by Tal Bauer
The man’s arms wrapped around Kris, holding him close. His face buried in Kris’s neck. “Let them do their job, Kris,” Ryan grunted. “They have to save him. They have to.”
He watched the paramedics pump his husband’s chest until his vision blurred and his throat went raw, and his screams were drowned out the sirens, by the roar of the helicopter that came to take his husband away at 8:46 AM on September 11.
Chapter 36
George Washington University Hospital
Washington DC
September 16
Kris’s entire world had been reduced to a series of beeps. Every two seconds, another soft beep. Every forty-five seconds, the slow flow of oxygen restarting. Red and green and blue, washing the hospital room in dim lights, dancing lines whispering over the still bedsheets.
He sat at Dawood’s bedside, listening to the hum of modern medicine. Watched the IV lines and arterial catheters, the oxygen lines, all snaking from his husband. Monitors traced the steady beat of his heart, measured his oxygen levels.
Kris’s touch ghosted down Dawood’s still hand, skirting the IV needle and the bandage, following the bones in the back of his hand down to his ring finger.
A gold wedding band, inlaid with a channel of dusty diamonds, was back where it belonged. Dawood’s ring, on Dawood’s hand.
He’d flown into a rage after the helicopter lifted off from the traffic circle outside the Lincoln Memorial, flying Dawood across the capital to George Washington University Hospital. Ryan had let him go, let him run after the helicopter, screaming, crying, shrieking at the top of his lungs until he fell again, a soaking wet pile of adrenaline and terror.
While George weaved in and out of the police, the FBI, trying to control the scene, trying to stop the thousands and thousands of cell phone videos streaming the incident live to the internet, Ryan had grabbed a paramedic and brought him to Kris.
He remembered being loaded onto a gurney. Being strapped down, and the pinch of an IV line in his elbow. Hands, pressing on his ribs, and what felt like lava erupting through his chest. “Broken ribs,” one of the paramedics had said. “Gotta get him—”
He’d woken up in a hospital room, in the dark.
Someone sat at his bedside, though. Tall, lanky, and with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Messy brunet strands. One leg was crossed, and he was reading from a legal file.
“Tom?” Kris had croaked. He’d tried to swallow. “Is that you?”
Tom had dropped his files and leaned in, one hand brushing back Kris’s hair. He’d smiled, the warm, wonderful smile Tom had, the one that lit Mike’s soul on fire. “Hey Kris. How are you feeling?”
“Where’s Dawood? Where’s my husband?”
“He’s in ICU. He’s in pretty bad shape.”
His chest had caved in, and every fear he’d felt that day in Afghanistan, the day after the Hamid op, came roaring back, a thousand times sharper. “No, no, no,” he’d whispered. “No, he has to be all right. He has to be okay.”
“They’re doing everything they can.” Tom had leaned in, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “He’s got the best care in the nation. He’s a hero.”
He’d laced his fingers through Tom’s and let it all out, every sob he’d held in, every fear, every anguish, every impossible dream, every second of the last ten years he’d endured without Dawood, pouring out of him like a dam had broken. “I can’t be without him again,” he’d finally choked out. “If he’s gone… I don’t want to live without him again. Not again.”
“It’s early.” Tom had wiped his tears away. “It’s only been a day. Give it time.”
Groaning from the floor had made him frown. Tom had looked down, smiled.
Mike had appeared, rising from the sleeping bag he’d unrolled on the floor of Kris’s hospital room like a bear coming out of hibernation. His pompadour was a ragged mess, standing up on one side of his head, and his eyes were dark, sunken into his face. But he saw Kris awake, saw his tears, his broken soul.
“Kris…”
Kris had sat up as Mike crawled into bed with him, both meeting in the middle, arms wrapped around each other like they were trying to combine lives, like Mike was trying to give him enough of his heart to keep Kris’s going. Kris had felt it, and he’d shuddered in Mike’s hold. Collapsed, falling into Mike, and had let Mike hold him up as his tears restarted, as his fears raced in, and he imagined the world without Dawood, the love of his life… again.
Five days later, and he sat by Dawood’s bedside, a constant, uninterrupted vigil.
He’d been discharged after a day, his broken ribs wrapped and bandaged, and had gone home to change, shower, and dig out his and Dawood’s wedding rings from the duffel in the back of his closet. They were dusty, the gold spotted and dull. But they were theirs.
At the hospital, he’d kissed Dawood’s ring finger before sliding his wedding ring back on like he had eleven years before when he’d vowed to be Dawood’s for all time, for every day of his life.
The ring was loose on Dawood’s slender fingers. He’d lost weight in ten years. Lost weight and gone gray in places. Silver streaked his temples, and strands peppered his dark hair. It was longer than he’d ever seen, soft waves that came almost to his ears, combed back. It was a good look on him. A gentle look.
His own ring fit, sliding on like he’d never taken it off. Like it was supposed to be there, always, for eternity.
Never again. Never ever will I take this ring off. Never will I be separated from you.
The doctors had removed Dawood’s breathing tube two days before, and they weren’t cautioning Kris to prepare himself, to expect the worst, as often anymore.
Noam’s gunshot had shredded his liver, and the surgeons had removed almost three quarters of it. He’d lost blood, almost too much. But it was the crash into the Potomac that had killed him, at least for a few minutes, underwater. He hadn’t breathed, and his brain had swelled, a massive concussion from the crash. How many minutes had he gone without oxygen? Would he ever wake up? Would he be the same if he did?
“We need to be realistic,” one of the doctors had said. “There’s a fifty-fifty chance he won’t wake, ever. It all comes down to him now. How he responds. We’ve done all we can, but he experienced significant trauma.”
“He’s coming back.” Kris had laced their hands together, had cupped Dawood’s left hand in both of his. Kissed each finger, slowly. “He’s coming back.”
He had to. This was their second chance, their impossible happy ending. This was theirs, their love story, and it didn’t end here. Not after everything. Not after Dawood had fought back from the dead, not after Kris had put an end to Dan, to the betrayals, to the twisting of everything Dawood held dear.
If you are gone, my love, then I will follow you. I won’t let you go again. Never, ever, again.
If you breathe your last breath, the very next will be my last as well.
He kept his vigil through the long hours of the day and night. Mike and Tom came every evening, bringing him food, sitting with him, sometimes talking, sometimes in silence.
At night, he slept in the cup of Dawood’s left hand, cradling his face in the hollow of his palm. Sometimes he traced Dawood’s veins, the muscles in his arm. Kissed his wrist, and imagined what their future would look like.
Together. They would be together, and that was all that mattered.
It was the afternoon, seven days after September 11. Kris held Dawood’s hand, watched the rise and fall of his chest. Physically, he was getting better, slowly. The medications the doctors were using to keep him sedated were being weaned back. Everyone was waiting, wondering.
Would he wake up?
Knocks sounded at the door. Kris and Dawood had been given a private suite, VIP level, and CIA guards traded shifts with DC police. No one could just stop by, just turn up. Even Mike and Tom had to be cleared three times before they could visit.
Kris turned his bleary gaze to the door.
<
br /> George and Ryan hovered at the opening.
Both seemed condemned men, like they’d lost something irreplaceable in the last week, something they didn’t know how to live without. Ryan was half in and half out of himself, like he wanted to escape reality. Escape himself.
Kris knew that feeling.
George led the way into Dawood’s hospital room. He had a brown folder in one hand, and he held it out to Kris as he stopped at the foot of Dawood’s bed.
“This is from the CIA, Kris, and as you’re Dawood’s legal next of kin…” He trailed off, shrugging.
“Last I heard, I wasn’t his next of kin.”
“June 26, 2013, you became his next of kin.” George slid both hands into his pockets, looked down. “United States versus Windsor. The Supreme Court struck down Section 3 of the Defense of Marriage Act as unconstitutional. Which meant the CIA, and the entire federal government, recognized same sex marriages from that moment forward.” He swallowed. “I watched the case, and I thought about you. And Haddad.”
“Little late for us, don’t you think?”
“Not anymore.”
He opened the folder. Papers tumbled free, across Dawood’s legs. A USB drive landed on the sheets.
“A recording of what happened in the warehouse. Between Dan and Dawood. You were there, too. It seemed right, giving you a copy. So you could know… what happened.”
He flipped open a folded sheet of heavy paper, cream linen, with the CIA seal embossed at the top of the page. A letter from Director Edwards.
Officer Dawood Haddad,
You have the gratitude of a thankful nation for your dedicated service, your commitment to excellence, and your many, many sacrifices over the years. While we cannot turn back time, we will do everything we can to make your sacrifices right.
From a grateful nation,
Director Ken Edwards
“Haddad is a hero. The papers, the news, everyone has the story. He was undercover within al-Qaeda for years, working to prevent their largest attempted strike on American soil since nine-eleven.”
Kris frowned. “That’s not entirely true. What about Dan?”
George’s gaze pinched. “Dan… died tragically a few days ago in a traffic accident.”
They were going to bury it. Bury it and hide it forever, a secret that would never see the light of day. He shouldn’t be surprised. The CIA buried their skeletons, their secrets, deeper than they buried their dead. Part of him was disgusted, wanted to be sick. But he’d been a part of those secrets they’d buried. He’d been a skeleton in their closet. “And Noam?”
“Mossad has officially denounced him and has labeled him a rogue element and called his actions criminal in the extreme. That’s the classified version. The unclassified version is he, too, tragically died in a motor vehicle accident.”
Kris closed his eyes.
“We dredged the Potomac in the middle of the night. Brought up the SUV. There was a dead body full of shrapnel and enough plastique explosive to put a fifty-foot crater in the National Mall. Kill thousands. When Haddad drove that SUV off the bridge, he shorted out the circuits in the homemade timer. He saved everyone’s life.”
The dead body. Dawood’s partner.
Kris flipped the letter from Director Edwards over. The gratitude of a grateful nation was all well and good. But there was ten years of bitterness in the water under that bridge. Ten years of isolation, of backs turned on him and the memory of his husband.
The next sheet was a reinstatement into the CIA, signed and sealed by the director, for Dawood Haddad.
Kris was listed as his official spouse.
It included his salary information from a decade before and the automatic promotions he would have been eligible to receive. Every year was there, added and tabulated, with interest calculated. Total back pay to be disbursed, the last line read. $2 million.
“This belongs to him. And to you. To both of you. No matter what.” George fumbled, trying to find the right words.
Kris shook his head. “This is the right thing to do. He’s always been with us.”
“I know. It’s only a start, though. If he wanted to continue, if he wants to come back… He’s welcome.” George cleared his throat. “As are you.”
Kris laughed, hollow and empty. “George… I think I’m done with the CIA.”
He was, finally, just done. The guilt that had seized his life, that had propelled him forward. The certainty that he had to toil, for his entire life, to undo the failures, the wrongs of September 11.
But he’d given his all, and then more, until he was stripped raw. He’d given the CIA, the nation, everything he had to give, and then he’d kept going. He’d lived with ghosts for so long, the heavy weight of their lives hanging off his bones, grinding the spaces between his joints, that he’d gotten used to the pull of their shame.
And when they’d gone, he’d replaced their haunting with his own self-shame, his own recrimination. The noose around his neck wasn’t of the past, or the dead, or his failings anymore. It was only him, only his own deluge of anguish and the stifling suffocation of his deepest self-loathing.
He’d failed, before. He’d failed to stop September 11. He’d failed to stop Hamid.
But he’d done some things right, as well. He hadn’t lost his soul, hadn’t hijacked the hatred of al-Qaeda, of ISIS, and started living in their twisted brand of hate. Hadn’t hitched his soul to a black hole and ridden the collapse until he’d perverted into whatever it was that Dan had become. Something ugly and evil. Something that was against the world and everyone in it.
The balance of his life was set. His deeds were done. The days of saving the world were beyond him. Someone else, someone younger, would have to step up, step into the void and fight the good fight. Fight the battle between losing your soul over the edges of inhumanity and stopping the rise of evil, from all corners of the globe, looking to hurt. To kill. In any way evil could.
Nietzsche once said, Beware when fighting monsters, you do not become a monster yourself. For when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you.
Kris had stood on the edge of the abyss and peered down. Dan had plunged headfirst, as had Noam. As had Saqqaf, and Zahawi, and Bin Laden, and so many others.
Dawood had been his anchor, his fixed Northern Star, keeping him grounded on the firmament, keeping him from tumbling into the darkness.
Memories and ghosts and promises lived in his bones. He’d carried them for half his life. It was time to let them go.
It was time to start living for him.
Him and Dawood.
Ryan hovered behind George, staring at Dawood for a long moment before flicking his gaze to Kris. “Can we… can we talk?”
Part of him didn’t want to. Ryan and he had history, sixteen years of animosity and snapping at each other, and the disastrous Hamid op that had sealed the uncrossable gulf between them, an impenetrable divide.
But, Ryan had held him as he’d come undone on the banks of the Potomac. And he’d hunted Al Jabal until he was dead, until he was nothing but ash, had devoted his entire being to hunting Dawood’s torturer and killer. There were redeemable moments in his life. Was there more Kris couldn’t see?
“Sure. I need a coffee anyway.”
“I’ll buy.”
George took Kris’s seat beside Dawood, watching over him with his hands pressed together, fingers against his lips like he was praying over Dawood. Maybe he had his own confessions to give, his own words to say in the silence, for Dawood’s ears alone.
Ryan shuffled to the door and held it open for him, looking as uncomfortable as hell, then fell into step as Kris headed on autopilot for the hospital’s cafeteria. There was a coffee stand there that made a decent sludge, enough to keep him awake for a few more hours. Ryan bought two cups and guided him to a table in the corner, settling in the chair backed against the wall.
Ryan batted his coffee cup back and forth as Kris crossed his legs. Sipped his cof
fee and stared at Ryan.
Ryan licked his lips. Pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “For… everything.”
“Everything is pretty big.” Kris shifted. Sighed. “What do you mean?”
“I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought we all were. Dan… he was one of my best friends. I don’t understand—”
Kris looked down. The CIA, and Ryan, George, and Edwards in particular, were going to have to take a long hard look in the mirror. How did one of their own turn against them? How had Dan, long a rising star in the agency, become so twisted? Turned so evil?
“The Dan you thought you knew has been gone a long time. Same with me. The man I thought I knew? He was just a fake. A fantasy. The real Dan is the one lying in the morgue, right now. That’s who he was, at his core.”
Ryan buried his face in one hand, hiding from Kris. His shoulders shook. “If Dan can do that, then who else can? How far does this go? Is he an aberration? Or is his hatred… normal?” Kris heard what Ryan didn’t ask: could Ryan slip and fall into the darkness, slide down into the abyss after Dan? Was he, too, capable of something like that?
“Something in between, I think.” Kris played with the lid of his coffee cup as Ryan stared at him, his dark, bloodshot eyes boring into the center of his forehead. He’d never seen so much fear in Ryan’s gaze, a fear that danced deep in the back of his eyes.
“Dan hijacked the hatred he claimed to loathe. He became exactly what he despised. He hijacked ISIS and al-Qaeda’s destinies. He became the most devout believer of their twisted ideology.”
“Dan was not a Muslim—”
“No, but he was a nihilist. He wanted to watch the world burn, tear everything down, destroy anything in the way of his vision of the perfect future. That’s exactly what ISIS and al-Qaeda believe as well. And—” He glared at Ryan. “You should know better than that. ISIS and al-Qaeda do not represent authentic Islamic beliefs.”
