in tenacity, patience and reduced expectations.
The sun was rising now, and it was quickly growing warm. Rassa felt drowsy and peaceful, and he considered for a moment his home and life.
Rassa was a simple man, but he was not unlearned, having been educated in one of the finest private schools in the region (one of the few benefits of being a descendent of the shah) and he knew this place where he stood truly was unique in the world. He surveyed his village, a place whose roots dated back almost 2,500 years, back to the days when men were first learning to plow, when they realized an ox could do more work than a boy, back to the age of the Old Kingdom in Egypt, the first great civilization that was to rise to the Middle East. He knew that some of the world’s greatest warlords and emperors had stood in this place. From the first nomadic tribesmen to the Persian kings, from the Roman senators to the Muslim caliphs, Russian czars, and British generals—many of the greatest leaders had fought for this ground. How many men had died, how many wars had been fought, how many empires had risen and settled over Persia, this fertile piece of land that he called home?
Persia. The White Pearl. Treasure of ancient days.
The world had been changed here.
Might Persia change history once again?
Rassa had a feeling that it would. This feeling, this thing he had felt since he was a child, had been one of the reasons he had chosen to stay. In the years following the fall of his grandfather the shah, most of the royal family (and they had numbered in the hundreds) had accepted luxurious exile in various nations outside of the Persian Gulf. There they had retired with their millions, their servants, aides, butlers and wine. But in leaving, they had forgone any influence on their nation, as well as any hope of a respectful return. But Rassa’s father, now dead, had chosen to stay, and Rassa had followed his lead; even if anonymous, even if poor, he wanted to remain in this land, for he believed a time would come when the glory of Persia would rise once again. And he wanted to be here when that great day arrived.
As Rassa stood in the rising sun, he sensed a sudden rush of both good and bad; the passing of time, the passing of history, of dreams and disappointments, of birth and death. The emotion passed over him like a warm wind. Bending over, he ran his fingers through the two hundred years of dirt that had settled on the stone bulwark at the top of the tower. It was black, like the soil below it, and he let it sift through his fingers, then lifted his hand and smelled the richness there. He turned in a slow circle, looking from the forest to the mountain, then back to the valley below. Where else could man stand and look down upon more than two thousand years of civilizations, the tracings of wars, long forgotten, but which had shaped the world’s history?
As he stood alone at the top of the tower, he pondered the birth and death of nations, the birth and death of peoples, the birth and death of his ancestors who had lived here for so many years.
Then he thought of the birth of his daughter and the death of his wife, the only women he had ever loved.
Thinking of them, he shrugged. Who was he to understand the cycle of life? Who was he to question what it was for? He could ponder, he could ask, but he could not comprehend.
Might he know it one day?
Insha’allah. If God wills it.
TEN
Rassa heard heavy footsteps echoing up from the base of the tower. Soon, Omar Pasni Zehedan emerged at the top of the stairs.
“Rassa,” he offered simply as he moved to his side. From where Rassa had been sitting, it would have been impossible for Omar to have seen him from the ground, for the low wall around the embattlement would have hidden him from view. But it wasn’t uncommon for the two to meet here, and the neither of them was surprised to see the other there.
Omar sat next to Rassa and leaned against the cold stone. Rassa was quiet as he settled down.
“You see the aircraft carrier?” Omar asked after catching his breath.
Rassa nodded and hunched his shoulders toward the sea.
“There were also a couple of our fighters up north.”
Again, Rassa nodded.
Omar pulled out a crumpled pack of unfiltered cigarettes and stuck one between his fat lips. He was a huge man, with legs like tree trunks and a thick, hairy neck. His hands were round as grapefruits and he had a steel vise for a grip. Father of fifteen children, husband of six wives (the Qur’an only allowed for four wives, but he didn’t count the two who had failed to provide him with offspring), Omar was wealthy, cynical and wise. As a young man, he had grown rich through illicit trade, selling black-market supplies to the Iranian army, smuggling dollars and various European currencies (without which little business could be done), selling passports, bribing the port tariff managers to export rare Persian rugs, running drugs, alcohol and guns—there was little he hadn’t bought, sold or traded at one time or another. But he was far more conservative now, for he had much to lose. He had many friends, about as many enemies, but all in all he was as well-connected and financed as anyone Rassa knew.
Their relationship went back many years. Their fathers had fought side by side in the Iran-Iraq war, cringing in sandy trenches while chemical warheads had flown overhead. Upon the death of Rassa’s father, Omar, twenty years older, had taken him under his protective wing and over the years they had become loyal friends.
Omar spit a piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. Rassa watched him shift his weight from one hip to the other, knowing the cold stone exacerbated his arthritis. Omar cursed and stretched his legs. “I drove up to Bandar–e Mah Shahr yesterday,” he then said. “It normally takes me two hours. Took me almost four. I was stopped at three roadblocks. There used to only be one. I passed an army convoy that must have been three miles long. I made note of the unit, their commander proudly, and stupidly, had his unit flag waving from his staff car.” He spit once again. “They were the Twelfth Special Security Forces,” he announced, as if he were breaking important news.
Rassa stared blankly. It meant little to him.
Omar was silent as he lit up his smoke. “The Twelfth is normally posted to the central headquarters in Tehran,” he continued. “So I did a little reading.” Omar was well traveled, but far more important, he had a computer hooked up to a phone line! Access to the Internet meant access to an e
ntire world of information. Many times, Rassa and Omar had spent until the wee hours of the morning learning things for which they could be hanged.
“They are posting the Twelfth to protect the oil fields to our east,” Omar concluded.
Rassa glanced toward him and shrugged, “Protect them from what?”
“One begs that question, it would seem. I don’t see enemy navies ready to invade our shores. I don’t see an enemy ready to knock down our doors. It seems the mullahs and bureaucrats are growing both suspicious and bold. They don’t see an enemy, they see us. But it appears they intend to protect their theocracy, even with Muslim blood.”
“You knew they would, Omar. How many times have we said the same thing?”
The older man growled and shifted his weight to his other oversized hip. He adjusted his turban and glared to the south, then reached under his robe and pulled out a curved knife from a leather sheaf strapped to his leg. Extracting a peach from his pocket, he cut it in half and extended a piece toward Rassa, using the end of his knife. Rassa took it and thanked him as he took a healthy bite.
“Too much is going on,” Omar answered. “Too many rumors. Too many whispers of war. Too many army units on highways and too many threats from the mullahs who hide in Tehran. But the enemy isn’t the Great Satan like we used to think. The enemy comes from within. And there is a darkness, a mist, spreading like smoke in the air. I don’t like it, Rassa. It is calm now, I know that, but I feel it is the calm before the crashing storm.”
Rassa nodded weakly. “Yes,” he agreed.
The world was changing, even here in Iran. There was too much information, too much travel, too much talk, for the ultraconservative unmans and mullahs to keep their people in the dark. Rassa had heard all their arguments, all of their bile and fear. Having been raised in the swamp of their loathing, how could he have not heard it all before? But he knew it wasn’t true. The ayatollahs were lying. The men who ran Iran, the mullahs, the local district leaders, the policemen, teachers and bureaucrats, all of them hated the United States; it was a part of their jobs, one of the qualifications they were screened for before they even applied. But not everyone shared in their hatred and there was a growing sentiment, especially among the educated and the young, that the Iranians had a decision to make; enter the 21st century or step back five hundred years. Take a step toward freedom or toward the Dark Ages once again.
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