“Yeah.”
“We got to talking about who was in charge of Iran before the clerics. Can you look that up?”
“Sure. One sec.” It did not take long at alclass="underline" “You mean the Shah? Reza Khan Pahlavi.”
Najar was writing something down on a notepad even before Harlow asked: “How about before him?”
“Hold on.” A moment later: “Got it. Before the Pahlavi dynasty it was the Qagev dynasty, seventeen eighty to nineteen twenty-five. Before them it was the Zand dynasty, seventeen fifty to seventeen sixty-four. Before that…”
“That’s what I was looking for, hon, the Qagev dynasty,” Harlow interrupted. “We were discussing anyone still alive from the Qagev dynasty. Anything on that?”
Najar held up his notepad. It read: “Mohammed Hassan Qagev II, Dallas, Texas, 3 sons, 4 daughters.”
“Hold on,” Harlow’s wife said. “This is fun. Are you still out in the field?”
“Yes.”
“On the satellite phone? Must be costing a fortune.”
“Babe…”
“I got it right here, Mr. Impatient. Yes, there is a guy still alive from that dynasty. His name is Mohammed Hassan Qagev. And how about this? He lives in the United States — in Addison, Texas. He has a Web site where he blogs on what’s happening in Iran.”
“Anything else about him?”
“Lots. His wife looks like Angelina Jolie, big lips, big tits — you’d like her. He has seven kids…no, wait, it says here that all of them were killed by Iranian secret agents in Europe and Asia. How sad.”
“Does it say when?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“Wait, I’m reading…no, nothing much else…hey, this is interesting.”
“What?”
“There’s a picture of him and his wife, from several years ago, and guess what? He’s only got four fingers on each hand!”
“He what? Are you sure?”
“That’s what it looks like…yep, definitely, just four fingers. He’s not even trying to hide it. I think that’s brave of him. Hey, doesn’t one of your cadets, the red-haired girl, have only four fingers on each of her hands?”
“Katelyn. Yes. It’s called bilateral hypoplastic thumb.”
“Well, I’ll take your word for it — it doesn’t mention it here. It’s like…hey, they have a picture of Mohammed’s father, in a British World War Two uniform, and guess what?”
“He has only four fingers too.”
“It’s a little hard to be sure in this photo, but it looks like his right thumb is real short and fused to his index finger. So it must be hereditary, like a royal birthmark thing, huh?”
“I guess.”
“Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if your cadet, Katelyn, was secretly related to this Mohammed, and living in exile in the United States, hiding out from the Iranian secret police? She’d be, like…”
“An Iranian princess,” Harlow muttered.
“Exactly. How cool would that be?” No response. “Hon, you still there?”
“Thanks for the info.” He thought for a moment; then: “Stay on the line for a minute or two, sweetie, just in case anyone else has any questions.”
“Sure, babe. As long as we’re not paying that satphone bill.”
“It’ll be taken care of, don’t worry. Hold on. Don’t hang up until I tell you to, okay?”
“What’s going on, Ed?” his wife asked, but he had already lowered the phone. Najar and Saidi looked at his stunned expression, then looked at the phone but made no move to take it away from him.
This is insane, Harlow thought, completely unbelievable — but he was beginning to believe it. He turned toward his waiting cadets and shouted, “VanWie! Over here.”
Katelyn trotted over, smiled at Najar and Saidi, snapped to attention, then saluted. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” she said.
“At ease, Lieutenant. With me.” Harlow stepped several paces away from the others.
“Why are my parents here, sir?”
“No questions now, Katelyn,” Harlow said. He turned toward the helicopter and pointed at Hamilton. “Do you know that man over there?”
“He’s a friend of my dad. They work together at the finance company, I think.”
“His name?”
“Mr. Hamilton. I’m not sure of his first name.”
“How about the guy looking out the door of the helicopter?”
Katelyn looked, swallowed hard, then looked at Harlow. “He’s a friend of my dad’s too,” she said nervously.
“A ‘friend?’”
Katelyn looked a little anguished. “What’s happening, sir? Why are my parents here?”
“Katelyn, this is very important,” Harlow said, studying her eyes carefully. “What you tell me next will determine what I’m about to do in the next few seconds, but you have to be completely honest with me or I could do the wrong thing and…and put you in very great danger.”
“Danger?” The apprehension in her face melted away, replaced by concern and steely determination. “What’s happened, sir?” Her voice had changed — markedly so.
“Katelyn, yes or no, and be honest with me: are those two people really your parents?”
“What’s happened, sir?” she repeated, almost a demand now.
“Answer me, Katelyn, or I’m going to grab you and take you and the rest of the squadron back into the woods and call for help.”
“Something’s happened to my parents,” Katelyn breathed. “Hasn’t it, sir?”
“Are these your parents, Katelyn? Yes or no. Tell me.”
Katelyn realized she wasn’t going to get the answers she wanted unless she changed her tactics. “No, they’re not,” she replied. “They are Major Najar and Lieutenant Saidi.”
“What do they do?”
“They are specially chosen members of the King’s Palace Guards, assigned to protect me,” Katelyn said. Harlow’s mouth dropped open, and a roaring sound unrelated to the Black Hawk’s idling turbines began in his ears. “Now tell me what’s happened, sir. My father…?”
“Is missing. They said they’ve come to take you away from here. They…”
“Na baba!” Katelyn shouted in a voice Harlow had never heard from her before except in instances of extreme excitement or tension. “Fori-ei! I’ve got to do something!” She dashed off toward Najar and Saidi, who snapped to attention as she approached.
“Katelyn!”
The girl turned, then stood at attention and saluted. “Pardon me, sir, but I must leave. Thank you for all the precautions you’ve taken on my behalf, and thank you for your leadership and dedication. I won’t forget it.” She dropped her salute, then ran for the helicopter, with Najar and Saidi close behind. The two men inside the helicopter scrambled out and snapped to attention on either side of the Black Hawk’s right door. The last Harlow saw of her, she was pulling a headset over her fatigue cap, gesturing for Hamilton and Lawson to get inside, and pulling the Black Hawk helicopter’s door closed herself.
After the helicopter lifted off, Harlow raised the satphone. “It’s okay, babe,” he said. “I’m heading home now.”
“Ed, I heard some of that,” his wife said anxiously. “What’s going on out there?”
“I’ll explain everything when I get home — or someone will.”
“What do you mean? Ed…?”
“I’ll be home in a few hours, babe. See you,” then reluctantly pressed the red button on the phone.
He was never certain, he thought as he turned and headed toward the other completely stunned cadets, exactly where Katelyn VanWie belonged…until now.
“What can you tell me about my parents, Agent Hamilton?” Azar Qagev asked as soon as she donned her headset.
“The Protective Liaison Division agents assigned to your mother and father found your parents’ home empty early this morning, Your Highness,” Hamilton said. “There’s been no word on any of our message lines. We executed the recovery network established for them but they have not made contact with anyone in the system.” Every foreign dignitary in the United States had a plan established where they would go to a particular city and make contact with a certain individual, usually at a hotel, airport, restaurant, or other such public place in a large metropolitan area, in case of danger. In the meantime, the area would be flooded by agents of the Diplomatic Security Services, Federal Bureau of Investigation, U.S. Secret Service, U.S. Marshals, and other federal law enforcement agencies. Unfortunately, foreign dignitaries who stayed in the United States for long periods of time rarely updated or exercised their plans until it was too late to respond to an attack. “It’s still very early, but we decided to make contact with you and take you to a safe location.”