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.
“Please don’t leave me, Father.”
“Do as I tell you. Stay here. Out of sight.”
“Father, you can’t leave me!”
“It is the princess they are after; the princess and her son. They don’t want you or me. I think that we will be all right.”
“But Father . . . what are you going to do?”
There came a loud crash from the house as one of the bedroom doors was kicked open. They heard the banging of footsteps and then the soldiers curse.
Rassa turned back to Azadeh. “I have to give them time to escape.”
“But Father, if you leave what am I supposed to do?”
“Stay here, like I told you. Everything will be OK. They aren’t going to hurt me, it is the royal family they want.”
Rassa glanced toward the mountains. Omar and the princess had disappeared in the mist. Another crash sounded from their house, this time from Azadeh’s bedroom. More cursing, more yelling, and Rassa stood up. He glanced quickly to Azadeh. “I love you,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll be fine. But stay out of sight.”
Rassa jumped the fence to his courtyard, then ran toward the house. Azadeh peeked over the fence, then started to cry. She reached out toward him, but she didn’t call his name.
Azadeh crouched against the wall a moment, then sprinted to the orchard and hid in the mist. She heard her father’s footsteps and the guards calling out, then a warning shot being fired before the guards dragged her father down.
* * *
The guards worked quickly. They were brutal, but well-trained, and they knew what to do. First, they searched Rassa’s house, tearing it almost to pieces, knocking holes in the walls and tearing up the floors, looking for a hiding place or a secret trap door. Other soldiers gathered Rassa’s neighbors, everyone who lived on the hill, herding them like sheep into a circle. The guards stood over them, sneering at their countrymen, ready to shoot the first one who dared to move. Other guards spread out. It only took minutes to search every house on the hill. They found Azadeh hiding in the orchard and they dragged her to the circle of cowering villagers.
Azadeh looked down on the village. The streets were deserted. The market was empty and every shade had been pulled. “Soldiers in the village!” The call had gone out. The village looked like a ghost town. Everyone knew what to do.
Azadeh cried in her heart. “Please, help us!” But Azadeh had lived long enough to know that help would not come.
The captain of the guard approached Rassa. “Name!” he demanded.
Rassa swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Rassa Ali Pahlavi,” he said.
The captain nodded, his brown teeth protruding from receding gums. “The woman!” he demanded. “We want to know where she is!”
Rassa stared at him blankly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The captain smiled a sick grin. “Someone came here last night,” he demanded in a raging tone. “They brought a young woman and a child. That much we know. Now tell us where they are if you have any hope to live.”
Rassa shook his head weakly. “I don’t know, my Sayid.”
The officer turned to the group of women and children that had been herded into the circle. He studied them carefully. Most of the women were old, the young ones having left the village for a better life somewhere else. A few children cowered at the back of the crowd, the older women gathered around them like mother hens. The foreigner was not among them. And neither was the child.
He turned to the captives. “All right,” he said. “We are looking for a young woman and a boy. It is very important we find them. Do any of you know where they are?”
The villagers were silent. The silence was heavy and long.
“If you do not help us find them, we will have no alternative.”
Again, only silence. The villagers kept their heads low.
He turned back to Rassa as he considered what to do.
His instructions from the general were simple. Find the woman and child. Make sure they were dead. Who they were or why they had to die did not matter, for he was not even curious. Following orders was all he had been trained to do. And he had seen what had happened to other officers who had dared question the general’s commands. It was ugly, painful and far too long had they lived the process.
He would not make the same mistake. He would not think too much. Find the targets and kill them. It was a fairly simple job. But there were only a couple ways that he could do it. He thought awhile, then turned back to Rassa. Although he kept his head low, Rassa stuck out his chest. “Rassa Ali Pahlavi,” he said, “you know why we are here?”
Rassa shook his head in terror. “No Sayid,” he lied.
“We will find them, Rassa. They have to be here somewhere. We will tear down your entire village if we have to. All of your friends will suffer if you don’t tell us what we need to know.”
Rassa lifted his eyes. “Sayid, I swear . . .”
The captain swung violently, striking him on the head. “Don’t lift your eyes to me, pig!” he screamed in a rage.
Rassa forced his head down to his chest. The officer stepped to the side, clearing a visual path between the terrified man and the group of huddled women and children. “Rassa,” he asked, “do you have any family in this crowd?”
Rassa shuddered visibly, his shoulders slumping now. He looked across the clearing toward the huddled group from his village. Azadeh cowered, seeking refuge behind the wall of human flesh, but she still caught his eye and Rassa turned away. “I have no family, captain,” he lied again.
The captain snorted. “We know you do, Rassa Ali Pahlavi. We just don’t know who it is. But it doesn’t matter. We don’t care. You see, Rassa, there are other ways that we can do this. Now this is your last chance. Where is the man-child?”
Rassa lifted his eyes, knowing it mattered not what he said. The officer had made his decision and his fate was now sealed. He knew from experience, from watching others die, that there was nothing he could say now that would change the outcome. Yet he felt almost calm, as if a blanket of peace had settled over him. He lifted his head and looked at the captain, staring him right in the eyes. “Look around you,” he taunted. “You can see he’s not here. And I doubt you will find him. He is gone. You have failed.”
The captain snorted in rage, then turned and screamed to his sergeants, “Tie this man to the tree!”
Four of the conscripts came forward and pulled Rassa by the arms, dragging him through the wet mud as he struggled to stand. Lifting him by the neck, they threw him against the nearest tree. The groups of villagers were quiet as Rassa was tied and bound.
There was no trial, no words, not even a condemnation of death, nothing to mark the decision that had already been made. The captain walked to the army truck that had carried him to the village. Reaching behind the front seat, he pulled out a small leather flask. He had come prepared for something new, something different today. The liquid sloshed in the flask as he approached the condemned man. Pulling the soft cork, he doused Rassa with diesel fuel. After soaking his hair, head, shirt and trousers, he poured the last cup of fuel around on and around Rassa’s bare feet.
A young lieutenant came forward, his rifle in hand. “What are you going to do?” he hissed under his breath.
The officer didn’t answer.
The lieutenant stepped between the captain and Rrassa. “This was not our instruction,” he said.
The captain reached into his trouser pocket. “Step aside, lieutenant,” he sneered, “or you will find yourself also tied to the tree.”
The captain pulled out a small box of matches, then heard a faint cry of despair. Turning, he saw a wide-eyed girl. He smiled at her happily, cocking his head to the side. “Your father?” he mouthed to her.
Azadeh stared in terror, then nodded her head.
The captain extracted a match from the box and struck it against the knife sheath strapped to his thigh. The wooden match sizzled to life and he let it burn a moment, staring at the flame, then looked at Azadeh and dropped the match at her father’s feet.
The fuel was slow to catch for the diesel had mixed with the rain and soaked into the mud. Several seconds passed before anything happened. Then a thin stream of black smoke began to billow from the ground. A yellow flame flickered, quickly catching Rassa’s clothes.
Azadeh screamed. An old woman cried from the back of the crowd. Rassa took a deep breath and turned away from his daughter. The flames caught at his trousers, then the coattails of his shirt. Deep yellow, almost orange, the flames began to lick higher. Every eye, every head, was turned to the fire now. Smoke began to waft through the low trees.
Rassa cried out in anguish and Azadeh bolted from the crowded, running desperately toward him. A conscript stepped forward, but she pushed through his grasp, tears streaming down her face as she ran toward the tree. Tripping on a low stump, she fell at Rassa’s feet. “No, Father! NO! You promised you would not leave me!” she sobbed.
The fire grew higher and she was forced to back away from the heat. The flames crackled and burned, reaching ten feet into the sky. She reached again for her father, leaning into the flames. “I want to come with you!” she cried. “Don’t leave me, Father. Please, I want to be with you.”
Rassa looked at her, let out a faint scream, then closed his eyes. The officer watched, a satisfied evil smirk on his face. The fire burned with a bright yellow flame.
Azadeh rolled onto her back, swallowing the sickness inside. The captain looked down and their eyes met briefly again. She lay there, unmoving, tears brimming her eyes, then moaned once in anguish and curled into a tight, little ball. She pulled at her knees and her eyes slowly closed. Her breath became heavy, as if she were asleep.
The captain turned to his men. “All right,” he yelled. “There is a young boy in this village. Our instructions are clear. Find every boy in the village who is younger than five. Round them up and shoot them, then let’s get out of here.”
* * *
Thirty-nine children were murdered in the village that evening. Those who opposed the soldiers saw their homes and property burned. Those who fought them were murdered along with their sons. Those who sought to hide their children were eventually found. The carnage was sickening to even the most bitter heart, the smell of death and smoking buildings filling the dim, evening air.
The Iranians were working through the last few blocks of the village when they heard the echo of helicopter blades bouncing off the steep mountain walls. They looked up to see American Blackhawks coming over the hills to the south. Black machines. Door gunners at the ready. Twin machine guns protruding from each open door. Their escorts swooped before them, Blackhawk gunships that were armed to the teeth. One of the gunships let off a quick burst, sending .50 caliber bullets bursting into the ground around one of the APCs.
The Iranian captain froze, his mouth open, his eyes wide in shock. He wiped the blood from his hands, then shading his eyes. Some of his men gathered around him as his mouth grew tight with fear. “American soldiers,” one of the conscripts cried. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
The officer didn’t move. Americans! In Iran! This was their homeland! Their homeland! It simply couldn’t be!
The conscript screamed again, his voice piercing the air. The sound shook the captain into action. “Go!” he cried. “They are Americans! We’ve got to get out of here!”
The spell broken, the NCOs turned to their soldiers and started shouting instructions. “Load up. Leave your gear. Evacuate the area. NOW!”
The Iranian security forces in their special black uniforms, those brave men who killed children while in their mother’s arms, the highly trained soulless attack dogs of General Sattam bin Mamdayh who had so valiantly walked and strutted among the civilians barking orders just a few minutes before, fell into a panic as the American helicopters passed over their heads.
The killers ran to their armored carriers. The engines started, spewing diesel fumes, and the troops ran up the small ramps into the machines. The sound of helicopters beat against the canyon walls as the U.S. helicopters set up to land. The APCs revved their engines and lurched away, moving toward the narrow road that led through the mountains, away from the village to the plains in the west.