Page 211 of Whisper
He’d thought he had, when they married. The happiest he’d ever seen Dawood had been that month. His proposal, their elopement. Their new house. He’d thought he could heal all of Dawood’s anguish with his love, paint new love over old wounds, old cracks in his soul. That if they came together, their souls could fix the broken parts within each of them. That’s how Kris had felt, for so long.
Why wasn’t he enough for Dawoodnow?
He stuttered and stopped, coming back to himself as Dan cleared his throat. The dull, plain walls of the interrogation room came back into focus, the dust in the corners, the chipped plastic table. He shifted in the hard seat, folding his arms. “That’s him,” he said, shrugging. “At least, that was him. Up until ten years ago.”
Nodding, Dan kept writing. He frowned, wearing that look of concentration Kris saw whenever Dan was puzzling through something, when he was tackling something huge.
“Okay…” Dan tapped his pen against his notepad. He took a deep breath. “There’s no one profile of someone who is susceptible to radicalization or terrorism, no one standard identification matrix. But there are commonalities. Recurrent patterns that have cropped up. Haddad… fits a lot of it.”
Kris exhaled slowly.
“Most radicalized individuals are second generation Muslims. They’ve been well integrated into society for the most part, until they experience a break with society. Prison, a shock to the system, something that radically alters their paradigm. Radicalization occurs after, and psychological pressures build within that individual, until an opportunity presents itself to lash out at what the individual believes are ‘evil’ entities.”
“There are exceptions—” Kris started.
“These characteristics are, on the whole, stable.” Dan seemed to pity him, for a moment. “Most radicals are ‘born-again’ Muslims who revert to Islam after a secular life. There is sometimes a shame component, a desire to wipe away some perceived sins of the secular life. But there’s a sudden renewal of religious observances. Prayers, rituals, devotions.”
Dawood bowing in his apartment, praying to Allah beneath the light of the moon. Leaving Kris’s arms to pray. His voice, murmuring in Arabic.
Kris wiped away a tear that hovered at the corner of his eye.
“There’s also the radicals’hegira. They typically choose to leave their home. Their family, their country. They separate from whatever society they were a part of, remove themselves to another place, a place where they can practice their pure, idealized form of Islam. The Islamic State and al-Qaeda both capitalized on this from the Quran. ‘Migrate for the faith’.”
“And then move again, for jihad,” Kris choked out.
Dan’s phone chimed, and he swiped to answer a call. “Ryan? I’m with Kris. We’re working. Yes, I know.”
Kris wiped another tear with the back of his hand. Had Dawood thought he’d needed to leave? Had he hidden in Afghanistan, radicalizing away from Kris? He should have gone there, should have crawled through the mountains until he found Dawood.
Why was Dawood back,now—
Fuck.
He froze. Inhaled, his spine going rigid. “Jesus, no…”
“I’ll let you know if we build any leads from our profile,” Dan said, nodding along as Ryan growled over the line. “Good luck at the FBI.” Dan hung up. “Ryan’s offsite, heading over to FBI headquarters to work with them on the hunt for Haddad—”
“It’s him,” Kris whispered. “Al-Khorasani.”
“What?” Dan frowned.
“Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani. The ‘Stranger from Khorasan’, on hishegira.” Kris’s voice warped, twisted by a sob rising within him. “That’s why he’s here…”
Dan’s jaw hung slack as he stared at Kris. “You really think he’s capable of that?”
“I don’t want to.” Kris tapped their notes, the pictures. “If you didn’t know him. If you were just looking at the profile, what would you think?”
Dan frowned. His jaw still hung open. “He’s your husband—”
“Was. Hewasmy husband.” Kris swallowed. “I don’t think I know who he is anymore. Or what he’s capable of.”
“But you really think he can dothat? Attack the United States—"
“He fits the profile. He is a stranger, at least to Afghanistan. To the West now, as well. He comes from Afghanistan.Khorasan. Where he’s been for almost ten years.” Kris scrubbed one hand down his face, held it over his mouth. “And, Al-Khorasani’s message? He was with me for all my interrogations. He was with me for Abu Zahawi. I got that part about Muslim pain fromhim. He’s the one who said it first,” Kris breathed. “In Afghanistan.”
Dan stared. His lips moved, but nothing came out.
“It’s him. I know it’s him. DawoodisAl Dakhil Al-Khorasani.” Kris shook his head, even as tears built in his eyes, tumbled from his lashes, blurred out Dan and the world. “He’s here for a reason. He didn’t come back for me. He didn’t even know I was alive. Something else brought him here, this week. And he stole my laptop. Heusedme.Us, our memory.”
