Chapter 31
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
September 10
0400 hours
“Kris?”
Someone was shaking him. He moaned, pressed his face into the throw pillow. Tried to pull the blanket higher.
“Kris, we should get you out of here.” A hand cupped his cheek, thumb stroking softly down his skin.
Dan’s concerned face swam into focus, shadowed by the fluorescent lights of the interview room. Dan looked like shit. Haggard, exhausted, like he’d run two marathons back to back.
“What time is it?” he groaned.
“Zero four hundred.”
“Have you been up all night? Again?”
Dan nodded. “We’re trying to find Haddad. The FBI has mobilized and they’re working with local police. We’ve got an APB out, and we put out the images from the bar and your building. The FBI is getting tips but most of them are junk. Wherever he’s hiding, he’s staying low and out of sight.”
Kris pushed himself up and blinked, hard. His eyes felt rubbed raw with sandpaper. He’d finally cried himself to sleep sometime the night before, locked alone in the interview room while the rest of the CIA looked for his husband before Dawood launched some kind of attack against the homeland.
Kris had been up with profilers for most of the previous afternoon and evening, trawling through Dawood’s service record, both in the Army and the CIA. Dawood knew enough, between the two units he’d served in, to be deadly, dangerous, devastating. Especially operating on his home turf, able to blend into American society and hide in plain sight.
Some things had been revelatory. Kris had never known Dawood was an expert in explosives. Or that he’d earned the expert marksmanship award in the Army and was practically a sniper.
No one knew what he was planning. Analysts dissected his past, his service record, his childhood, as narrated by Kris. Picked apart the audio file, his statement to al-Qaeda.
“‘To have your life dictated by others’,” one of the junior analysts had recited earlier. “Could that be rage directed at the institutions he’s served? The military? The CIA?”
“We should definitely consider the CIA a target,” Dan had said.
Under the table, he’d squeezed Kris’s hand.
They all took what they needed from him and left, and Kris had wallowed in his memories and his fears until he’d sobbed, curled up in a ball on the stiff couch, and finally passed out.
Kris tried to shake the sleep away. “Where do I go?” His apartment was a crime scene. Had it been cleared? Was he allowed back? Was he allowed to be anywhere without Dan’s supervision? Or was he off to jail, Ryan’s eternal Christmas wish come true?
“Do you still have my key?”
Kris nodded. It was still in the pocket of his trench he’d grabbed on the way to the hospital the day before.
“I think you should go to my place. Not… for anything. But you’ll be safe there.”
“And out of the way.”
Dan looked down. Pursed his lips.
“I know. The CIA can’t babysit me.” Kris heaved himself to his feet. Everything ached. The sobs the night before, the hard, tiny couch. Dawood, around him and in him. His body wanted to quit, wanted to give up and give in. “I’ll crash in your spare bedroom.”
“I’ve got to be here for a while longer, but I’ll come home this afternoon. At least for a bit.”
Kris looked away. He couldn’t tell Dan not to come to his own house, couldn’t say he’d rather be alone, would rather sit in the dark and mourn for Dawood, for David, for everything they’d had. Try and trace back through the strands of their entwined lives until he could find the place where everything went wrong, where their paths diverged and they’d ended up here.
Dan pulled his car keys from his pocket and handed them to Kris. “I’ll get a ride home later.
“From Ryan?” Kris snorted. Ryan lived near Dan, was almost a neighbor. As much as they bickered at work, Ryan and Dan were friends. They hit the golf course together, played the back nine and had a few drinks at the clubhouse in their upscale suburban community.
“He’s losing his mind.” Dan tried to smile. Failed. “We’re all terrified, Kris. We don’t know enough about the threat. We don’t have any idea what he’s planning. What his target is.”
“If I knew anything, I’d tell you.”
“I know you would.” Dan reached for him, one hand on his shoulder. It was supposed to be a squeeze, Dan giving him reassurance.
But Kris didn’t want reassurance. Or care. Or comfort. He stayed still, not drawing into Dan’s offer of an embrace.
Dan sighed. “Go to my place. Shower, get something to eat. Try and relax, as much as you can. We’re doing everything we can here, and if we need more from you, I’ll call.”
He nodded. He couldn’t meet Dan’s gaze. “See you later.”
“Kris…” He was at the door when Dan’s voice stopped him. He hesitated, but didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry,” Dan said softly. “I’m sorry Haddad made this choice.”
“Yeah.” Kris ripped the door open, fury igniting a sudden bonfire at the base of his heart. “Me fucking too.”
Dan’s electric Bolt was exactly like he was. Practical, tidy, and clean. There weren’t any straw wrappers on the floorboards or spare change in the drink holders. The satellite radio was tuned to classical music.
Kris turned off the radio with too much force. He’d rather listen to hardcore rap, blare rock at the top of the stereo, scream with the windows down as he raced down the highway.
But the Bolt’s speakers didn’t go that loud, and the top speed of the little electric car was not the least bit satisfactory. He locked his elbows and leaned back against the driver’s seat, breathing hard in the silence.
Not even the engine made noise. He slammed the accelerator out of the Langley gate, listened to the hum of the battery spin up slowly as it chugged along to its top speed. At least the window was down. Wind rustled through his unkempt hair, messy strands going wild after a night on the couch.
Dan’s house was north, off the outer loop in Maryland. He could get there in twenty minutes.
Kris drove right past the exit heading north. Kept driving west. He stared at the horizon, fingers clenching around the steering wheel.
Eventually, he pulled off at a woodsy suburb, winding through the small downtown and through tree-lined streets, the leaves just beginning to turn, to tumble from branches. Autumn dusted the small town, the quaint charm of apple barrels and scarecrows on display in shop windows.
You could have had this. Walking hand in hand downtown, watching the seasons change. Year after year.
He kept driving, into the outskirts. Turned into a neighborhood and wound his way to a house at the end of the development, nestled against the woods.
He parked across the street.
A new family lived in his house now. A minivan was in the driveway, and yard signs in the flowerbeds boasted of a little a girl dancing ballet and a boy playing baseball, little plastic silhouettes of suburban pride.
Dawn’s first glow shimmered over the house, a halo of glitter, diffused golden light that turned the woods, the memories, soft.
I should have told the CIA to go fuck themselves. After Iraq. We should have stayed here. We could have been so happy.
Headlights appeared at the end of the road. Drove slowly toward him. Stopped at the curb, behind the Bolt.
Squinting, he tried to make out the vehicle. The headlights were high, nearly blinding him. A truck, for sure.
The truck’s engine died. The headlights winked off.
Jesus fucking Christ. That was Dawood’s truck.
No one knew he’d kept it. He’d parked it under a tarp in his building’s garage and left it, a mausoleum to memories he couldn’t get rid of.
His heart pounded. He couldn’t move. His fingers stuck to the steering wheel, squeezing. His arms, his body, shook. He stared at the truck through Dan’s rearview mirror.
The door opened. A man slid out.
He’d always know that body, that shape.
Dawood.
Kris sagged in the driver’s seat. Had Dawood followed him from Langley? Stolen his truck from Kris’s building, camped outside Langley and waited, for hours and hours, for him to leave? How had he known Kris was in the Bolt?
Dawood waited, his hands in his pockets, by the truck’s door.
He should call this in. He should text Dan right now, call for reinforcements. Get the police, the FBI response team, out here immediately.
Instead, Kris slid out of the car. Faced Dawood.
Dawood looked terrible. As terrible as Kris felt, maybe worse. He rocked from foot to foot, and his shoulders were bunched, clenched tight up by his ears. In the morning light, Kris saw stubble, regrowth from where he’d shaved the beard he’d sported only two days before. His eyes were red, bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept or like he’d been crying for hours.
“You followed me. Again.”
Dawood nodded.
“Why? Think you can steal more intel from me? Newsflash, hon. Thanks to your little snatch and grab, the CIA is probably going to fire me.”
Dawood winced. He turned to the truck and curled inward, pressing his forehead to the window, his hands clenching the door. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”
“Please, tell me what you didn’t do. Because from where I’m standing, you fucked me. You used me. And you stole from me.”
Dawood hissed, long and sharp. His breath shook.
“What you didn’t do was tell me the truth.” Kris shook his head. “Do you even care about me at all anymore? Even a tiny, tiny bit?”
“I fucking love you!” Dawood whirled, exploding, shouting through gritted teeth. He strode toward Kris, reaching for him.
Kris jerked back, out of his range. He put up his fists, dropped into a fighter’s stance.
Dawood froze. “I’ll never hurt you,” he whispered.
“You already have hurt me. More than you’ll ever know. Ever understand.”
Dawood’s expression crumpled.
“Why did you take my laptop? What are you planning?” It was the strangest fucking interrogation of Kris’s life, standing in the middle of his old street with his formerly dead husband, the CIA’s most wanted terrorist. He still had Dawood’s touch on his skin, could still feel the ghost of his kisses on his shoulder, his thigh.
Down the block, a garage door opened. A jogger appeared, a man heading down the block away from them. He did a double take, though, and ran backward, staring. Strangers in the middle of the street were unusual in this neighborhood. It was quiet, serene. Private. That’s why they’d picked it, all those years ago.
“Can we go somewhere and talk? I have so much to tell you.” Dawood’s words trembled, his voice wound through with something that sounded like regret.
“You can tell the CIA everything you need to.”
“No, I can’t do that.” Dawood dug in his pockets, pulled out a cell phone. “Kris, I am trying to help—”
“By what? Attacking us? What’s your target? The CIA? Or something else?”
“No!” Dawood held out the phone. “Read this! Please!”
“You want me to be the one to push the button? You want me to detonate some bomb? God, you’re fucking cruel, you know that. Entrap me in your plan, make me the murderer—”
“No! Do you think so little of me?”
“Yes. After yesterday? After the past decade? Yes!”
Dawood’s lips thinned. He rubbed one hand over his face. He held his phone out again. “Please,” he breathed. “Read these texts. You don’t have to push anything.”
What did Dawood gain from him reading the messages? Would it matter that his prints would be on Dawood’s phone? If he called this in in the next few minutes, no. He could say he was reeling him in, playing along. What would he gain from reading the texts of a terrorist? What manipulation was Dawood trying to pull?
He wouldn’t know unless he read them.
Kris snatched the phone. The screen was on, texts from a DC number displayed.
[ You were supposed to keep your head down. ]
I thought it might help. I was trying to gather intelligence. But he doesn’t work for CT anymore. His laptop was useless.
[ There’s absolutely nothing that we need from him. He’s not important. He’s a distraction from our mission. And you’re fucking up. ]
The time stamp for the first message was hours after Dawood had fled his apartment. From when he was locked in the polygraph room, being interrogated about Dawood’s resurrection, his reappearance at his home.
Who had known, truly known, that Dawood had come to see him? Had stolen his laptop? Who knew exactly what Dawood was talking about, without mentioning it at all?
“Who fucking sent these to you?” Fury crested within him. He blinked, hoping the words would rearrange themselves, that something different would be on the screen. That he’d hallucinated the messages, somehow.
“I don’t know,” Dawood whispered. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Please,” he begged. “Can we talk?”
They ended up walking the trails through the woods branching off their old neighborhood. This is how I end up fucking murdered, Kris thought. This is how I end up in a ditch, strangled. Nine times out of ten, the murderer is someone the victim knows.
Dawood kept his hands in his pockets as they shuffled through the trees, through the autumn brush and the dense undergrowth. Pine needles crackled beneath their shoes, the soft carpet of the forest shushing all sounds, drawing everything inward.
“You’re Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani.”
“Yes,” Dawood whispered. “I am.”
“You’re the enemy, then. You’re against us.”
“No. Not me. There’s a mole in the CIA,” Dawood said. “Helping al-Qaeda. And they recruited me to join their attack.”
“That’s fucking ridiculous. No one in the CIA would help al-Qaeda.”
“Just like no one would spy for Russia in the Cold War, or for China today?” Dawood swallowed. “It’s what you think of me. That I’m one of them. That I’m working for al-Qaeda.”
“You fit the profile. And you just admitted you’re Al-Khorasani.” Kris’s heart burned. “You’re not CIA anymore. Ten years in the grave means you’re not.”
“I’m not against you,” Dawood insisted. “I’m trying to tell you that.”
“You had ten years to tell us. Why should I trust you now?”
Dawood took a deep breath. He kicked a fallen branch, tumbling it end over end through the woods. “Three years ago, the mountain where I was living was bombed. Do you remember the Pakistani-US sweeps of the FATA? The Tribal Agencies?”
Kris nodded, once.
“I was deep in Bajaur. Weeks away from any civilization, Western or otherwise. There were no drones. It was a part of the country we’d never covered in a surveillance net. To get to the base of the mountain, it was a four-day journey. And I was a broken man when I got there. It took months to heal. A year before I was walking right. Another year before I finally shook off the last of the infections. After a while, I made a kind of life there.”
“Talking to me through the moon, yes, you said.”
“I thought you were dead,” Dawood whispered. “And I was too afraid to come out of the mountains and find your grave.”
“So you made me live with yours.”
Dawood flinched, stayed silent. He stared at the ground. “Allah opens paths before us, guides our lives. We have the choice to follow His path or turn our backs on Him. I spent my whole life, from when I was ten years old until I was dumped on that mountain, with my back to Him.” He squinted. “But on the mountain, Allah opened a path before me. I thought I was doing the right thing, walking it. For my sins, for being away from Allah for so long, I had to pay somehow. I had a father again, but I’d lost you. I thought that was my path.”
“How does this lead to a CIA mole? To you becoming Al-Khorasani? Get to the point.”
“Three years ago, during the campaign to rid the provinces of al-Qaeda, of jihadi fighters, the Pakistanis carpet-bombed the mountains. They obliterated everything. Our homes. Our farms. We lost everything in the bombs, in the fire. And we had to run.” Dawood bit his lip. “That’s when I lost ’Bu Adnan.”
“Where did you go?”
“Down the mountain. We met up with a group of fighters fleeing as well. We were defenseless, helpless. I was in charge, and I didn’t know what else to do to protect my people. I joined the fighters.”
“Jesus Christ…”
“We made our way over the border, back into Afghanistan. To Kandahar City.”
“Kandahar City? You were two miles from a NATO base. You could have come home anytime.”
“I had—have—a son.”
Kris whipped his head around, staring at Dawood, wide-eyed. His jaw clenched, his teeth scraping together. “You said there was no one else!”
“Behroze’s family was killed in the bombing. I took him in. Cared for him, like I needed after I lost my father.”
Kris strode ahead, leaving Dawood behind in the pine needles and the silence.
Dawood chased after him. “What else could I do? I was looking in the mirror of the darkest, most terrible parts of my life! I saw a boy who was me, brokenhearted, broken in his soul! What would you have had me do, Kris? Tell me, what you would have had me do!”
“I don’t know!” Kris shrieked, whirling. “But you could have at least told me you were alive! And we could have figured it out together!”
“I thought I was on Allah’s path,” Dawood breathed. “And at the end of the path… was you.”
Kris shook his head. Stared over Dawood’s shoulder, at the sunlight winking through the trees. “So you raised a son in Kandahar City. A hotbed of jihadism and al-Qaeda in Afghanistan. Did you fight for them?”
“I was one of their imams.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Kris buried his head in his palms. “Are you shitting me?”
“You have no idea what it’s like.” Dawood’s voice trembled. “Burying your friends. Burying children you helped care for. Digging bodies out of the rubble of houses and farms that moments ago were standing. You can’t see the drones coming. You can’t hide from them. You can’t tell when or where death will come, so you just live with knowing every single moment can be your last.” He breathed hard, his fists clenching. “Did you know the kids there, they talk about the drones like they’re the Hand of Shaytan? Like Shaytan lives in the sky and reaches out, murdering whomever he feels. How can a child know the difference between their loving father and an al-Qaeda fighter? When the father has been by the child’s side their entire life, playing soccer and eating dinner together? When the boy’s father is everything to him?”
“They’re the enemy. They want to kill us. They do kill us.”
“And we kill them. Yallah, we are very, very good at killing Arabs and Muslims all over the world. We’ve made it an art form. A disgusting, hideous art form. There’s so much death, Kris. I am exhausted of death. Of seeing everyone I know dying. Of praying the prayers of the dead, washing corpses and shrouding them and burying someone I know, someone I love, every single day!”
“We’re fucking tired of it here, too!” Kris hissed. “Five CIA officers in the past year have been killed in Afghanistan! Five! And almost a hundred members of the military! Do you have any sympathy for them?”
“My soul aches for everyone.” Dawood reached out. “Didn’t yours, once? You saw this pain, once. Muslim pain.”
“That was before they took you from me.”
Before Dawood had been kidnapped, tortured, and murdered.
No, before Dawood had been kidnapped, tortured, and dumped on a mountain.
Before Dawood had chosen them over Kris.
Dawood dropped his hand. He kept talking. “Two years ago, an al-Qaeda fighter came to Kandahar City. He’d been Al Jabal’s friend. His best friend. The only one Al Jabal ever told about leaving me with his father in the mountains.”
“What’s this jihadi’s name?”
Dawood stayed quiet.
Kris looked away, squinting. Just where were Dawood’s loyalties? What was he giving up, and what was he keeping quiet?
“He said he’d been looking for me. That he’d been looking for the CIA spy Al Jabal had been keeping to execute later. To make an example of him, finally. I told him that man was dead and gone. He didn’t exist anymore. But he knew who I was. And he wanted me to help their fight, as a sign of loyalty.”
“You didn’t, did you? You did not take up arms against the United States…”
“No. I never have. He wanted information. He wanted to corroborate what he was being told by a CIA officer who was passing intelligence to him.”
“The supposed mole?”
“It’s not supposed, Kris. You said you lost five CIA officers in Afghanistan this year. Why do you think that is? Why do you think you’ve suddenly lost so much ground against al-Qaeda in Afghanistan? Why are ambushes against your forces worse now?”
Kris breathed through his nose. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible. But, his mind whirled, calculating who had known about Dawood coming to his home, who had known about that night.
“The mole has been passing along intel to this fighter. Giving him American intelligence, to attack American CIA and military officers.”
“Why? Why would someone in the CIA help al-Qaeda? This is not some MICE scenario.” MICE was the counterintelligence acronym for possible motivations for a traitor. Money, Ideology, Compromise, or Ego. “Al-Qaeda isn’t buying any CIA officer’s loyalty. Al-Qaeda can barely rub two pennies together! And, al-Qaeda would be hard pressed to come up with compromise material that would pressure a CIA officer to give up as much as you’re claiming. They’re not the fucking KGB resurrected. They don’t have that kind of reach. And the only person with any ideology sympathetic to al-Qaeda and the jihadi movement is you.”
“I’m not supportive,” Dawood snapped. “I hate it. I hate the ideology. I hate the war. I hate the killing. That’s not Islam. That’s not the path of Allah.”
“I thought you were on his magic path!” Kris shouted. “That’s why you left me, isn’t it? To follow Allah’s yellow brick road!”
Dawood turned away, muttering under his breath. He spoke with his back to Kris, after a long moment. “The mole was building his bona fides with this fighter. He was proving that he was the real deal. That he was passing on real intel. Like Hamid, all those years ago, did with us. It was classic tradecraft. One hundred percent CIA. And everything he passed along panned out.” Dawood turned. A tear raced from the corner of one eye. “Do you know how sick I was, watching someone in the CIA pass along information that al-Qaeda used to attack Americans?”
“What did you do to stop it, huh?” Kris spread his hands wide, inside his coat pockets, flaring his trench. “Did you seriously just watch Americans die? Do nothing?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out who it is. Trying to gather evidence. And then I was asked to join their biggest mission. Their grand finale, when the mole will strike against the United States in the name of jihad. The mole said it would be bigger than September eleventh.”
Kris stared. His heart pounded again, harder, faster. He swallowed, his throat clenched agonizingly tight.
“This is the path I am on, Kris! This is Allah’s path. All things happen in time. Endure patiently, the Quran, says. With beautiful patience. Walk the path Allah has laid out for you. If I wasn’t kidnapped. If I didn’t stay in the mountains. If I didn’t join the fighters, become their imam. How would I ever have found out about the mole? Been asked to join in the mole’s plan? Be the one person who could stop this?”
It was too much, too much cause and effect, too much destiny, too many ripples in the waters of time and reality. The long years of their lives stretched forward and backward, choices Kris and Dawood had made, apart and together, bringing them to this moment. Afghanistan was a fulcrum, as was September 11. Ghosts lived between his bones, in the hollow spaces of his soul, his broken heart. Ghosts of the past, of his failures. Ghosts of the innocent, ghosts of the damned. Ghosts of Americans and ghosts of Muslims, of Iraqis and Afghans and so many others. He tasted ash in his throat, felt the grit of sand between his teeth.
His knees buckled, his bones, his muscles, letting go of reality, their grip on life that had kept Kris going for a decade, sheer determination in the face of anguish. His hands flew forward, landing in pine needles and dewy ground, fingers scratching through dark dirt. He kneeled, head down, gasping for breath.
It was madness. It was pure, utter madness. Paths through life, choices made to follow destiny or turn your back on it. Ripples in the water, always spreading outward, crashing into each other, cause and effect, action-reaction, always, ever onward.
His mind churned, slowly at first, then faster, sharper.
A dead ambassador in Afghanistan leads to the Soviet invasion, which leads to the CIA supporting the mujahedeen. Which leads to the collapse of Afghanistan, the rise of the Taliban, of al-Qaeda and Bin Laden. Which leads to September 11, and the war in Afghanistan, and the war in Iraq. Justifications for war build up a terrorist who unleashes an army in the lawlessness that follows. His children, drenched in war, raised on hatred, build an apocalyptic Islamic State, try to bring about the end times. Destroy the entire world.
Promises of retribution on both sides, blood for blood, an endless, agonizing war without end.
How had everything gone so irrevocably, irretrievably wrong? Was there anything at all to believe in? Any paths, any destiny, any gods? Was there any way forward from this moment? From Dawood telling him it was paths and destiny that brought them to these woods, through the tangled refuse and the agony of the last decade?
It was fucked up, all of it. It was fucked beyond belief, and he hated it, hated every word Dawood spoke.
But most of all, he hated how he wondered if it was true.
“Kris…” Dawood hovered before him, crouching in the dirt. His hands fluttered in front of Kris, uncertain. “Habibi…”
“Don’t,” Kris spat. “Don’t fucking call me that. I’m not your love.”
“You are,” Dawood breathed. “You always have been. Always will be.”
Kris pushed himself to his feet. Dirt clung to his palms, his knees. Stained his skinny jeans. “If what you’re saying is true, then what the fuck is this big plan? And who is the mole?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out. He arranged transport to the US for me two weeks ago—”
“Through Yemen.”
“Yes. Through Yemen. A cargo ship, and then a human smuggler up the Chesapeake. This phone was waiting for me in a locker at the wharf.” Dawood sighed. “I’ve been trying to find out who he is. He says I have a partner for this attack I’m supposed to execute.”
“Tomorrow? On the anniversary of nine-eleven?”
Dawood nodded. “I haven’t met my partner yet. And I still don’t know who the mole is.” He winced. “I stole your laptop because I thought I could find him. I thought I could figure out who he was if I looked through the CT mission logs, saw who was in charge of those Afghanistan operations. I thought I could prove who he was.”
“I’m not in CT anymore. I haven’t been since Hamid.”
“I didn’t know,” Dawood whispered. “And I didn’t find anything on your laptop. I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something to me? Why did you insist on doing this alone?”
“Once I found out you were alive, I freaked. For two years, I’ve been solely dedicated to this path. To finding the mole. Taking him out. But you… You derailed everything. At the end of the path, you were supposed to be there. We were supposed to be reunited in Paradise. That’s what kept me going. It was okay if I died stopping the mole, if this was my end. Exposing him and preventing this attack. Because I’d be with you again. But—” He shuddered. “Here you are. And you look at me with so much hate in your eyes…”
“Whose fault is that?”
Dawood looked down. “I don’t know if I would do anything differently,” he whispered. “Because I believe I am on this path to stop the mole. To save lives. I am following Allah’s path, I know I am. But I’ve lost you, again.” A sob broke through his voice, shattered his words.
“What proof do you have that this, this story, any of what you’re saying, is true?”
“Just these texts. But if I can get into the CT database, I can check the mission logs. I can find out who was in charge of those operations. Who had the knowledge, the intel, to pass on to—” He came up short, not saying the jihadi’s name.
Kris rolled his eyes. “You want me to believe this, but you won’t say the name of your jihadist buddy?”
“In a way, they became brothers to me,” Dawood breathed. “Can you blame me for not wanting to sign their death warrants? I’ve seen too many drone strikes. I’ve buried too many of my brothers.”
“You sound just like them.”
“I’m not. I swear to Allah, I swear on us, I’m not.”
Kris paced away from Dawood, shaking his head. He was going to be sick. He was going to vomit until he threw up his heart, his soul. “What exactly is it that you want from me?”
“You wanted me to tell you the truth? That’s what I’m doing. I’m trusting you. I’m asking for your help. I’m asking for you to help me find this mole. Help me search the CT mission logs—”
“Jesus, Dawood, you want me to give you classified information now? You want me to become the mole, become the traitor!”
“No! I want to stop him! My heart is broken over what this mole has done. I’m sick—”
“We all are,” Kris snapped. “You don’t have the monopoly on suffering. You don’t own pain.”
“Who would have access? Who has access to the drone program? To the Afghanistan clandestine operations? To mission intelligence and to military operations?”
It was only a handful of people. Director Edwards, obviously. The deputy director, George. The director of operations, Ryan. The director of CTC, Dan. The head of SAD, Wallace. The Afghanistan station chief. A few others, analysts and deputy directors who crossed agency lines, liaised with the military.
Who of all of them had also known Dawood had been in Kris’s apartment, hadn’t kept his ‘head down’?
“I can’t get you that information. I’m not in CT anymore. And, thanks to your little stunt with my laptop, I’m banned from the building without an armed escort.”
Dawood wilted. His spine seemed to crack in half, his entire soul drooping as he pitched forward.
“But there might be another way.”
University Park, Maryland
September 10
1140 hours
Kris led Dawood to Dan’s house, cursing himself and his fucking stupidity the whole drive.
Dawood parked down the street, well out of sight, and walked casually to Dan’s, meeting Kris at the front door. He eyeballed the key in Kris’s hand. “You have a key?”
Kris glared. “I don’t think you have any business questioning my personal life.”
“The other night, he was at your place—”
“And my actions hurt him very badly.” Kris turned the key in the lock, shoved Dan’s door open. “I shouldn’t have slept with you again.”
“That night meant everything to me,” Dawood whispered.
Kris turned his back on Dawood. “It was a mistake.” He jerked his chin to Dan’s office. “This way.”
Like all senior CIA officers, Dan had a secured home office, modified by the agency’s techs to transmit classified data between Langley and his home. Emergencies arose at all hours, and sometimes there wasn’t time to get to Langley. Dan’s home office was soundproof, swept for bugs once a month, and had a dedicated, encrypted data line going to his computer.
And he had full access to the CIA’s database.
“Stand there.” Kris pointed to the center of the officer, the center of Dan’s throw rug. “Don’t move. Don’t touch anything.”
Dawood fidgeted as Kris slipped behind Dan’s desk, logged in to his computer.
“It’s time for noon prayers,” Dawood said softly. “May I pray here?”
Kris shrugged. “I don’t care. As long as you don’t leave that spot.”
Dawood’s soft voice filled the room, his deep Arabic swimming around Kris’s head, into his soul and around his heart. He bowed, prostrated. Recited from the Quran.
Prayed for Kris, for his happiness. For his soul.
Kris slammed Dan’s keyboard on the desk, typed hard and fast. How dare Dawood pray for him. How dare he. After everything, how dare Dawood even breathe his name, think of him at all.
Mission logs appeared, two years’ worth of Afghanistan operations, a seemingly endless file. Kris sighed. He’d have to sort them, somehow. He scanned for the operations that had failed. Operations where their officers had been killed.
Was it actually possible? Was any of Dawood’s story believable at all?
Could a CIA officer ever work for al-Qaeda?
If he thought it was possible for Dawood, what made it any less believable if the mole were sitting at Langley right now?
Did he have a duty to check it out, explore the possibility?
Or did he have a duty to turn Dawood in, hand his ass to the FBI for interrogation? If a mole did exist, wouldn’t someone other than them, a fallen CIA officer and the CIA’s most hated, be better equipped to find said mole?
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket at the exact same time the search results came back. Five missions with dead CIA officers. He pulled out his cell.
Dan had texted. Hey. Bad news. There’s a fire in Aden, in Yemen. Looks like an oil refinery was deliberately lit up in the middle of the night.
Kris looked up. Stared at Dawood.
Lines from the hadith came back to him, slammed into him like a shotgun to the heart: And a fire will burn forth in Yemen, driving the people to the place of judgment, the final reckoning.
He texted back. [ It’s one of the signs of the Islamic apocalypse. ]
Yeah. We think it’s part of a coordinated attempt to make whatever attack is planned look like part of the Islamic end times.
His vision swam. His fingers scraped against Dan’s desk, scratching in the stillness. Dawood’s Arabic fluttered, the rise and fall of his prayers moving in a careful rhythm.
“Dawood,” he said slowly. “Who is in Yemen?”
Dawood froze.
“Who is in Yemen? Who are you working with?”
“Don’t ask me that. Please.”
“‘And a fire will burn forth in Yemen, driving the people to the place of judgment’,” he recited. “There’s a fucking fire burning in Yemen right now! And you left two of your jihadi brothers there, in Aden! Who the fuck is in Yemen, Dawood? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I have prayed with them!” Dawood cried. “I have lived with them for years, shared tears and joys with them!”
“And I’m just your husband! And this is just your home! Your country! Goddamnit, you haven’t told me the truth!” Jesus, he’d brought an al-Qaeda operative into Dan’s house, into Dan’s CIA home office.
He should have called it in as soon as he’d seen the truck. He should never have listened to Dawood, to his lies. He was such a sucker. Dawood knew exactly how to play him.
“They’re just supposed to set the fire! I was the one sent to America. I was the one who was supposed to carry out the attack. Me, and me alone, with the mole. I didn’t want the others to die! Don’t ask me to send them to their deaths!” Dawood started toward him.
“Stop!” Kris bellowed. Lightning fast, he reached into Dan’s desk, drew his hidden pistol. “Do not come any closer!”
Dawood froze. His eyes went wide, perfect circles. He held up his hands. “I swear, I’m not lying to you, ya rouhi.”
“Shut up!” Kris’s hands trembled. “Just shut up. I don’t want to hear your voice.”
What did he do? What the fuck did he do? If he called the FBI, brought them here, he’d implicate Dan in his fucked-up decisions. Drag him into his shit, again.
Damn it, he had no fucking idea what to believe.
Dawood was in front of him, living, breathing, aching. Talking about conspiracies and begging for Kris’s help, but he had no proof, nothing except his words and a few scattered texts.
What if those were faked? What if he’d sent them to himself? How easy was it to buy a burner cell phone, create the image of a conspiracy? Convince Kris to get him intel from the CIA’s mission logs with a wild story that pulled on Kris’s heartstrings.
Where was the truth? Could he believe the words of a dead man, a ghost who had chosen to walk away from him, follow a path that split them apart?
He’d always just wanted to know the truth, know what had happened to his David.
But the truth was unbearable, impossible to hold in his heart.
And what Dawood said, the possibilities he presented…
Kris didn’t know how to reconcile the past and the man he knew with his broken heart, his shattered soul. How to take Dawood’s confession, his pleas and his reaching out for Kris after ten years and one night and a morning that had broken Kris in ways he didn’t know he still could break.
He hadn’t known that he could point a gun at the love of his life, either, but—apparently—he could.
Could he pull the trigger? If Dawood moved, if he tried anything?
Were there any right decisions in the world anymore? Between love and hate, destiny and choice, death and life and thousands of ghosts, was there anything left that was right?
Dawood was still frozen, staring at Kris. His face had gone blank. Acceptance lay heavy in his gaze, the weight of fate and destiny across his soul. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much. You have always been the moon inside my darkness.”
Kris blinked fast. Tears burned his eyes, his soul. “You have ten minutes to run. Get as far from here as you can. Forget your plans. Forget your apocalypse. Forget everything you came here for. It’s the only thing I’ll give you. You have one chance to get away. Because in ten minutes, the entire world will be chasing you.”
“I’m not going to stop. I’m going to find this mole somehow. And I’ll do everything I can to stop this attack. Whatever it is. Whatever they want me to do. I won’t do it. I’ll die first.”
“Get the fuck away from here, Dawood. Go back to Yemen. To Afghanistan. To your son. Just get the fuck away from here, and from me.”
“That’s not the path I’m on. I must follow the path Allah has laid out for me. I must.”
“When they find you, they’re going to kill you. You’re listed as ‘extremely dangerous’ in the APB. They will execute you. Just get out of here!” he screamed through gritted teeth.
“I swore to protect the homeland,” Dawood breathed. “I swore with you, in your arms, sixteen years ago. Bismillah, I will never give that up.” Dawood looked away. Closed his eyes. “Kris… after this… after everything… Will you be happy? With— with Dan?”
His throat closed. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The pistol shook in his clenched hands.
“In shaa Allah, all I want for you is to be happy, ya rouhi. After me. After everything. If that’s Dan…” Dawood hissed, like he’d taken a knife to the heart. “I love you. Always.”
“Go,” Kris whispered. “Go now. You have nine minutes.”