by Bauer, Tal
"My husband is an ambassador."
“Oh yeah? From which nation? Somewhere in Europe?”
“My husband is the ambassador from Saudi Arabia. We're living in Bahrain.” He waited as Jon sighed, long and loud. “I did hook up with some Muslim. He’s a prince.”
“You know...” Jon said slowly. “Mom and Dad could eventually get over the gay thing. But you know they will never get over you hooking up with some Muslim. Not with Dad's history.”
Adam said nothing.
“I thought you joined the Marines to follow in his footsteps? Thought you were going to be just like him?”
“I was.”
“Dad didn't fuck a Muslim in the war. Or run away and join the ragheads.”
“I converted to Islam.” Adam waited.
Jon didn't disappoint Adam’s already low expectations. Jon cursed loudly, a long string of expletives cursing Adam and his stupidity, his feckless loyalty. “You're one of them now, huh? Totally brainwashed.”
“I love my husband. Through him, and through our faith, I found my peace.”
“Look, it's obvious we're never going to agree about this. You wanna be a raghead, you wanna fuck a Muslim? Fine. Whatever. You walked away from this family years ago, so whatever you ended up doing, I knew we weren’t ever going to agree about it. But this? This is stabbing Dad in the back now.”
“Dad has his own issues. His crap isn't on me, Jon. I'm not responsible for what happened in the war, or how he didn't get his head straight.”
“No, you go and sleep with the enemy. Convert to Islam.”
“The enemy—"
“You know what? I'm not going to tell him. I'm not even telling him we talked. He can think you ran away, or that you’re homeless and drugged up on the street. That would be fucking better for him than knowing this.”
Adam clamped his lips shut. He'd always suspected his father would rather he be dead than who he was.
“What do you want me to do with all your shit?” Jon snapped. “Dad kept your dress uniform. He's proud of what you were, what you did. If you love him at all, in any way, let him remember you that way. Don’t fucking tell him what you became.”
He almost told Jon to burn it. Destroy everything. Set fire to his old life, to his family, to the first twenty-eight years of his existence.
Again, his gaze fell on the patio, the slanting sun. Doc's redoubt for months, his bat cave, his tree house. He’d hoped Adam could help him, but he’d pushed Adam away at every turn. We're both running from something.
He closed his eyes. Doc is trying to find the man I used to be.
He fought past the lump in his throat, pushed through his strangled vocal cords. “Send it all to Coleman. I'll take care of it with him.”
“Fine,” Jon snapped. “And, Adam?”
“What?”
“This is the last time we're going to talk. Don't call home. Don't break our parents’ hearts. I'm going to delete your number after this.”
He couldn't speak. He'd been estranged from his family for years, at odds with his older brother since they were old enough to race bikes and swing punches. But he'd never been banished. He'd never been completely cut off.
“Let them think you're dead. It will be easier.” Jon sighed. “Goodbye, Adam. I hope you know what you're fucking doing.”
The call ended.
He felt Faisal before he heard him, the shift in the air around him, the scent of cinnamon and sunlight and amber. Faisal's hand rested on his shoulder as his forehead pressed against the back of Adam's neck. “I'm sorry, habibi.”
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” Faisal slipped his arms around Adam's waist. “You told me once you had a difficult relationship with your family.”
“My dad was in the wars after nine-eleven. Afghanistan, Iraq… He saw everything go to shit there. Almost every one of his friends died in Iraq.”
“Astaghfirullah,” Faisal breathed. “I'm sorry.”
“Screwed up his world. We were kids, my brother and I. Deployment babies. After he came back from training, he knocked up my mom and they got married. After his first tour in Afghanistan, they made me. My memories of him are just... rage. Quiet rage. He never took it out on us or mom, but you could tell he was holding something big in. He used to stare down all the Arabs, any Muslims, whenever we’d go out.”
Faisal's arms tightened. One hand slid up Adam's chest, covering his heart. He felt Faisal's shaking exhale on the back of his neck.
“My family isn't me.” Adam covered Faisal’s hands with his own.
“You have never hated blindly. Or rushed to judge.”
Adams breath hitched. Faisal squeezed him tight, almost too tight, almost hard enough to hurt. Sand and sun swam in his memories. Faisal's words were too close to what they never spoke about. The Darb el-Arba. Blood. A shallow grave.
Faisal kissed the back of his neck again, the touch of his cool lips a benediction for his twisting mind. Exhaling, Adam swept away the sands of the past, pushing the storm away. “I got another call today. From Jason at the embassy.”
“Oh?” Faisal slid beside him, smiling.
“Jason invited me to the officers’ Christmas party at Fifth Fleet. Unofficially, he said. He could bring me in under the radar. Said it would be an opportunity for me to relax with in my old surroundings.”
“Do you want to be around the military again?”
“For a while, I didn't.” Faisal knew that. He'd held Adam through the nightmares, the panic-soaked shrieks in the middle of the night. “Everything went well at the embassy, though. And it was nice to talk to Jason.”
Faisal beamed. “Alhamdulillah. All I want is your happiness, habibi. I'd hoped things would go well that night for you.”
“Are you all right with me going? I wouldn't be attending in any official capacity. Nothing related to the Kingdom.”
“Habibi, of course I am fine with it. I want you to have friends and I want you to have fun. I am happy you're talking to people again.” Faisal kissed him sweetly. “Anything for your happiness, habibi. Always.”
* * *
Aziz drove him to the base, the home of the Fifth Fleet and Naval Forces Central Command, sweeping through the multi-layer checkpoints with Adam’s Saudi Arabian diplomat ID and a personal invitation from Jason.
Adam picked at the long cotton of his thobe, spreading the material over his thigh and smoothing out the wrinkles. Faisal had suggested he wear one of his old suits Faisal had given him. Boss or Armani, bespoke suits handmade for him alone. He would have looked like royalty. “You are royalty,” Faisal had said. “You're married to the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia.”
He felt like an alien in the suit after so long in breezy thobes. The clothes felt too Western, like they belonged to a different person, a different life. “I want to wear my robes,” he'd said.
He wore his thobe and the bisht Uncle Abdul had given him, the charcoal grey with gold piping highlighting his fair skin, his dark hair, his hazel eyes. Faisal had called him beautiful.
He wondered what Jason would say.
They arrived at the officer's club, Aziz pulling to a stop beside a security team of MPs. The sailors seemed so young. Had he commanded Marines that young once? Fitz had been young. Park, too.
He forced the memories away, their faces, like he was wiping away sand. If he couldn't see it, he couldn't reflect on it. He didn't want to see their faces or remember the sound of their voices, the richness of their laughs—
Maybe Doc was right. Maybe he hadn't dealt with any of it yet.
Jason jogged down the steps of the officer’s club as Adam climbed out of the SUV. He did a double take at Adam’s outfit. “You went full Arab I see.” He grinned.
“It's comfortable. I enjoy wearing it.”
Aziz spoke up before Jason steered him away. “Your Highness, I will be waiting for you. Text me when you want to be picked up, sir.”
Jason whistled, long and low, after Aziz pu
lled away. He stared at Adam, assessing him as if files were rearranging in his mind. “So Prince Faisal really is in line for the throne? Even with…” He waved his hand to Adam, his eyebrows arching.
“He is,” Adam said simply.
Jason slapped him on the shoulder and led him up the steps. “I've got a ton of people to introduce you to. Come on in.”
He lost track of how many drinks he was offered. Every time, he politely declined with a gentle shukran. Jason led him from admiral to admiral, ship’s captain to ship’s captain. He was asked to share a bit about himself, about how he'd ended up in the Middle East and married to a member of the royal family. He spoke about his time in Iraq right after officer candidate school, how he'd been recruited for intelligence, thanks to his above average Arabic knowledge and psych scores that said he'd be work well undercover.
Too right they were, he'd often thought. To their detriment.
From Iraq to meeting Faisal, he explained. He ended their story early, swallowing words and thoughts behind a tight smile.
“Do you ever miss it?” one of the commanders asked, a tactical guy from the S2 intel shop. “All this?” He gestured with his whiskey at the view from the officers’ club, the expanse of American warships docked in port. “You ever miss your home?”
For a moment, Adam couldn't speak. Couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. He forced a smile to his face, stretched thin and paper light.
The truth that he'd been avoiding, had been running from ever since the sand and the sun and the first time he'd trekked the Darb el-Arba, chasing blood and a shattered heart and too much agony, exploded. He could see every fractal, every point on the compass, the minutes and seconds on the GPS map of his life. Everything, all of it, had led to Faisal.
“Of course,” he said too brightly. He grinned, a liar’s smile. “Everyone misses their home.”
Faisal, what are you up to right now? Are you reading on the patio if Doc hasn't taken over again? Peeling a mango in the kitchen, your bare bronzed feet whispering over the tiles? Lying in bed in the sheets that smell like sun and gold and honey and your soul? He ached to see across the bay to peer into their home, glimpse Faisal for a moment. A breath.
“Let's grab another,” Jason said, steering him away as the conversation turned to hometowns and high school sweethearts and twenty-year reunions. He guided Adam out to the deck railing, apart from where three admirals were smoking cigars and nursing their bourbon, and away from the junior lieutenants drinking beers and giggling in a tight circle.
He'd been that young once. But he'd already fallen under Faisal’s spell.
“You've picked up so much of the culture,” Jason said. “Including how awful they are at lying.”
Adam stared.
“You don't miss a single bit of this.” Jason winked. He downed a slow swallow of his drink. “You're happy?”
“I am.” He kept his gaze fixed on Jason. “Inshallah, I found my soul mate.”
Jason blinked. An ice cube cracked in his glass. “If only everyone was so lucky.”
A tension still hung in the air, thick enough to fill Adam’s throat, pour down into his belly, and fill his stomach with leaden dread. “If only.”
“And it doesn't bother you,” Jason asked slowly. “Giving everything up? Your home? Your family? Your faith? Your career? Your... nation?”
“I didn't give anything up. I chose this life. I chose this faith, Inshallah. I chose Faisal.”
“To become the husband of the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. I mean, I can see the allure. Your bank account suddenly has a whole lot of commas and zeroes.”
“That has nothing to do with it. I am with the man I love.”
“You're in a uniquely important position, Adam,” Jason said. “No American has ever been this close to the Saudi royal family. No American has ever penetrated the Kingdom’s deepest reaches. Or developed such close relationships with the inner circle of the royals. With someone so close to the king… and the throne.”
Adams heart pounded.
“We didn't know Faisal was the Crown Prince. There were odds on, but he wasn't the favorite. We knew there was something strange with him. No Saudi royal goes from black sheep prince to ambassador of Bahrain in eighteen months. But Crown Prince? Next in line after Abdul al-Saud?” Jason whistled.
“We?”
“You know who I mean.”
Deputy attaché to the ambassador. Of course. How could he be so stupid? “You’re CIA?”
“And you know how this goes.”
Like a movie scene snapping into focus, like a picture suddenly in perfect, painful clarity, Adam saw what was happening. Outside himself, he could see the trap he'd walked into, the chess pieces surrounding him. “You want me to spy for you.”
“Shouldn't be difficult for you. Your career began as an intelligence officer. You know exactly what the value of your position is.”
“You were sent to make contact with me. To try and develop me as a source.”
Jason grinned.
“I'm not interested.” Adam turned back toward the doors to the club. It was past time to go.
Jason grabbed his arm, squeezing above his elbow. “Hold on a moment.”
“Let me go.”
“You're not willing to help your country? Not interested in your own people?”
He said nothing. Black rage seethed in his veins.
“We could pay, you know. If your husband is keeping you on a short leash. If he's not giving you the kind of financial freedom you deserve. Did you guys have a prenup? Do you get an allowance? We can sweeten that up.”
“I already said I'm not interested.” Jason was running down the list of motivations for a potential spy, the motivations to twist and turn and screw into someone to get them to turn against their home country. How many times had he turned people in Iraq, pressing on one of the four screws? Money. Ideology. Compromise. Ego.
He'd appealed to Adam’s patriotism, or lack thereof. Offered him cash. Told him how special he was, how unique.
Which only left—
“Let me go,” Adam growled.
“Does the Arab world know about you and Prince Faisal? You say the king supports you both.” Jason leaned in, whispering in Adam’s ear. “But the king is old. The Saudi military is restless. Will they really believe he supports you both? Or will they turn their support to a royal challenger, someone who won't accept Faisal and you?” Jason leaned back. “Where do you think the US government should fall? Where should our loyalties lie when the time comes?”
Adam shook his arm free.
“Think about it,” Jason breathed. “You wouldn't want your new family to be done wrong.”
“Fuck you,” Adam hissed. He broke free and stormed away.
One phone call and Aziz was there, screeching onto the base after passing security and careening around the perfectly manicured bushes leading up to the club. Aziz clipped a curb, flattened a rose bush. Adam didn't care.
“Adam!” Jason waited at the top of the steps, staring at him. Pure Americana blasted Adam. Christmas carol karaoke, drunken howling. Cigars and cigarettes and whiskey slicked with bourbon mashed with rye and cheap beer. He could read ranks by what a man in uniform drank faster than he could read medals on a chest. “Adam, what do you think is going to happen here? You think you can ignore us?”
“Your Highness.” Aziz stalked around to Adam’s side. He put himself between Jason and Adam and guided Adam into the SUV, into the layers and layers of protective Kevlar and bulletproof glass and a hundred years of Saudi royal blood.
Jason stalked down the steps until he stood outside Adam’s window. Smirking, he tapped on the glass.
Adam lowered the window slightly.
“You gotta ask yourself, Adam. Are you the prodigal son? The joy we have all been waiting for? Come in from the cold,” he whispered. He stared Adam dead in the eyes. “Or are you a traitor?”
Adam ground his teeth. His jaw muscles bulged.
; “Will America be able to count on you when we call for help?”
“I will never betray my family,” Adam hissed. “Never.”
Jason stepped back as Aziz floored the gas, his only warning before shifting straight into second gear.
“What family?” Jason shouted as they screamed off, Aziz careening through the roundabout and demolishing a rose bed before swinging onto the main thoroughfare that led back to the highway.
Aziz was the craziest but best driver in Manama. He got Adam out of the embassy, across two islands, and through Bahrain’s grinding traffic in eleven minutes.
“We’re home,” he said, twisting from the front seat. He froze.
Adam sat with his head in his hands, fighting back the burning urge to rip out his own eyes. Cut off his ears, cut out his tongue. Shred himself into parts, all the parts and pieces the world demanded of him. His fingers curled at his temples, nails digging in to skin hard enough to bleed.
Aziz stayed quiet, letting him sob, letting him ache, letting his soul shred to bits and pieces, debris scattered in the length of his life. His blood that scorned him, that were ashamed of him. His country that saw him as a tool, something useful in their eternal chess game against the world.
Finally, Adam wiped his eyes and his snot and gathered his robes. He didn’t want Faisal to see him like this. Faisal, who’d had such high hopes for the evening, who had sparkled when Adam had said he wanted to get out, connect with more people. Yallah, there is only you, Faisal. Only you in my whole world. I should have learned that years ago. It’s the lesson Allah keeps teaching me, over and over again.
He strode to their front door, pushing through the hurt, pushing it away, pushing it down. He’d compact it all until it was crushed into base emotions. Hurt became anger under pressure, and then rage. He’d crush everything, like carbon became diamonds. Purify his agony into white-hot rage.
He’d done it before. He’d do it again, Allah knew.
There was a note pinned to the door, hanging over the biometric lock. Scrawled across the folded sheet was his name, blocky handwriting in marker. Not Faisal’s delicate script. Faisal would have written in Arabic, and he would have put Habibi.