Page 219 of Whisper
“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 isyou.”
“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.
“Thisis the path I am on, Kris!Thisis 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 wastrue.
“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.”
