a cart full of bags of hot pistachios, and Azar’s mouth watered again. The vendor saw this immediately and smiled a crooked, yellow-toothed smile. “Peace and happiness to you, my child,” he said in Turkmeni, bowing to Najar as a way of asking permission to address the girl. “Would you like some warm, satisfying pistachios? Just six thousand manat, freshly picked this morning and roasted right here just minutes ago, the best bargain in the whole bazaar!”
“Thank you, sir, and peace to you and your family as well,” Azar said in her best Turkmeni. She looked at Najar, and he nodded, keeping a careful eye on the vendor’s hands and the men behind him. A few other hawkers had started to cluster around nearby, waiting to see how much money these pilgrims would pull out. “All I have is Turkish new lira, sir.”
“Turkish lira! Even better, my child! But because that is not official currency here in Turkmenistan, I must ask for eight thousand manat, still a very great bargain for you, a pittance really if you consider the exchange rate between our currencies. I will be sure to give you more than enough of my succulent pistachios for all three of you.”
“That is generous of you, sir, but my father says I have spent enough and can only give you one thousand manat — fifty kurus.”
“Your father is wise and must be respected, child, but I have children of my own to feed,” the vendor said. “But in respect for your father and mother, I will sell an extra large bag to you for the original price — six thousand.”
“I’m afraid my blessed father will disapprove of any more than two thousand manat.”
The vendor bowed his head to Najar, who only scowled back. “I would not like to be the cause of any ill feelings whatsoever between such a powerful-looking gentleman and such a sweet child,” the pistachio seller said, “but I have a father, mother, six brothers, a wife, and four children to answer to as well — and a girlfriend or two, of course, but don’t tell my wife, please!” His chuckle subsided when he saw Najar’s scowl deepen. “I will tell you what, my child, in reward for being so good with me and for speaking our native tongue so well.” He brushed his hands together as if anticipating closing this deal immediately. “Four thousand manat for you, and not a tennesi more. The rest I shall receive when I see the pleasure in your faces as you enjoy my pistachios.”
“You are generous and patient, sir.” She counted out coins in her hand. “I have seventy kurus here, and I dare not ask my father for more — I have been too much of a burden to him already on this trip. You will become the most generous man we have met in Turkmenistan if you accept.”
The vendor smiled, bit his index finger, then bowed. “Done, child, and may God smile on you.” Azar gave the coins to Najar, who gave them to the vendor. He indeed did portion out a very large bag of steaming pistachios and handed them over to Najar, who gave them to Azar without taking his eyes off the vendor. “Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you, and may God continue to smile on you. Is there any other way I can serve you, child?”
“Like how?” Najar growled in Farsi.
“Like taking the Shahdokht and her royal bodyguards to her home,” the man replied in Farsi. He bowed slightly, taking a peek over his shoulder at the slowly growing number of vendors starting to move closer. “I’m sorry, Shahdokht, but it’s not every day you get to haggle over the price of a bag of pistachios with a member of the Persian royal family. Now, allow me to take you into the waiting arms of your loyal followers in your homeland. God be praised, our salvation is at hand! The blessed and powerful Qagev have returned!”
“You wasted a lot of time,” Saidi said.
“I decided that simply approaching you without at least trying to make a sale would look bad,” he said. “I’ve been here at the bazaar for three years, waiting for this blessed day for the true rulers of Persia’s return, God be praised. I know the bazaar well.”
“The transaction attracted too much attention,” Najar said perturbedly. “Where can we meet?”
“My truck is parked at the far northwest vendor lot, beside the bicycles,” the man replied. “I suggest…”
But suddenly there was a commotion behind him, and moments later two Soviet-era light infantry vehicles and a sedan burst toward the corral. Three Turkmeni soldiers jumped out of the vehicle, and a man in a plain dark business suit emerged from the sedan. Najar and Saidi were on their feet faster than Azar had ever seen them move before.
“No one move!” the sergeant in charge of the military forces shouted in Russian. “Hands where I can see them!” The other soldiers carried rusty-looking AK-47s and sidearms in worn, rotting leather holsters. Azar had no doubt that Najar and Saidi could take them out within seconds…if they had weapons or were within reach of them. Najar, Saidi, Azar, and the vendor open their hands to their sides in plain sight.
The man in the suit approached them, smiling — and then, to everyone’s surprise, bowed. “Salam aleikom, Miss Qagev,” he said in Farsi. “Welcome to Turkmenistan. I am Colonel Jamal Fattah, deputy chief of mission and chief political officer of the Iranian embassy in Ashkhabad.” He looked at Najar and Saidi. “You must be Miss Qagev’s bodyguards…Richard and Linda VanWie, or is it Major Najar and Lieutenant Saidi now?”
“Salam aleikom, sir,” Azar replied, bowing slightly in return. Fattah was obviously pleased at that response, though he kept his eye carefully on Najar and Saidi. “What brings the Iranian deputy consul here?”
“Why, a member of the Qagev royal family, here, in Turkmenistan — it’s practically a cause for yet another national week of celebration, just like the Turkmenis award themselves just about every other week of the year for some reason or another,” Fattah said.
“How did you know we were here?”
“I would be revealing important state secrets if I…”
“The Russian embassy intercepted communications between Canada and the United States about the arrest and deportment of three persons who were under protective custody of the U.S. State Department, Shahdokht,” Saidi said. “They obviously passed the information to their friends the Iranians.”
Fattah nodded and smiled. “Lieutenant Saidi is as smart as she is beautiful,” he said. “Rumor had it that you actually stole the plane sent to evacuate you to a safe place? Extraordinary. Anyway, the report said the trio was in quite a rush and headed to Istanbul via Frankfurt. A message was put out to all embassies to watch for you. After you left Istanbul, a very resourceful researcher at the Federal Security Service in Moscow guessed who you might be, based on recent events in Iran, and the word was put out to be on the lookout for you and your parents…”
“What of my parents?” Azar interjected.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Miss Qagev,” the Iranian said. “Once the word was out it was not difficult tracking down two adults and a female teenager traveling together through eastern and central Asia. We made positive identification shortly thereafter, pulled up your files, and then put all known pro-monarchy individuals and Iranian expatriates in Turkmenistan under surveillance, knowing you’d make contact with your underground network.”
“We do not have any quarrel with the Turkmeni government,” Azar said, “and we have broken no laws here…”
“I am sure you entered the country using false papers…”
“We were legally admitted into this country and we have valid visas…”
“That will be thoroughly investigated,” Fattah said. “While that investigation is underway, Iran will file extradition papers with the Turkmeni courts, and I have no doubt you will be turned over to us in a very short time.”
“On what charges?”
“Sedition, conspiracy, terrorism, murder — the list is very long and horrible,” Fattah said. “I am sure the Turkmeni government will be anxious to cooperate. These soldiers will take you into custody and take you to the Niyazov jail in Ashkhabad, where you’ll stay awaiting extradition to Iran. The wheels of justice move slowly in Turkmenistan, but you will eventually return home…as the guest of the ayatollah.” He lowered his voice, turning his back to the Turkmeni soldiers, and went on: “Now, you don’t want to die in a hail of gunfire outside a filthy camel corral in Ashkhabad at the hands of those mostly bored-looking, under-trained, and underpaid soldiers over there, so I’m asking you to come along quietly. I know your bodyguards are well trained and could probably twist those soldiers’ heads right off their shoulders, and mine as well, but I’d hate for anyone to die out here like common criminals, especially a royal princess. If you resist, I can’t be responsible for what happens next.” He motioned to his sedan. “Shall we, Miss Qagev?”
Najar stepped forward, the menace clear in his eyes and body — so palpable was it that the Turkmeni soldiers sensed it immediately and stiffened. Azar scanned the growing crowd around them, but she didn’t see any
