“Before he turns against us, he will see to his last son. He will take care of his heir and ensure he is safe. And he will do it alone; he won’t trust anyone else. He knows there are snakes in the nursery and he will want to kill them himself. Until then, he is vulnerable, so we have a few hours.”
The old man rasped, and then warned him, “Crown Prince Saud is no fool. It would be a mistake to underestimate him. So be careful, al-Rahman. We’ve come too far, been far too patient, and we’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to let this slip through our fingers this late in the game.”
The prince pressed his lips. “Yes,” he answered simply. “It is a dangerous time.”
“Then take care of Prince Saud before he turns his attention to us.”
Al-Rahman started to answer when the personal phone at the side of his desk buzzed quietly. He picked up the receiver and listened, then grunted a few instructions and hung up the phone. The old man peered at him and Prince Al-Rahman smiled. “Crown Prince Saud is on his way to the airport,” he said.
“Where to?” the old man questioned, a hint of concern in his voice.
“I don’t know,” Al-Rahman answered. “But we are going to find out. He has requested his private helicopter. They are completing the pre-flight now.”
NINE
Princess Tala and her children were buried in a secret and private funeral at the royal family’s ancient cemetery on the outskirts of Medina. Only Crown Prince Saud, his father and a few trusted kin stood over the dark graves as the gold-plated coffins were lowered into the dry ground. There was no press release, no public offering, no notification to the world that the princess had been killed and incredibly, word of the assassinations didn’t leak to the international press.
When it came to interfamily homicide there was good reason to be silent. The kingdom had been thrown into chaos. And it was about to get worse.
* * *
Seven hours after the private funeral, the Crown Prince of the House of Saud was moved to one of his personal helicopters that always stood on alert. The helicopter’s blades were spinning when the crown prince showed up and the helicopter took off in the darkness without turning on its navigational lights.
The prince watched through the window of the American-made Sikorski S-92, a four-bladed executive helicopter that had more gold and leather than could be found in any executive suite looking down on midtown Manhattan. The highly modified cabin, originally designed to seat seventeen passengers had been modified into a six-passenger configuration, with opposing leather couches running down each of the sides of the cabin, a fully stocked bar, a small office and lavatory and two massive reclining chairs just behind the bulkhead wall. The carpet was a deep maroon and so thick it felt like one was standing on grass. Highly polished teak and mahogany accented the trim, and the seats were white leather, soft as velvet, and emblazoned with the royal flag.
Crown Prince Saud watched in silence as the warm waters of the Persian Gulf passed underneath his helicopter, but the night was so dark it was nearly impossible to get a sense of their speed. The winds had picked up, moving down from the north and the ocean was white-capped with rippled lines of foam reflecting the light of the yellow moon. The helicopter flew east, toward the Iranian border, and with each passing mile the emptiness inside him grew more dark and intense. He leaned against the helicopter’s starboard window and felt the vibration of the rotors spinning over his head. The helicopter passed the first of the many offshore oil rigs that dotted Iran’s western shore and he knew they would soon be “feet dry” over land. The Crown Prince could imagine the view from the cockpit—the miles of whitecaps below them, the enormous oil derricks casting shadows under the moon, the deep black sands and rising foothills of Iran’s western shores, the moon in the pilot’s faces and the enormous saucer of stars overhead. He glanced at his watch. A little after one in the morning. They had been in the air for an hour and would soon land.
The prince took a breath and turned in his seat. The helicopter was silent except for the sound of his second wife crying, a soft and heartbroken tremble that she tried to hold in. The prince looked lovingly at her and she wiped her eyes quickly to hide her tears. He reached out and took her hand and held it to his chest then placed his other hand very gently on the four-year-old boy who was sleeping beside her. “Do you want our son to live?” he asked simply.
The young princess nodded and squared her shoulders in reply.
“Then be strong,” the prince demanded, his voice strained but firm. He pressed her hand against their sleeping child’s head. “Be strong for him. Be strong for our family. Be strong for the kingdom. Be strong for me.”
The princess wiped her cheeks as she stared at her lap.
The prince saw a vision of the four charred bodies, their barely recognizable faces peaceful now in death. He glanced at his last son, a four-year old who slept on his young mother’s lap. His face too was peaceful. The prince’s heart broke again.
His family. His honor. Their future. Their king. That was all that mattered. The prince knew that was true.
He studied his young wife, reading the pain in her eyes. She looked as if she were dying, as if she were already dead. She looked so lonely, so abandoned. “Are you certain?” she pleaded. “Is there no other way?”
The prince shook his head. “I have decided. We will discuss it no more.”
The young princess sat back, her eyes fearful and wet. Her lower lip trembled. She was trying to be brave, she was trying to be strong . . . but this was so unexpected and so frightening. She looked straight ahead, her face strained with fear.
“Why can’t I go home to my family?” she muttered. “Why can’t I stay in Saudi Arabia? I know nothing of Iran!”
“Which is why we must do this! Are you so blind you can’t see? Your life is in danger and so is my son! Now quit crying of your suffering! Would you rather be dead? Would you rather I have to bury him like I buried my other children?”
The princess stroked the sleeping boy’s face. “But my husband . . . Iran? Why not the southern providence? My people are from that region. I want to live among them and . . . .”
“That’s right! You want to live! So you must do as I say!”
“But it is so far away!”
“Pray it is far enough!”
The princess fell silent knowing she should not say any more.
Prince Saud leaned his head back and stared blankly at the darkness. She glanced at him quickly and saw the trail of his tears.
Minutes passed, then the prince leaned toward her. “You are strong, Ash Salman,” he whispered firmly. “There is a determination, a wisdom inside you which is rare in my people. You have already shown more courage than most men I know. I will not leave you alone. I do have a plan! But there is a scourge in the kingdom. We suffer a deadly disease. It will take me some time to hunt my enemies. This threat, these assassins, I know who they are, but I don’t know how deep it goes or who is involved. It will take me some time to figure out who I can trust and who I should kill. And until they are dead, I need to know that my last son is safe. It is he they are after, for he will be the next king. So until this the danger passes, you must hide.”
The princess took a deep breath then turned back to her window to watch the darkness outside. The helicopter passed over the Iranian border and climbed to five-hundred feet. She saw a dark ribbon wind along the foothills to the south—the Khorramshahr highway that ran to the heart of the oil fields. She tried to remember the map she had studied the night before. The tiny village of Agha Jari Deh was but a little farther inland.
The helicopter leveled off, then descended.
The mountains rose up to meet them.
The princess was almost there.
* * *
Rassa Ali Pahlavi lay still in his bed, awake but unmoving. The bedroom was cool in the mountain air. Something had woken him, something far in the distance, the low sound of beating rotors passing over a hill. He lay ther
e and thought, then pushed himself out of bed and pulled on a thin shirt and dark trousers.
He walked silently out of the bedroom. Moving into the kitchen, he set a blackened copper kettle on the stove and turned on the propane, setting the flame on high. He moved carefully, making no noise, knowing the walls that separated the kitchen from Azadeh’s bedroom were paper-thin. The water boiled quickly under the oversized flame and he sprinkled in two measures of black tea, stirred quickly, then poured the tea into a ceramic mug and held it tight, letting it warm his hands. He sipped once. The tea was bitter and he pressed his lips appreciatively as he sat down at the table.
A beautifully framed embroidery hung on the wall, an angular inscription consisting of three words; Allah, Mohammad and Ali. The name of Ali in the embroidery identified his household as a member of the Shi’a, or Shi’ites, those Muslims who consider Ali the legal successor to Mohammad. All around him were other reminders of his religion, along with verses from the Qur’an designed to chase evil away.
But evil was coming! Rassa felt a cold chill. Something was coming. He had felt this before.
Studying his meager surroundings, he felt restless and on edge. He sipped at his hot tea, seeking its warmth. Standing, he walked quietly to Azadeh’s bedroom and pushed the door open a crack. She was sleeping soundly and he sat down in the kitchen again. Picking up a copy of the Qur’an, he repeated the cleansing phrase, “In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.” Cleansed, he started reading, choosing at random a verse.
“It is righteousness to believe in Allah and the Last Day; and the Angels, and the Book, and the Messengers; to be firm and patient in pain and adversity, and throughout all periods of panic. Such are the people of truth, the God-fearing . . . .”
He read the verse again, then looked up in thought.
“To be firm and patient in pain and adversity . . . .”
He thought of the sound that had startled him out of sleep. A helicopter. On the western side of the hill.
Helicopters flying toward the village? That was never good news.
“Pain and adversity.” His village had had their fair share.
* * *
Crown Prince Saud unstrapped his seat belt and moved to the small door that separated the passenger cabin from the cockpit and pulled it open. He was met by the dim, multicolored lights of the cockpit; four eight-inch computer displays, a terrain-following radar, and rows upon rows of digital gauges and multifunctions switches. The two pilots sat side-by-side, both of them Saudi air force colonels, old friends, trusted and worthy, their faces an unearthly green in the reflected cockpit lights. Saud stood in the doorway and studied the ALQ-162 defensive/countermeasures CRT, an automated system that searched out ground threats—ground-to-air radars, shoulder-fired weapons and other heat-seeking missiles. With the exception of the Operations Normal symbology, the screen was a pale, silver blank. Satisfied, he raised his eyes to look through the cockpit window. The world appeared crooked, for the pilot had rolled the helicopter into a steep bank. The horizon tilted across the windscreen at an uncomfortable angle, the moon and stars filling the right window, the coastline and lighted highway filling the left. His head spun a moment and he adjusted his weight to balance himself, then turned to the copilot, who gestured to the north. “Agha Jari Deh,” the pilot said, pointing to a tiny collection of mud and brick houses nestled tightly against the rising mountains.
The prince watched anxiously. Even in the moonlight, the village was surprisingly small; so small, the helicopter would overfly it in a matter of seconds. There was only one road leading to the village and except for those who traveled to its market the village was almost completely unknown.
Saud studied the passing huts and small homes. It was so small. It was perfect. Allah had prepared a way.
* * *
The helicopter rolled level and began to slow down. The copilot lifted his hand to the helicopter’s collective grips, which controls the helicopter’s ascent and descent, and pressed his radio switch to answer a radio call. “Transportation is waiting,” he announced to the prince.
Saud nodded and watched as the helicopter turned to line up on a grassy field, two or three kilometers south of the village. The circle of grass appeared as a dark bowl against the reflective rocks of the mountains. The village was quiet, less than a dozen lights shining to the north. He picked out the headlights of the waiting vehicles as the helicopter descended through three hundred feet and slowed below one hundred twenty knots. A powerful whoop emitted from above his head as the blades slapped the air, taking less of a bite as the aircraft slowed down. The pilot switched on the landing light and the tips of the spinning blades reflected the powerful lamp. Saud nudged the pilot on the shoulder, then stepped out of the cockpit and closed the door. Moving to the princess, he sat down at her side. In the dim light of the cabin, he saw a single tear glisten on the edge of her chin. She stared ahead, unmoving, her determination building inside. The prince didn’t speak to her as he slipped her lap belt on.
The helicopter landed with a bump on the uneven field and the pilot brought the twine turbine engines to idle and disengaged the rotors. Saud stood and worked the exit door, which dropped into the darkness, the folding steps exposed as the door slipped into place. He turned back to the princess who was waking their son. The three of them stepped out of the aircraft and into the cold mountain air.
* * *
Rassa heard his neighbor’s dog. The Afghan Hound bark urgently from behind the fence that followed the narrow trail that led up to the mountains. He stood up and moved to the window and looked out on the courtyard that surrounded his backyard where the moon cast deep shadows that wavered as the clouds passed overhead. The air was calm now, and cold, and he saw no movement in the dim light. Twenty seconds later he heard the sound of an automobile engine and the soft crunch of tires against the rock and gravel outside.
A sudden chill ran through him. He thought of the whoop of the helicopter blades and the roar of the turbine engines. Out here, in the most remote parts of the country, where the warlords and tribal chiefs ruled, a helicopter could only mean one of two things; warlords from the south, coming up to collect recruits for their bloody turf battles, or the jihadist—the lawless Islamic fanatics who had adapted to the presence of Western forces in Iraq by hiding out in the Iranian deserts where they planned their battles against the Great Satan and Jews.
Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Rassa felt his heart sink. He had seen many men disappear, pulled away in the night. Some had been suspected collaborators. Some had been hauled off to fight. Many were never heard of again. Fewer still returned to their homes.
He listened to the sounds of the car doors shut, then soft footsteps on the porch. He glanced in a panic to the bedroom door, thinking of his daughter, Azadeh, then considered the old rifle stuffed behind the ancient cedar armoire in corner of the room, a beat-up Lee-Enfield .303 that had been used by his grandfather during the First World War. The rifle was his own deadly secret, for to have a rifle, any weapon in fact, in Iran was strictly forbidden. Yet Rassa made no move toward it. If they were coming for him, be it the warlords or mullahs, it would be dangerous to fight them, especially with Azadeh in the next room.
So he waited, unmoving, listening to the footsteps outside his door. The wooden door rattled on its hinges but Rassa didn’t dare to move.
TEN
Rassa finally pulled the door open and peered out onto the dimly lit porch. Two middle-aged men stood in the darkness; both of them strong and well-dressed in dark western suits, though traditional turbans were wrapped on their heads. The nearest man blocked the doorway with his massive frame and moved one hand to his hip, exposing a thin, leather holster. The second man stood slightly behind the other and off to the side. Rassa glanced past the first guard to see two dark cars parked on the road, their engines idle, their headlights off. Without explanation, the bodyguards pushed into his home and swept through the room. Rassa stood speechl
ess until one of them paused at the back bedroom. “Is Azadeh in there?” he asked Rassa in a deep tone.
Rassa moved toward the hall. “Who are you?” he demanded, his eyes flashing with rage.
“Is she in there?” the bodyguard repeated.
Rassa tightened in panic then shook his head. “You do not want her,” he hissed, his voice husky with rage. It was the voice of a fighter at the edge of a war. “It is me you have come for! Leave her alone!”
He took a quick step toward the guard while glancing at the holster underneath the dark suit. If they had come for Azadeh then he would die in their way.
The leader ignored Rassa and nodded to the bedroom. “Check it out,” he said.
The smaller guard nodded and slowly pushed the door open. Stepping into the room, he pulled a tiny flashlight from his pocket and flashed it inside. He saw the sleeping girl, her head buried on the side of her pillow. He swept the light quickly, taking in the simple bed, small chest, and white wicker drawer. A small collection of colorful dresses, silken hajib headscarves and full burkas were hanging from a rope tied across the far corner. A golden headband had been neatly arranged on top of the dresser. On the floor next to the bureau was a pair of sandals and leather shoes. He studied the room carefully, then stepped back and closed the door.
Rassa was waiting at the door, a look of rage on his face. He relaxed his glare only slightly when the guard closed the door. “Who are you?” he hissed. “What are you doing here? I have nothing to hide! I have nothing you want!”
The two guards didn’t answer as they nodded to each other. The larger man moved to the front door, pushed it open and raised his right hand. The automobiles turned off their engines. Rassa heard the car doors open, then the sound of soft footsteps. He waited, then moved to the center of the kitchen, placing himself between Azadeh’s bedroom and the front door.
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