Callsign: Bishop (Erik Somers) (Chesspocalypse #5)

He could not believe his good fortune when his men stumbled upon an abandoned outpost in the Kavir Desert. The structure was clearly American in design, and all the signs and manuals had been printed in English. The two men inside, one of whom was already dead, were residents of the village of Hassi, just north of the site. Dawoud knew the village; he’d sent a group of soldiers there to recruit more men.

At first, he couldn’t believe the Americans would be so brazen, but then when he realized what his men had uncovered, he knew it must be a sign from above. Many thousands of years ago, Persia was a great power, and the entire known world revolved around it. Now, the time had come to restore Iran to its former glory and strike a blow at the West at the same time. Using this fantastic monument to his people’s heritage as a base of operations, Dawoud would begin his plan to bring the rest of the world to its knees.

His phone beeped twice, which was his assigned ring for text messages. He took out the phone and checked the screen, immediately pleased to see who it was from.



SUBJECT IS EN ROUTE. ETA: 2 HOURS.



Dawoud smiled and put the phone back in his pocket, not bothering to respond.

His son, lost to him for decades and presumed dead, was coming home.

He turned back to the Rolls Royce and poked his head into the door. Faiza sat in the cool air of the car’s interior, reading a book about the Parthian Empire, which ruled over Iran from 238 BC–226 AD. Faiza seemed as fascinated by Iran’s history as Dawoud, and the two would often have great discussions on the subject that lasted for hours. For that reason, he had not forbidden her to read, nor had he disciplined her too harshly for speaking her mind. He valued her input, and knew that if he was not careful he would lose that important aspect of their relationship. His other wives made up for her brashness, and were more than willing to pleasure him at his whim.

“Our son is on his way,” he said. “He will be here in two hours.”

“Here?” Faiza asked, waving her hand to indicate the area around the ruins.

“Where better?” Dawoud asked.

“The house in Tehran would have been suitable, I should think. It is certainly large enough to impress him.”

“No, wife. You are missing the point. I will bring him here, to bask in the sight of this great monument to Iran’s history, and impress upon him the glorious nature of our nation. He should begin to learn about his heritage as soon as possible.”

“He was raised in America and joined the American military. Do you think he will abandon his previous life because of these ruins?” she asked.

“He is my son,” Dawoud said. “Love of Iran is in his blood.”

Faiza said nothing, merely nodding her head and returning to her book. Dawoud closed the door and pounded his hand on the roof of the car, which pulled away immediately. The driver was instructed to return Faiza to their home in Shiraz. Dawoud would join her later, if time permitted it. His wife did not know about his plan—she did not approve of his association with jihadists, and had been so bold as to tell him so on numerous occasions—but he would tell his son about them. The boy, now a man, would fall in love with the country, Dawoud felt it in his bones. And together they would usher in a new era of Iranian supremacy.

His smile grew larger as he turned and started walking toward the tomb of Xerxes I, which served as the entrance to a small network of rooms and chambers, accessible only from the rear of the tomb. The secrets contained in those dark corridors, both ancient and modern, were known only to a chosen few. His son would soon be one of those few. That feeling of pride returned. Not for his country this time, but for his blood.

His son was coming. He couldn’t wait to meet him.

***

As soon as the door closed, Faiza put down her book. She hadn’t been paying attention to it, anyway. It was merely a convenient method of keeping Dawoud from bothering her. She used her husband’s interest in the history of Iran against him. Because of it, she had learned to read and write, and had much more freedom than the average Iranian woman. But it was all for show. She preferred reading material that wasn’t so swamped with the “glorious history” of Iran. Not that she didn’t love her country, but Dawoud’s fascination with Iran’s former greatness bordered on fanaticism, and she would rather read about things that affected the international community.