Page 73 of Whisper
Most people living in Faisalabad lived on less than five dollars a day. And most were fierce adherents to a firebrand fundamentalist Islam, married to a violent rage. Life in Faisalabad was epically shitty. Why not desperately wish to turn to the past, to the golden days of Islam, when life was vibrant, peaceful, and Muslims were regarded as the enlightened intellectuals of the world? Why not crave that historical power again? Everything to blame in Faisalabad was the West’s fault, anyway. For putting them at the bottom of the world order.
Going into Faisalabad meant working undercover. David and his team dressed in salwar kameezes, breezy tunics and linen pants. They’d kept their thick beards from Afghanistan. David blended in the best, with his bronze skin and his native Arabic, and he played the part of a foreign fighter working the streets. He was the point man for all of Kris’s operations.
Kris watched David take to the mission like a fish to water, seamlessly blending into the passionate Islamic fundamentalism. Even in Faisalabad, David moved like he knew how to live in a city on the edge, under the thumb of oppression and desperate poverty. There was something there, something Kris wanted to ask about, but couldn’t. Not yet.
Kris, slender, even with his added muscles from the war in Afghanistan, played the part of David’s wife. He donned a hijab and the head-to-toeabaya. He tied aniqabaround his face, peered out of the narrow eye slit, and kept his body hidden from view under the sweep of black. Hisabayacollected filth from the streets as he swept over puddles of sewage, walked up and down dusty alleys. To add to the disguise, Kris lined his eyes with kohl, like the local women did.
David couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Kris and David walked the streets as if they were married, scoping out all thirteen properties. They found squat mudbrick homes, small one-room huts with corrugated tin roofs, and shacks on the edge of slums. Hatred seethed from the slum, like a physical pulse.
“We can’t take the entire slum. But there are al-Qaeda fighters in there, for sure.”
“Zahawi is the target. We have to find him.”
The last location was a large house, almost a villa, built of cinder blocks, three stories tall and surrounded by an eight-foot privacy fence. Every window was closed and shuttered. In the sweltering one-hundred-degree heat and humidity, that stood out like an electric sign in the sky, pointing straight down. All of Faisalabad had thrown open their doors and windows, trying to cool down with the limp, rotten breeze.
All of Faisalabad, save for them.
“Bad news in there.” David leaned into Kris.
Sweat poured down Kris’s back. He was roasting, nearly passing out under theabaya. “No one keeps their windows closed. Not in this heat.”
“Let’s get back to the safe house.”
George had rented a safe house in Faisalabad, paying cash for a villa in the wealthy sector of town. The mansion had fourteen bedrooms, twelve sitting rooms, and a huge plot of land, surrounded by a giant fence that kept all curious onlookers far away. From the roof, they had satellite connections with seven different communications relays, from the CIA to the military. The team lived in the safe house and rotated surveillance on each of Zahawi’s locations.
A backup team from Langley was sent in, too, to help share the load. They’d arrived while David and Kris were off in Faisalabad’s reaches, hunting for al-Qaeda.
“Kris!” Dan Wright, Kris’s mentor at Langley, jogged to him when he and David returned to the safe house and wrapped Kris up in a hug, holding on for longer than Kris would have expected. “God, it’s good to see you again.”
They caught up that night, sitting together on the roof. Dan had brought three bottles of wine, and he and Kris downed shitty chardonnay as they sat in lawn chairs and tried to breathe through their mouths, tried to not smell the fetid stench of Faisalabad.
“You blew the door open, Kris.” Dan held out his plastic cup of white wine for a toast. “You blew the door for all us gays open. Going to Afghanistan and kicking ass.”
Kris’s jaw dropped. “Us gays? Dan?”
“I entered the CIA before you. When it was still not allowed.”
It was only in 1996 that the law had changed, allowing homosexuals to legally possess security clearances. Prior to 1996, any gay man or woman was considered a liability, someone who could be blackmailed, someone untrustworthy. Someone not allowed into the hallowed halls of the national security establishment.
“I loved that you never played the bullshit games.” Dan smiled at him, his eyes bright. Glowing. “You never tried to hide. I wanted to help you. Wanted to see you succeed. And,Goddamn. Did you ever.”
“I just did my job.”
“You did a hell of a job. You’re a fantastic officer, Kris. And you’re paving the way for everyone after you. No one thinks twice anymore about us.”
“You going to come out?”
Dan winked at him over the rim of his cup. “If there was someone to come out for.”
Kris froze.
“I always wanted to ask you to dinner. Back in DC. I’ve always wanted to get to know you better.” He leaned forward, fiddling with his wine. “Maybe, after this is over, we could try? The Marriott in Islamabad isn’t the Capital Grille in DC, but…” Hope infused Dan’s words. “I just really want to spend some time with you.”
“Dan…” Kris squeezed his eyes closed, leaned forward. His head hung between his slumped shoulders. “Dan, I’m sorry. I’m seeing someone.”
Shock pushed Dan back. “Oh. I didn’t know. I thought you were single, in DC—”
