Chapter 32
University Park, Maryland
September 10
1235 hours
How had it all come to this?
Kris sat in the dark corner of Dan’s office, leaning against the cherrywood paneling. He clutched his phone, his forehead resting on the edge of the plastic case. Dan’s gun lay on the carpet beside him.
Each breath trembled, made his body quake. He couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t get himself under control. He had to move. He had to get up, call Dan. He had to stop Dawood.
All he wanted to do was sit in the dark, in the silence. If he did nothing, could he fuck anything up anymore? Hadn’t every decision he’d made just made everything worse?
Maybe Ryan was right. He should have been locked up. He was a public safety hazard. He was a mosquito light for Dawood, just like Dawood was for him.
Hopefully the FBI would catch Dawood. Had already caught him.
Hopefully Dawood was three counties away by now, running for his life. Trying to get away from the US, back into the arms of human smugglers. Maybe by this evening, he’d be on a boat back to Yemen.
Would he ever know if Dawood made it out of the US? Or would his husband be an eternal question mark in his mind, forever a what if?, the bitterest regret of his life.
You should have died. You should have died in the back of that car. You should have turned to ash. You shouldn’t have turned into this.
No. He didn’t believe that. Could he ever truly wish for the love of his life, his husband, to be gone? Wasn’t it better for him to be on the opposite side of the planet, changed, different, but alive?
Ten years changed a man.
Vibrating shattered the silence, nearly split his skull in two. His teeth clattered as his jaw clenched. He sat back, staring at his phone.
Dan was calling him.
It was only a matter of time. He swiped his phone on. “Dan?”
“Kris? Are you okay? I just saw the updated intel on Haddad. An anonymous sighting was reported in my neighborhood. Did he follow you? Are you at my house? Are you safe?”
He pressed his lips together, trying to keep his sob in.
“Kris? Talk to me. Are you okay? What’s going on? Is he— Jesus, is he there? Do I need to send the police?”
“No,” Kris whispered. “Not anymore.”
“Not… anymore?”
His sob exploded out of him, a rush of rage and sorrow, grief that eclipsed his heart. He buried his face in one hand, curling over himself. “Dan, I’m so sorry. I fucked up. Again.”
Silence. “What happened?”
“Not on the phone,” he breathed. “Just… get everyone searching in this area. I called in that tip. He was here.”
“Ryan is on it. He’s liaising with the FBI on this. He said he’s got a whole unit about to descend on the area. If Haddad is anywhere around there, we’re going to flush him out. And we’re going to get him.” Dan sighed. “Kris, talk to me. Why was he there? At my house?”
“Not on the phone,” Kris repeated. “I’ll drive back in. I have to tell you in person. What he told me.”
“You talked to him?”
“Not on the phone, Dan. I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there.”
He raced back to Langley as fast as Dan’s little electric car could go. His mind zipped from Dawood to Dan and back, from Dawood’s trembling confessions, his insistence that he was doing the right thing, to Dan’s text about Yemen. About the fire. And Dawood’s refusal to give up his brothers.
Was it the bonds of brotherhood only? Dawood not wanting to lose another life, no matter whose life it was?
Once, hadn’t he thought the same? Hadn’t he argued for the same? Argued for compassion, for humanity, for Zahawi, a man who would rather Kris be dead than interrogating him. That touch of humanity, though, had won out over brutality. We’re all just human. Could he fault Dawood for not giving up his brothers to their death?
Or was the refusal to give up his brothers in Yemen his Achilles’ heel? The weak point to Dawood’s master plan, the coordinated confusion of Kris’s soul?
Whose side are you on?
Or are you on your own side now?
Dan met him outside Langley, pacing by his assigned parking spot as he talked on his cell. Kris heard him say goodbye to George as he jumped out of Dan’s little car.
Dan grabbed him, pulled him close. Wrapped both arms around him and sighed into his neck. “Are you okay? You’re shaking.”
“I don’t know.” Kris gripped Dan’s elbows. His fingers felt like claws. He was still trembling. Maybe he’d never stop.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.” Kris swallowed. “He never touched me.”
Dan exhaled hard, squeezing Kris against him. Kris could feel his relief, the deluge of it. He pulled back. “We have a big problem. Dawood, he followed me because he said he had to tell me what was really going on.”
Dan frowned. “What do you mean? What did he say?”
“He said there’s a mole in the CIA. Someone who has been feeding al-Qaeda intelligence. Information on operations, for over two years. That he was brought in by al-Qaeda to verify what this mole was giving them.”
Dan turned bone white, every speck of color draining from his face. His jaw dropped. “Holy fuck,” he whispered. “Who?”
“He doesn’t know. He’s been trying to find out.” Kris paced away from Dan, one hand on his forehead. “That’s why he stole my laptop. He was trying to find out who had been in command of the Afghanistan missions where we lost our officers this past year. And who was the lead on the other missions that went sideways. That were sabotaged from within.”
“You don’t have that access anymore.”
“He didn’t know. He’s… been gone a while.”
Dan blinked. A breeze would have knocked him over. “What proof did he have? How do you know this is real?”
“I don’t know,” Kris whispered. “All he had was a cell phone number, someone who has been giving him instructions over text. He says the texts are from the CIA mole. But…” He shook his head. “We have to find that cell phone. Who’s been texting him.”
“I’ve got to call Ryan. He’s with the FBI. They’re the ones who can look this up. You know the CIA can’t do anything on American soil.”
“Dan, wait. If there is a mole, it’s someone high up. Someone who could access all the intelligence in Afghanistan, across the drone program, joint military missions, and dig into our clandestine program, our SAD officers. Who fits that description? Who has that kind of access?”
“You think it’s Ryan?”
“Only a handful of people have that access. And, think about it. Why do you think Ryan has been on a hair trigger for years? Stress from a double life? Trying to keep his spying for al-Qaeda secret?”
“Ryan hates al-Qaeda,” Dan breathed. “Why would he spy for them? Pass along CIA secrets?”
“I don’t know!” Kris snapped. “I don’t fucking know! I don’t even know if Dawood told me the truth or not! He’s giving me mixed signals. Wants my help one moment, but is keeping secrets the next. When I brought him to your house, he wouldn’t even tell me the names of his Yemeni brothers!”
Dan froze. “When you what?”
Fuck. Kris gritted his teeth, groaned. Clenched his hands into fists and looked away, shaking his head.
“I thought he followed you to my house. Now you’re saying you brought him…”
“I went to our old house first. Just to see it. I was being... maudlin, I don’t know. He followed me there. We went into the woods. Talked.”
Dan cursed. “And then you brought him to my house?”
“You weren’t supposed to know that. I wanted to keep you out of this.”
“Why did you bring him there? Why did you bring a possible al-Qaeda agent into my house?”
“I... was going to look up the al-Qaeda mission logs for him.”
Dan stilled. “Did you?”
“I looked them up. I didn’t give him anything, though. I pulled your gun and made him leave.”
“You let him go?”
Kris looked away. He nodded, once.
“Jesus Christ…” Dan closed his eyes. Seemed to try to center himself, pull himself together. “Okay. Let me run through this. We may have a mole in the CIA. You let an al-Qaeda agent into my home. Almost passed along critical Top Secret intelligence. And then you let the nation’s most wanted terrorist go. We believe there’s an attack being planned for tomorrow, and we don’t know anything about it.” He opened his eyes. Sighed. “But all I can think about is how to keep you out of jail. Damn it, Kris.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Were there any laws you didn’t break? Any you left that I could try to work with?”
Kris looked down.
“What did you find in the mission logs?”
“Nothing useful. The missions were all headed up by either you or Ryan or Wallace, or signed off by George. There wasn’t a pattern. Nothing at all that broke operational regulations. Nothing that screamed mole.”
“If there is a mole, whoever it was probably didn’t authorize the missions. They probably went into the logs after. Which means we have to inspect the mission access logs. See who looked at the intel, at the mission specs before they went south.”
“And we have to track that cell number, the one texting Dawood.”
Dan pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling Ryan. I know you don’t trust him. But, Kris. I do. Trust me, okay?”
“And if he is the mole?”
“If Ryan is the mole, then this phone call will turn the heat up. He’ll know we’re on to him. He’ll start making mistakes. Try to cover his tracks. Try to get out before the net closes around him. Because while he’s supposed to be looking up the number, I’ll be looking into the mission logs. See who pulled them, and when. If it is Ryan, we’ll know soon. One way or another.”
“If it is Ryan…” Kris’s voice cracked. “He’s already ordered the FBI to consider Dawood extremely dangerous. What if he orders the response teams to shoot on sight? What if he executes Dawood?”
“If Haddad is the only one who can corroborate this, then he probably will give that order. Or, he’ll make sure Haddad goes down in whatever he’s planning for tomorrow.” Dan stared. He licked his lips. “You believe Haddad?”
Kris exhaled. His breath, his body, trembled, again. “I don’t know what to believe,” he whispered. “If I believe Dawood told the truth, then I’m hoping someone has betrayed us. Someone at the heart of the CIA. Someone who knew Dawood was alive and who kept that secret from all of us. From me. But, if I believe he’s lying… Then he’s trying to play me, craft a conspiracy that he thinks I’ll buy. Why? To send us chasing after our own tails? Turn us against each other? Distract us while he works on his grand plan?”
“Give me the phone number,” Dan said softly. “We’ll know soon enough.”
Kris waited as Dan dialed Ryan’s number, as Dan pressed his lips together, waiting for the call to connect.
He could barely breathe. His throat was closing, his lungs refusing to fill. He was drowning, drowning in conspiracy, in potentiality, in possibilities of betrayal, each darker than the next.
“Ryan? It’s me.” Dan waited, staring at the pavement. “Look, we have a situation. I’ll come brief you in a few. But right now, I need you to run a search on a cell number for me, okay? It’s tied to Haddad. I’ll explain more in a bit.” He waited again, then recited the number Kris showed him. Kris had written the number on a sticky note as soon as Dawood had fled Dan’s house. His fingers rubbed over the square of paper, over and over. “We need to know who owns that phone. And where it is.” Dan listened for another moment, nodding along with whatever Ryan said. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
He stared at Kris as he hung up. “Kris, I don’t know what to say,” Dan said softly. “I don’t know what to think. What to believe.”
“I don’t either. If he’s still playing me, then I’ll know for sure the man I loved is dead. That there’s nothing left of him. But…” His voice went high and strained. “If there’s a one percent chance that what he’s saying is true…”
Dan grimaced, shaking his head at the ‘one percent doctrine’, the guiding philosophy of the War on Terror. That philosophy had been an impossible standard, a weight that had broken the CIA’s back. They could never cover all the possibilities, all the permutations. They’d never imagined September 11. They’d never imagined Hamid.
How could they have ever imagined this? A CIA officer helping al-Qaeda. The mole was either someone inside Langley or was Dawood himself.
But someone had broken. Someone had fallen. Someone had switched sides.
Was it his husband?
“Dan, I owe him this, at least. He’s my husband. Was. I don’t know.”
At Kris calling Dawood his husband, Dan’s expression twisted, a flash of pain bursting across his features. He took a deep breath, and it vanished. “I’m going to brief George, too. And Wallace. Same basic idea. If the mole is one of them, we’ll know when they start covering their tracks.”
He couldn’t argue with Dan’s plan. It was one of the fundamentals of counterterrorism investigations. Pressure the target, provide them with enough information to get their paranoia going. Watch for aftereffects, for their moves to get sloppy.
If there really was a mole. If this wasn’t just an elaborate hoax. Dawood’s last mindfuck.
“What can I do?” Dan said softly. “For you?”
“I don’t know,” Kris breathed. “You’re the only one I trust.”
God, he wanted to trust Dawood. He wanted to fall back through time to when he knew Dawood better than he knew himself, when he could understand exactly what Dawood thought and felt, more than he knew his own thoughts and feelings.
“Do you want to stay here?”
“At Langley? Locked up in headquarters like a prisoner? Fuck no.”
“Listen to me.” Dan took both of Kris’s hands in his own. “Please. Drive straight back to my house. Lock all the doors, all the windows. Stay. There. Haddad is fixated on you. He might come for you again now that we’re closing in on him. He might try and do something.” Dan swallowed. “I should get the police to escort you back home, get a patrol unit to sit at the curb. Watch over you. Keep you safe—”
“No. I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I’ll go straight back. There’s a huge police presence in your neighborhood now. I’ll be safe. And, I’ve done enough to fuck everything up. I’m done.”
Dan’s hand cupped his cheek. He stroked his thumb over Kris’s cheekbone, stared into his eyes. In front of the whole CIA and anyone who could be looking, Dan pressed his lips to Kris’s, kissing him gently, sweetly.
Kris felt nothing at all.
“Call me if you need anything,” Dan said. “Anything.”
“Stay safe.” Kris’s soul yo-yoed, and suddenly, Dawood was standing in front of him, cupping his cheek, smiling sweetly. It was right before the Hamid op and Dawood was about to head out, pick up Hamid, start the mission that would be the end of the line for both of them. Blinking, Kris shook his head. Dawood disappeared and Dan reappeared, gazing at him, concern and an ache that looked like love etched into the backs of his eyes.
Kris’s heart screamed, his soul rubbed raw, desperate and aching and wanting. He felt the ghost of Dawood’s hands on his body, felt Dan’s touch like a brand. He stepped back, out of Dan’s hold. “I’ll text you when I get to your place.”
Dan shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”
Kris walked backward to Dan’s car. He should say something, should tell Dan he believed in him, that he knew Dan could do this. He should thank Dan for always, always being there. He should say something, anything, before he drove away.
But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat closed and the words just wouldn’t come. As he slid into Dan’s car, it felt, for a moment, like the Hamid op all over again, except this time he was driving away and calamity would befall those left behind. Dan, the CIA, anyone, everyone else.
Had he done enough? Had he done too little?
What was the right choice, the right action?
Dan raised one hand, a silent goodbye, as Kris backed out of his parking spot.
He floored the little electric car out of Langley.
Dread followed him every mile of the drive, suffocating him inside Dan’s silent car.
September 11 was only 11 hours away.
Brentwood
Washington DC
September 10
1635 hours
[ You fucked up big time. ]
Dawood stared at his phone. The number, his contact, was texting again.
[ You fucked up big time, and now everyone is hunting for you. ]
I had to see him one last time.
Dawood tossed his phone on the bed and went back to shoving clothes into his duffel, grabbed his toothbrush. He had to hide. The motel wasn’t safe anymore. He could feel long stares on his back, eyeballs digging into his skin, lingering looks that lasted too long. Even in Brentwood, where the residents despised the police with a sizzling, searing hatred, al-Qaeda operatives were not welcome.
[ I’ve worked too long, sacrificed too much, to call this op off. Get to the safe house. Stay there. Don’t fuck with Caldera again. You are fucking this up. Didn’t you swear you wanted to watch America burn? Wanted to make everyone suffer like you did? ]
He grabbed his cell, pulled his duffel over his head. He had a new baseball cap and clothes he’d lifted from a street cart. I wish that everyone could feel an ounce of what Muslims feel. Understand the depth of Muslim pain, of our anguish. He hesitated. Closed his eyes, for a moment, exhaled. Should we call this off? Postpone it?
[ Nothing is getting called off. The op goes forward. If you’re not in, then it goes on without you. ]
Dawood cursed, a breath of Arabic and a plea to Allah rolled into one. Of course I am in. In shaa Allah, this will succeed.
[ Then quit fucking up. Get to the safe house. ]
His contact texted him an address, deep in southeast DC, another hard-edged neighborhood where the locals didn’t look too closely at what strangers were doing. It would be slow going on foot, dodging cameras and police, all the way across the city.
When do we meet?
[ Tonight. Your partner is here. You’ll get your mission together. ]
His stomach clenched. Alhamdulillah.
[ If you can keep your head down. If you can make it to the safe house. If you’re caught, you’ll be shot in the face. And this will go on without you. ]
I’ll make it. I swear to Allah I will. Nothing will stop me now. In shaa Allah.
Dawood shoved his phone in his pocket and slipped out of his motel room.
You must follow the path Allah has laid out for you.
He had a long walk in front of him, and prayers to pray. The prayers of the dead, of the martyr, before their sacrifice.
He was ready.
He’d wondered, once, how he’d feel in this moment. How he’d face himself as he prepared. What thoughts, what regrets, he’d have. He thought he’d console himself with thoughts of Kris, dreams of their future in Paradise, or being reunited at last. But…
In a way, Kris had been at the end of his path. They’d had a goodbye, of sorts. He’d tasted Kris’s soul, lingered over his lips, felt his body like the sun breaking across the desert of his barren life once more. That was the end, for them. Kris would no longer be with him in the next life, not after this. He had his own path to walk, his own future to forge.
But these memories, the last touch of his love, would be enough to sustain him for eternity.
Goodbye, ya rouhi.