Page 166 of Whisper
He knew the limits of his sanity.
Was this his last chance? A way to return to Allah, live a life he could have had with his father before joining Kris in the next life? Their souls were destined to be together.
He would always return to Kris.All the days of the rest of my life are merely hours to pass until we meet again. Our souls will always find each other. I will see you again. Alhamdullilah.
“La ilaha illah Allah,” Abu Adnan chanted softly. He repeated his words, theshahada, the cry of the faithful, the statement of faith. “La ilaha illa Allah.”
Choking, gasping, with tears staining his lips, snot running in rivulets down his upper lip, he whispered along with Abu Adnan. “La ilaha illah Allah.”
There is no God but God.
Oh Baba, Oh Allah. Find me, please. I seek you, I seek you now more than ever. Help me, O Allah, help me. I am lost. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. I can’t go on. Help me. I have lived in the darkness, consumed with anguish. Help me. Help me, Baba, please.
Lines from the Quran, words on his father’s lips, rose like bubbles in his memories.Even if you but whisper, Allah will hear you, always.
“I submit to you,” he breathed. “O Allah, I submit to you. Bring me closer to you.” He gasped, pressing his face against Abu Adnan’s weathered neck. “Take care of my love. Take care of my love while I cannot.”
Kris… You are my moon in the darkness, always.
We will see each other again.
Someday.
Chapter 25
Crystal City, Virginia
May 1, 2011
Kris had an ice pack on his shoulder and one arm in a sling.
He’d returned from the Baltics that afternoon. The Russians were agitating again, and he’d gone to Lithuania to spy on Kaliningrad, and the military buildup the Russians were engaging in. A quick in-and-out trip had turned into a shitshow. But that was par for the course with the Russians these days.
A pain pill, some alcohol, and he’d sleep the whole thing off.
He slid open the silverware drawer and pulled out his wedding ring. He always dumped it in with the spoons before he left on a mission and put it back on when he returned.
Even over two years widowed, he still wore his ring. Still kept to his vows. He was a monk, celibate by devotion to a ghost.
He wasn’t ready. Everything he felt, he channeled into his work. Into SAD. Counterintelligence operations was his specialty.
But not counterterrorism. Nothing anywherenearthe Middle East, or Islamism. He was kept purposefully away from all things Arab. He spent his time in the Arctic Circle, in Eastern Europe. Chasing Russians and playing spy versus spy.
He was a lit fuse at all times, a hair trigger ready to snap, ready to fight. Ready to launch off at anyone who looked askance at him. In the field, he was a brawler. He’d soaked up Muay Thai and Krav Maga, Jujitsu and even straight boxing, in training. Most nights, he hung around the CIA gym, waiting for a sparring partner.
It was the only way he felt anything at all.
He slumped on his couch, legs akimbo, and stared out his giant windows. DC was lit up, the National Mall, the monuments. The dark spill of the Potomac cut through a thousand glowing lights.
He liked looking at the Capitol. Staring down at the bureaucrats who made the decisions that shaped his life. That made him a hero and then an outcast and then a hero again.
Though, of course, all heroes fall. And every gay story ends tragically. Wasn’t that how the world was supposed to work? It wasn’t enough to be brown and gay and outside the lines. He had to taste perfection and then have itallripped away.
Kris imagined he was in a tower overlooking the city. Exiled, forced to watch as the world carried on. As his world was shaped and reshaped by assholes, morons, and idiots.
His phone rang.
It was probably Dan, checking in on him after his mission. He wasn’t up to seeing anyone, but maybe tomorrow they could grab a drink. Dan was his one friend, his only friend in the whole world.
