16

Washington, DC
9:53 AM Friday, January 16

The sky was a glorious blue belying the freezing temperatures that she considered perfect running weather—if she could run. The last twenty-four hours had taken its toll on her body, and the best she could do was a walk. A slow one that allowed the frigid weather to numb her cheeks and nose instantly. If only that numbing would stretch to the dull pain beating in her chest.

Brynn yanked out her earbud, annoyed. The ringing in her ears hadn’t subsided since the explosion. Nor had her nerves. Or the mounting frustration since leaving the hospital. The painful awareness that she was all alone had followed her home, keeping her from sleep as she tried desperately to convince herself the void in her life wasn’t that big of a deal.

Except that was a big fat lie.

Ignoring the aches in her body, she rounded the edge of the Tidal Basin in front of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial. Director Peterson had called first thing this morning to check on her, a gesture she appreciated until he followed it up with the directive to take today and tomorrow off to recover.

Two days off was the last thing she needed, but Peterson wouldn’t hear it. It wasn’t his call. And as if reading her next thoughts, he added that Director Walsh was the one who mentioned that mandatory time off was protocol for SNAP. Peterson also warned her that if he saw her step inside Langley, he’d force her to use every single day of her vacation even if he had to buy her an airline ticket himself.

Brynn had latched on to the humor almost as tightly as she had clung to the concern in Peterson’s voice. He wasn’t her father, but he cared about her, right? Man, she sounded desperate. After filling Peterson in on the events at the farmhouse, part of her wondered how much of his call was out of his growing frustration with her lack of movement on the case rather than his actual concern for her.

She was frustrated with herself. The assignment was becoming more and more complicated, with zero answers as to what was going on or why. With Riad still missing, there was no way the CIA would offer her a consulate position overseas. At this point she was working just to keep her job.

No. It wasn’t about her job. It was about stopping the next 9/11. If Riad was part of some plot to bring terrorism to America, Brynn was going to do everything in her power to stop him.

And the last thing she needed was time off.

Peterson had mentioned Director Walsh’s reassurance that the team would continue to work on the assignment, but no one on the team, not even Jack, was as invested in finding Riad as she was. Not that she didn’t believe in the team. She was beginning to see glimpses of what they brought to the SNAP agency, but to them it was a job. For her it was personal.

Crossing beneath the barren cherry trees, Brynn slowed down as she entered the Roosevelt Memorial. Most visitors missed this secluded memorial on warm days, and on cold days like this one, Brynn had it all to herself.

Normally, a run or walk calmed her, but the struggle warring inside was only bringing more uncertainty to the surface. She needed a break. Walking to a bench across from the large blocks of granite that composed a lovely waterfall when the weather was warmer, Brynn took in Roosevelt’s words etched into the stone.

“I have seen war on land and sea. I have seen blood running from the wounded . . . I have seen the dead in the mud. I have seen cities destroyed . . . I have seen children starving. I have seen the agony of mothers and wives.”

She’d read those words dozens of times, but today they seemed to resonate deep within her. I have seen war . . . She had. Definitely not on a foreign battlefield like a soldier, but she’d witnessed the aftermath of 9/11, the suffering her father endured as his career was stolen, and then his health, and then his wife. So many battles and not a single victory.

Her gaze moved to the next quote. “The structure of world peace cannot be the work of one man, or one party, or one nation . . . it must be a peace which rests on the cooperative effort of the whole world.”

Was that why she wanted her DI-AC program to work so badly? To bring together a coalition of intelligence specialists to wage a battle against terrorism that could only be won if they did it together? The last thing Brynn wanted to see—or hear—were the agonizing cries of those left behind to mop up the bloody aftermath of violent terrorists.

Not only had terrorism stolen the life she once knew inside of her home, it had stolen the life she had beyond it. Friends whose mothers and fathers had been killed were unable to look beyond their grief to understand why Brynn’s father was still alive. They withdrew, leaving her unanchored in the chaos of what she, too, couldn’t understand.

It became a question Brynn struggled with—why had her dad lived and others had not? When people heard the story, they would comment how lucky she was, but that was the last thing she felt. Yes, she was happy her dad was alive, but that came with overwhelming guilt.

Her guilt only increased with her time spent in Somalia. The devastation of warlords tearing the country and lives apart by the thousands pushed her to work harder than ever. The starving and battered faces of Somalians haunted her almost as much as those she saw on 9/11.

A sharp trill sliced through the peacefulness of the memorial. Brynn pulled her cell phone out, her pulse quickening when she saw the unknown number sequence that usually came when CIA operators dispatched calls . . . Joel.

“This is Brynn Taylor.”

“Brynn, it’s Joel.” There was an echo after he spoke. “I’ve got an update.”

And now her pulse was racing. “What is it?”

“It’s possible Riad wasn’t only looking for Moustafa Ali. His wife said he began going to a mosque in Heliopolis.”

Brynn’s breath clouded on the cold air. A memory played in her mind. “That can’t be right, Joel. Riad’s Coptic.” Not only was that fact stated in his dossier, but Riad had a small black cross tattooed on the inside of his right wrist. A traditional and outward symbol of his faith.

“You’re right, which is why his wife believed it had something to do with his job. I met with an asset who said the imam at the mosque has connections to wealthy members who are willing to invest in the propagation of Islam. If a member is in good standing, meets certain criteria, then they are provided with the means to travel to the West.”

“Is that how Moustafa came to America?”

“I’m not sure, but we reached out to Moustafa’s family, and the last time they spoke with him he mentioned attending a mosque in DC, Sidi Mosque. But—”

“Hold on.” Brynn brought her phone in front of her. She quickly searched the Sidi Al-Rahman Mosque, but it wasn’t in DC, it was in Fairfax. A surge of energy pulsed through Brynn, pushing her off the bench. Pressing the phone back to her ear, she controlled her voice. “The Sidi Al-Rahman Mosque is a block away from Fairfax Towne Centre, where we spotted Riad.”

“Brynn, listen.” Joel’s tone was ominous. “The imam at the mosque is Joseph Ansari. He’s an originating member of the mosque, a prominent figure within the American-Islamic community, and an informant for the FBI.”

Almost three hours later, Brynn was perched inside a coffee shop a block away from the shopping center where she’d last seen Riad. In front of her was a red-brick building with a green metal sign over the awning that read “Sidi Al-Rahman Mosque.” Friday services began at noon, and she’d made sure to arrive early enough to spot Joseph Ansari when he entered.

Playing with her piece of coffee cake, Brynn checked the time on her phone. An hour had passed. Enough time for her to learn that Ansari had been a professor of religious studies in Belgium before moving his wife and son to the United States to begin a teaching job at Georgetown. He had a son and two grandsons, all of whom lived together within walking distance of the mosque.

“Would you like anything else?” The same girl who’d taken her order was wiping down a table next to Brynn’s.

The doors to the mosque opened, and men began exiting the building.

“No thank you,” Brynn said, grabbing what was left of her pastry and tossing it into the trash on her way out.

Outside, she tugged her coat tighter, trying to cut out the chill seeping into her bones. January in DC was the worst, and on top of it, the beautiful blue skies from that morning had been overrun with gray clouds that came with an epic snowstorm predicted in the next few days.

Scanning the crowd, Brynn spotted Mr. Ansari chatting with another man. Hanging back, she waited until he was done and walking away from the mosque before approaching him.

“Mr. Ansari.”

He stopped, turned, and looked her up and down. “Yes?”

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

There was no hiding the flash of suspicion in his eyes. “Do I know you?”

Brynn stepped closer to the man. “Um, no, but I wanted to ask you if you’ve seen a friend of mine. Remon Riad?”

She let the name-drop slip on a gust of wind, watching Mr. Ansari’s reaction. His suspicion morphed into surprise and then fear as his eyes darted around them.

“Who are you?”

“A friend of Mr. Riad. Have you seen him?”

Mr. Ansari closed the distance between them, his eyes still searching the busy street around them. “If you are who I think you are, then you are wrong to have come to me.”

Brynn’s adrenaline spiked. Did he know she was with the CIA? Did that mean Riad had met with him? “Have you spoken with Riad?”

Something caught Mr. Ansari’s attention behind Brynn. She glanced over her shoulder to see a woman pushing a stroller and a man walking into the coffee shop she had just left. Nothing out of the ordinary . . .

Mr. Ansari cleared his throat, pulling her attention back to him. He smiled politely and gestured ahead of him. “My son is expecting me home for lunch. Shall we walk?”

She forced a smile and began walking next to him. “Mr. Ansari—”

“I do not know who Remon Riad is.”

Brynn looked at him, but Mr. Ansari stared straight ahead. “But you said . . .” Actually, she thought back on his response to her first question about Riad. Mr. Ansari had said nothing about him. Only commented on who she was. “Do you think I’m with the FBI?”

His eyes flickered to her for only a second. “Who else?”

She wouldn’t answer that. “Remon Riad is looking for a family friend, Moustafa Ali.”

Mr. Ansari’s jaw tensed. “I cannot help you or Mr. Riad.”

“You cannot or will not?” Brynn stopped walking, her toes and fingers painfully numb. “Mr. Ansari, I need your help, please.”

He slowed to a stop, his shoulders rising with an inhale of air before turning and walking back to her. “I do not know this Remon Riad, but I remember Moustafa. He was a student of our teaching, but I have not seen him for several weeks.”

“Do you know where I can find Moustafa?”

Mr. Ansari’s eyes dimmed. “I do not.”

Brynn wasn’t sure he was being truthful but decided not to press. “What can you tell me about him? Moustafa. Did he ever appear to have . . .” She swallowed, unsure of how to word her question.

“Did he believe in Islamic extremism? Have the tendencies of a terrorist? Want to blow up a plane?” Mr. Ansari’s directness shocked her. He smiled. “No, my dear. I did not perceive that to be the case with Moustafa. Although . . .”

Mr. Ansari’s forehead furrowed in thought, and Brynn felt herself holding her breath.

“I remember him to be a bright young man, and last I saw him, he seemed very excited about an opportunity—”

“What opportunity?” Brynn interrupted, earning her that teacherly look of disappointment. “Sorry.”

“I do not know, but I can assume that like most boys his age, whatever it was held the promise of bigger and better.” Mr. Ansari shrugged on an exhale. “So many these days are looking for the next opportunity and missing the blessing that is often right in front of them.”

Just as his words burrowed into her soul, a cutting gust of wind stole the breath out of her lungs and she shivered.

“I do not wish to keep you any longer.” He tipped his chin down, a kind smile on his lips. “I wish you the best of luck finding your friend.”

Before Brynn could respond, he turned and resumed his walk home. Disappointed at the lack of information, she shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets. Her fingers hit her cell phone, reminding her what Riley had said about the mosque in Egypt.

Turning her head, she saw Mr. Ansari approaching an intersection. He pressed the crosswalk button and waited. Brynn hurried toward him, momentarily cut off by a couple pushing a stroller. She stepped aside so they could pass and then met Mr. Ansari.

“Sir, I wanted to ask if you’d look at a couple of pho—”

“Ms.—” Mr. Ansari turned to her, his eyes wide. He clutched his chest. “My . . . chest.”

“Mr. Ansari, what’s wrong?”

The color drained from his face, his lips parting to gasp for air. “My chest. It . . . I cannot get breath.”

He began to sway before his knees started to buckle. Brynn grabbed for him right before he collapsed. “Hold on, Mr. Ansari, hold on.”