Page 252 of Whisper
Kris flipped the letter from Director Edwards over. The gratitude of a grateful nation was all well and good. But there was ten years of bitterness in the water under that bridge. Ten years of isolation, of backs turned on him and the memory of his husband.
The next sheet was a reinstatement into the CIA, signed and sealed by the director, for Dawood Haddad.
Kris was listed as his official spouse.
It included his salary information from a decade before and the automatic promotions he would have been eligible to receive. Every year was there, added and tabulated, with interest calculated.Total back pay to be disbursed,the last line read.$2 million.
“This belongs to him. And to you. To both of you. No matter what.” George fumbled, trying to find the right words.
Kris shook his head. “This is the right thing to do. He’s always been with us.”
“I know. It’s only a start, though. If he wanted to continue, if he wants to come back… He’s welcome.” George cleared his throat. “As are you.”
Kris laughed, hollow and empty. “George… I think I’m done with the CIA.”
He was, finally, just done. The guilt that had seized his life, that had propelled him forward. The certainty that he had to toil, for his entire life, to undo the failures, the wrongs of September 11.
But he’d given hisall, and then more, until he was stripped raw. He’d given the CIA, the nation, everything he had to give, and then he’d kept going. He’d lived with ghosts for so long, the heavy weight of their lives hanging off his bones, grinding the spaces between his joints, that he’d gotten used to the pull of their shame.
And when they’d gone, he’d replaced their haunting with his own self-shame, his own recrimination. The noose around his neck wasn’t of the past, or the dead, or his failings anymore. It was only him, only his own deluge of anguish and the stifling suffocation of his deepest self-loathing.
He’d failed, before. He’d failed to stop September 11. He’d failed to stop Hamid.
But he’d done some things right, as well. He hadn’t lost his soul, hadn’t hijacked the hatred of al-Qaeda, of ISIS, and started living in their twisted brand of hate. Hadn’t hitched his soul to a black hole and ridden the collapse until he’d perverted into whatever it was that Dan had become. Something ugly and evil. Something that was against the world and everyone in it.
The balance of his life was set. His deeds were done. The days of saving the world were beyond him. Someone else, someone younger, would have to step up, step into the void and fight the good fight. Fight the battle between losing your soul over the edges of inhumanity and stopping the rise of evil, from all corners of the globe, looking to hurt. To kill. In any way evil could.
Nietzsche once said,Beware when fighting monsters, you do not become a monster yourself. For when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you.
Kris had stood on the edge of the abyss and peered down. Dan had plunged headfirst, as had Noam. As had Saqqaf, and Zahawi, and Bin Laden, and so many others.
Dawood had been his anchor, his fixed Northern Star, keeping him grounded on the firmament, keeping him from tumbling into the darkness.
Memories and ghosts and promises lived in his bones. He’d carried them for half his life. It was time to let them go.
It was time to start living forhim.
Him and Dawood.
Ryan hovered behind George, staring at Dawood for a long moment before flicking his gaze to Kris. “Can we… can we talk?”
Part of him didn’t want to. Ryan and he had history, sixteen years of animosity and snapping at each other, and the disastrous Hamid op that had sealed the uncrossable gulf between them, an impenetrable divide.
But, Ryan had held him as he’d come undone on the banks of the Potomac. And he’d hunted Al Jabal until he was dead, until he was nothing but ash, had devoted his entire being to hunting Dawood’s torturer and killer. There were redeemable moments in his life. Was there more Kris couldn’t see?
“Sure. I need a coffee anyway.”
“I’ll buy.”
George took Kris’s seat beside Dawood, watching over him with his hands pressed together, fingers against his lips like he was praying over Dawood. Maybe he had his own confessions to give, his own words to say in the silence, for Dawood’s ears alone.
Ryan shuffled to the door and held it open for him, looking as uncomfortable as hell, then fell into step as Kris headed on autopilot for the hospital’s cafeteria. There was a coffee stand there that made a decent sludge, enough to keep him awake for a few more hours. Ryan bought two cups and guided him to a table in the corner, settling in the chair backed against the wall.
Ryan batted his coffee cup back and forth as Kris crossed his legs. Sipped his coffee and stared at Ryan.
Ryan licked his lips. Pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “For… everything.”
“Everything is pretty big.” Kris shifted. Sighed. “What do you mean?”
