I've had a number of people ask me if there will be a sequel to my novel, Sons of the Great Satan. The answer is YES! I'm currently working on The Will of God which picks up two years after the end of Sons. Back for another ride are Joey Andrews and Farhad Zadeh, along with Robert Gandalphi, Terry Andrews, Javeed Yasmin, and his sister, Lila Yasmin, Ali Hamidi, Imam Rahimi, new characters plus some special and not-so-special guest stars: Ayatollah Khomeini, Saddam Hussein, President Ronald Reagan, and yes, The Grateful Dead.

You wanted to know what happens next? Summer 2012: the SONS ride again!

In the meantime... here's a tease.

THE WILL OF GOD
by Anthony H. Roberts

Part 1: A Sort of Homecoming

"Whenever, in their anguish, they try to escape from hell, back they shall be dragged, and will be told, "Taste the torment of the conflagration."
- The Holy Koran


Chapter 1: Refugee

It was a sunny day in Los Angles; the skies were clear and Arman Zadeh was late for his mother's funeral. On any other day, Farhad would be furious with his older brother, but today he had no energy for such emotions. He would wait patiently for Arman to arrive and together they would commit their mother to the earth, to rest forever beside strangers in a foreign land. Farhad stared at the photograph of his parents, wreathed in flowers and placed beside the casket. There was his father, Colonel Massoud Zadeh, dressed in his SAVAK military uniform, and his mother, Zarina, smiling as she did before the dark days of the revolution stole her happiness.

The wails of the Persian mourners rang out across the cemetery lawn as Farhad's thoughts returned to his homeland. Over two years had passed since his father's death at the hands of Imam Rahimi's men. The Zadeh's were Shah's People and after the King's departure, their fates were sealed. The Ayatollah's men came for his father before they could flee. Colonel Massoud Zadeh was a fiend and a traitor in the eye's of the revolution, his sins so great as to condemn them all. Farhad and his mother were savagely beaten, and they would have been murdered had it not been for the intervention of an American neighbor.

Terry Andrews was the father of Farhad's best friend, Joey; a classmate who lived down the street from the Zadehs. By the time of the Colonel's death, Joey and his mother had already been evacuated from Tehran. Joey's father remained behind having left his wife and son for an Iranian woman. As Terry prepared for his own departure he heard screams from the Zadeh's home and felt compelled to investigate. Somehow he had persuaded the Ayatollah's men to let them go, but not before Imam Rahimi had exacted his revenge against the SAVAK Colonel.

Massoud Zadeh never faced the pantomime of a revolutionary court, or having his corpse photographed and plastered across the back pages of the Tehran Times. His sentence, if not merciful, was quick. Brother Ali, a former taxi driver once thought to be a friend, dragged the Colonel out to the family garden, put a gun to his head and took his life. There was no funeral for Farhad's father. Somewhere in Tehran Massoud Zadeh's body was dumped into an unmarked grave, never to be visited, a traitor to the People and a victim of the Islamic Republic's vigilante justice.

Farhad's mother, Zarina, never fully recovered from the injuries she suffered on their last day in Tehran. The physical damage was great, but insignificant compared with the haunting memories of her husband's murder and the near fatal beating of her youngest son. Since their arrival in Los Angeles, she had complained of headaches and occasional blurred vision but the doctors could find nothing. They said there was no sign of brain damage but Farhad knew better for he had witnessed the blows. When Arman found her unconscious on the floor with a broken vase of flowers next to her, they knew she was yet another casualty of the revolution.

"Farhad, is that your brother's car?"

Farhad looked into the sad face of his American fiance, Christina Campbell, then across the cemetery to the parking lot where a red Mercedes had just arrived.

"Yes, that is Arman and Sami."

"Don't be too hard on him, Far. You know how your brother is. He's not strong like you."

Farhad did know how his brother was, emotional and dramatic, and so very Persian. He put his arm around Christina and spoke to her, "Do not worry, my love. I will save my disappointments with Arman for another day."

As the two men arrived, Farhad knew from their red, swollen eyes that they had been crying, no doubt the cause of their delay from the funeral home to the cemetery. It took little imagination to see Arman collapsed in a state of inconsolable grief while his partner, Sami, tried to sooth his pain and hurry him along to his mother's interment. Farhad watched as his brother and Sami took their rightful places beside the open grave. Arman reached out and laid a hand upon his mother's casket then burst into tears and fell back into Sami's arms.

Many people had come to mourn and honor Zarina Zadeh, most of them fellow countrymen who had fled Iran as the Ayatollah Khomeini seized power. Their cries of despair demonstrated their grief for the Zadehs' loss and for so many others. One of the guests placed a picture of Shah Pahlavi next to that of Farhad's parents, then kissed the photograph of his mother before returning to her place among the mourners.

Farhad noticed a tall American man standing at the back of the crowd. He recognized him as Robert Gandalphi, a friend and business associate of his father who had helped them find passage out of Tehran. Mr. Gandalphi had visited them several times in California and had helped them obtain green cards and transfer the Zadah's family savings from Iran. Farhad secretly doubted that such a transfer was even possible and suspected that the money had come from the American's own pockets. Whatever business Mr. Gandalphi and his father had in Iran, it was clear that he held Baba in high regard, and for that, he would always have Farhad's respect.

Conspicuous in their absence were members of the Zadeh family, uncles, aunts, cousins, and his grandmother, all of whom still remained in Iran. Only Farhad, his mother and two brothers, Navid and Arman, were in America. His father intended to bring the entire family over once they were established, but that dream died in the garden with Baba. Many times Farhad had found his mother in tears thinking of her own Mam, so far away in Iran, living in a little apartment and separated from those she loved. Since their arrival in the United States they had tried to obtain an exit visa for her, but the Islamic Republic of Iran had little desire to assist the family of a traitor.

"I miss her so much already," said Christina, laying her head against Farhad's shoulder. "She was such a kind women, even with all the pain in her life."

"Kindness was her way. She…," Farhad stopped as his throat tightened and tears welled in his eyes.

The lament of the mourners filled his ears as he gazed once more at the photograph of his parents. His Baba was gone. His Mam had died alone, wanting only a mother's love and comfort. It was time that his grandmother joined them in Los Angeles. Bringing her out of Iran would be his lasting tribute to his mother, an act of love that he must undertake.

He could not go as himself; the name 'Zadeh' would attract unwanted attention. He would need a new identity, plus travel documents for himself and his grandmother. Farhad dried his eyes and looked across the crowd to the American standing still and silent behind the wailing Persians. Something told him that this man could help with such matters…and would.

For the first time since the revolution, Farhad Zadeh contemplated going home.