Strike Force

“No offense to you or the American State Department, Agent Hamilton,” Azar said, “but putting us into protective custody in Minneapolis is not what we need to do right now for the people of Iran.” She took Hamilton’s sidearm and backup weapon away from him, then turned to Najar and said in Farsi, “Make sure the pilots don’t make any radio calls or change the transponder codes to report a hijacking, Major. Can we file an international flight plan inflight?”

“No, Highness,” Najar said. “We’ll have to fly low over the border and try to go under radar coverage. We risk a military pursuit, but they will not be able to respond quickly enough to find us. We will contact our agents in Canada and arrange for them to meet us at the alternate landing site.”

“Very well.” The plane started turning, and soon the two charter pilots were heading back to the cabin, hands over their heads.

“If you wanted to get out of the United States, Highness, why not just request that?” Hamilton asked angrily. “We would have complied.”

“We want to avoid the media as much as possible and shield our movements from everyone,” Azar said. “Going into protective custody in Minneapolis, with the media all around us, would have wasted time and put my parents in even greater danger.”

“Where are we going?”

“Canada,” Azar replied. “We have agents throughout Canada waiting for precisely this moment. After we’re safely away, we’ll release you and your aircraft.”

“This is completely unnecessary, Highness…”

“Again, Agent Hamilton, I thank you for your concern and dedication,” Azar said sincerely. “But we have been guests of the American government for too long. It’s time the royal family went back to Iran and took our place among our people again.” Hamilton shook his head and sat back. Azar looked at Najar and Saidi and asked in Farsi, “Am I insane for doing this, Major? Lieutenant?”

“Once we place ourselves in the hands of the Americans and their out-of-control media, Highness, we would be at their mercy,” Najar said. “We would be trusting our lives to someone else’s political agenda.”

“What if Buzhazi made a deal for him to cooperate with Washington in forming a government favorable to them — in exchange for turning over you and your family to him, or having us placed in permanent ‘protective custody?’” Saidi asked. “The point is, Highness, that with us in the hands of the Americans, our fate is not our own — it belongs to them and whatever agenda they may have. It will be difficult for us, but at least our fate is in our hands and the hands of your loyal subjects.”

“We are proud of you, Highness,” Najar said. “It took extraordinary courage to do this. It would have been far easier and more comfortable and perhaps safer for you to simply go along with the Americans, but you instead decided to take the initiative and plan your own escape. Now whatever happens is up to God and ourselves. That is the way it should be.”

Azar smiled, nodded, and sat back in her seat. She looked out the window at the flat lake-strewn landscape of northern Minnesota. It was the only place she ever remembered, the only home she ever knew — and now she was leaving it, perhaps forever.

“Are you sad to leave here, Shahdokht?” Saidi asked gently. “It is truly a beautiful land.”

“You have grown strong and wise here, Princess,” Najar added. “There will always be a part of this land in you.”

Azar took one last look, then resolutely closed the window shade and shook her head. “As soon as we can,” she said by way of response, removing her fatigue cap, touching her hair, and holding it out for them to see, “I want some hair coloring so I can get back to my natural-born hair color. I enjoyed being a redhead, Lieutenant, but I’m ready to be a dark-haired Persian again — now, and forever.”

CHAPTER 5

ARĀN, IRAN

THE NEXT EVENING

As the old line went: It was quiet…too quiet.

General Mansour Sattari and his task force had captured or eliminated almost three full platoons of guards on their way to the Pasdaran warehouses outside Arān. So far the operation was going precisely as planned…

…which made the general very, very nervous indeed. Even though the objective was in sight and so far they had suffered no casualties and met numerous but weak resistance, Sattari couldn’t suppress the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

“I don’t like it, Babak,” Sattari said to his aide, Master Sergeant Babak Khordad, as they received the final report from the scouts. Khordad was an old crusty veteran when Sattari picked him over fifteen years ago to run his staff, and he hadn’t changed much — which was exactly the way the general preferred it. Even his name, which meant “little father” in Farsi, still accurately described him. “The reports were completely accurate: the warehouses are virtually unguarded. That has me worried — rumors and unverified reports from the field are never that accurate, unless they’re planted by the enemy.”