Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  FOUR

  In the Mountains High Above the Agha Jari Deh Valley, Twenty Kilometers Southwest of Behbehan, Iran

  The rains came down in steady sheets, and then turned to snow, which accumulated so quickly it completely covered his tracks. Omar was a huge, strong man, and he climbed like a goat, steady and powerful and with very sure feet. But he was hungry and cold, and afraid for his life.

  He paced himself carefully, keeping a constant pace. He knew if he stopped he would freeze. Stop and die. Walk and live. And it was the same for the child.

  So Omar huffed, puffed and kept walking, his head bent, his legs sure but slow.

  He glanced down at his chest. Using part of his robe, he had fashioned a tight pouch. The young prince slept near his body, his face pressed against his chest. Omar’s large coat wasn’t buttoned, but tied around his middle now, leaving room for him to move more freely and for the young boy to breathe.

  Omar climbed. His hands were nearly frozen, but his feet were still warm, the constant exertion keeping the blood circulating down to his legs and toes. He glanced at his watch; a little past two in the morning. Thirty-six hours now since the soldiers had first appeared, thirty-six hours since he had tried to save his good friend and ended up with the child.

  Slipping on a rocky spot on the trail, Omar grabbed a branch to stop his fall, then paused and turned around, struggling to catch his breath. The snow had quit, and the clouds parted suddenly, the strong winds of the mountains pushing them aside. The storms had come without warning, appearing out of nowhere, but they disappeared the same way, melting into nothing at the sweep of a hand. Behind him, the tops of the mountain were still capped in white clouds, but the moon was high now, the snow fresh and white. His eyes had adjusted to the night and he could see almost as clearly as if it were day. He saw the lights of the village, several thousand feet below, and farther in the distance, the starlit shimmer of the sea. To his left, he saw the treeline and the giant boulders that stood at the crest of the Agha Jari Deh Valley. In the moonlight, he could just make out the narrow, rutted road that followed the nearest canyon, running toward the top of the mountains before it sputtered out, becoming a narrow, rocky trail. For the past thirty-six hours, he had stayed away from the main trails. He knew that was where the soldiers would be. They were too lazy and too inexperienced to find their way through the mountains, so he knew he would be safe if he stayed away from the roads. The trail he followed was a game trail and not used by men.

  He stood there and breathed a long moment. He was thirsty and hungry, but he was almost there.

  Kilometers below and behind him, the princess was hidden in a small cave, too frightened and weak to go on. She might be dead now, but there was nothing he could do. She couldn’t walk anymore, or chose not to, so he had left her hidden there. He would send someone back for her as soon as he could, but he didn’t know what they would find. If she was strong, and if she wanted to, then she would be alive when they found her. If not, it didn’t matter. Either way, he had done the right thing.

  Turning, he started walking again, picking his way carefully.

  Half an hour later he saw them. They had been waiting.

  The smugglers, three men in long beards and dark clothes, had been watching him from a distance for almost the entire day. For the last two kilometers, they had been following very closely. With all the soldiers searching along the lower trails and roads, with the fires in the village, the sounds of gunshots and helicopters, they had to be on their guard, willing to take no chance, their longtime friendship with Omar aside. Yes, they trusted him, and yes, he had helped make them rich. And yes, they had known him since they were little boys, but there was friendship and there was business, and this was business.

  So they had waited and watched until they were sure it was safe. Now they emerged from the trees and stepped onto the trail.

  Omar knew they had been following him, but still, he was surprised to look up and see the three men standing there.

  “Praise Allah,” he said in a weary sigh of relief. “I need you, my brothers. Come! Help me here!”

  The smugglers walked toward him, their huge coats flowing behind them like dark sheets in the night. Under their garments, blunt-nose carbines protruded from their hips. Behind them, Omar could hear their horses and smell the animal sweat. As the men moved toward him, he undid the leather belt around his waist and lifted the sleeping boy.

  “What is this?” the lead smuggler cried, causing the young boy to stir.

  Omar shook his head to silence him. “You won’t believe me,” he whispered. “But trust me, my brothers, he is worth far more than gold. Far more than his weight in diamonds. Now, hurry, he is hungry. And I am so weary, I fear I might die.”

  FIVE

  New York, New York

  The firm of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs had their main lobby on the seventieth floor of the Iron Gate Building in midtown Manhattan. The reception area was breathtaking, with wood panels, granite steps, marble pillars, and oak floors, all handcrafted pieces of decorative architecture from Greece, Italy, and Turkey. A thin, sunlit shaft of an atrium extended five floors above the center of the lobby, and original pieces of fine art lined every wall: Rembrandts and Picassos, a single Renoir, two Rubens. Ancient and illegal Chinese and Mexican pottery artifacts and were displayed in glass cases along the main hall. And though the décor hadn’t been updated since the firm had moved into the building back in 1952, it still exuded an air of timelessness and beauty that rivaled most any building in the world.

  Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggsoccupied the seventieth through seventy-sixth floors, as well as two apartment suites for visiting dignitaries and a fine penthouse for the senior partner on the building’s top floor. But the elevators from the main lobby didn’t rise to the firm’s office suites, at least not without the proper security code. The sixty-ninth floor was as high as the general public was allowed to go.

  On the surface, it might have seemed odd that they did not make themselves more accessible. But the last thing the firm wanted was to be available readily.

  Although certainly the wealthiest and most successful business firm in the world, Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was not registered with the city or state government. The firm’s telephone number was unlisted—if you didn’t already have their number, then the answer was no. If you didn’t know whom to approach, then they didn’t want to talk to you. They certainly didn’t advertise, and few people outside of their sphere of influence knew who they were.

  Their client list was short, perhaps fewer than five dozen governments and business organizations in all, but taken together their clients controlled a large percentage of the exploitable wealth in the world. The lawyers, former high government officials, and consultants at Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs specialized in creating commercial agreements between governments and industries, managing international public relations, influencing legislation, setting trade policy, and helping to determine international currency and exchange rates. The firm, with its eighty-nine partners and associates, was perhaps the most exclusive business organization in the world, and the partners were a veritable Who’s Who of international CEOs and former government leaders. The board of partners included a former U.S. president, two former vice presidents, a former secretary of defense, and three former secretaries of state. A twice-elected British prime minister was the newest member of the firm, and he was only one of sixteen former foreign leaders who sat on the executive board. The recently retired chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had been invited to join the firm as a junior associate. He would spend two or three years working seventy hours a week; then, if he had potential (generating $100 million in revenue was the first step in demonstrating his worth), he might be offered a partnership. If the senior members liked him. Or maybe not.

  Junior associates averaged somewhere in the low eight figures in salary; ten to twelve million was expected, though a few made more than that. The seni
or partners made so much money it didn’t matter anymore. How much was enough? It was hard to put a figure on it exactly, but this much they knew: It was less than they made.

  Somewhere along the journey, each of the partners realized it wasn’t the money that they craved anymore. They had made so much already, and it was so easy to make more, that a few hundred million was meaningless. What motivated them now was power—the ability to influence the world’s events. The ability to call any man on earth, be he president or prime minister, CEO or head of an illegal cartel, and have him be willing not only to talk to them but then to do what they wanted. Power was their drug. It was one hundred percent addictive, and over the years, each of the partners had learned one vital truth: Power could drive a man to do things he would not do ordinarily. It could change him in subtle and yet irreversible ways until he was no longer comfortable in his old world.

  After tasting such power, they could no more live like common men than a lizard could live in the sea.

  As the years passed, the firm demonstrated another remarkable trend. No one had ever left the organization. No one had ever retired. No one had ever taken leave or resigned. They all died in place, most at a very old age, for once they had tasted the power that the firm could provide, the lust continued to drive them until they were dead.

  Despite the high profile of the previous positions they held, the list of partners and associates who worked at Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was a highly guarded secret. Just as one didn’t take the elevators to their lobby without the security codes, one simply didn’t apply to become a member of the firm. From the busboys in the corporate dining room to the secretaries who answered the phones, from the maintenance crews who cleaned the bathrooms to partners who worked on Partner Row, everyone came with a personal recommendation from someone inside the firm. Every employee, no matter what he or she did, had some kind of personal tie to another member of the firm, which was one of the keys to controlling their enormous influence and wealth.

  And when the lowest level secretary made almost $200,000 a year, the firm didn’t even know what turnover meant. Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was a loyal army, faithful and trustworthy to the core.

  * * *

  The meeting took place very late on a Saturday night. A terrible storm had settled over the city, and the wind was fierce and howling, with lightning and hail beating down from the darkest core of the storm clouds. The powerful charges of electricity flashed constantly, illuminating the billowing storms from within. A fierce rain beat the windows, and the seventy-six-story building swayed perceptibly like an anchored ship that bobbed on a huge, swaying sea. And this wasn’t the first violent storm to hit Manhattan in the last little while; New York City had been wracked with severe weather for weeks. Thunderstorms, even tornadoes, had swept through lower New York State, flooding many townships and leaving the Hudson and East Rivers swollen and bloated with debris. The torrential rains were now more than the crowded city could take—too much water and nowhere left for it to go. The upper portions of the city had already been evacuated, with bacteria-spewing sewage and river rats taking up residence in the warehouses and brownstone flats that lined the two rivers on the north side of Manhattan.

  In addition to the unbearable rains, the storms had brought unwelcome guests. Floating balls of poisonous spiders had been seen, black widows and brown recluses drifting across the water and infesting the upper parts of the city. Dozens of venomous snakes, no doubt washed down from upstate, had been killed in Central Park. Muskrats and other river vermin were frequently sighted. But more often they were heard, their padded feet scratching at the windows and walls, searching for shelter, searching for food. And the backed-up sewage had begun to spread diseases from cholera to dysentery.

  * * *

  The lightning flashed from the thunderstorms that hovered over the city, illuminating the narrow canyons of Manhattan with great strobes of light, but when the elevator opened and the three men emerged to the lobby, none of them seemed to take note. They had much more on their minds than the weather. They wouldn’t be in the city long enough to feel its effects anyway.

  An attractive, middle-aged assistant was waiting to meet the three men. She graciously shook their hands, lightly kissing the senior member of the delegation on both cheeks. The men were dressed immaculately and trimmed to perfection, and it was clear from their faces that the surroundings at Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs were not particularly impressive to them. Their palaces were every bit as beautiful, and they had many more palaces than they would ever admit.

  The men followed the assistant to another elevator, and she flashed a card, and then punched in the security code to take them to the top office suite. But the Saudi prince entered the elevator alone. His assistants stood by, keeping watch on the lobby floor. The door closed, and when it opened three floors above the main lobby, the managing partner of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was waiting for the prince in a broad and dimly lit hall. The usual pleasantries were exchanged as the managing partner led the Saudi prince into his private den, a large room crowded with books and papers but as well supplied as any other room in the suite. The coffee was poured, but the two men held their cups, neither of them taking a sip. The lights of the world’s greatest city glowed dimly through the huge windows that extended from the office ceiling to the floor. The prince moved to the window and watched the rain as it fell, imagining what it would feel like to tumble eight hundred feet and hit the rock-hard pavement below. He stared a long moment, thinking on great deeds in the past, then turned toward the other man, who was standing behind him. “It is time,” he announced in a low voice.

  The managing partner, Drexel Danbert, moved around his desk and sat down in his chair. “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the prince answered, then began to explain.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, the American studied the sheet of paper before him, his hands shaking as a tiny film of perspiration began to form on his lip. His eyebrows, neatly trimmed and white, rose as he read, and then he looked up at the prince. The youngest brother of the new Saudi king met his dark eyes.

  Drexel struggled to hide the incredulous look on his face. “You’re not serious!” he said in a horrified voice.

  The Saudi nodded slowly. “Yes, Mr. Danbert.” He lowered his eyes, gesturing to the paper the American was holding in his trembling hand. “Those are the instructions I was sent to deliver to you.” The prince raised his hand and pulled on his dark goatee, not saying anymore.

  Drexel watched him stroke his whiskered face, noting the thin tattoo on the prince’s little finger, a crescent with two black stars, symbol of the royal House of al-Rahman, a powerful family that could trace back its roots almost three thousand years.

  The Saudi hesitated, then sipped his hot coffee from an exquisite Spode® cup. Although the coffee was black and sweetened with eight cubes of sugar, it certainly wasn’t the chai that he loved so much, and he considered the coffee so weak as to be barely drinkable.

  Drexel stared at his own cup, seeing his image reflected on the smooth surface of the black coffee. He took a painful sip and lifted his eyes to the Arab again. “But what about—” he started questioning.

  “I am but a messenger, Mr. Danbert,” the Saudi interrupted, his voice impatient now. “I have told you all that I know.”

  The American hesitated, and then huffed in frustration. “It can’t be. It makes no sense. I don’t understand!”

  The Saudi swished the black drink around his teeth before answering, “Mr. Danbert, I don’t know what more I could tell you. But if I were you, I would anticipate the market and make adjustments now.”

  Danbert thought quickly. The firm held much of their wealth in a series of privately managed investment portfolios. These funds contained five, maybe six billion dollars in properties along the East Coast, and another eight billion dollars of assets between San Diego and Seattle. Twelve or fifteen billion dollars spre
ad across the country. And that was just real estate. How much were the partners holding in U.S. stocks and securities? He didn’t even know. It might be a half a trillion. It was difficult to estimate.

  And he had to dump it. Dump it all while he could.

  “But we can’t . . . we can’t just . . .” his voice stuttered and he paused, and then started again. “Look, Imad, we can’t dump it all. It is impossible! Not in two weeks. Good Lord, we couldn’t do that in ten years! Not in secret. Good as we are, we can’t hide that kind of thing. Eventually, the money leads back to those who control it. We don’t want that kind of attention. We don’t want any attention at all. Think of what you are saying. Dump half a trillion dollars of U.S. assets in the next fourteen days?! You’ve got to be kidding! Talk about obvious!”

  The Saudi swished another mouthful of coffee, and then simply said, “The decision is yours. You can do what you will.”

  Drexel hesitated. “But the timing couldn’t be worse. You must know that is true. The market has dropped eight or ten percent in the last month alone . . . .”

  The youngest prince almost smiled, his dark eyes beaming with deadly pride. Drexel watched him solemnly, and then leaned back in his chair. “Oh,” he stumbled, frowning. “Ohhh . . . . ” He held his breath, understanding. “You’re doing it, aren’t you, Imad? You’re driving the market down.”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Imad!” Drexel jumped up from his chair. “The Saudis, your government, by which I mean your older brother, King al-Rahman, is holding . . . what, how many billion dollars in U.S. stock and other securities? And if you guys are suddenly in the market, if you are selling what you have . . . .” Drexel glared at the prince. “It’s you,” he sneered in anger. “You’re dumping on the market, aren’t you, my friend?”

  The prince sipped his coffee.

  Drexel watched him carefully, his thin face turning pale.