Whisper

by Tal Bauer

  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.

  Dow
n 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.”