The Occurrence

  Pashtar, again, lurked in the shadows.

  “We are the children of a ravaged, despised people, fighting with whatever means we can to recover our dignity. Nothing more, nothing less.” The imam addressed Dominique with respect. “Our homeland is violated. We spend the evenings gathering our dead and the mornings burying them. And you are comfortable in your refuge here while an inferno consumes us in another part of the world.”

  He leaned into her.

  “I know about your brother, Miss Valen. We’ve each lost loved ones. How is your rage at his death different than ours with the young men and boys who come back to us dead from your bullets and bombs?”

  “It’s not different.”

  “You’re an eminent journalist trying to understand. I appreciate that. But there is nothing for you here.”

  He rose to leave.

  “I think there might be,” she said.

  He stopped. His eyes on her.

  “If you bring the truth.”

  She’d been looking for the truth a long time, and knew he was part of it now. But how could she speak truth to him with lies?

  She knew she couldn’t.

  “You’re right. Maybe there is nothing for me here,” she said.

  She rose to leave.

  “Maybe there is,” he said.

  She stopped. And wondered if he was being guided, too.

  “You have protected Nazir, and he has told me of how you harbored Hashim. Thank you, for that.”

  She knew whatever holy space had opened was about to disappear if she didn’t act. Even if it were a lie.

  “Hashim is in hiding because he fears for his life, because of what you believe he did. And because our government is looking for him, too.”

  “It’s hard not to believe he surrendered and revealed things with all the press it captured.”

  “That was meant to send chaos through your cause. We already had information about the dry cleaner cell and the farmhouse.”

  She knew her story must line up with what Nazir had told him. And the greater truth in what she’d come to accomplish through these lies gave her the certitude to continue.

  The imam’s eyes had the ability to terrify even as they drew her in. It was a charisma she’d experienced in few leaders. The ones that had it radiated energy hard to resist.

  An electric current ran through her, and adrenaline pumped in the face of this life force.

  “Set up the meeting with Hashim, Miss Valen.”

  She knew the feeling of having a heightened perceptive power and reckless daring from being in the middle of war zones, she also was acutely aware that she had placed herself closer to a roadside bomb being here. She trusted the empathy she saw in the imam’s ice-blue eyes was the truth.

  93

  Dominique and Kurt listened to the harsh wind thrumming at the windows of his office.

  She read from a dog-eared copy of a book she held in her hands.

  “‘We’re given a choice every day to go through doors and remember who we are. If we choose to avoid it, life will go on. We may even find bravery with which to confront what comes our way. But we will be blind to what we choose to not see.’”

  “Prophetic for what you’re going through.”

  “I was seeing it as encouraging. Your take has an ominous ring to it.”

  “It doesn’t need to.”

  She put the book down.

  “Okay. Your turn,” she said.

  “So. The imam has ice-blue eyes.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s rare in his culture. Imam Mālik had blue eyes.”

  “Who?”

  “He was born and lived in Medina in the eighth century. He supported the Sunni doctrine of beatific vision.”

  “Belief in the afterlife.”

  “You’re up on your Sunni doctrine.”

  “How do you know about Mālik?”

  “Stay long enough in war, you grow antennae for history, and the invisible.”

  “Is that what this is? Centuries worth of antennae?”

  “If you believe you and the imam share a past, use your antennae to find out what that is.”

  “You can’t tell me?”

  “No.”

  “I thought that’s what you do.”

  “It’s not. If there’s a past with the imam, you need to go deep inside yourself to find it.”

  Dominique looked around the room. There was a scent permeating the space. A scent with which she was familiar.

  “Where’s that smell coming from?” she asked.

  “What smell?”

  “Blood. It’s blood.”

  “Can you taste it?”

  She ran her tongue over the inside of her mouth. The taste of bitter iron traveled up the back of her throat.

  “What’s happening?”

  “It’s another door opening.”

  “How many doors are there?”

  “As many as needed.”

  “I guess your ominous take was closer than mine.”

  He guided her to the chair.

  She sat.

  “Close your eyes. Whatever happens, you’re safe. I’m here.”

  The taste of blood was stronger in her mouth.

  The dark behind her lids exposed a place.

  Her left hand reached out as if feeling for something. She had a quick intake of breath.

  “What’s happening?”

  “There’s blood on the walls.”

  “Where are you?”

  “A hospital, I think.”

  “What can you see?”

  “There’s scattered medical supplies, syringes, bloodied bandages on the floor. The floor and walls are ravaged by bullets.”

  “Is anyone there?”

  “I don’t see anyone. It’s quiet.”

  “Is there a window you can look out? A door you can walk through?”

  “There’s a window.”

  “Walk to it, tell me what you see.”

  Kurt watched as Dominique’s feet pulsed into the rug on the floor of his office, like a cat pawing a carpet. It was as if she were moving, gripping the ground, but she remained seated.

  “Are you at the window?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s out there?”

  She had another quick intake of breath.

  “There’s an old man. And a young boy with him. They’re watching me. They’re in a park.”

  “What do you mean a park?”

  “It’s a park, a playground.”

  “Playground?”

  “Swings. Sand pit.” Her voice was sharp and dire.

  A third intake of breath.

  “What now?”

  “There are dead bodies everywhere. The playground is a graveyard. The old man is walking toward me. He’s bringing the boy.”

  She stood as if welcoming these two strangers. Her eyes opened, but she was looking into another time and place.

  “‘Take him,’ the old man says to me. ‘Take him with you. Please take him before they kill us all.’”

  She had a fourth intake of breath. Deeper, sharper than the others. A gasp that held the realization of her connection to the imam.

  “His eyes. The boy’s eyes.”

  “What about his eyes?”

  “They’re ice-blue.”

  Kurt slapped his hands.

  The shock brought Dominique back to the room. Her eyes stared out but her thoughts were inward. Her heart punched at her chest.

  “Breathe. Just breathe,” Kurt said.

  Dominique put a hand to her chest. She kept it there until both her breath and her heart calmed.

  Kurt was steady and still.

  “There are many guides that come to us the more we open ourselves to other realities. The more you see, the more your system will grind down your defenses.”

  “They weren’t figments of imagination? The old man and the boy?”

  “No. They’re your guides, too.”

  Dominique’s bre
ath regained a regular rhythm, and her heart beat with a quieter pulse.

  “And if I did save that boy with ice-blue eyes?”

  “If he was the boy who became the imam you met, and you saved him, he might want to return the favor. If he remembers.”

  94

  In the room where she’d met with the president, Dominique spoke with Bruton about what happened—that it was more than just the idea of a past life connection with the imam.

  She told Bruton what the old man had said, of the young boy’s ice-blue eyes, and if she had saved him in that lifetime—had saved the imam in that other life when he was the young boy—he might well remember that, too.

  “How the hell are you even going to talk to him about this?

  Dominique smiled.

  “There’s nothing funny about it.”

  “You asked me how I’ll talk to him. So, let me answer you.”

  “Go ahead. Tell me. Tell me how.”

  “His brother.”

  “What the hell do you mean, ‘his brother’?”

  She told him the imam has a brother who’s been institutionalized for decades in a hospital in Maryland.

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Mariam mentioned it when Nazir and I were with her.”

  “Sayyid Sarif’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, how does the brother fit into all this?”

  “I don’t know. But I know he does.”

  “You’re banking a lot on fate.”

  “That I’m still here is proof enough for me that fate is playing a part in all of our lives.”

  “That may be. But at some point fate stops and reality sets in. And when the imam finds out you went behind his back and talked with his brother I won’t be able to protect you.”

  “I don’t need your protection. I need you to get Hashim released into my custody. That was the plan. There’s no room for anything else. I’m not going to let you sweep this under the carpet. You brought Adrien Kurt in to help find us when we were captured in Mosul. You let him bring in Catherine Book because your back was against the wall. You denied your experience in Vietnam until you didn’t. You have to let this play out. Or, you can carpet bomb the world. Because that’s where we’re headed.”

  PART NINE

  Into Buried Light

  95

  Monday, October 26

  Dominique stood in the hallway outside Issa Malik’s room in the hospital in Maryland. She could see the head of the psychiatric unit was intrigued why she was visiting the brother of the local imam. Vague in her response to his curiosity, she said she was doing research on the religions of the world and thought Issa could give her a unique perspective.

  “So, you know about the hallucinations,” the head of the psychiatric unit said.

  Without missing a beat she answered, “Yes,” even though it was news to her. She could see the response put the doctor at ease and he spoke about those within the Islamic faith who had suffered hallucinations.

  Those imaginings, he said, were attributed to belief in the Djinn. He spoke of a study conducted to assess the impact of religions on the phenomenology of delusions and hallucinations.

  “Fifty-three Pakistani Muslim patients with schizophrenia were interviewed in one study,” he said. “The results indicated the more religious patients had greater themes of grandiose ability and identity, more likely to hear voices of paranormal agents and have visions of the same.”

  “That’s not just the purview of Muslims,” Dominique said. “And it doesn’t mean they’re crazy.”

  “I imagine your experience in the warehouse had a bit of the ontological as well, huh?” he said, prying.

  “May I see Issa?” she said, cutting through the pompous bullshit.

  “Of course, Miss Valen.”

  He escorted her into Issa’s room.

  Issa was a small man, compact in frame, nothing like the thin, angular features of his brother.

  He looked up when they entered. His eyes were wide and daring when he saw Dominique.

  She flashed to the story Julian had told her of Brian Halloway, the young soldier under his command. There was something about the look in Halloway’s eyes, Julian had said, that would always haunt him. Dominique experienced a haunted look in Issa, as tears filled his eyes and a huge smile lit his face.

  It was recognition, not madness.

  Issa’s tears and smile were a surprise to the doctor.

  Dominique wondered if Issa saw the same tornado of sunlight swirling in slashes of gray dust and black smoke, like what Halloway had told Julian he saw on that roadside—like the smoke they’d all seen in the warehouse.

  “May I have time alone with him?”

  The doctor hesitated, but seeing Issa in a rare mood of happiness asked that she report to him whatever happened between them.

  “Of course, doctor,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t.

  The doctor nodded and left the room.

  Issa gestured for her to sit next to him by the window. He may be a patient in a hospital, but whatever privilege he’d had in the outside world he claimed here as well.

  “You’re the journalist my brother spoke of.” He had a voice like a young boy.

  “You’ve talked to him,” she said, surprised.

  “It’s not every day someone tries to understand us.”

  Dominique was unsure if Mariam telling her about Issa had been planned. Was she being played? Or was it providence like she’d assured Bruton?

  “Did you know I’d come?”

  “I’d hoped you would.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not in danger. My brother cannot speak of such things. I can.”

  “What things?” she said, not sure where this was leading.

  “The reason you’re still alive is because my brother remembers you. But trust is harder earned than memory.”

  “He remembers me?”

  “Yes. At the hospital, in the killing field, with the old man when he was a boy. I helped him remember. When he told me you’d come to see him, I told him who you were and had been to him.”

  Dominique’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re this prescient, why are you here?”

  His eyes fired with delight. He bound up from the chair like an excited child. She could see he was full of things to say. And while she was aware this could go south—after all he was in an institution, and his brother an imam who secretly led a local terrorist cell—she knew her job was to be the vehicle for what he needed to say. And so, she listened.

  “After your occurrence in the desert I knew what the evolution of it would bring. I didn’t know the details, but I knew to tell my brother to be aware that there were others who would come to him, who also believed in a way out of jihad.”

  “Is this what Nazir sensed in his meeting with him?”

  “Yes. My brother knew the air had filled with the scent of roses, too.”

  She could see he knew the amazing effect he was having on her.

  “Did your brother have an experience like we did in the desert?”

  “No. I did. That’s why I’m in here. If they think I’m crazy, nothing I say will challenge their beliefs.”

  “You mean, ISIS.”

  “I mean all of them.”

  “So, you’ve been guiding your brother from inside this place?”

  “You could say that. We’re not all crazy here.”

  He was vulnerable in what he’d shared. And she could see his eyes now questioned the wisdom of revealing so much to her, so quickly.

  He turned away.

  Her hand rested on his shoulder.

  He turned back, his eyes again laying bare the innocence of a child.

  “You can trust me, Issa. We want the same thing.”

  96

  “I trust the fact Issa Malik is in an institution hasn’t escaped you, Miss Valen,” the president said. Bruton was the one other person in this unfurnished room in a corne
r of the third floor of the Residence.

  “No, sir, it hasn’t. But I believed him when he told me the reason he’s there is for his protection, or I wouldn’t have asked to see you again.”

  The president closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands.

  She could feel the load of decisions on him. The life and death choices he had to live with. These rooms held grief.

  He looked at her with penetrating eyes, and she could see she’d added a complexity to the choice before him—a choice that took him deeper into a mystery. The mythic. Mythic in the way great literature is mythic. The way it transcends reality, yet exists in a form that grips the soul.

  Homer. Aristotle. Shakespeare. Dante. Milton. Donne. They’d all tapped into that reality.

  Not that she thought she was close to who they were, or what they’d accomplished, but she knew she had the potential to affect others like she’d been impacted. It was something of which she refused to let go. Bruton knew it. That’s why he had listened to her. It is what brought them back to the White House.

  “You’re putting a lot of faith in the mystical,” the president said.

  “Yes, sir, we are. We have since this country was founded. We even print it on our currency.”

  He held her gaze. She wasn’t sure if he was going to rebuke her or dismiss her. But she didn’t flinch.

  “You’re certain of what Issa said about his brother?”

  “That he wants the same thing as us?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m betting my life on it.”

  “Then, do the face to face with the imam and Hashim.”

  “You’re sure, sir?” Bruton asked.

  “There’s no certainty in any of this, Charles. But if the imam is willing to go against his own mujahideen, it’s in our interest to facilitate it. You are aware of the danger?”

  “Yes, Mister President, I am.”

  “Good. We now have to decide what, if any, surveillance will be safe to arrange. Let the imam know the meeting will take place, and that you’ll be discussing with him, and Hashim where best and safest to meet. He needs to feel in control of this.”