Page 123 of Whisper

“La,” David shook his head. “I do not love you.”

“You are a dirtykufir,” Mousa spat. “You mean nothing. You should be killed where you stand.”

David’s throat clenched. His fingers dug into his folded arms, his elbows, again. The world spun, like a top out of control. “I had to postpone isha prayer because I had to capture you. I haven’t said my night prayers yet. But, as you know, the Prophet,salla Allahu alayhi wa sallam,prayed for the entire night, giving thanks to Allah as often as he could. So, I will go pray. You should pray too. Pray anistikhara. Ask Allah for guidance. Ask for his forgiveness.”

His words tasted like rot, like decay. Like lies.

Mousa tried to surge out of the chair, tried to rush David. His restraints held him back. He looked like a chained dog, foaming at the mouth, fury in his cold eyes. “You are no Muslim!”

“Taqabal Allah.”May God receive your prayers. “You need to repent, Mousa. Theummahhas abandoned you. Allah has abandoned you. Why do you think you are here, with us, tonight? Allah delivered you to me.”

He walked away.

Mousa bellowed curses at David’s back, struggling to break free. He cursed David’s existence, called down Allah to burn him alive, condemned him to death. His shouts descended into blind wails, growls of fury, of frustration.

David watched from the observation room, waiting.

Kris, standing behind Mousa in the shadows, slipped around and stood in front of him. Mousa jolted. He’d thought he was alone.

Kris wore the same black fatigues as the strike team. He stared Mousa down, crossed his arms over his chest. “I am going to question you about your involvement with Saqqaf.”

“I have no involvement with Saqqaf.”

“I know everything about you, Mousa. I’ve listened to all of your calls. I’ve read all of your emails. I’ve listened to your wives’ phone calls. I listen to them call their mothers, their sisters, in secret, even when you’ve forbidden them to. I know things about them that you do not.”

Mousa bared his teeth. Pulled at his restraints. “I have nothing to do with Saqqaf,” he spat.

“I am trying to respect you. Honor your position as Saqqaf’s right hand. Did you not help plan the destruction of the Askari Shrine?”

Mousa’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing.

“Of course you did. Mousa, I know you. I’ve captured all your friends. Every one of your brothers has sat in that chair. They’ve all told me so much about you. So much, in fact, that it feels like we are brothers as well.” Kris let a tiny, wry smile curl his lips. “Tell me, how is Abu Abdel? Has he recovered from his injuries?”

Mousa shifted. The first crack appeared. Unease spilled over his features.

“You cared for Abu Abdel. Personally carried him from the battle. The brothers speak highly of you, you know. They say you are their leader. Theiremir. That you are the Sheikh’s right hand, his favorite of all the brothers. But now, you’re telling me that you don’t even know him?” Kris feigned disappointment. He screwed up his face. “How loyal are you, truly? To turn your back on the Sheikh? On your brothers?”

“Ilovethe Sheikh!” Mousa shouted. “Saqqaf is the future! He will lead the Caliphate to the final battle, to the day when Islam will triumph over the armies of the cross! Until all infidels are destroyed, and the rivers overflow with your blood!”

“Ah.” Kris smiled. “So youdoknow him.”

Mousa fumed.

“We will find your Sheikh. We will find him. We’re getting close. It’s only a matter of time. We’ll find him, like we found you. We’ll capture him. I’ll sit him in the same chair you’re sitting in.”

Mousa’s eyes blazed. His uncertainty vanished. A slow smile pulled his lips apart.

Outside the interrogation cell, David cursed.No, damn it.

“The Sheikh will fight you until his last breath. He will sacrifice himself in the battle against thekufirand thetakfirand your infidel West. He will bathe in your blood and dance on the dust of your bones, spread the ashes of your body, and the bodies of those you love, across the corners of the world. You willnevercapture him alive.”

Kris tried to restart Mousa’s interrogation three times during the night. Mousa refused to speak any further, shutting down and retreating into himself. He chanted prayers, calling down Allah to punish the wicked and the infidels. Kris left him for the final time as Mousa asked Allah to strike Kris down where he stood.

David, exhausted, paced in Kris’s makeshift office. The strike team’s command center was quieting, the day shift coming in to monitor drone feeds and open-source intel, scoop up phone calls and emails and pick through the raw intelligence from the night’s raids. The strike team, and Kris and General Carter, were going to rest before it all started again at sunset.

“I slipped up. I gave him an opening to reinforce Saqqaf’s appeal for martyrdom.”

“He was always a long shot. Mousa’s a true die-hard believer in Saqqaf’s brutality.”