Page 95 of Whisper
David flinched in Kris’s arms as a massive shower of ruby sparks burst above their heads, sizzling into streamers that fell like tracer rounds.
They huddled in Kris’s apartment through the long weekend, not coming up for air until Kris had to report back to CTC.
David spent all but two days of his stabilization time with Kris. They made love until they couldn’t, laid in each other’s arms until they started and finished each other’s thoughts, each other’s sentences. Kris took David into DC, to the National Mall and the Smithsonian, to museums and restaurants. They were as careful in DC as they were in Kabul and Islamabad about being seen together, about being physically affectionate in public. Furtive handholds hidden in close bodies, quick clasps of fingers beneath tables. Some nights they slipped out to one of the handful of gay bars in DC, where they could sit side by side, kiss, dance together. Make out in the bathroom until they had to slide into a bathroom stall and relieve the pressure before making out in a taxi all the way back to Kris’s apartment.
David had jeans and t-shirts in his duffel, and nothing else. Kris took him shopping, opening up his wardrobe to shorts and chinos, breezy tees and linen button-downs, casual cutoffs and fitted polos. Low-cut flats and airy sandals squatted side by side with tan work boots and boat shoes, and David’s cracked combat boots, still gray from Afghanistan’s dust. David got a corner of his closet, then a bar, then one entire half. David’s toiletries cluttered one side of Kris’s sink. For three weeks, they lived together in all the ways they’d wanted to and hadn’t admitted out loud.
Two days before he was due back, David kissed Kris and made love to him for hours, until he thought he’d die. After, he drove away, heading for Richmond, Virginia, and his mother. He spent hours on the phone with Kris that night, lying in his teenage bed in his mother’s home.
“Does she know?” Kris asked.
“No. She asks me every time I come when I’m going to make her a grandmother. When I’m going to bring home a nice girl for her to meet.”
“Think you’ll ever tell her?”
David sighed. “My mother wears the veil and goes to the mosque three times a week. She’s one of the masjid’s main sisters. I used to think it was just my father who believed so strongly, but…”
Kris kept his mouth shut. He didn’t say any of the false platitudes, like,“You’re her son,”or“Her love for you will be stronger than anything.”Because that wasn’t true, not most of the time. Passive avoidance was better than the explosion, lies that were kept in the head and the heart better than the certainty of banishment. Kris and his mother had never said the words. Did she know? Or did Kris delude himself into thinking he would still have her love if he told her the truth?
“Come back next weekend, if you can?”
“Of course.”
Summer turned to fall. On September 12, the president, speaking to the UN General Assembly, announced his intention to go to war in Iraq.
In October, Congress passed the Iraq Resolution, giving the president the authority to use any means necessary to remove Saddam Hussein from power.
At CTC,Iraqwas the word on everyone’s lips, a hum that started softly, whispers in dark corners that grew to a dull roar, a headache that couldn’t be ignored. Pressure mounted from the White House, demanding a link between al-Qaeda and Iraq. Kris was pulled into the special working group, ricocheting between the White House and Langley.
“Find the connection,”he was ordered.“Find it now.”
All he could think wasZahawi. Zahawi and his certainty America would invade. Zahawi muttering the hadith.
It’s next, in the prophecies. To fall. The armies of Khorasan will come through Iraq. The battle with the West will be there. America is going to invade.
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
November 2002
“Haddad, you have new orders. You are joining Detachment 391. Their linguist is out and you’ve been tapped as their replacement. They’re already in training. Report immediately to Captain Diaz.” His colonel, bright and early in the morning, pulled him and Captain Palmer into his office.
“Colonel, what is 391’s mission?” David’s stomach sank as Palmer went unnaturally still, his legs and jaw locking.
“Don’t be a moron, Haddad. You know exactly where 391 is going.”
CIA Director’s Conference Room
Langley, Virginia
December 2002
“I have to say, I am incredibly disappointed.” The vice president scowled across the table. “I expected more from the CIA.”
Kris, sitting to the right of Director Thatcher, stiffened. The vice president, in a shockingly unusual visit, had come to the CIA. He’d walked into headquarters, strode through the halls, and had sat with Director Thatcher’s handpicked team in the strategic heart of the CIA, where every major operation had been decided for decades.
“I cannot understand why the CIA hasn’t uncovered the intelligence the Pentagon has.” The vice president stared at Director Thatcher. “There are mountains of information proving a link between al-Qaeda, Bin Laden, and Saddam Hussein. Why don’t you people see the connections?” He shook his head. “The CIA has got some real problems.”
“Sir, we’d like to go over the intelligence your office has developed, step-by-step, and compare it to the sourcing and analysis our office has collected,” Thatcher rumbled.
