“Why, sir?”
“Because if there are more, informants will not approach them — and we need information, fast,” Buzhazi said. He started walking toward the smoking truck. Rahmati started to follow, not wanting to appear any more frightened than he was already, but Buzhazi turned and growled, “I said stay here and get that perimeter set up.” Rahmati was only too glad to comply.
A fire truck had approached the burning hulk and two very young-looking firefighters — probably children of dead or injured real firemen, a common practice in this part of the world — started to fight the fire, using a weak stream of water from the old surplus fire truck. It was going to be a long and smoky job. Buzhazi stepped around the fire truck, just far enough from the smoke so he wouldn’t be choked by it, but was mostly screened from view. Now that the cleanup job had started, the crowds had started to disperse. Another, larger fire crew was attacking the blaze at the gas station itself, which was still very hot and fierce, rapidly driving huge columns of black smoke skyward. It was unbelievable to Buzhazi that the flames seemed to drink in even that huge volume of water — the fire was so intense that the fire actually seemed to—
“Quite a speech back there, General,” he heard a voice say behind him.
Buzhazi nodded and smiled — he had guessed correctly. He turned and nodded formally to Her Highness Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the heir presumptive of the Peacock Throne of Persia. He glanced behind the young woman and spotted Captain Mara Saidi, one of Azar’s royal bodyguards, standing discreetly near a lamppost, expertly blending in with the chaos around them. Her jacket was open and her hands clasped before her, obviously shielding a weapon from sight. “I thought I saw the captain there in the crowd, and I knew you’d be nearby. I assume the major is nearby with a sniper rifle or RPG, correct?”
“I believe he’s armed with both weapons today — you know how he likes to come prepared,” Azar said, bowing in return, not bothering to point out her chief of internal security Parviz Najar’s hiding place — just in case Buzhazi’s little rendezvous here was really a trap. She couldn’t afford to trust this man — alliances changed so quickly in Persia. “I have promoted Najar to lieutenant colonel and Saidi to major for their bravery in getting me out of America and back home.”
Buzhazi nodded approvingly. Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the youngest daughter of the pretender to the Peacock Throne, Mohammed Hassan Qagev — still missing since the beginning of Buzhazi’s coup against the theocratic regime of Iran — had just turned seventeen years old, but she had the self-confidence of an adult twice her age, not to mention the courage, martial skills, and tactical foresight of an infantry company commander. She was also turning into a woman very nicely, Buzhazi couldn’t help but notice, with long shiny black hair, graceful curves starting to bud on her slender figure, and dark, dancing, almost mischievous eyes. Her arms and legs were covered but with a white blouse and “chocolate chip” desert fatigue trousers, not a burka, to protect herself from the sun; her head was covered but with a TeamMelli World Cup Football team “doo-rag,” not a hijab.
But his eyes were also automatically drawn to her hands. Every other generation of men of the Qagev dynasty — possibly the women too, but they were probably discarded as newborns rather than have them grow up with any sort of deficiency — had suffered from a genetic defect called bilateral hypoplastic thumb, or missing a thumb on both hands. She had pollicization surgery as a young child, which makes the index fingers function as thumbs, and left her with only four fingers on both hands.
But rather than becoming a handicap, Azar had made the deformity a source of strength, toughening her up beginning at a very young age. She had more than made up for her perceived deficiency: rumor was that she could outshoot most men twice her age and was an accomplished pianist and martial artist. Azar reportedly rarely wore gloves, letting others see her hands both as a symbol of her legacy and as a distraction to her adversaries.
Azar had secretly lived in the United States of America since she was two years old, under the protection of her bodyguards Najar and Saidi, who posed as her parents, separated from her real parents for security reasons, who had also lived in hiding as guests of the U.S. Department of State. When Buzhazi’s coup erupted, the Qagevs immediately activated their war council and headed back to Iran. The king and queen — who were supposed to be in hiding yet ran a Web site, regularly appeared in the media blasting the theocratic regime in Iran, and openly vowing to someday return and take control of the country — were still missing and presumed killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps or al-Quds terrorist forces, with the help of the Russians and Turkmenis. But Azar did make it into Iran, using her wits, natural-born leadership skills — and a lot of help from the American Battle Force and a small army of armored commandos — and joined up with the royal war council and their thousands of jubilant followers.
“I’m impressed, Highness,” Buzhazi said, taking off his helmet and pouring a bit of water on his face before taking a deep drink. “I was looking specifically for you, but you blended into the crowd perfectly. Obviously the others had no idea who you were, because no one tried to form a defensive shield around you when I approached. You hid your mun well.”
“I’ve been hanging around the city trying to listen to these young people to find out what they want and what they expect,” Azar said. Her American accent was still thick, making her Farsi hard to understand. She removed the Iranian national soccer team headband to reveal the long waist-length ponytail, the mun, typical of Persian royalty for centuries. She shook her hair, glad to be free from the self-imposed but traditional bonds. Major Saidi, a horrified look on her face, stepped toward her, silently urging her to hide her mun before anyone on the streets noticed. Azar rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and tied the ponytail up again under the doo-rag. “They know me as one of the displaced, that’s all — like them.”
“Except with a hundred armed bodyguards, a council of war, a secret war chest bigger than the gross national product of most of central Asia, and several hundred thousand followers who would gladly step in front of a line of machine guns to see you back on the Takht-e-Tavous, the Peacock Throne.”
“I’d trade all that I control to convince you and your brigades to join me, Hesarak,” she said. “My followers are loyal and dedicated, but we are still far too few, and my followers are loyalists, not fighters.”
“What do you think is the difference between a so-called loyalist and a soldier, Highness?” Buzhazi asked. “When your country’s in danger, there is no difference. In times of war, citizens become fighters, or they become slaves.”
“They need a general…they need you.”
“They need a leader, Highness, and that person is you,” Buzhazi said. “If half your loyalists are as smart, fearless, and daring as that bunch that you were hanging around with back there, they can easily take control of this country.”
“They won’t follow a girl.”
“Probably not…but they’ll follow a leader.”
“I want you to lead them.”
“I’m not taking sides here, Highness — I’m not in the business of forming governments,” Buzhazi said. “I’m here because the Pasdaran and the insurgents they sponsor are still a threat to this country, and I will hunt them down until every last one of them is dead. But I’m not going to be the president. John Alton said, ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ I know my power comes from my army, and I don’t want the people to be ruled by its military. It should be the other way around.”