by Tal Bauer
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
September 9
1610 hours
Kris existed in limbo, somewhere between ‘unauthorized personnel’ and ‘jailbird’. Dan got him a visitor’s badge for the CIA and escorted him to one of the secured interview rooms outside of CTC. For the umpteenth time in his career, he was on the outs. Again.
“All right.” Dan tried to smile across the table at him. It didn’t reach his eyes. Pain hovered there, a knife that went through Kris’s chest. “Let’s see what we can put together.” He slid a cup of coffee to Kris. “Caramel macchiato, sugar-free.”
Just the way he liked it. “Thanks.”
Dan flipped open a stack of folders he’d brought. Surveillance images from the bar where Dawood had first ambushed Kris. The camera pointed at Kris in the corner. Pure, perfect shock shaped his face. His hand was outstretched, like he was holding a Martini, but nothing was there. He’d already dropped his Cosmo.
From that angle, the camera had only captured the back of Dawood. But it was enough for Kris’s heart to race, for his stomach to clench.
Dan spread three photos across the table. Two from the bar: the one of Kris, and one of Dawood fleeing, a shot of his face as he’d pushed out of the front door. The third was a photo from Kris’s complex, a shot of Dawood entering the stairwell, looking up, about to make the climb to Kris’s floor.
A thousand emotions clamored inside Kris, rocked his soul. His heart was exhausted, but his senses were tuned too high, red alert blaring through his subconscious. The world tilted over like a cartwheel, like he was falling, like he was being thrown through the air, collateral from some explosion he hadn’t seen.
Dan’s fingers grazed the back of his hand. “I know this is difficult for you.”
“For you, too.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Is it his?” Kris jerked his chin to the photos of his not-dead husband.
“That’s what we need to talk about. I think we should look at this from a new angle. If Dawood Haddad were any other person of interest, what would we do?”
“A full workup. Analyze his background, his profile. Any possibility of radicalization and his propensity toward violence. Retrace his steps, get inside his mind. Understand his life, his motivations.”
Dan nodded. “Let’s do it. Let’s just go over the facts.”
They started with Dawood’s childhood, his home in Benghazi. Dan pulled immigration records, Dawood’s mother’s history. “She’s American, but she converted to Islam and went to Libya, married Abu Dawood Haddad, and then stayed after the revolution that brought Qaddafi to power.”
“They were middle class, probably on the upper end. She had money of her own. His father was an imam.” Kris closed his eyes, the memories of Dawood’s confession of his father’s fate mixing with the sands of Iraq and the scent of blood and stink of terror coming back. “His father was murdered by Qaddafi. He was made to watch.”
“Jesus…” Dan wouldn’t look at Kris. He scribbled notes down, frowning.
Kris filled out what he could. Dawood’s flight to Egypt, then America, with his mother. His rejection of Islam, of his Arabness, of everything that he was. His drive to the military, trying to fit in somewhere, trying to find a new family, a new brotherhood. Trying to find a home.
How September 11 had rocked his soul, started the first chink in the dam he’d built within him. Running from his past had turned into a U-turn, running into his future. Into facing down Islamic radicalism, forces of hatred, evil, and torture. How every step of their lives seemed to mirror something of his past, and he’d circled a darkness deep inside himself that Kris had tried to save him from.
He’d thought he had, when they married. The happiest he’d ever seen Dawood had been that month. His proposal, their elopement. Their new house. He’d thought he could heal all of Dawood’s anguish with his love, paint new love over old wounds, old cracks in his soul. That if they came together, their souls could fix the broken parts within each of them. That’s how Kris had felt, for so long.
Why wasn’t he enough for Dawood now?
He stuttered and stopped, coming back to himself as Dan cleared his throat. The dull, plain walls of the interrogation room came back into focus, the dust in the corners, the chipped plastic table. He shifted in the hard seat, folding his arms. “That’s him,” he said, shrugging. “At least, that was him. Up until ten years ago.”
Nodding, Dan kept writing. He frowned, wearing that look of concentration Kris saw whenever Dan was puzzling through something, when he was tackling something huge.
“Okay…” Dan tapped his pen against his notepad. He took a deep breath. “There’s no one profile of someone who is susceptible to radicalization or terrorism, no one standard identification matrix. But there are commonalities. Recurrent patterns that have cropped up. Haddad… fits a lot of it.”
Kris exhaled slowly.
“Most radicalized individuals are second generation Muslims. They’ve been well integrated into society for the most part, until they experience a break with society. Prison, a shock to the system, something that radically alters their paradigm. Radicalization occurs after, and psychological pressures build within that individual, until an opportunity presents itself to lash out at what the individual believes are ‘evil’ entities.”
“There are exceptions—” Kris started.
“These characteristics are, on the whole, stable.” Dan seemed to pity him, for a moment. “Most radicals are ‘born-again’ Muslims who revert to Islam after a secular life. There is sometimes a shame component, a desire to wipe away some perceived sins of the secular life. But there’s a sudden renewal of religious observances. Prayers, rituals, devotions.”
Dawood bowing in his apartment, praying to Allah beneath the light of the moon. Leaving Kris’s arms to pray. His voice, murmuring in Arabic.
Kris wiped away a tear that hovered at the corner of his eye.
“There’s also the radicals’ hegira. They typically choose to leave their home. Their family, their country. They separate from whatever society they were a part of, remove themselves to another place, a place where they can practice their pure, idealized form of Islam. The Islamic State and al-Qaeda both capitalized on this from the Quran. ‘Migrate for the faith’.”
“And then move again, for jihad,” Kris choked out.
Dan’s phone chimed, and he swiped to answer a call. “Ryan? I’m with Kris. We’re working. Yes, I know.”
Kris wiped another tear with the back of his hand. Had Dawood thought he’d needed to leave? Had he hidden in Afghanistan, radicalizing away from Kris? He should have gone there, should have crawled through the mountains until he found Dawood.
Why was Dawood back, now—
Fuck.
He froze. Inhaled, his spine going rigid. “Jesus, no…”
“I’ll let you know if we build any leads from our profile,” Dan said, nodding along as Ryan growled over the line. “Good luck at the FBI.” Dan hung up. “Ryan’s offsite, heading over to FBI headquarters to work with them on the hunt for Haddad—”
“It’s him,” Kris whispered. “Al-Khorasani.”
“What?” Dan frowned.
“Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani. The ‘Stranger from Khorasan’, on his hegira.” Kris’s voice warped, twisted by a sob rising within him. “That’s why he’s here…”
Dan’s jaw hung slack as he stared at Kris. “You really think he’s capable of that?”
“I don’t want to.” Kris tapped their notes, the pictures. “If you didn’t know him. If you were just looking at the profile, what would you think?”
Dan frowned. His jaw still hung open. “He’s your husband—”
“Was. He was my husband.” Kris swallowed. “I don’t think I know who he is anymore. Or what he’s capable of.”
“But you really think he can do that? Attack the United States—"
“He fits the profile. He is
a stranger, at least to Afghanistan. To the West now, as well. He comes from Afghanistan. Khorasan. Where he’s been for almost ten years.” Kris scrubbed one hand down his face, held it over his mouth. “And, Al-Khorasani’s message? He was with me for all my interrogations. He was with me for Abu Zahawi. I got that part about Muslim pain from him. He’s the one who said it first,” Kris breathed. “In Afghanistan.”
Dan stared. His lips moved, but nothing came out.
“It’s him. I know it’s him. Dawood is Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani.” Kris shook his head, even as tears built in his eyes, tumbled from his lashes, blurred out Dan and the world. “He’s here for a reason. He didn’t come back for me. He didn’t even know I was alive. Something else brought him here, this week. And he stole my laptop. He used me. Us, our memory.”
Dan’s face twisted, heartache and rage battling for dominance as Kris spoke. His hands made fists on the tabletop.
“Al-Qaeda says Al-Khorasani is here on a mission. It’s the September eleventh anniversary in two days. He must be here to pull off some kind of attack.” Kris covered his face with one hand, trying to hold back his sudden sob. Tears rolled down his cheeks, dripped from his jaw.
His eyes closed. He couldn’t look at Dan.
Just hours before, Dawood had fucked him.
He’d fucked Kris, and fucked him over, too. Everything he’d said had been a lie. All his whispers of devotion, of his undying love. His words rang hollow and empty, especially falling from the lips of the man who’d stolen Kris’s heart and then his laptop, who’d tried to steal CIA secrets.
Who had used Kris.
Who was here to attack them all.
“You need to call Ryan,” Kris choked out. “We have to stop him.”
Dan jumped into action, not looking at Kris as he made his calls, upgraded the APB and put out an alert for Dawood’s immediate arrest. He called for all intelligence on Al-Khorasani, everything that had been found, even if it was just a scrap, a rumor, a whisper, next.
“Dan? Have them bring the original audio recording of Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani’s speech. Not just the transcript. We’ll know then.”
He knew it was true, like he’d known he wanted to marry David, but he didn’t want to face it, not yet.
His husband was now the CIA’s most wanted terrorist.
His heart was screaming, his soul was shredding, and he just couldn’t take this anymore.
Dan’s hand covered his, silently.
When the door beeped open, Dan drew back. Kris slumped over himself. A man entered, someone Kris had only met in passing. He wore a sharp suit and had even sharper features, cheekbones you could skydive from, olive skin and dark, wavy hair combed back just so. “Dan,” he said, nodding hello. His voice was gently accented. It took Kris a second to place the accent. Israel. Tel Aviv.
“You’re Noam, right? The FIA from Israel?” Kris sniffed, loudly. He must look like shit.
The man nodded. His eyes flicked over Kris. “You must be Kris Caldera.”
Kris swallowed. So even the FIAs had heard about him.
Noam leaned into Dan, one hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly. “My people have a source in Aden. They sent us these.” He set a folder down on the table, flicked it open.
Pictures in black and white. Pictures of three men clustered around the port in Aden, Yemen, beside a moored tanker ship. Saying goodbye, hugging, kissing each other on the cheeks. In the center of the group, there was Dawood.
And then, boarding a tanker, waving goodbye to the two Arab men who’d stayed behind.
“Our sources say this man—” Noam pointed to Dawood. “—is the one they called Al-Khorasani.”
Dan’s gaze flicked to Kris’s. He exhaled.
Noam squeezed Dan’s shoulder. Their eyes met, and held. “Thank you,” Dan said softly. “This is huge.” Noam smiled, something softer than just a FIA, a Mossad agent, to a CIA colleague. Kris blinked, and saw Dan and Noam in a different light. Saw the hand on Dan’s shoulder, the small smile on Noam’s face. How long their gazes lingered.
He cleared his throat, overly loud. Lifted his chin and stared Noam down when Noam started.
“I’ll come by your office later, Dan.” Noam strode out, never once looking at Kris.
Dan wouldn’t look at him, either.
“You two know each other well.”
Dan took his time answering. “Remember when I spent those six months in Tel Aviv? On assignment with Mossad? Noam and I became friends then.”
Friends. Of course. Something dark slithered in Kris’s belly.
Was he jealous? Was he fucking jealous of Dan having someone, something other than Kris? For God’s sake, he’d fucked Dawood, a terrorist, after telling Dan he would be his. Shame grabbed Kris’s spine and yanked, made him curl over. He was shit. He was a shitty, worthless person.
“I’m glad,” Kris choked out. “You deserve to be happy.”
Dan stared at him. “Two days ago, I thought I was.”
“I thought I was, too.”
But not because of Dan. No, not that. He’d thought his husband was back, he’d thought Dawood was back, had come back for him, and they were going to live happily ever after. He’d thought all of his most fantastical dreams had come true.
They didn’t speak again, not until an analyst badged in with an audiotape of the original Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani file and played it.
Dawood’s voice filled the cramped room, blew out the cobwebs and the dust and the doubt. Filled every corner of Kris’s heart and soul with the truth, with an endless, silent scream.
This is Muslim pain.
“It’s him,” Kris said. “Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani is Dawood. And he’s here to attack America.”
McLean, Virginia
September 9
1910 hours
It was strange to be driving his truck again.
Kris had kept his truck, for some reason. Kept the beat-up old pickup, the first truck he’d bought after he joined the Army. The truck was over twenty-five years old, a relic of two former lifetimes ago.
It wallowed beneath Kris’s building, backed into Kris’s second assigned space.
He had it hot-wired in under a minute.
No one would think to look for a truck that was as much a ghost as he was.
It took him an hour, winding through back roads and driving through neighborhoods, avoiding highways and busy suburbs. But, finally, he pulled up to the mosque.
He spun his keys as he walked in. Too late for maghrib prayers, too early for isha. He’d be the only one there.
Perfect.
As he strode in, the imam, kneeling in dua and facing east, turned toward him. He wore a dark dishdashi and a white turban, and he smiled as Dawood approached, his hand on his heart.
“As-salaam-alaikum.”
“Wa alaikum as-salaam.” The imam spread his hands. “Welcome, my brother. The peace and blessings of the Prophet, peace be upon him, be always with you. How can I help you, habibi?”
“I have come to speak with you.” Dawood breathed in, carefully. “About jihad.”
The imam froze. Stared at Dawood, his gaze going cold. Hard.
“I was sent here,” Dawood breathed. His hands trembled. He shoved them in his pants, hid them in his pockets. “I was sent to you.”
Silence stretched, long enough Dawood heard dust settle in the corners, heard the creak of the sun slant against the roof in the evening light. He waited. His heart, his soul, quaked.
“Sit,” the imam finally said. “And let us speak of your jihad.”
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 fa
ce 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.
