Page 188 of Whisper

“What’s really interesting is the way all the al-Qaeda branches are throwing their support behind him. Sending blessings to Al-Khorasani, wishing him well on hishegira.”

“Hishegira?” Kris’s eyebrows shot sky-high.

“Yes. One of the reasons why Ryan is going apeshit is… we have no flipping idea what that means.”

“Divine direction to go someplace? Or leave a place? Thehegirarefers to Muhammad’s journey from Mecca to Medina. Traditionally, it’s been used as a call for Muslims to migrate to places where they can live in peace.”

“Buuut,” Dan said carefully, “Jihadists have been militarizing it. Turning a call to peaceful migration into a military injunction to reshape the Middle East, and then the world, into their version of a militant Islamic state. A renewed Caliphate.”

“As part of their apocalypse. Yes, I’m familiar with the eschatology. And so is Al-Khorasani. He’s using the Khorasan hadith as part of his jihadi name.”

“Hegirafor the jihadists has become inextricably tied to jihad. The Prophet moved for war. They move for war. It’s becomethecall to move to a place to conduct jihad against their enemy.”

“So Al-Khorasani is going someplace to wage war. Hardly new behavior for jihadists.”

“Butwhere? We’ve got no intel. We’ve got no idea who this guy is. ‘The stranger from Khorasan’?” Dan threw his arms out wide. “We’re days out from September eleventh, and you know jihadists all love to try something on the anniversary. But all we have to go on is the hope that you might narrow down this list and we can focus on finding former detainees you identify, then try and track them down around the entire globe. So far, we’re running into graves and dead ends. It’s like Al-Khorasani is a ghost.”

“Ghosts don’t exist. He’s a man. Which means we’ll find him.” Kris smirked. “We’re the CIA. We find all men.”

“Thank you for helping. It might give us an actual lead. We’ve bumped everyone into high alert. Sent out threat warnings across US Embassies and to all FBI offices.”

“I’ll look over it tonight.”

“If you want…” Dan inhaled, a sharp, quick breath. “If you want, you can look it over at my place. I won’t be getting out of here until at least the next cable dump comes in from Islamabad, but…” He shrugged. “I can cook you breakfast when I get home.”

Kris looked down. His empty studio, and the ghosts of his pain? Or Dan’s home, his modest Maryland ranch house, comfortably lived-in, always open to Kris?

“I think,” he said carefully, “thatIshould be the one makingyoubreakfast.”

Slowly, Dan smiled, like dawn breaking over the ocean, over a snow-topped mountain, a thousand glittering rainbows falling from the sky. He pulled out his keys and twisted one off, held it out for Kris. “You can keep this.”

Kris took it. Palmed it, taking a deep breath. “I will see you at home.”

“I’ll see you at home,” Dan whispered. He tried, he really tried, to hold back his joy, his galloping exuberance. “Thank you. For… everything.”

“Thankyou. For not giving up.”

“If I knew I just needed to throw a tantrum, I would have years ago.” Dan chuckled.

Kris threw his fortune cookie at him. “All right, I’m gone. You have a ghost to hunt and I have bad guys to remember. I’m going to need a drink to jog my memory.”

“Have one for me.” Dan blew him a quick kiss as Kris grabbed his trench.

He turned at the doorway and blew a gentle kiss back to Dan.

Hecoulddo this.

He drove through DC toward Maryland instead of taking the outer loop. He pulled out at Dupont Circle and drove two blocks, then parked. Walked past the Tap Room, Mike’s go-to joint, and went another two blocks to a small jazz bar tucked into the walk-ups and the streetlamps. It was quieter, someplace he went when he just needed to get out of his head.

Before he went to Dan’s, this time for something other than a fuck-and-go, he needed to say goodbye.

No one knew him there, not like at the Tap Room or his other go-to hookup bars. He could fade into the background, be nobody. Anonymity was a precious, beautiful thing.

He ordered a Cosmo and sat at the corner of the bar, far from the door. It was too early for the live music, too late for dinner, and he was one of the few crowding the place. Couples lingered over drinks at scattered tables here and there. Candlelight threw shadows and whispers of light on the walls.

David. Kris twirled the stem of his Martini glass. Ruby swirls spun, and he stared into the ripples.Is it okay to say goodbye to you? To your memory? Is it okay to move on?

His cocktail was silent. He downed a swallow and set the drink down, watching the ripples form again, crash into each other.Is it okay to look for a piece of happiness again?