Page 84 of Undercover Shadow
“The tea shop,” I blurted, spotting a familiar storefront. “Can we stop?”
The driver looked to Tag, who nodded. Inside, the elderly owner looked up from his newspaper, his face lighting with recognition.
“Leila?”
“Hello, Uncle Mahmoud.” He wasn’t really my uncle, but in Damascus, all family friends of a certain age were aunts and uncles.
He came around the counter and embraced me. “I wondered if I’d ever see you again,habibti.”
“I need Ahmad’s Blend,” I said, naming the tea Idris had loved. “Loose.”
Understanding crossed his face. He prepared a small bag containing the blend I’d requested—sage, mint, and black tea that Idris would buy weekly. The smell brought back mornings in our kitchen.
“No charge,” Uncle Mahmoud said when I reached for my wallet.
I kissed his cheeks in thanks and returned to the SUV, clutching the small bag like a talisman.
The cemeterywhere my brother was buried sat on a hill outside the city, surrounded by olive trees. The security detail who’d accompanied us from the airfield spread out, giving us space while maintaining a perimeter. Tag carried the flowers I’d chosen—white roses for purity, purple irises for valor, and baby’s breath for everlasting love. I carried the tea and a small bottle of Turkish coffee I’d bought at the airport.
Idris’ grave stood in the eastern corner, facing Mecca. It was simple and white. No name was shown, but I still knew it. I’d always know it.
Beloved Son and Brother
In every blade of grass is the story of the universe.
The quote was Rumi, of course. I traced the letters with trembling fingers.
“Hello, brother,” I whispered. “The codes you left me—you saved the world.” My voice broke. “McLaren died activating them, but she knew I had them because of you. She said ‘Damascus codes’ with her last breath, and I understood because you hid them in memories of Damascus. Of us.”
I opened the bag of tea, sprinkling some over the grave—an old tradition our father had taught us. The coffee came next, poured in a small circle around the headstone.
“Your favorite,” I said. “Too much sugar, just how you liked it. The man responsible for your death is dead. The network behind him is destroyed. Justice isn’t the same as having you back, but it’s something.”
Tag knelt beside me, placing the flowers against the stone. “Rest well, brother,” he said in Arabic—a phrase I’d taught him.
“Thank you,” I whispered to the stone. “For teaching me to be brave. For loving me. For leading me to the man you trusted. Who loves me as much as I love him.”
A wind swept through the olive trees, and for just a moment, I could almost hear an oud playing somewhere in the distance. It was probably my imagination, but it made me smile.
We stayed for a few more minutes in respectful silence, then walked back through the cemetery hand in hand. But instead of returning directly to the city, Tag asked the driver to take the mountain road.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
The road wound up Mount Qasioun, and I realized where he was taking me—it was the same overlook where Idris had brought me when I was sixteen, where all of Damascus spread out like a jewel box. We stopped at a pull-off, and Tag dismissed the security detail to a respectful distance.
The city lay before us, golden in the late-afternoon light. The same view Idris had shown me all those years ago. “Remember where you come from,” he’d said. “But don’t let it limit where you go.”
“You knew about this place?” I asked Tag.
“Idris mentioned it once. He said it was special to the two of you.”
We sat on the ancient stone wall, legs dangling over the edge like children. The silence between us was comfortable, filled with the distant sounds of the city below—car horns, the call to prayer, life continuing despite everything.
“Leila?” The way he said my name made me turn to face him, and when I did, I watched as he pulled a small velvet box from his pocket.
“Tag?”
