Shadow Command

“I’ve already said that to the council, but they’re not listening to a little girl,” Azar complained. “I’m just a figurehead, a symbol. They would rather quibble over who has seniority, who has more followers, or who can bring in more recruits or cash. All they want out of me is a male heir. Without a king, the council will make no decisions.”

“Then be the Malika.”

“I don’t like being called ‘Queen,’ General, and you know it, I’m sure,” Azar said hotly. “My parents are not dead.” She said those last words angrily, defiantly, as if attempting to convince herself as well as the general.

“It’s been almost two years since they’ve disappeared, Highness — how much longer are you going to wait? Until you turn eighteen? Where will Persia be in fifteen months? Or until a rival dynasty asserts its claim to the Peacock Throne, or some strongman takes over and has all the Qagevs back on the run?”

Obviously Azar had asked herself all these questions already, because it pained her that she didn’t have any answers. “I know, General, I know,” she said in a tiny voice, the saddest one he had ever heard her use. “That’s why I need you to go before the council of war, join us, take command of our loyalists, and unite the anti-Islamist forces against Mohtaz and his bloodthirsty jihadis. You are the most powerful man in Persia. They would not hesitate to approve.”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to be the commanding general in a monarchist army, Highness,” Buzhazi said. “I need to know what the Qagev stand for before I’ll throw my support behind them.” He looked at Azar somberly. “And until your parents appear, or until you turn eighteen — maybe not even then — the council of war speaks for the Qagev…”

“And they cannot even decide if the royal flag should be raised before or after morning prayers,” Azar said disgustedly. “They argue about court protocol, rank, and petty procedures rather than tactics, strategies, and objectives.”

“And you want me to take my orders from them? No thank you, Highness.”

“But if there was a way to convince them to support you if you announced that you would form a government, Hesarak—”

“I told you, I’m not in the business of forming governments,” Buzhazi snapped. “I took down the clerics, the corrupt Islamist leadership, and their hired goons the Pasdaran because they are the true obstacles to freedom and law in this country. But may I remind you that we still have a Majlis-i-Shura that we elected that supposedly have the constitutional authority to take control and form a representative government? Where are they? Hiding, that’s what. They’re afraid they’ll be targeted for assassination if they poke their little heads out, so they’d rather watch in their comfortable villas with their bodyguards surrounding them while their country tears itself apart.”

“So it sounds like you just want someone to ask you to help them, is that it, General? You crave the honor and respect of having a politician or princess beg for help?”

“What I crave, Highness, is for the persons who supposedly lead this country to get off their fat asses and lead,” Buzhazi said hotly. “Until the Majlis, your so-called war council, or someone else decides it has the stomach to squash the Islamist insurgency, take charge, and form a government, I’ll keep doing what I do best — hunting down and killing as many of the enemies of Persia as I can to save innocent lives. At least I have an objective.”

“My followers share your vision, General…”

“Then prove it. Help me do my job until you can talk some sense into your war council.”

Azar wanted to argue, for her people and their struggle as well as for her own legitimacy, but she knew she had run out of answers. Buzhazi was right: they had the will to resist the Islamists, but they just couldn’t get the job done. She nodded resignedly. “All right, General, I’m listening. How can we help you?”

“Tell your loyalists to join my army and pledge to follow my orders for two years. I’ll train and equip them. After two years they are free to return to you, with all the equipment and weapons they can carry on their backs.”

Azar’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “A very generous offer.”

“But they must swear during their two-year enlistment to obey my commands and fight for me, all the way and then some, upon penalty of death — not by any war council, court, or tribunal, but by me. If they are caught passing information to anyone outside my ranks, including you, they’ll die in humiliation and disgrace.”

Azar nodded. “What else?”

“If they will not join my army, they must agree to pass on clear, timely, and actionable information to me, on a constant basis or on demand, and to support my army with everything they have to give — food, clothing, shelter, water, money, supplies, anything,” Buzhazi went on. “I’ve ordered my security details spread out to make it easier for your people to pass notes, photos, or other information to them, and I will provide you with blind drops and secure voice and e-mail addresses for you to use to leave us information.

“But you must help us, all of you. Your loyalists can follow the Qagev, such as you are, but they will help me, or they will stand out of the way while my men and I fight. They either agree that I fight for Persia and I am deserving of their complete and total support, or they will lay down their weapons and stay off the streets — no more raids or bombings, no more roving gangs, and no more assassinations that serve only to terrorize the innocents and cause the Pasdaran and Islamists to increase their attacks against the civilian population.”

“That will be…difficult,” Azar admitted. “I simply don’t know all of the resistance leaders out there. I frankly doubt if anyone on the council knows all of the cells and their leaders.”

“You attend the war council meetings, don’t you?”

“I’m allowed to attend general meetings of the war council, but I’m not allowed to vote, and I’m discouraged from attending strategy meetings.”

Buzhazi shook his head in exasperation. “You’re probably the smartest person in that council meeting — why you’re not allowed to participate is a damned mystery to me. Well, it’s your problem, Highness. I’m telling you that your loyalists are part of the problem, not part of the solution. I don’t know if the person with the gun at the other end of the block is an Islamist or one of your loyalists, so I’m going to blow his head off regardless before he tries to do the same to me. That’s not the way I want it, but that’s the way I’ll play it if I have to.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, General.”

“You can, Highness, if you just drag yourself back into the twenty-first century like I know you can,” Buzhazi said, donning his helmet again and pulling the straps tight.

“What?”

“Come on now, Highness — you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Buzhazi said irritably. “You’re a smart woman as well as a natural-born leader. You’ve lived in America most of your life and you’ve obviously learned that the old ways won’t work anymore. You know as well as I that this court of yours and this so-called council of war is what’s hamstringing you. You’ve voluntarily imprisoned yourself in this six-hundred-year-old cage called your ‘court’ and you’ve committed to cede authority to a bunch of spineless cowards — half of which aren’t even in this country right now, am I correct?” He could tell by her expression that he was.

Buzhazi shook his head in disappointment quickly turning to disgust. “Pardon me for saying this, Highness, but get your royal head out of your pretty little ass and get with the program before we all die and our country becomes a mass graveyard,” he said angrily. “You’re the one out here on the streets, Azar. You can see the problems and are smart enough to formulate a response, but you won’t take charge. Why? Because you don’t want your parents to think you’re taking over their thrones? This is the twenty-first century, Azar, for God’s sake, not the fourteenth. Besides, your parents are either dead or cowards themselves if they haven’t shown themselves in almost two—”

“Shut up!” Azar screamed, and before Buzhazi could react, she had spun around and planted her right foot solidly in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Buzhazi went down on one knee, more embarrassed at being taken by surprise than hurt. By the time he got back on his feet and was able to take at least a half of a normal breath, Mara Saidi was shielding Azar, an automatic machine pistol pointed at him.

“Good kick, Highness,” Buzhazi grunted, rubbing his abdomen. Obviously, he guessed, one of her accommodations for having defects of the hands was her ability to fight with her feet. “The rumors said you could