Hansen stood in silence, then cracked his knuckles. Brighton turned away from the wall map.
“If we know it, the killer knows. If we know where Prince Saud was going, then the assassin knows it, too. He has to kill the last son to ensure the kingdom doesn’t fall to Prince Saud’s heir. If that’s the case . . . .”
Hansen started nodding.
“We’ve got to help him,” Brighton said as he turned to his aide. “What’s the closest Special Operations unit?”
“You know how thin we are in Special Forces, sir. All of our Spec Ops units are committed to ongoing operations. I’m not sure if we have anyone available . . .”
“There’s got to be someone!”
“Special Forces are stretched to the point of breaking three hundred and sixty-five days a year. None of them are idle. And we’ll have to use an SF unit. This isn’t the kind of mission we can send someone else.”
“Find someone!” Brighton commanded sternly. “I don’t care what you do or how you do it. Find us a unit we can task. We’ve got to get them to Agha Jari Deh before it’s too late. We’re looking for a young boy, four, maybe five years old. And Princess Ash Salman will be with him. Agha Jari Deh looks like a tiny village. If Saud took them there, then we can find him. But we’ve got to move quickly. If we picked up the radio broadcast, then Prince Saud’s enemies inside Saudi Arabia certainly picked it up as well. They will be moving. They are moving now. We have to get there before they do.”
Hansen turned to an Army liaison who had been standing with the circle of advisors a few feet away. The army colonel stepped forward. “We’ve got a Delta Team R&Ring in Germany,” he said. “They were supposed to get another couple days’ rest, but we could load them up and get them in-country if we had to. If we can get airlift from the Air Force, they could have them in Iran within twelve hours or so.”
Dagger turned to Brighton. His face was suddenly even more intense. Sam’s unit was in Germany. That was the Delta unit the colonel was taking about. He was ordering his son into combat. It was a lousy thing to have to do.
“Sir?” Hansen prodded.
“Do it,” Brighton said. “Coordinate with the Chairman, the SecDef, and the CINC to get the orders in place. We need their support to authorize a mission into Iran. The president will have to pull the final trigger. I’ll lay the groundwork with him. Meanwhile, authorize all support and combat SAR assets. Who knows what our Deltas will run into once they get there. This is going to be a very dangerous mission, with no time to plan or prepare. Move other SAR assets if you have to. We can’t leave these guys out there without support. If anyone gives you pushback, send them directly to me. Emphasize to the Deltas that this is a rescue mission only. They need to avoid a firefight if possible, but they need to be ready. We might meet up with hostiles and we have to be prepared to accept casualties.” He stopped and scanned his staff. Most were scribbling notes. “I want the talking papers within an hour so I can brief the president.”
The army colonel nodded and moved toward his console. Hansen went with him, all the time talking in his ear. Brighton looked at the other members of the staff. “Any questions?” he demanded. No one spoke. “OK, get at it.”
The group sprang to life.
* * *
Prince al-Rahman listened to the young communications specialist intently, boring his dark eyes into him. “You are certain?” he demanded, his voice deadly but calm.
“Sayid, yes I am.”
“He said the Agha Jari Deh Valley?”
“I am certain, Prince Abdullah, that is what he said.”
“That’s in Iran?”
“Yes, my Sayid.”
Prince al-Rahman closed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “My older brother has been murdered,” he said carefully. “I need to know everything. I need to know every detail of the radio call. Now, try to remember! Did he say anything else?”
The young soldier didn’t move as he thought intensely. “I have told you everything,” he finally answered. “Everything that I can recall.”
“His helicopter was shot down?”
“It seems that way, Sayid.”
“And there were no survivors?”
“No, my Sayid.”
“No survivors . . . no survivors . . . ,” Al-Rahman’s voice choked with pain. He forced a look of grief and deep sadness that pulled the corners of his lips into a tight frown. His eyes teared, his lip trembled, it was a spectacular display, with just the right mix of rage, shock and sadness at his brother’s death. Every head bowed in respect for his pain. Always emotional, his fellow Arabs recognized Al-Rahman needed a private moment to grieve.
The young prince wiped his hand across his eyes, then dismissed his staff with a wave of his hand. “Leave me,” he whispered. “I need some time alone.” His aides left without comment, the last one closing the heavy door to his office.
The room was silent a moment before Al-Rahman lifted the phone. “He went to Iran,” he said when his chief of security picked up the line. “Agha Jari Deh Valley.”
A long moment of silence followed. “Iran?” the general finally said.
“Yes,” Al-Rahman answered, “Now I want you to go and get him.”
“Sir, Iran is not a friend, they are an enemy. We have no assets in Iran.”
“I don’t care what you do or don’t have. We may not have Saudi assets in the country, but many powerful Iranian officers are indebted to me. Start with General Sattam bin Mamdayh. Get him on the phone. He’ll know exactly what to do.”
“Prince al-Rahman,” the general began to plead, “we have eliminated Prince Saud. His son is no threat to us. By the time he is old enough, it will be far too late!”
“You will do as I tell you. I want all of his children killed!”
“But Sayid, he is but a child. He poses no threat to you. Why can’t we just let him be?”
“Because he will grow up, you fool! Because he knows who he is! He will remember his father and he will come after us. And his mother is with him. Do you think that she won’t act? Are you stupid, my friend, or have you just lost your mind? I want all of them killed. None of Saud’s children can live.”
“But my Prince, if you will just consider for a moment . . . .”
“I want them dead!” Al-Rahman screamed like a madman into the phone. “Now, are you going to do it, or do I need to have you replaced? There are others who will follow my orders, general. You are not irreplaceable. Now you either bring me the son or I’ll mount your head on my wall like the female sheep that you are. Choose now, but choose wisely, for I am not in a good mood. And I don’t want to hear anymore whining about how he is just a child!”
* * *
As director, Iranian Internal Special Security Forces, Iranian General Sattam bin Mamdayh was one of the hundreds of powerful and evil men who either owed Al-Rahman, feared him or were dependent upon his money.
When Prince Al-Rahman called the general on a secure satellite phone, he got right to the point. “I need your help,” Al-Rahman instructed. “And I need it now.”
“Anything,” the general answered. “I will do what I can.”
“There is a small village on the west side of your country, not far from the sea. Agha Jari Deh. Are you familiar with it?”
The general thought a moment. Yes, he was familiar. There was a young man who lived there, a grandson of the traitor Pahlavi, friend of the Great Satan himself. All of the Pahlavi offspring were under surveillance by his men, though Rassa Ali Pahlavi had spent a meaningless life of herding and farming, so far as he knew.
“The grandson of Pahlavi lives there.”
Al-Rahman breathed upon hearing the name. “Are you certain?” he demanded, his voice strained and tight.
“Absolutely,” the general answered. “I have observed him myself. He is a dirt farmer, a peasant; my dog lives better than he. He lives in a shack I wouldn’t stable my horses in. He is nothing, I assure you of that.”
Al-Rahman w
as silent, his breathing heavy. “Pahlavi,” he repeated like it was a bad taste in his mouth. “Pahlavi, grandson of the Shah . . . .”
“You know of him?” the Iranian general wondered.
Al-Rahman didn’t answer. A long moment passed in silence, the phone humming softly between the two men.
Al-Rahman was impressed. It made perfect sense! His brother was brilliant. He never would have looked anywhere outside of Saudi Arabia. If his brother hadn’t made the mistake of making the desperate radio call . . . if his people hadn’t heard it . . . all might have been lost.
The Iranian broke the silence. “You know him, Al-Rahman?” he repeated.
“I know him,” Al-Rahman answered. “He is a distant cousin, if you traced our lines back many generations.”
The general filled the phone with laughter. “I could kill him,” he offered. “I could send him to prison or I could bring him to you. Tell me what you’re after. What do you want me to do?”
Al-Rahman answered quickly. “There is a boy. No more than four or five years old. He is a problem for me. I want you to eliminate the problem. Can you take care of that?”
The general snickered, drawing his own conclusion in his mind. A young lad? Sent away? One of the prince’s wild oats. And now the princess didn’t want the competition around her legitimate sons. How many times had he seen this? It was the same everywhere. “This will be easy!” he snickered. “I will see it is done.”
“Yes, you will,” Al-Rahman answered. “And you will do it today.”
“I’ll have one of my personal units up there within a few hours.”
“Yes, that is good. Before the sun goes down.”
“Sayid,” the general snapped. “But you realize, of course,” his voice softened now, “this task you have asked of me, it is outside the official responsibilities of my office. I do this as a favor. A personal favor to you.”
“I understand, Sattam bin Mamdayh.” Al-Rahman knew how the game was played.
“I do it at great personal risk and sacrifice.”
“I understand that.”
“Then perhaps we could talk when I have completed this task.”
“Yes, that will be fine.”
“I will report my success.”
“And, general,” Al-Rahman added before he hung up the phone. “I don’t need to state the obvious, but we don’t want any leftovers. We don’t want any talkers. No eyes. We don’t want any children spouting wild tales to their friends. It would be better if there were no witnesses to tell of this tale; this Pahlavi, his wife, his kin. When you take care of the child, you need to take care of them. Otherwise we will have residuals, if you know what I mean.”
The general only snorted. “I know, Prince Al-Rahman, how to do my job. You let me take care of your problem, then we’ll talk again.”
FOURTEEN
A distant thunder rumbled down from the mountain and the air was heavy with the smell of rain. Azadeh and her father were working in the kitchen, preparing their evening meal. The young prince was asleep, nestled under the covers in Azadeh’s bed. The princess worked beside Azadeh, helping to peel potatoes before dropping them into a boiling pot of salt and chicken.
Rassa heard his name being called from the backyard and he stopped, then grabbed Azadeh’s hand. Azadeh held still and the princess watched them, her eyes growing wide. She had been in their home for less than twenty-four hours, and though she and Rassa had hardly spoken she didn’t have to speak to understand the fear in his eyes.
Rassa moved to the back window. The sky was dark with heavy clouds. The back courtyard was slippery with mud and the animals were hunkered down under the olive trees that lined the back wall. Rassa saw a flash of movement as Omar Pasni Zehedan pushed his enormous frame over the back fence. He stopped and looked around, then ran toward the back door.
Rassa moved to meet him on the porch. Azadeh followed her father, but the princess stayed back. Omar, soaked with perspiration and out of breath, stood at the foot of the stairs, his curly hair hanging in front of his eyes. He was puffing and sweating despite the cold air.
“Rassa,” Omar said, his eyes darting around. “There are soldiers in the village. They are looking for you.”
Azadeh felt her heart crush as she gasped for breath. She reached for her father, but he pushed her aside. Moving onto the back porch, he drew the door half closed. Azadeh ignored his unspoken instructions, staying close enough to hear.
“What soldiers?” Rassa demanded.
“I don’t know,” Omar shot back. “I don’t recognize their uniforms. Special Security Forces I think, but I’ve never heard of the unit and I don’t know where they’re from. But they are asking for you, Rassa, and they are only minutes away.”
Azadeh moved to her father’s side and grasped his hand. The princess had heard and she backed against the far wall, then turned and ran to the bedroom where her son was asleep.
Rassa turned to Azadeh. “Listen to me,” he told her, “we’ve got to get out of here.” He fell suddenly silent. Too late. The crunch of heavy trucks on wet gravel could be heard from the front of their house.
Rassa turned to Omar. “Thank you for the warning, but you can’t help us now. Go. Get away while you can!” Without waiting for an answer, Rassa slammed the door in Omar’s face.
Azadeh looked up at her father, her eyes wide with fear. He pulled her close and she felt him shudder. “Stay here,” he whispered.
Azadeh pulled on his fingers, not letting them go. “Don’t leave me,” she begged him but Rassa pulled away.
“Stay with the princess,” he told her. “Get into the back room!”
* * *
The rains had quit just twenty minutes ago and a heavy mist hung from the orchard, dripping and wet, moist fingers that sifted through the trees but never quite reached the ground. The fog moved silently, almost as if it were alive, searching for something among the tall leaves. The surrounding mountains cast shadows through the thick underbrush, bringing on darkness before the sun had fully set. Far in the distance, somewhere east of the river, the roll of thunder echoed back through the trees as the rain squall moved away, pushing up the mountains to the east.
The army trucks sloshed to the center of the road and stopped. After years of Soviet oppression, Rassa recognized the sound of the trucks. Soviet-made APC-30s. Heavy. Armor plated. Twelve troops apiece. He listened and counted. At least three . . . maybe four trucks came to a stop outside his house. Two full squads. Fifty troops. He sucked in a quick breath.
Azadeh moved to the back bedroom and huddled with the princess below the window. The young boy remained sleeping in his mother’s arms.
Rassa moved to the front door and glanced through the lace curtains. Two trucks had rolled to a stop in front of his house. One was farther up the road, one at the base of the hill. The road was deserted, all of his neighbors having rushed into their houses, though he knew they would be watching from behind their curtains, too. The soldiers spilled from the trucks and Rassa studied their uniforms: black combat fatigues, dark berets, flak vests and high, leather boots. He pulled away from the window as the soldiers approached. He shot a terrified look to Azadeh’s bedroom, his mind reeling in fear.
* * *
The soldiers weren’t truly soldiers; at least most of them weren’t, but brutal mercenaries who worked for their commander as his personal army of secret police, an off-the-books unit that reported only to the general and nobody else. The conscripts were commanded by cruel, glaring and arrogant officers.
The senior officer, a captain, emerged from the second truck, swatting the flies and smoking a thin cigarette. He was a squat man, with a thick neck and well-muscled thighs. His nostrils flared as he breathed and his glare was intense. His job was simple. Do what the general told him; nothing less, nothing more. And never ask questions.
The captain stuffed his hands into his front pockets, then barked out an order, pointing to Rassa’s home. “Empty the house. Bring them all
out here!”
His soldiers jumped at his voice. They moved to the door and blew it off its hinges with a burst of machine gun fire then rushed into Rassa’s house. The kitchen was empty. They moved through the room, opening the small armoire, spilling the dishes from the counter and knocking the chairs to the floor. They ran to the first bedroom and kicked the door back. No one was there. At the end of the hall, the bathroom was obviously empty. Which left the last bedroom. Four men gathered around the door, their guns at chest level. Their leader gave a quick signal and one of the soldiers kicked in the door.
They burst though the doorway and looked quickly inside. The bedroom was empty. The bed covers had been thrown on the floor. The window was open and a cool breeze blew the curtains back.
* * *
Omar grabbed the princess and pulled her over the brick wall. She held to her son, grasping him in her arms. The boy cried and the princess pressed her mouth to his ear, whispering to him silently, “Don’t be afraid. Go to sleep!”
Rassa followed, and then Azadeh. All five were over the back wall.
Omar glanced at the stranger and the young child in her arms. “The princess, I presume?”
Rassa nodded, pressing his body against the rock, then started crouching toward the old barn.
“There,” Omar hissed as he nodded toward the trail that led up to the mountains.
Rassa stopped and looked up at the rain-shrouded peaks that rose over the village, studying the rocky trail that disappeared in the cold mist. He heard voices, then the crash of gunfire as the soldiers shot the front door. He threw a desperate look toward Omar. “You have to save them,” he said. He nodded to the princess and her son who was clutching to her arms. “Take them,” he whispered. “Go to the mountains. You know that trail as well as anyone. The mist is heavy. It will hide you. Now go! Get away!”
Omar didn’t hesitate. He motioned toward the young stranger. “Come,” he hissed and she moved to his side. Omar reached for her young child and took him in his arms. Crouching, he ran through the orchard and slipped behind the barn. Rassa listened for a moment, hearing their footsteps fading away as they moved up the rocky trail. Then he turned to Azadeh. “Stay here!” he said.
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