by Tal Bauer
“Kris—”
“I can’t go anywhere else,” he snapped. “I can’t. My entire life is here. Everything I’ve done. Everything I am. If I lose this…” He waved his hand in the air, let it fall, slapping on his carpet. “It’s the only thing I have left.”
“I’m here,” Dan said softly. “You will always have me.”
“You are too good a friend to me.”
Dan smiled, sadly. “You’re not alone.”
Yes I am. For all of my days.
He said nothing.
Pakistan Northwestern Frontier
Bajaur Province
Federally Administered Tribal Areas
He was dying, albeit very, very slowly.
Al Jabal’s father, Abu Adnan, had brought David into his one-room home and laid him on his straw-stuffed mattress. Two goats lived inside, sharing the warmth of the fire. The place smelled of wood smoke and straw, musty fur and oats.
Abu Adnan did his best to care for him. He set David’s broken leg, pulling until the bone slipped back into alignment. Without an X-ray, it was impossible to know if it was set correctly, but at least it was back inside his thigh. “Alhamdulillah,” Abu Adnan said. “We have set goats and cows in these mountains, and occasionally a mule. But this is the first man I have ever helped with his bone so broken.”
David stumbled through his pain, explaining how to wrap his broken ribs. Abu Adnan finally managed to cut up David’s shirt and tie it into strips, wrap it around his chest until he felt like a mummy.
Infection loomed. He felt himself grow hot, burn from the inside. Consciousness slipped away, replaced by a hazy twilight, a flickering montage of images that appeared out of order.
Abu Adnan washing him with water boiled over the fire. Cleaning him, even when he soiled himself. Changing bloody bandages along his leg, his chest, his arms. Praying beside him, the slow movements and soft whispers an almost constant hum in the back of David’s mind.
He saw Kris, first standing in Abu Adnan’s doorway. He tried to chase him, but Kris disappeared, reappeared across the peak in the farmland of another mountain dweller. No matter how he tried to chase Kris, leaping from mountaintop to mountaintop in his delirium, Kris always seemed to stretch farther and farther away.
“Kris…” he moaned in his sleep. “Come back to me.”
Was Kris dead? Was he seeing Kris from the other side? Was Kris telling him to join him? Soon. Soon I’ll be dead, too. We’ll be together again, my love. Ya rouhi.
And then he thought of his father. What had his father thought before being killed? What had gone through his mind? He’d prayed, of course. David could remember the shape of his father’s lips, blurry over the television screen, mouthing the words to prayers he’d watched his father make a thousand times before. He replayed the memory again, felt the hands of the Mukhabarat officers holding him still, forcing him to watch his father’s execution.
Murmured prayers. Were they the last pleas to a God who had abandoned them? He watched the shape of his father’s lips in his memory again, suddenly clear, as if he’d stepped into the past, into the memory, into the basketball court.
His father was whispering his name. Dawood, Dawood. Grow up with the love of Allah in your heart. Never let anyone take His love from you. Dawood, you are the best of the world, the best of your mama and me. Dawood, I love you, my ibni.
Father… How can you love Allah so much when this is the way of the world?
Abu Adnan’s prayers continued, as did his tender ministrations. Never, not in a million years, would David have imagined he’d be cared for by the father of the man who tried to murder him, who had murdered so many of his colleagues, his friends. What did he do with that? How did he respond to Abu Adnan? Hatred was too simple. Father, Baba, you would know what to do.
His fever spiked. Not long now. Consciousness slipped further and further, and the last thing he remembered was Abu Adnan holding his hand as he prayed throughout the night, asking Allah for mercy for his brother.
Camp Peary, Virginia
CIA Training Compound
The Farm
June 2009
Not only did Kris graduate SAD training, he graduated fifth in his class. His classmates were Rangers and Delta Force, SEALs and Air Force pararescue men. Physical specimens honed to the peak of their limits, used to pushing every boundary. They breezed through training as it if was a cake walk, comfortable in their position in the class, overly confident in their abilities. Overly confident that Kris wouldn’t last, either.
But Kris wanted it, needed it, more.
Isolated, left alone by the others, pushed aside like a leper, he turned his rage inward, channeling it into pure drive. Every fury-filled thought he had, every sidelong glare he caught, stoked the furnace of his shattered soul. He spent days and nights in the base gym, repeating his and David’s workouts until he puked. And then he did it again.
During combat training, every punch that landed was a punch David had felt. Every kick was a blow that had hit David’s body. Every breath he took, every step he walked, every beat of his heart, was for David. He couldn’t let up, not for a moment. He had so much to do. So many lives to avenge, deaths to answer for.
Two thousand nine hundred and seventy-eight souls hung his tattered soul in the gallows. All the dead of September 11, plus one: David.
Graduation day, four months after training began, was a simple affair… for everyone else. Director Edwards shook every graduate’s hand, congratulated them on joining the CIA family.
Kris was told not to participate and was given his graduation certificate and new orders the night before. He was instructed to report to the SAD office at Langley directly and bypass the graduation. Like a leper, the director wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t be seen with him.
Dan, of course, was there. He smiled for Kris and pulled him in for a hug, then took him to dinner at one of DC’s best steakhouses. For two hours, over Martinis with Dan as he recounted the foibles of his training, Kris almost felt normal.
Except for the hole in his heart and the void in his soul, and the ring he still wore on his left hand.
They shared a bottle of champagne after dinner. “To new beginnings,” Dan toasted.
“To the dead.”
“To never letting anyone else tell you what to do.
“To vengeance.”
“To those poor bastards at SAD. They don’t know what they’re getting.” Dan clinked his glass with Kris’s for the fifth time. And, for the fifth time, Kris downed his champagne like it was a shot. “They have no fucking idea what I’m capable of. Not now. Not yet.”
Pakistan Northwestern Frontier
Bajaur Province
Federally Administered Tribal Areas
June 2009
Somehow, he survived.
He rode his fever in waves and crashes, burning up until Abu Adnan packed snow around his head and under his arms, and then trembled, shivering while every blanket Abu Adnan owned was piled on top of him. The goats slept by his side, trying to warm him up.
Eventually, his fever broke. His eyes opened.
“Allahu Akbar,” Abu Adnan prayed. He smiled down at David. “You will live, in shaa Allah. Allahu Akbar.”
“Where am I?” he croaked. His voice, weary from disuse, cracked, split in two.
Abu Adnan named a town David had never heard of, on a mountain David didn’t know. “What tribal area?”
“Bajaur.”
He swallowed hard. He was a million miles from nowhere, inside the mountainous, unreachable Bajaur Province. The Pakistanis didn’t venture into Bajaur, and neither did the US. It was a land untouched by time, locked away from the world thanks to the sky-piercing mountains, a former ocean’s canyon floor now scraping the stars. “Do you have a cell phone?”
Abu Adnan shook his head. “No one here has cellulars. There is no way to use those devices here.”
“How far is the nearest town?”
“Yallah, very far
. Very far.”
“I know your son told you to keep me here as a hostage.” David’s voice trembled. He sniffed. “But please. I have to go. I have to get back to my people.”
“Astaghfirullah, I am sorry, brother—”
“Your son wants to kill me. Please, please.”
“My son, my Adnan, is dead,” Abu Adnan said softly. “He was killed months ago.”
David froze. “Months?”
“You have been unconscious for some time, brother. But Allah is merciful. He has brought you back to health. Allahu Akbar!”
“I have to go. I have to get back. I have people—” His voice choked off as tears built in his eyes. “I have to go back,” he whispered.
“How? There is one road out of these mountains. A goat path. It takes four days to walk it. It takes another four days to get to the nearest village. Al-Qaeda is there. That is where Al-Qaeda found my son. He too wanted to leave these mountains. But he only found death.”
“Am I your prisoner now?”
“Brother, you are not a prisoner, except of your own body. You haven’t stood for months. How do you expect to walk down the mountain? Bismillah, Allah can do a great many things, but that would be a miracle.”
“Please… help me. I have to get back. I have to go home.”
“I cannot make it down the mountain. I would not survive the trip. In shaa Allah, the rest of my days will be spent here, in my home.”
“Who will come for me? Al-Qaeda? The Taliban?” Had his life been spared just to die again?
“No one will come for you, in shaa Allah. My son never told a soul where he was from. He kept these mountains, our home, his deepest secret. He brought you here to be a part of that secret.”
Tears slipped free of David’s eyes, sliding in sideways tracks down his temples. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“As long as you are here, brother, you have a home. You are safe under my roof, and you are welcome to my food. I will treat you like family. Like the son I’ve lost. Alhamdulillah.”
Was this the way of the world? Was this Allah’s path? A son without a father and a father without a son? Had Allah planned this? His tears seared his eyes, his skin, and he curled against himself as they poured forth.
He’d lived, he’d survived, but he was without Kris, the other half of his soul. But suddenly, back in the arms of a father. What twisted paths, what curving melodies, his life had taken. Was there anything other than the touch of the divine in his destiny?
He was supposed to die. He’d given his life for Kris’s, had pleaded with Allah for the trade. But instead of taking his life, Allah had seen fit to deliver him here, to this mountaintop in the most desolate region on earth, a place lost in time, in space. Abu Adnan had probably been born inside these four walls, had probably never traveled more than twenty-five miles in his entire life. His whole existence could fit on the face of this one mountain, raising his family, glorifying Allah.
Was there a purer form of submission to Allah than this? Living outside of time and living with the prayers of Allah in the center of his soul? If his father were still alive, would he not live like Abu Adnan? Is this the faith you adored, Baba? Is this the God you loved with all your heart?
What did it mean? What did all of this mean? To lose his father, to find Kris. To lose Kris, but to find a father. Years and years of carnage and despair, evil and death. Did Allah allow this evil, this anguish, to take place? Had he created life, created everything in their pairs, split David and Kris’s souls, and then walked away? Was evil of His creation, or of humanity’s, the end result of their wickedness run amok? Wasn’t faith supposed to bring everyone closer to Allah? How had the world, and His people, fallen so far?
Was this a test? The faithful, the righteous, were always tested. But how cruel a test! To destroy cultures, families, lives. The deaths of millions. To invade with evil into the corners of every life, rip out their hearts, take away fathers and sons. What kind of God would do such a thing?
Or, was this a second chance? Or perhaps, he’d lost count of how many second chances he’d been given by Allah. Allah is ever merciful, the Quran said. Whisper my name, and I will always be there. My mercy to you is eternal, everlasting.
Indeed, we belong to Allah, and to Allah we will return.
His tears turned to sobs, giant, hiccupping gasps that raked through his still-healing ribs, made his lungs ache, his throat go raw as he screamed. Abu Adnan reached for him, pulled him close. Held him, like he was a child. He felt like a child. He felt small and alone and afraid.
Abu Adnan spoke in his ear, softly, “Every heart that aches, Allah soothes. Every tear that falls, Allah catches. Every sin that is regretted, Allah forgives. Alhamdulillah, ibni. Alhamdulillah. Allahu Akbar.”
His whole life, his entire life, he’d wanted his father back. He’d wanted to cling to him and hear the rumble of his voice, feel his chest beneath his cheek. Ask him questions and listen to his father explain the world to him again. He wanted his father, and his childhood, and their home in Benghazi back. He wanted prayers and the mosque back. He wanted the fire in his heart, the lightning in his soul, the electric connection to Allah, back. He’d never been able to fill that void, that yearning for his past. He was an Arab, a Muslim, and he missed everything about his past.
“Allahu Akbar,” David whispered. His hands clung to Abu Adnan, to his arms, his back. He was so weak. How many months had he lain there, wasting away, save for the broth and bread Abu Adnan had been able to feed him. He felt like a shadow of his former self.
Truly, he couldn’t make it down the mountain, either.
Not like this.
He felt a decision settle around him, made of choices both within and without his control.
Kris, my love. My soul. We were united before time, made for each other. We will never part, not in this life or the next. Wherever I am, I will always be yours. I swear it.
He couldn’t go back. Not now. Physically, he couldn’t make the journey. But beyond the physical, there was something else, something deeper. A yank in his soul, a pull to remain. To return to his faith, a life he could have lived. The allure of a father’s love, days spent in prayer, drenched in the faith and love of Allah. He could have had this life. If only for one afternoon, this would have been his life.
Perhaps this was history shaking off the dust. Did all things happen in their own time? Were all things ordained, and brought to pass? Nothing will happen to us except what Allah has decreed for us, the Quran said. Endure patiently, with beautiful patience.
But what of Kris? How long had he been lying here, wasting away on the mountain? Had he been written off? If the CIA thought he was alive, wouldn’t the military overturn the entire country, every province, looking for him? Why was he being allowed to rest in peace, cared for tenderly by this lonely father?
Was Kris even alive? He’d offered to trade his life for Kris’s. What did it mean that he was still breathing? If he came out of these mountains and found Kris’s grave, he would shatter. He would shatter and fall to dust, and there would be nothing left of him. He couldn’t take losing both his father and Kris.
He knew the limits of his sanity.
Was this his last chance? A way to return to Allah, live a life he could have had with his father before joining Kris in the next life? Their souls were destined to be together.
He would always return to Kris. All the days of the rest of my life are merely hours to pass until we meet again. Our souls will always find each other. I will see you again. Alhamdullilah.
“La ilaha illah Allah,” Abu Adnan chanted softly. He repeated his words, the shahada, the cry of the faithful, the statement of faith. “La ilaha illa Allah.”
Choking, gasping, with tears staining his lips, snot running in rivulets down his upper lip, he whispered along with Abu Adnan. “La ilaha illah Allah.”
There is no God but God.
Oh Baba, Oh Allah. Find me, please. I seek you, I seek you now mor
e than ever. Help me, O Allah, help me. I am lost. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. I can’t go on. Help me. I have lived in the darkness, consumed with anguish. Help me. Help me, Baba, please.
Lines from the Quran, words on his father’s lips, rose like bubbles in his memories. Even if you but whisper, Allah will hear you, always.
“I submit to you,” he breathed. “O Allah, I submit to you. Bring me closer to you.” He gasped, pressing his face against Abu Adnan’s weathered neck. “Take care of my love. Take care of my love while I cannot.”
Kris… You are my moon in the darkness, always.
We will see each other again.
Someday.
Chapter 25
Crystal City, Virginia
May 1, 2011
Kris had an ice pack on his shoulder and one arm in a sling.
He’d returned from the Baltics that afternoon. The Russians were agitating again, and he’d gone to Lithuania to spy on Kaliningrad, and the military buildup the Russians were engaging in. A quick in-and-out trip had turned into a shitshow. But that was par for the course with the Russians these days.
A pain pill, some alcohol, and he’d sleep the whole thing off.
He slid open the silverware drawer and pulled out his wedding ring. He always dumped it in with the spoons before he left on a mission and put it back on when he returned.
Even over two years widowed, he still wore his ring. Still kept to his vows. He was a monk, celibate by devotion to a ghost.
He wasn’t ready. Everything he felt, he channeled into his work. Into SAD. Counterintelligence operations was his specialty.
But not counterterrorism. Nothing anywhere near the Middle East, or Islamism. He was kept purposefully away from all things Arab. He spent his time in the Arctic Circle, in Eastern Europe. Chasing Russians and playing spy versus spy.
