Ben felt he could burst out of his skin for sheer joy. He was blasting his favorite Persian dance playlist, he was in love with the man of his dreams, and his last university lecture FOR-FUCKING-EVER had ended two hours ago.

With a fresh travel mug of tea in hand, he shimmied across his flat toward his computer, ignoring the torrential afternoon rain outside and the Krav Maga-induced muscle aches inside, determined to channel this energy into the best wedding he’d ever coordinated. Now that Glasgow Uni’s three-week spring vacation had begun, Ben could devote all of his brain to this job—at least for a few days before returning to the realities of exam revision and honors dissertation.

He retrieved the details Michael and Philip had sent him two weeks ago, then opened his wedding spreadsheet template, ready to organize this thing into submission.

In keeping with the football theme, the couple had ordered a sheet cake decorated in black-and-white hexagons, with a double-groomed cake topper upon a scrap of artificial turf. The cheesiness made Ben’s eyes cross, but he’d seen worse cakes.

He’d never seen a worse menu, however. Theirs consisted of the classic football-stadium pairing: meat pies and Bovril, a “beef tea” whose smell alone made Ben want to boak. He made a note to suggest alternative beverages. Scottish law prohibited alcohol at football matches, but some sparkling craft cider wouldn’t go amiss.

Ben’s heart sank when he saw that the “reception tent” was barely big enough for the food and the catering staff. If it rained, there’d be nowhere for the wedding party and guests to retreat.

Michael and Philip were marrying outdoors—in Scotland—with no wet-weather plan.

An hour later Ben’s nerves were pure frayed, and his trusty spreadsheets were as messy as a murder scene. With so many variables outside his control, this wedding was chaos-in-waiting.

He needed help, and not just in the form of extra hands. He needed expertise.

At the sound of his mother’s voice-mail greeting, Ben felt his courage fade. “Hi, Mum. I just wanted to…to say thanks again for the Naw-Rúz dinner the other night. The fesenjan is even yummier as leftovers.”

Just ask her. The worst she can say is no.

Ben straightened his posture. “Also, I need your help with a new wedding. I know I told you I was done with them, but this couple were desperate, and you always say we should help those in need. Anyway, the venue…well, they might as well be marrying on an Antarctic ice shelf for all the amenities they’ll have. It reminds me of the wedding we did in—”

His phone beeped with an incoming call. Mum.

“Hiya,” he said. “Did you hear my message?” He rapped his knuckles against his head at the stupid question. “No, of course not. I was still recording it when—”

“Ben, are you okay?” she asked.

“Ermmmm, yes. No.” He explained the situation, even more awkwardly than on the voice mail. Then he held his breath, dreading her answer.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

This was the answer he’d dreaded. “In other words, no.”

“I’m not saying ‘I’ll think about it’ to be evasive. I really will consider it.”

He wanted to believe her. She seemed to be slowly coming round to the idea of marriage equality, at least for non-Bahá’ís.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t at my wit’s end,” he said. “I don’t want to damage your reputation in the Bahá’í community.” An idea struck him. “If it feels too public to attend the ceremony, you could simply help me plan beforehand.”

After a long exhalation, she said, “I love you, Ben. I promise to pray about this with an open heart and let you know soon.”

He echoed her sigh. “I love you too, Mum. That’s all I ask.”

“No, it’s not,” she said with a chuckle.

Ben smiled. “No, it’s not. But it’s a start.”

After they hung up, Ben felt bad for offering the compromise of helping with the wedding in secret, thereby implying Mum was some sort of moral coward.

And what was Ben if not a hypocrite himself? Now that he and Evan were in love, there was no swimming back to the safe shores of single life, where he could pretend to the world he was following the rules of his faith.

He went to his bed and studied the painting above it, of an enormous tree bearing fruit of all shapes and colors. Unity In Diversity, it read in glittery block letters above the tree, and below its wide roots stretched his favorite quote of the prophet Bahá’u’lláh: Ye are the fruits of one tree, and the leaves of one branch.

He whispered the end of that quote, the part that wouldn’t fit on the painting. “So powerful is the light of unity that it can illuminate the whole earth.”

To Ben, this was the big stuff, this was the essence of being Bahá’í. The precept against homosexuality was a small imperfection, a missed stitch in an otherwise glorious tapestry of belief.

He thought about what Andrew had said at the Warriors match, how he and Ben each had to “live in the tension” between their two identities. It was a wise work-around—for now, at least.

But Ben knew that the day was coming when that tension would prove too much to bear. One day soon, he’d have to make a choice that would break his own heart.

In his eight years with the Warriors, Evan had kept his cool during hundreds of high-pressure moments: free kicks, corner kicks, penalties. In three years with MI5, while infiltrating two different terrorist organizations and facing death threats from known killers, the ice in his veins had never thawed.

Today, however, his mind was pure panic, and his stomach felt like it had permanently shifted halfway up his throat. For the first time, he was tasked with leading a formal presentation at work.

Detective Sergeant Fowles smiled as she took her seat at the conference table beside Detective Inspector Hayward. “Good luck with the show,” she told Evan, “and remember, if you arse it up, probably very few people will die.”

“Brinn in helvete,” Evan replied, for old time’s sake.

“Already in hell, thanks.” She gestured to the room, which was growing stuffier by the minute as the rest of the Operation Caps Lock team filed in.

Kay entered last, accompanied by a smartly dressed thirty-something man Evan had never met.

“Good morning,” she said as she took her place at the head of the table. “TGIF and all that rubbish. Everyone, this is Grant Kensington from MI6. Please introduce yourselves quickly and efficiently.”

The officer from MI5’s sister agency nodded to the team. Based on his perma-sneer, Kensington seemed dischuffed at having to slum it with Six’s domestic partner—in Glasgow, no less. The sacrifices one makes for one’s country, said his cooler-than-thou face. The studied carelessness of his golden-brown hair reminded Evan of Lord Andrew, and he briefly wondered whether they shared the same high-priced London stylist.

After the introductions, Kay asked Evan to proceed. Despite the fact his joints had turned to water, he managed to walk to the front of the room and get through the introduction without dropping the remote control.

Evan outlined their hypothesis that the “ISIL-planned attack” had been a deliberate misdirection. “Our main evidence, if you want to call it that, is the eleven-minute evacuation video, which you’ve all seen.” He directed them to his report, which showed a screen grab of the ISIS flag on the filmmaker’s laptop, then reviewed how Ned had restored the missing forty-three seconds. “Why make it easy for intelligence officers to discover?” Evan asked. “Did they underestimate our skills, or did they want us to find it?

“This bothered me so much, I looked for other frame-ups of ISIL.” Evan clicked to the next section. “Last year there was an attempted bombing of a German football club’s bus, resulting in a few minor injuries. A man purporting to be with ISIL claimed responsibility, but within a day forensic evidence linked the explosives to a far-right-wing activist.”

His tongue turning to cotton, Evan reached for his glass of water, only to realize he’d left it at his seat. Deirdre picked up the glass and gave it to DI Hayward to pass to Evan. Hayward took a sadistically long pause before handing it over.

Evan took a sip, but even the water seemed dry. “A few months ago, this next video appeared on US Central Command’s YouTube account, which had been hacked by a group calling itself the CyberCaliphate.”

He hit play, relieved to stop talking.

The video showed militant figures in a training camp, the voiceover speaking in Arabic with English subtitles reading, American soldiers, we know where you are. We are coming for you.

When the video ended, Adira chimed in. “There are several issues here, as outlined on page ten of Evan’s report. Firstly, while the man’s Arabic is more or less correct, his accent is off. I think he’s aiming for a Yemeni dialect but not quite getting there.”

“This fits a pattern,” Evan said. “Another CyberCaliphate video has a man pretending to be American but who sounds almost Australian.”

Deirdre looked up from the report. “So if this wasn’t ISIS—erm, ISIL—do we know who it was?”

“We have an idea.” Ned indicated the screen. “The ‘CyberCaliphate website’—where they’d posted materials they’d allegedly stolen from CENTCOM—was hosted on an IP block which we know has been used by the APT28 group.”

DI Hayward did a double take. “You’ve lost me. IP block?”

“An IP block is a sort of an internet neighborhood.” Evan glanced at Ned to confirm his layperson’s definition. “If you don’t know a criminal’s exact location, but you know they’re somewhere between two street addresses, it’s better than nothing, right?

Hayward nodded. “And this APT…?”

“Advanced Persistent Threat,” Ned said. “Basically a long-term cyberattack campaign. APT28 is a notorious Russian one. And by ‘Russian’ we don’t mean people of that nationality. We mean the GRU, Russian military intelligence.”

“Whoa.” Hayward took off his reading glasses and sat back, scratching the side of his head. “So all this time CyberCaliphate is actually Russia?”

“It’s not that simple.” Adira said. “We believe there is a real CyberCaliphate connected to ISIL. But some of its products, such as the alleged hacking of CENTCOM, are highly likely to be Russians posing as ISIL.”

“Let me guess,” Deidre said, paging ahead in the report. “Our wedding-evacuation video is also hosted at CyberCaliphate.”

Evan tried not to glare at her. Thanks for ruining my grand reveal. “Yes. And the site used the same server and registrar as APT28.” He spoke faster, sensing the sanctuary of the finish line. “Therefore we can assess with high confidence that Russian intelligence wants us to believe that same-sex weddings are under deadly threat from ISIL.”

I did it. I did it, and I survived. Evan set down the remote control, hoping no one else would pick it up before its coating of sweat had dried.

“Thank you, Evan.” Kay motioned for him to sit. “Questions?”

Deirdre voiced Evan’s own lingering fear. “Couldn’t the Russians stage an actual attack and try to frame ISIL?”

“They wouldn’t get away with it,” Kay said. “A terrorist attack leaves forensic evidence. The story hangs together only as long as it’s just a story.”

“Also, that’s not how they work,” Kensington said sharply. “The Russian government prefers covert destabilization. They want us to crumble from the inside out.” The MI6 officer rapped his meticulously buffed fingernails against the table top. “An overt attack on our homeland would be an act of war, which means they’d have NATO to deal with. Putin may be audacious, but he’s not stupid.”

“Unless he knows we won’t acknowledge his role,” Adira said.

“Aye,” Lewis said. “The Kremlin’s been murdering their enemies on British soil for years, and we’ve done next to nothing.”

“The public don’t care about a few dead oligarchs and their rich pals,” Kay said, “but if civilians were harmed, the pressure would be too much for the government to ignore.”

It had once puzzled Evan how people in MI5 spoke of government as if it was outside the agency, rather than something the agency was part of. Then he’d realized that government merely referred to the fragile body constructed by the current ruling party.

Governments came and went. The Service was forever.

“Talking of the public,” Evan said, “can they be informed about this?” He knew the answer would be no, but he had to speak up. “Otherwise if the Russians ‘leak’ this fake threat, it’ll cause more Islamophobia—directly before a general election, I might add—all based on a lie.”

“Sorry,” Kay said. “I know you’ve worked hard on this investigation, but like most intelligence work, the Caps Lock findings will almost certainly never see the light of day. The Foreign Office will say it’s not worth damaging international relations.”

“Not to mention,” Kensington said, “we’ve got too many agents in the field who could be in danger if things turn toxic.” The MI6 officer spoke to Evan as though he was a child. “It’s a very delicate balance, see, and the picture is much bigger than any of you can understand.”

Evan simmered in silence as the rest of his team presented their findings. It wasn’t just the pushback from the higher-ups that frustrated him; he’d yet to find a direct link between these Russian actors and British XRW groups like the BVP. They seemed to share many of the same values and goals, but their operations could simply be parallel coincidences rather than an organized conspiracy.

He knew he should be relieved there was no threat to same-sex weddings—and by extension, no threat to Ben. He should be satisfied all his hard work had led to a concrete conclusion, a rare thing in the intelligence field.

Yet his father’s cynical dread infused him now. Stopping terrorism and saving innocent lives still meant something to Evan. But he could never save his country from a stealthy, hostile takeover by a foreign adversary.

We can’t stop them because they own us.

As always, Evan and his colleagues had to bear this burden of knowledge alone. But he wasn’t helpless. He would do everything in his power to make Ben safer.

“Voilà! A signature Persian New Year dish, duck fesenjan.” Ben set the stew atop the breakfast bar, trying not to spill any on the narrow ledge. “Except I used meatballs, because I don’t trust myself to know when a duck leg is fully cooked and I didn’t want to poison you.”

“It smells amazing,” Evan said, “and I appreciate the lack of salmonella.”

“Anything for you, kjæreste. Did I pronounce that right?”

“Perfectly, but as a term of endearment it’d just be min kjære,” he said, pronouncing it min SHA-rah.

“Good to know. And that’s our polo.” Ben set the bowl of saffron-infused Persian rice beside the stew, then sat beside Evan in the breakfast bar’s cramped space.

They began eating, and Ben was relieved to hear Evan’s noises of appreciation. Years of wedding experience had taught Ben to detect when people pretended to enjoy food out of politeness.

As Evan took a second serving of rice and stew, he asked, “Would you consider yourself fluent in Persian?”

Ben appreciated the fact Evan hadn’t called it Farsi, the equivalent of calling German Deutsch, which would be odd in an English conversation. “I can read and write it fairly well, but not speak it. Is this too tart, do you think? The pomegranate paste can be overwhelming, so I added a wee bit of sugar. Don’t tell my mum, though—‘Acid is our sweet,’ she likes to say.”

“It’s perfect as far as I can taste,” Evan said. “Which other languages do you know?”

“I learned French at school. Then I learned Spanish because I love Tejano music. Then I learned Italian because, let’s face it, it’s sexy as fuck.”

“Not as sexy as Norwegian.”

Ben laughed, assuming this was Evan’s usual dry humor. “I can also read a little Arabic, as it uses the same alphabet as Persian. But they sound nothing alike because they’re different language families.”

“Your knowledge is impressive.”

“Bahá’ís consider ourselves world citizens, so we like to be multilingual. Are you learning Persian for your job? I don’t charge much for tutoring,” he added with a wink.

Evan looked like he wanted to say something important, but then shrugged. “Maybe.”

As they continued eating, Ben sensed a bit of tension. Looking back, he realized Evan had been unusually pensive this weekend. Last night, Ben had written it off as typical Saturday evening post-match fatigue.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked. “You getting on all right at work?”

“Aye. There’s just been some red tape lately.” Evan cleared his throat. “Talking of work…” He slowly set down his fork, then folded his hands over his plate.

The serious pose made Ben nervous. “Go on.”

“I love my job,” Evan said, “even though the pay is shit and it’s wreaked havoc on my life. I love it because it’s meaningful and because I’m good at it.” He raised his gaze to meet Ben’s. “I think you’d be good at it too.”

Ben stared at him a moment before a laugh exploded from his lungs. “Oh my God, I thought you were serious.” He patted his chest, willing his heart to slow down.

“I am serious.”

“Aye, right, because I’m soooo good at keeping secrets.”

“You can learn to do that,” Evan said. “You’re studying GIS, a field the Service desperately needs just now. You’ve got a natural talent for observation and detail. You read people so well it’s almost scary. Add in your background and language skills, and you’d be an ideal asset.”

Ben’s flesh turned cold at the word asset. His eyes fixed on a pomegranate seed that had fallen from the serving dish onto the white ledge.

“I understand if you’d rather work in the private sector,” Evan said. “You’d make a far better salary, and you’d be able to tell all your friends what you do for a living.” His voice softened. “You know this life is not easy. But if you want to make a difference in this world, this is one way.”

Ben blinked as fast as he could, battling back hot tears. How could he have been so naive to think a man like Evan would want him for himself?

“Obviously there’s no urgency to decide now,” Evan said. “The process usually takes six to twelve months, so even if you applied—”

“Is that what this is all about?” Ben waved his hand between them without looking up. “Us?”

“In a way. There’s talk of reassigning me to London. So yes, this is partly my own selfish plan to take you with me.”

“I don’t mean that,” Ben said, so loudly he even startled himself. “I mean, is our whole relationship about you…recruiting me?” He finally met Evan’s widening eyes. “I’m ideal because of my background, right? You met me, found out I was part Iranian, and they told you to get me as an asset.”

“Oh God.” Evan raised his hands. “No. Ben, no. I love you.”

“Convenient, isn’t it?” Ben got up and moved away. “Of all the men you could’ve had—and let’s be frank, you could’ve had any—you chose me. I’ve seen the way people look at us, you know.”

“Ben—”

“Especially the Rainbow Regiment. But also strangers, when they see a 10 like you with a 6-maybe-7-on-a-good-day.”

“Ben—”

“It makes so much more sense now.”

“Ben!” Evan stood up. “Would you fucking wheesht for a second and listen to me?”

Ben clamped his mouth shut, then pressed a fist against it for extra security.

“I’m sorry I hurt you by suggesting you apply at MI5,” Evan said. “You deserve a life that’s free and open and happy. No one in this world deserves more happiness than you.”

Ben looked away, emitting a soft snort.

“It’s true.” Evan twisted the cloth napkin in his hands. “I know I’m a hard person to trust. Most people would say that my words mean nothing. But words are all I’ve got.” He sat down on the breakfast bar stool again. “So I’m going to tell you why I love you. I’m going to list reasons until you get so embarrassed you start throwing feshatoon at me to make me stop.”

“Fesenjan.” Ben flicked a hand at Evan. “List away. This better be good.”

“Okay.” Evan took a deep breath. “I love when you clap your knees together when something delights you, like you’re applauding with your legs. I love how you’re learning to ask for what you want in bed, and I love the fact you still struggle with it. I love how you suck on your upper lip when you’re thinking really hard.”

“Do I?”

“I love that you always see the best in me—until just now, anyway—even though I don’t deserve it. I love the way your facial hair grows faster on the left side than the right.”

Ben put a hand to his own jaw. “How did you even—”

“I love how you made me a fancy Persian dinner but also gobbled up my mundane macaroni cheese. I love your glasses, but I also love how big your eyes are without them and how surprised I am every time I see them. I love every delicious inch of your—”

“Okay, stop.” Ben’s cheeks were flaming hot.

“I was going to say body.”

“Still, stop.” He put his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. I basically accused you of honeytrapping me.”

“I don’t blame you after what you’ve learned about what I did last year. You just have to have faith in my feelings for you.”

“I do.”

“Usually. But there’ll be times, like just now, where something I say or do makes you doubt me.”

“We’ll get through those times. I promise.” Ben went to him and planted himself in Evan’s lap. “I’ll consider your suggestion. I do want to make a difference, and I don’t care about salary as long as I make enough to not live with my mother and to afford the occasional pinch of saffron.”

“In London?” Evan lifted his gaze to the ceiling, as if calculating. “If you shared a flat with three or four coworkers you might manage a monthly saffron pinch.”

“Good enough.” Mentioning his mother gave Ben an idea. “If I joined MI5, could I find out where my father’s stationed?” When Evan looked away, Ben asked, “Do you know where he’s stationed? Is it somewhere bad?”

Evan sighed. “Everywhere is bad.”

“Right.” Ben took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “He wouldn’t be there if it was a peaceful paradise. He wouldn’t be needed.”

“If it helps, he’s there to make it better.”

Ben put his glasses back on. “It does help. I’m proud of him. And I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to become one of you, but I’ll consider it. Anyway, like you said, it’s not a decision for today.” He hopped off Evan’s lap and went to the fridge. “What is a decision for today, however, is…” He pulled out a large cling-wrapped plate. “Pistachio biscuits or the world’s sloppiest baklava?”

Hours later, after Evan had left, Bed slid out of bed, unable to sleep. He switched on his computer, hoping some uni work would make him as drowsy in the middle of the night as it did during the day.

An alert appeared on his screen, signaling an updated beta version of the profile-tracking software, WhoWhatWhere. He downloaded, installed, and opened it, keen to see the improvements.

Scanning the new beta features, he noticed his previous searches were still saved, as was a search he thought he’d deleted.

As was the search Evan had created a few weeks ago.

Whoa. Evan had rerun this search every time he’d come to Ben’s flat and had always seemed frustrated at the results. Either he’d neglected to delete his search last time—unlikely, considering his attention to operational security—or there was a bug in the software, unleashed by this new beta version.

Ben had no clue what to do. If he deleted Evan’s search to maintain absolute secrecy, information could be lost. He didn’t want to disturb Evan in the middle of the night to ask, especially since he had an early meeting, which was why he’d left in the first place rather than stay the night.

Deep down, Ben knew it was really his curiosity stopping him from deleting the search. Who was Evan so intent on tracking, and why couldn’t he do it from work? Was this the “red tape” he’d complained about tonight?

Considering the timing of Evan’s WhoWhatWhere query, it could be linked to the bomb threat at St. Andrew’s. Evan hadn’t seemed happy about Ben’s decision to handle Michael and Philip’s wedding. Maybe the “hoax” was no hoax at all.

Ben had meant what he’d said earlier: He was proud of his father and of Evan. They risked their lives and made untold sacrifices to keep people safe—as safe anyone could be in this world.

But they’d chosen to walk these paths, dragging Ben along with them and forcing him to make his own sacrifices. They may have done it for a good cause, but that didn’t mean it was fair to leave him in the dark.

He sat on the edge of his computer chair, fingertips twitching on the mouse, heel jittering against the floor, fear and trust beginning another round of their endless cage match.

Finally, he clicked.