His aide announced the visit of Roya Hammad. Brody was getting a lot of interest from the press now that he was nominated as Walden's running mate.
Brody greeted her in the way he had learned to. He was a politician now and he was getting good at it. It was all about acting a part, if not outright deception, and he had plenty of experience of that. He stepped in to her, gave her his effusive, bright vote-for-me Congressman greeting, a firm handshake, his charming (he hoped) smile. It was important to get the media on side.
She was very attractive, polished, every bit the glamorous roving reporter. Actually, she was more highbrow, he imagined she would go far and become at least a news anchor, a political commentator maybe. She had the clipped tones of one educated in esteemed old private schools and ever more ancient and revered British universities. She had the well-tailored suit, the killer heels, the tumbling coiffed hair, she smelled good. She was telegenic. She was Pakistani but she wasn't buttoned up and running around in a hijab, she was accessible to America, undeniably female in that classy feline way but still somehow untouchable. Brody could imagine that she got a lot of attention from the old suits in the halls, some of them would patronisingly refer to her as 'exotic'. He imagined that she would shrug that off and just use their prejudice to her advantage. He admired that. Her image was that of a westernised, educated Muslim woman, deliberately less 'other', unthreatening and wholly acceptable to an American audience bred to fear brown skin and those 'rogue nations'. It was obvious that she understood the climate and had cultivated a brand accordingly. Brody didn't really see colour. Not in the way that many people seemed to. When you had been reduced to raw cartilage and a naked whimper, you realised that this was all you really were and this was all the man next to you was too. Not white, not black, not brown. Not one identifier held fast when it really came down to it. Not a man, not a woman, not a Marine, not a journalist. There was something about the way she spoke though, slowly, a very refined drawl that slid round her perfect teeth. Slightly serpentine. They smiled at each other and sat down, something silently rankling him. Her voice and her beautifully light, mesmeric eyes betrayed a contradictory darkness like the lithe miracle of a cobra stealthily rearing up over its prey. She wanted something from him.
After fleeting moments of small talk, she flared her hood and struck.
"Abu Nazir sends his best regards." Her demeanor had changed in a heartbeat.
Brody flinched. This was the fucking CIA again. Had to be. Another honey trap, another beautiful woman sent in to catch him off guard. Did they think he was stupid? His heart was hammering but he thought he hid it okay, he indulged her a few lines about how her family went way back with Nazir's and then he asked Roya to leave. At that point she mentioned Issa and the crows and his slingshot. This was for real. She told him that Nazir needed his help. She explained that Brody was being asked to retrieve information on potential targets from Estes' safe during his briefing with him on homeland security the following day. His stomach churned at the thought of what Nazir would do with information like that. He felt sweat gathering under his hair on his temples. He was fulfilling his part of the bargain, he was using his position as Congressman to influence lawmakers. Helping him in this would make him a terrorist. Brody was not a terrorist. Roya called it a justifiable act of retaliation, said that they were at war, told him that he needed to choose a side. The mere suggestion that Brody could be on the side of Walden was repugnant to him. He had already proven his loyalty to Nazir. Tom Walker was dead. Again.
He suddenly longed to be back at the breakfast table refereeing between Jess and Dana. Brody felt himself being sucked back into the maelstrom, twirling in the eddy, saltwater in his lungs.
