by Tal Bauer
“You didn’t, did you? You did not take up arms against the United States…”
“No. I never have. He wanted information. He wanted to corroborate what he was being told by a CIA officer who was passing intelligence to him.”
“The supposed mole?”
“It’s not supposed, Kris. You said you lost five CIA officers in Afghanistan this year. Why do you think that is? Why do you think you’ve suddenly lost so much ground against al-Qaeda in Afghanistan? Why are ambushes against your forces worse now?”
Kris breathed through his nose. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible. But, his mind whirled, calculating who had known about Dawood coming to his home, who had known about that night.
“The mole has been passing along intel to this fighter. Giving him American intelligence, to attack American CIA and military officers.”
“Why? Why would someone in the CIA help al-Qaeda? This is not some MICE scenario.” MICE was the counterintelligence acronym for possible motivations for a traitor. Money, Ideology, Compromise, or Ego. “Al-Qaeda isn’t buying any CIA officer’s loyalty. Al-Qaeda can barely rub two pennies together! And, al-Qaeda would be hard pressed to come up with compromise material that would pressure a CIA officer to give up as much as you’re claiming. They’re not the fucking KGB resurrected. They don’t have that kind of reach. And the only person with any ideology sympathetic to al-Qaeda and the jihadi movement is you.”
“I’m not supportive,” Dawood snapped. “I hate it. I hate the ideology. I hate the war. I hate the killing. That’s not Islam. That’s not the path of Allah.”
“I thought you were on his magic path!” Kris shouted. “That’s why you left me, isn’t it? To follow Allah’s yellow brick road!”
Dawood turned away, muttering under his breath. He spoke with his back to Kris, after a long moment. “The mole was building his bona fides with this fighter. He was proving that he was the real deal. That he was passing on real intel. Like Hamid, all those years ago, did with us. It was classic tradecraft. One hundred percent CIA. And everything he passed along panned out.” Dawood turned. A tear raced from the corner of one eye. “Do you know how sick I was, watching someone in the CIA pass along information that al-Qaeda used to attack Americans?”
“What did you do to stop it, huh?” Kris spread his hands wide, inside his coat pockets, flaring his trench. “Did you seriously just watch Americans die? Do nothing?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out who it is. Trying to gather evidence. And then I was asked to join their biggest mission. Their grand finale, when the mole will strike against the United States in the name of jihad. The mole said it would be bigger than September eleventh.”
Kris stared. His heart pounded again, harder, faster. He swallowed, his throat clenched agonizingly tight.
“This is the path I am on, Kris! This is Allah’s path. All things happen in time. Endure patiently, the Quran, says. With beautiful patience. Walk the path Allah has laid out for you. If I wasn’t kidnapped. If I didn’t stay in the mountains. If I didn’t join the fighters, become their imam. How would I ever have found out about the mole? Been asked to join in the mole’s plan? Be the one person who could stop this?”
It was too much, too much cause and effect, too much destiny, too many ripples in the waters of time and reality. The long years of their lives stretched forward and backward, choices Kris and Dawood had made, apart and together, bringing them to this moment. Afghanistan was a fulcrum, as was September 11. Ghosts lived between his bones, in the hollow spaces of his soul, his broken heart. Ghosts of the past, of his failures. Ghosts of the innocent, ghosts of the damned. Ghosts of Americans and ghosts of Muslims, of Iraqis and Afghans and so many others. He tasted ash in his throat, felt the grit of sand between his teeth.
His knees buckled, his bones, his muscles, letting go of reality, their grip on life that had kept Kris going for a decade, sheer determination in the face of anguish. His hands flew forward, landing in pine needles and dewy ground, fingers scratching through dark dirt. He kneeled, head down, gasping for breath.
It was madness. It was pure, utter madness. Paths through life, choices made to follow destiny or turn your back on it. Ripples in the water, always spreading outward, crashing into each other, cause and effect, action-reaction, always, ever onward.
His mind churned, slowly at first, then faster, sharper.
A dead ambassador in Afghanistan leads to the Soviet invasion, which leads to the CIA supporting the mujahedeen. Which leads to the collapse of Afghanistan, the rise of the Taliban, of al-Qaeda and Bin Laden. Which leads to September 11, and the war in Afghanistan, and the war in Iraq. Justifications for war build up a terrorist who unleashes an army in the lawlessness that follows. His children, drenched in war, raised on hatred, build an apocalyptic Islamic State, try to bring about the end times. Destroy the entire world.
Promises of retribution on both sides, blood for blood, an endless, agonizing war without end.
How had everything gone so irrevocably, irretrievably wrong? Was there anything at all to believe in? Any paths, any destiny, any gods? Was there any way forward from this moment? From Dawood telling him it was paths and destiny that brought them to these woods, through the tangled refuse and the agony of the last decade?
It was fucked up, all of it. It was fucked beyond belief, and he hated it, hated every word Dawood spoke.
But most of all, he hated how he wondered if it was true.
“Kris…” Dawood hovered before him, crouching in the dirt. His hands fluttered in front of Kris, uncertain. “Habibi…”
“Don’t,” Kris spat. “Don’t fucking call me that. I’m not your love.”
“You are,” Dawood breathed. “You always have been. Always will be.”
Kris pushed himself to his feet. Dirt clung to his palms, his knees. Stained his skinny jeans. “If what you’re saying is true, then what the fuck is this big plan? And who is the mole?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out. He arranged transport to the US for me two weeks ago—”
“Through Yemen.”
“Yes. Through Yemen. A cargo ship, and then a human smuggler up the Chesapeake. This phone was waiting for me in a locker at the wharf.” Dawood sighed. “I’ve been trying to find out who he is. He says I have a partner for this attack I’m supposed to execute.”
“Tomorrow? On the anniversary of nine-eleven?”
Dawood nodded. “I haven’t met my partner yet. And I still don’t know who the mole is.” He winced. “I stole your laptop because I thought I could find him. I thought I could figure out who he was if I looked through the CT mission logs, saw who was in charge of those Afghanistan operations. I thought I could prove who he was.”
“I’m not in CT anymore. I haven’t been since Hamid.”
“I didn’t know,” Dawood whispered. “And I didn’t find anything on your laptop. I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something to me? Why did you insist on doing this alone?”
“Once I found out you were alive, I freaked. For two years, I’ve been solely dedicated to this path. To finding the mole. Taking him out. But you… You derailed everything. At the end of the path, you were supposed to be there. We were supposed to be reunited in Paradise. That’s what kept me going. It was okay if I died stopping the mole, if this was my end. Exposing him and preventing this attack. Because I’d be with you again. But—” He shuddered. “Here you are. And you look at me with so much hate in your eyes…”
“Whose fault is that?”
Dawood looked down. “I don’t know if I would do anything differently,” he whispered. “Because I believe I am on this path to stop the mole. To save lives. I am following Allah’s path, I know I am. But I’ve lost you, again.” A sob broke through his voice, shattered his words.
“What proof do you have that this, this story, any of what you’re saying, is true?”
“Just these texts. But if I can
get into the CT database, I can check the mission logs. I can find out who was in charge of those operations. Who had the knowledge, the intel, to pass on to—” He came up short, not saying the jihadi’s name.
Kris rolled his eyes. “You want me to believe this, but you won’t say the name of your jihadist buddy?”
“In a way, they became brothers to me,” Dawood breathed. “Can you blame me for not wanting to sign their death warrants? I’ve seen too many drone strikes. I’ve buried too many of my brothers.”
“You sound just like them.”
“I’m not. I swear to Allah, I swear on us, I’m not.”
Kris paced away from Dawood, shaking his head. He was going to be sick. He was going to vomit until he threw up his heart, his soul. “What exactly is it that you want from me?”
“You wanted me to tell you the truth? That’s what I’m doing. I’m trusting you. I’m asking for your help. I’m asking for you to help me find this mole. Help me search the CT mission logs—”
“Jesus, Dawood, you want me to give you classified information now? You want me to become the mole, become the traitor!”
“No! I want to stop him! My heart is broken over what this mole has done. I’m sick—”
“We all are,” Kris snapped. “You don’t have the monopoly on suffering. You don’t own pain.”
“Who would have access? Who has access to the drone program? To the Afghanistan clandestine operations? To mission intelligence and to military operations?”
It was only a handful of people. Director Edwards, obviously. The deputy director, George. The director of operations, Ryan. The director of CTC, Dan. The head of SAD, Wallace. The Afghanistan station chief. A few others, analysts and deputy directors who crossed agency lines, liaised with the military.
Who of all of them had also known Dawood had been in Kris’s apartment, hadn’t kept his ‘head down’?
“I can’t get you that information. I’m not in CT anymore. And, thanks to your little stunt with my laptop, I’m banned from the building without an armed escort.”
Dawood wilted. His spine seemed to crack in half, his entire soul drooping as he pitched forward.
“But there might be another way.”
University Park, Maryland
September 10
1140 hours
Kris led Dawood to Dan’s house, cursing himself and his fucking stupidity the whole drive.
Dawood parked down the street, well out of sight, and walked casually to Dan’s, meeting Kris at the front door. He eyeballed the key in Kris’s hand. “You have a key?”
Kris glared. “I don’t think you have any business questioning my personal life.”
“The other night, he was at your place—”
“And my actions hurt him very badly.” Kris turned the key in the lock, shoved Dan’s door open. “I shouldn’t have slept with you again.”
“That night meant everything to me,” Dawood whispered.
Kris turned his back on Dawood. “It was a mistake.” He jerked his chin to Dan’s office. “This way.”
Like all senior CIA officers, Dan had a secured home office, modified by the agency’s techs to transmit classified data between Langley and his home. Emergencies arose at all hours, and sometimes there wasn’t time to get to Langley. Dan’s home office was soundproof, swept for bugs once a month, and had a dedicated, encrypted data line going to his computer.
And he had full access to the CIA’s database.
“Stand there.” Kris pointed to the center of the officer, the center of Dan’s throw rug. “Don’t move. Don’t touch anything.”
Dawood fidgeted as Kris slipped behind Dan’s desk, logged in to his computer.
“It’s time for noon prayers,” Dawood said softly. “May I pray here?”
Kris shrugged. “I don’t care. As long as you don’t leave that spot.”
Dawood’s soft voice filled the room, his deep Arabic swimming around Kris’s head, into his soul and around his heart. He bowed, prostrated. Recited from the Quran.
Prayed for Kris, for his happiness. For his soul.
Kris slammed Dan’s keyboard on the desk, typed hard and fast. How dare Dawood pray for him. How dare he. After everything, how dare Dawood even breathe his name, think of him at all.
Mission logs appeared, two years’ worth of Afghanistan operations, a seemingly endless file. Kris sighed. He’d have to sort them, somehow. He scanned for the operations that had failed. Operations where their officers had been killed.
Was it actually possible? Was any of Dawood’s story believable at all?
Could a CIA officer ever work for al-Qaeda?
If he thought it was possible for Dawood, what made it any less believable if the mole were sitting at Langley right now?
Did he have a duty to check it out, explore the possibility?
Or did he have a duty to turn Dawood in, hand his ass to the FBI for interrogation? If a mole did exist, wouldn’t someone other than them, a fallen CIA officer and the CIA’s most hated, be better equipped to find said mole?
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket at the exact same time the search results came back. Five missions with dead CIA officers. He pulled out his cell.
Dan had texted. Hey. Bad news. There’s a fire in Aden, in Yemen. Looks like an oil refinery was deliberately lit up in the middle of the night.
Kris looked up. Stared at Dawood.
Lines from the hadith came back to him, slammed into him like a shotgun to the heart: And a fire will burn forth in Yemen, driving the people to the place of judgment, the final reckoning.
He texted back. [ It’s one of the signs of the Islamic apocalypse. ]
Yeah. We think it’s part of a coordinated attempt to make whatever attack is planned look like part of the Islamic end times.
His vision swam. His fingers scraped against Dan’s desk, scratching in the stillness. Dawood’s Arabic fluttered, the rise and fall of his prayers moving in a careful rhythm.
“Dawood,” he said slowly. “Who is in Yemen?”
Dawood froze.
“Who is in Yemen? Who are you working with?”
“Don’t ask me that. Please.”
“‘And a fire will burn forth in Yemen, driving the people to the place of judgment’,” he recited. “There’s a fucking fire burning in Yemen right now! And you left two of your jihadi brothers there, in Aden! Who the fuck is in Yemen, Dawood? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I have prayed with them!” Dawood cried. “I have lived with them for years, shared tears and joys with them!”
“And I’m just your husband! And this is just your home! Your country! Goddamnit, you haven’t told me the truth!” Jesus, he’d brought an al-Qaeda operative into Dan’s house, into Dan’s CIA home office.
He should have called it in as soon as he’d seen the truck. He should never have listened to Dawood, to his lies. He was such a sucker. Dawood knew exactly how to play him.
“They’re just supposed to set the fire! I was the one sent to America. I was the one who was supposed to carry out the attack. Me, and me alone, with the mole. I didn’t want the others to die! Don’t ask me to send them to their deaths!” Dawood started toward him.
“Stop!” Kris bellowed. Lightning fast, he reached into Dan’s desk, drew his hidden pistol. “Do not come any closer!”
Dawood froze. His eyes went wide, perfect circles. He held up his hands. “I swear, I’m not lying to you, ya rouhi.”
“Shut up!” Kris’s hands trembled. “Just shut up. I don’t want to hear your voice.”
What did he do? What the fuck did he do? If he called the FBI, brought them here, he’d implicate Dan in his fucked-up decisions. Drag him into his shit, again.
Damn it, he had no fucking idea what to believe.
Dawood was in front of him, living, breathing, aching. Talking about conspiracies and begging for Kris’s help, but he had no proof, nothing except his words and a few scattered texts.
What
if those were faked? What if he’d sent them to himself? How easy was it to buy a burner cell phone, create the image of a conspiracy? Convince Kris to get him intel from the CIA’s mission logs with a wild story that pulled on Kris’s heartstrings.
Where was the truth? Could he believe the words of a dead man, a ghost who had chosen to walk away from him, follow a path that split them apart?
He’d always just wanted to know the truth, know what had happened to his David.
But the truth was unbearable, impossible to hold in his heart.
And what Dawood said, the possibilities he presented…
Kris didn’t know how to reconcile the past and the man he knew with his broken heart, his shattered soul. How to take Dawood’s confession, his pleas and his reaching out for Kris after ten years and one night and a morning that had broken Kris in ways he didn’t know he still could break.
He hadn’t known that he could point a gun at the love of his life, either, but—apparently—he could.
Could he pull the trigger? If Dawood moved, if he tried anything?
Were there any right decisions in the world anymore? Between love and hate, destiny and choice, death and life and thousands of ghosts, was there anything left that was right?
Dawood was still frozen, staring at Kris. His face had gone blank. Acceptance lay heavy in his gaze, the weight of fate and destiny across his soul. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much. You have always been the moon inside my darkness.”
Kris blinked fast. Tears burned his eyes, his soul. “You have ten minutes to run. Get as far from here as you can. Forget your plans. Forget your apocalypse. Forget everything you came here for. It’s the only thing I’ll give you. You have one chance to get away. Because in ten minutes, the entire world will be chasing you.”
“I’m not going to stop. I’m going to find this mole somehow. And I’ll do everything I can to stop this attack. Whatever it is. Whatever they want me to do. I won’t do it. I’ll die first.”
“Get the fuck away from here, Dawood. Go back to Yemen. To Afghanistan. To your son. Just get the fuck away from here, and from me.”