by Tal Bauer
They ate together, lounging by the fire, and talked. Talked of Islam, of Allah. Of history, of faith. About the weather, and the crops, and the mountains. At night, they prayed together beneath the burning stars before going to sleep.
Occasionally, ’Bu Adnan wanted to know about Dawood’s past. Who was he, and why had his son brought him to the mountains? Dawood told him he had been working for the Americans. That they’d been trying to catch bad men, and he’d been captured in turn.
’Bu Adnan spoke of his son, how he’d been seduced by men with rifles down the mountain. How they’d shouted about jihad and every Muslim’s duty to defend the faith. ’Bu Adnan had tried to shield his son.
They were safe in the mountains. Only death came up from the valley.
His son, filled with the passion of youth, had wanted more. It was the duty of all Muslims, he had said, railing at his father. Adnan had disappeared, and only came back to throw Dawood at ’Bu Adnan’s feet.
“Perhaps he knew he was going to die, and he wanted me to have another son.”
“In shaa Allah. That would be good for a son to do. A father should never be left alone.”
“Neither should a son.”
One night, Dawood told ’Bu Adnan about his father. About the stadium and the basketball court, and his father’s prayers. They prayed together, and ’Bu Adnan held him as he cried.
“It is as the Prophet, salla Allahu alayhi wa sallam, said. The first three generations that followed him are blessed. And following that, the Muslims will lose their way. They will be confused, and take hold of evil things, and wickedness.” ’Bu Adnan sighed. “The Quran says, the human soul is prone to darkness in the absence of Allah. Man will lose his balance between the good of Allah and the darkness, if he is not focused on Allah.”
’Bu Adnan seemed to have all the wisdom in the world. The only book he’d ever read was the Quran, and his copy was a well-worn tome from the early 1900s, passed down through his family for generations. It had been handwritten in Pakistan, hand sewn in a leather binding. “Yallah, I have no son to give this to,” he lamented. “It will go to you, habibi.”
Was this what having a father was like? Was this what his father would have been like had he lived? Would they have spent their days and nights like this, talking of the world and Islam, of faith and the future? Some days, when he squinted, Dawood swore ’Bu Adnan looked just like his baba. The curve of his back in his loose kameez. The set of his shoulders.
’Bu Adnan loved Allah, and loved his home, his people in the mountains, and he came to love Dawood, too.
At night, after ’Bu Adnan went to sleep, Dawood would gaze at the stars. He watched them fall, blazing through the night sky. This nameless mountain at the end of the world. He didn’t feel a part of the world anymore. He felt outside of it.
He stared at the moon, so full and huge he thought he could leap off the mountaintop and grab hold. Hang on to the moon as it circled the world, let go, and fall back to earth, right where Kris was.
If Kris was even alive.
It seemed ludicrous, a complete fantasy, that he lived on the same planet where he and Kris had waged a decade-long war. The United States had technological superiority over every inch of the globe. There wasn’t a speck of land they couldn’t see or control, he’d thought. How was this corner of the world possible? Where was he where he was outside of time, outside of the raging, endless war?
In all the vastness of the world, there truly were some untouched corners, it seemed.
If he just picked up a cell phone and made a call, said the right words, the NSA would sweep up his transmission. In days, after it was decoded, someone would know he was alive. They would know where he was.
But there were no cell phones here. Not on the mountain. There were no drones or satellites, no patrols passing by. No informants or human sources. No American presence at all. It was almost unnatural, strange. All of their technological superiority, all of their wizardry, and he couldn’t do a single thing to contact home. Not from where he was.
He was encased in silence, in pure, impenetrable silence. The hoarseness before a scream, the void of sound, the absence of American might.
Did he even want to go back? Back to the war? Back to confusion, and darkness, and a life separated from Allah? Did he want to go back to the pain? The constant grinding frustration, the way the world had rubbed him raw? Back to everything he’d buried for decades?
Could he go back and find Kris dead and gone? There were some things he could not face, he knew, in the depth of his soul. He’d begged to trade his life for Kris’s. Was this exile merely Allah’s mercy, His way of sparing Dawood the agony of certainty?
Kris was, by all probabilities, dead.
He didn’t know what to do, what to think. So he stared at the stars and spoke to Kris, whispers that he imagined the moon would carry to wherever Kris was, living or dead.
My love, I stitched little Behroze’s arm today. He makes me think of what you must have been like as a child. Always impetuous, never listening. Always trying to have fun and go his own way. He will leave these mountains when he grows up. I can feel it.
I dreamed about you again. The same dream, the one I always have. Your smile. Your happiness. Ya rouhi, I hope you are happy. Somehow, somewhere. I pray to Allah that you are happy, with every one of my prayers. Your name is always on my lips. Your soul is always in my heart.
There is not a moment that passes where I do not think of you. You are the moon that rose in my darkness, ya rouhi. And I know that I will see you again, my love. I know it, in my soul.
The moon took his words silently every night. Somewhere, Kris was beneath that same moon. Alive or dead, in this life or the next. They saw the same moon every night, and he imagined it was their one connection, a tether that ran from his heart to Kris’s, circling around the moon.
I will see you again.
Now
Chapter 26
Tallinn, Estonia
September 6
Kris rolled his neck as he settled into the last seat on the CIA’s unmarked Gulfstream jet. The others from the mission took seats up front, leaving a wide berth around his back row.
Just the way he liked it.
Up front, the three CIA officers held hostage by Russian president Dimitry Vasiliev during his war games with President McDonough were smiling and popping bottles of beer as they reclined in the front row seats. Banged up and bruised around the edges, they were no worse for wear. President Vasiliev had waited until President McDonough was just about ready to invade before agreeing to release the officers in a pseudo prisoner exchange.
The US didn’t release any Russians back across the Koidula border crossing in Estonia.
A dark van filled with balaclava-wearing Russians had screeched to a stop on the Russian side of the bridge and shoved the three CIA officers out. On the other side, a company of Estonia’s infantry, a platoon of British Royal Marines, and a platoon of US Marines waited, a strong showing of NATO-aligned military.
Kris, and the rest of his team were there, too, matching the Russians, dressed in head-to-toe black.
He’d almost wished it had gone sideways, that he’d had a shot at the Russians. The exchange had been too simple, too easy. He itched for more.
When they landed in DC, he’d head to the gym, try to drum up a sparring partner. Sweat it out with some right hooks and roundhouses.
Or maybe head out for the night. Mike wouldn’t be up for tagging along. He was playing house and settling in with Tom. Finally, Mike had found a good man, and if Tom knew what was good for him, he’d keep Mike happy. The trial of the century was over and done with, Tom had come out on his own, and his best friend, Mike, was happy. Things were looking up, for some, at least.
His skin prickled, a heavy weight, like someone was staring at him. People often stared. Being the CIA’s pariah came with that side effect.
But this was something different.
Kris caught t
he gaze of one the younger Marines. All baby-blue eyes, fresh buzz cut, and an earnest little vibe. He flushed when he saw Kris had caught him, but didn’t look away. His gaze slid down Kris’s body.
Maybe he’d soothe that itch right here, right now.
Kris winked at the Marine and settled back, pretending to sleep. The pilot gave his preflight announcement, calling out the twelve-hour flight time back to DC. Cheers rose from the freed CIA officers. The rest of the team, US Marines and SAD officers, started drifting to sleep soon after the plane lifted off.
He waited, until most everyone was snoring and only a handful were reading by the dim light of the plane’s overheads. Standing, Kris caught the gaze of the young Marine again. He smirked. Dipped his head to the back of the plane.
Kris stepped into the jet’s bathroom—a significant step up from commercial airliners, with enough room to actually move—and waited, door propped open with his boot.
Thirty seconds later, the Marine appeared. He hesitated.
Kris reached for his fly. “You know what to do,” he purred. “Get in here.”
The Marine rushed in, dropping to his knees. As Kris slid the lock closed, a warm pair of lips closed around him. He tipped his head back. Groaned. “Harder.”
Andrews Air Force Base
Maryland
September 7
1100 hours
Kris downed a double vodka and dropped off into a long, post-orgasm nap for the rest of the flight. He didn’t wake until they were already on the ground, already taxiing to the CIA’s hangar.
Kris waited while the rest of the team deplaned, stretching and grabbing their gear and shuffling toward the ramp. The returning CIA officers were welcomed like heroes, their families rushing to meet them. Director Edwards was there, even. He shook the hands of every Marine, every SAD officer.
Except for Kris.
Kris threw his duffel over his shoulder and walked in the opposite direction, toward the hangar and his parked SUV. The director liked to pretend Kris didn’t exist, and Kris felt exactly the same.
“Hey! Uh, wait up a sec.” Footsteps pounded the pavement behind Kris. He stopped, sighing. He didn’t turn around.
“Uhh, hey man.” The Marine came around his side, a flush on his plump cheeks and a bashful grin stretching his lips. “I was wonderin’... could I hit you up sometime? Maybe we could hook up?”
Kris slid his sunglasses on and smirked. “Sorry, kid. Forget you ever met me.”
He left the kid to pick his jaw up off the ground while his unit hollered for him to come back and catch up. A moment later, the Marine raced away.
Kris climbed into his SUV. Watched as the rest of the officers laughed and smiled, welcomed home their colleagues from Moscow. Stood in the sun and were friendly. Happy.
Exhaling, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Push it all away.
A minute later, he started the engine and drove away, heading for Langley. The drive was simple, the traffic light for a change. He badged in at the gate, ignoring the glare from the gate guard as he stared him down with his aviators low on his nose.
In the political hierarchy of the CIA’s parking lots, he’d been relegated to the farthest one. Whatever. He took his time walking in, sauntering with his duffel over his shoulder, slowly smoking a cigarette as he passed by George and Ryan and Dan’s parking spots before he stomped it out in front of Director Edwards’s space.
He dropped his gear in his cube—the farthest in the SAD cubicle farm—and typed up his short after-action report. The rest of the guys were bullshitting over coffee in the break room and planning a beer run at the local bar.
He, of course, wasn’t invited.
He checked his email—reminders about security procedures, range-time information, and a monthly CIA picnic next week—before shutting down his computer. Time to head out. Kris gave the rest of his team a princess wave as he passed by. They glared at him, their conversation going silent.
It would be a wonder if he didn’t get a bullet in the back of the head one day. Friendly fire, blue on blue. He was too gay, he was sure their defense would go. We just snapped. It was one wrist swish too many. One perfectly arched eyebrow too much.
Kris’s boots squeaked to a stop in the wide central hallway of the headquarters building. Should he…
Goddamn it.
There was a tiny part of him that kept him up at night, that ate away at the base of his brain. He’d been ruthless with himself, shutting that voice down. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, there was an emptiness inside of him that just opened wider. Some days, he thought he was a skinsuit walking around with a void inside him, nothing but darkness and bones.
That tiny, tiny part of him kept asking, did it have to be this way?
He glanced down the hall toward CTC. Dan had texted, of course, while he was in Estonia, telling him to be safe. He’d asked Kris to check in when he got back.
That didn’t have to be immediately.
He and Dan weren’t anything.
Though... Dan wanted to change that.
He’d always known how Dan felt about him. From that rooftop in Pakistan fifteen years before, sharing a shitty bottle of chardonnay when Dan had confessed he wanted to take Kris out to dinner. Wine him, dine him. Woo him. But he’d been two months too late. Kris’s heart had already belonged to David.
But fifteen years… Shouldn’t the affection have tempered? He’d thought Dan would have moved on, found his own partner, husband, someone to love. But every time Kris asked, Dan always demurred.
He had been Kris’s best and only friend, until Kris started going to the gay men’s community center events a few years back. Started socializing with other gays again, finally. He’d been like a chrysalis breaking free, a part of his soul resuscitated by rejoining his people. He’d dived in headfirst, desperate for his people, desperate for normality in his life. He hadn’t played volleyball since college, and even then, it had only been to check out the guys on the team, but he’d joined the gay men’s DC league on a whim.
He’d started going out again, too.
At first, he couldn’t quite close the deal, though. Nights out at bars ended with an apology and an “another time” as he slinked toward the door. He’d wanted his people, wanted the energy, the vibe, the thrive. Wanted to be full of the gay life again, have everyone’s gayness pumped straight into his veins, as if he needed a transfusion of gay to come back from the dead.
But he just couldn’t go home with anyone, then. Couldn’t kiss another man and not think of David. Couldn’t look at another man and feel aroused, constantly comparing him to his dead husband.
Every man competed against a ghost, and every man was found wanting.
One night, he’d met Mike, a new gay from out of town, freshly transplanted to DC. Everybody in the bar had wanted him that night, but Mike had zeroed in on Kris. Uh-uh, honey, you’re barking up the wrong tree. He’d wanted to be rid of Mike, send him spinning in another direction. But Mike was fun and kind, gentle when he had no right to be. He’d wanted Kris, and for a moment, a half of a breath, Kris had thought about it. Mike was the only man he’d ever met who reminded him of David, in a way. Who had that same mixture of strength tempered by warmth, and an earnest, honest kindness.
Mike was David without all his ghosts, he’d finally realized.
But he’d told Mike no, no a half-dozen times. Mike asked him out for brunch the next morning instead.
He had shown Mike around DC, given him tips on where to live, what to watch out for, and who the real snakes in the grass were. They’d had dinner, and then drinks, and then that became routine.
Mike never pushed again. And Kris had one more friend.
It was nice, having a friend who didn’t know his entire tragic past. Who had no idea he’d once been Director Edwards’s hand-picked hero. A hero who had made the president crow with pride. But who then had gotten his entire team killed, let his husband be murdered. Who was the s
cum of the CIA, a walking scarlet letter of pure shame.
Of course, he told Mike in fits and starts. The first time, five Martinis too deep into a night that seemed innocuous to Mike, a Thursday, but to Kris was the sixth anniversary of Saqqaf’s death. Two weeks later, he’d ended up a raging mess in Mike’s apartment, six years after David’s proposal.
Dan was the only person alive anymore who knew him. Who truly knew him, every shadow, every dark secret. Dan had refused to let him wallow, refused to let him slip beneath the waves of darkness that tried to suck him to the bottom of his personal abyss. He was Kris’s partner to plays and art galleries, his lunch date, his after-dinner drinks meet-up. It was good. They’d always had an easy friendship.
Four years after David’s death, Dan invited him to be his guest to a dinner honoring CIA leadership. By that time, Dan had been promoted fully onto the leadership track in his own right, managing CTC. He, along with George, the deputy director of the CIA, and Ryan, the new chief of clandestine operations, would all be receiving handshakes and huzzahs from Director Edwards and the president himself.
Inviting Kris to be Dan’s date was the juiciest kind of fuck you, a coup de grace to Kris’s personal relationship with the director, with George, with Ryan, and with the whole CIA.
“You sure you want to even be seen with me? I’m the CIA leper. You’ll catch whatever I have. Soon you’ll be the agency’s most hated.”
Dan had shrugged demurely. “It’d be worth it.” He’d winked. “Especially to see the looks on their faces.”
It was a black-tie affair, and they’d showed up in matching tuxes and holding hands. Director Edwards shook Dan’s hand and ignored Kris, as if he weren’t even there. Ryan had avoided them. George had carefully kept to the opposite side of the ballroom for the entire evening.
They’d flirted outrageously, holding hands through dinner and sharing bites off each other’s forks. They’d made each other laugh, caught each other’s gaze over glasses of champagne.