Page 257 of Whisper
Dawood sighed. “I’m sure they’ve seen the news reports. I’m now officially known as an undercover CIA officer who’d penetrated terrorist cells for years. I sent Ihsan an email. Tried to tell him I had to stop Dan. That he was ruining Islam, was just as terrible as ISIS. That we weren’t like that.Iwasn’t like that. That my jihad was to preserve the best of our faith.”
“Did he reply?”
Dawood shook his head. “I gave their names to the State Department. The ambassador in Yemen is quietly asking to track them down. They’ll be arrested. Ihsan will be deported to Saudi, go to one of the deradicalization camps the Kingdom has established. After that, he will have his life back. And hopefully he can find his peace in this life. Abu Dujana…” He sighed again. “I hope he finds peace, but I doubt it will be in this life.”
Kris squeezed his hand, wrapped his arm around Dawood’s waist. “You were right to keep their names hidden. Dan would have had them executed.”
They walked in silence, letting the stream babble, the leaves crunch beneath their feet as Dawood whispered a prayer to the men he once knew, men who had been a part of his life, not quite friends, not quite enemies. Human beings he’d walked his path with. Brothers.
“I officially resigned from the CIA this morning.” Kris leaned his head against Dawood’s shoulder. “I was offered an early retirement by Director Edwards. I accepted.”
“I didn’t expect what they did for me.” The back pay, the letter of commendation, the public glory as an undercover officer. Though the public face was to blur over Dan’s heinous betrayal, the CIA had worked overtime to turn Dawood Haddad into the nation’s hero. It was nice, for once, to be the good guy.
Even Dawood’s star on the Memorial Wall had been filled in with gold, commemorating a returned hero once thought lost.
There wasn’t going to be a star for Dan. His body had been buried without fanfare in a municipal cemetery in Maryland. Only George and Ryan had watched the casket go into the ground.
“We’re free.” Kris squeezed Dawood’s hand. “Free to do whatever we want. Wherever we want. Do you want to move overseas?” Would Dawood like it better in the Middle East? Would he want to go back to Libya, if the civil war ever settled down? Would he want to live in Dubai, or Kuwait? Or go to Behroze in Islamabad? “I’ll come with you.”
“You have a life here, Kris. You’ve lived in DC since you were eighteen. More than half your life.”
“More than half my life has been lived in war zones.”
“What about your friends? Mike and Tom?”
They’d had dinner at Tom’s house two nights after Dawood was released from the hospital. Tom was a gracious and wonderful host, and he’d fed them a banquet of Middle Eastern and American foods. Dawood had eaten half his body weight in burgers and hummus, in kebabs and shawarma. Mike had acted like he’d met a superhero, like he’d met Captain America himself. Wide-eyed and starstruck, he’d hung on Dawood’s every word, all night long.
“They are wonderful people,” Dawood said softly. “I like them. I would like to spend more time with them.”
The park petered out, returning to the suburban bustle of McLean, to a shady street that boasted homes and churches and a café on the corner. Dawood turned right, heading up the street.
Kris frowned. “Will living here be enough for you?”
Dawood stopped outside a white building with a squat minaret, a short tower that blended in with the trees and the other buildings on the block. A sign on the fence read “The Al-Fatiha Masjid. An MPV mosque.”
Dawood lifted Kris’s fingers to his lips. “I wanted to bring you here. Show you this mosque.” He kissed Kris’s fingers, slowly. “I want this to be my home. Where I worship for the rest of my life.”
“So you do want to stay? Here, with me?”
“I do. Especially with you.” Dawood nuzzled Kris’s fingers against his cheek. “And I want you to be a part of this. A part of my life here. I’m not asking you to convert. But I want you to feel welcome here, with me. In every part of my life.”
Kris shifted. He swallowed. “Are we welcome? Won’t we have to hide?”
Dawood smiled. “Come. Let me introduce you to the imam.”
Hand in hand, they walked into the mosque, passing beneath a canopy of magnolias and a cypress tree, the leaves whispering on the DC wind. The mosque’s foyer glittered with inlaid mosaics, and along one wall, theshahada, done in a rainbow of colors.
“Habibi!” A voice from the masjid cried out. Footsteps, rushing toward them, the imam coming to them both. Dawood squeezed Kris’s hand, refused to let go.
The imam wrapped both arms around Dawood gently, avoiding his right arm in its sling, and kissed both his cheeks. “I have seen you in the news! You saved everyone,habibi.Undercover CIA hero saves the nation from terrorist cell!Bismillah, you are a hero, and truly, Allah has worked through you.”
Dawood flushed. He turned to Kris, lifted their joined hands. “Imam Youssef, this is my husband, Kris.”
Imam Youssef beamed, and he pulled Kris into a hug, kissing him on both cheeks three times. “Your husband spoke about you. He did not do you justice,habibi. You are more beautiful in person.”
Dazed, Kris blinked, his jaw hanging open. He looked from Imam Youssef to Dawood and back.
Imam Youssef grinned. “This is an MPV mosque. Muslims for Progressive Values. There are only a dozen in the United States, but we are growing. We accept everyone. All Muslims, no matter what. We embrace women, and gays, and lesbians, and anyone else as leaders in our faith. One of the leaders of my prayer groups is a woman. Another is a gay man, married, like yourselves. We welcome absolutely everyone here.”
