Author's Note:

Relevant Turkish terms:
"çocuk" means "child"

Like the opening chapter, this closing chapter is one scene rather than many spread over a course of time, with a rotating point of view between the three characters.

Thank you very, very much for reading – I hope you enjoy this final act.

"One is easily fooled by that which one loves." - Moliere, La Tartuffe

The Deception Act

West Valley, California, March 2010.

He was relieved to see that the French doors were closed when he entered the house. Through the glass, he could see his mother stirring tea on the kitchen island, looking up from her work to talk to a man in a gray business suit. Behrooz had a faint idea of who this person was, but didn't think about it. He moved up the stairs as quickly as possible, hoping his parents wouldn't notice his return.

She'd handed him the note with no explanation. He wasn't sure why she hadn't just told him whatever she'd needed to when they were in the car. As nerve-wracking as letting Debbie drive him home had been, the thought of his parents finding the note on him was worse. Behrooz closed the door to his room softly, and tossed his bag onto his bed. Sitting in the chair in front of his desk, he took the folded paper out of his pocket. He noticed girls seemed to have a ritual for this kind of thing – the notebook paper was folded into a neat square that was no larger than his palm. On the front, his name was written in loopy, girlish handwriting with a heart next to it.

All that work for something she could have just told him in the car. He decided it wasn't worth trying to understand.

Behrooz thought he dimly heard the doors open below. In spite of it, he quickly unfolded the note, carefully flattening the creases with his fingers. He listened to the voices downstairs as his eyes sped over Debbie's message – an invitation to some sort of get-together next Saturday. His mind went back to the voices downstairs, and he mildly wondered if he was going to be available next week. Behrooz looked to the cordless phone on his desk, but with the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs he panicked slightly and hastily folded the note back up. As his bedroom door opened, he tossed the page onto the desk and looked up to see his mother at the frame.

"Your father would like you to come downstairs," she told him. He nodded and walked past her into the hall, trying to ignore that gaze which only reminded him that even if he was quiet and inconspicuous, she could still see right through him.

"How much does he know?"

"Just about the first phase," Navi answered, noticing Marwan's eyes on Dina as she climbed up the stairs. "We thought anything more might overwhelm him."

Marwan's eyes scrutinized him for a moment. "And you don't want him to be a risk if he ends up in the wrong hands."

Navi turned away, looking up to the empty landing at the top of the stairs. "There's no reason for it to come to that," he said confidently. "His role is relatively short."

Marwan just nodded, and moved away from the stairs as the boy's footsteps approached them. Navi noticed Behrooz's sense of apprehension – the way his eyes flashed between the two men below him, focusing cautiously on his father as reached the floor.

"You asked for me?" His eyes went to Marwan, who was picking up his briefcase. The two shared a glance before Navi spoke.

"Do you remember this man?" Navi asked, putting a hand on his son's shoulder and moving him closer between them.

"Yes," Behrooz said quietly. Marwan stepped forward and embraced the boy, who looked up to his father as though for instruction as he returned the gesture.

"It's good to see you again," Marwan told him. Behrooz nodded faintly in return, and Marwan looked briefly to Navi before heading out the front door. Both Navi and Behrooz waited silently as they heard a car start up outside, and pull out of the driveway. As the sound dissipated, Navi turned toward the kitchen, aware of his son's eyes on him.

"Was there something else?" Behrooz asked. He looked inclined to head back up the stairs, but Navi motioned him to follow as he walked through the open doors. They went through the kitchen and into the next room, where Behrooz stood as Navi sat across from the computer.

"Your mother and I may not be home until late in the evening for the next few days," Navi said, not looking at his son.

"I understand," Behrooz replied. Navi looked up at him, his face obscured by the darkness, lit only by the blue glow of the computer monitor. He took his son's hand, and for a moment felt almost like telling him everything. Of how blood would wash into the streets like Americans had never seen before. He wanted to see his son's eyes glow with the retribution that was so tantalizingly close.

"This is the time when we have to be silent, Behrooz," he said instead. "You shouldn't bring attention to yourself."

"I know," he answered quickly. Navi could tell he wanted to go back upstairs. Adequately satisfied with his son's responses, he let the boy leave.

He'd given his wife more than enough time.

When Behrooz stepped back into his room, and he felt as though his knees would give out. His mother was sitting back in the chair next to the desk, a neatly folded square of notebook paper between her fingers, appearing to examine every detail of the way his name was written on it. She looked up when he entered, and leaned forward, not taking her eyes off him.

"Who is this from?" she asked, holding the note up. Behrooz briefly searched his mind for some sort of excuse, but he knew she could tell when he was lying. When he didn't say anything, she stood up, and gently moved him into the room. She peered out into the hall, and closed the door

"We told you to end it," she said quietly, still holding the note between her fingers. Behrooz looked down at her hand, feeling as though she could get him to say anything if he looked at her eyes. He knew he couldn't deceive her, but didn't want to give in to her, either.

"It's old-"

"Don't lie to me," she hissed, taking his face and forcing him to look to her. Her harsh tone and smoldering expression scared him for a moment, but her face changed, and she released him.

"You don't know what you're doing, Behrooz," she sighed, looking back down at the folded square of paper. "There is more to this than you understand."

"You don't understand!" he shot back before he could stop himself. His mother looked up and he felt most of his courage wane. "She's not part of this," he continued in a much smaller voice.

"Everything that affects you is part of this," his mother's low voice seemed to slip under his skin, her eyes boring into him. Behrooz didn't look away as she kept her eyes on him, and slipped the note into her pocket. She glanced away, then back up to him as she turned. Without thinking, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back to face him.

"Please don't tell him," he asked, trying not to sound anxious. His mother looked down at his hand on her arm, and then slowly back up at him.

"Let go, çocuk," she said gently, but he could sense the anger burning under her words, and didn't release her. Instead, his grasp on her grew tighter.

"Mom, don't." Her eyebrows raised just enough for Behrooz to see that she was surprised. And for that moment, he hated her. The way she'd look right through him, the way she'd stand quietly by his father, the way she'd continue to lie to him and he would just keep believing her. He wanted to shove her against the wall and tell her he didn't care about their cause or bringing Heller to justice or any of it – that he hated her for forcing him into this, for making him helpless to something that didn't affect him. He hated her for every awkward pause or change of subject when his friends asked about his parents, for every moment he had to fear of what would happen if either found out that he acted just like every other American teenager.

He hated her because she made him love her, despite all of it, and she knew it. She didn't move or look away from him, and his grip on her arm loosened.

"You'll end it," his mother said quietly. Behrooz didn't say anything, but released her. She touched her arm where he'd held her, and gave him a final, stoic glance before leaving the room.

"Did you find anything?"

"No." Dina collapsed into the white armchair, feeling as though she'd left her soul upstairs. She rested her eyes for a minute, her fingers tracing her arm where her son had grabbed her. When she opened her eyes, she saw Navi looking at her from the chair in front of the computer.

"You're not protecting him, are you?"

"That's ridiculous," she got up and walked across the room, leaning over his shoulder to see what he was working on, but he closed the window and stood.

"Navi, in a few days, it won't matter –"

"Of course it will matter!" he snapped, turning back to face her. "If he's disloyal to us, to the cause, that matters."

"He's not disloyal to us–"

"He's not disloyal to you–"

"What does that mean?" Dina shouted. Navi paused and looked to the computer monitor for a moment, as though trying to formulate what to say.

"I know how you deal with him, Dina," he said quietly, not looking at her. "But if you let him affect your judgment –"

"You're overreacting, Navi," Dina leaned closer to him, but he still didn't look at her.

"Am I?" She turned away, acting exasperated, but he touched her shoulder and brought her back to face him.

"Yes, you are," Dina said coldly, "I know how to control our son." Navi pulled her closer to him, and she knew he understood her veiled affront.

"If you become too close to him," he whispered dangerously, "he can begin to control you."

Dina pushed his hand off her shoulder and stepped away, trying to block his words from her mind.

"He doesn't trust you."

"You shouldn't trust him."

"Should I trust you?" she snapped. He turned away from her, and for a moment, the tension between them cooled.

"This doesn't matter," he said finally, turning back to her. She looked at the wall and tried to clear her mind as he came closer to her. "What is important is that we focus on what is about to happen. I know you long for it as much as I do."

She kept her eyes on the wall. Dina wanted to taste blood. She wanted to see them fall and writhe in the torment of their own creation. This flared under her skin, a smoking revenge she'd learned to keep inside herself. But it only grew worse when she thought of her son.

"This is just as much for him as it is for us, Navi," she whispered, not looking at him. "I'm doing this for him."

He walked out of the room, and she sat down and in front of the computer and closed her eyes, wondering if she believed herself.

Acknowledgements:
Thanks to the CIA World Factbook, and many other websites for information on Turkish culture, language, and how long a flight from Ankara to Los Angeles would likely take. Google makes research infinitely simpler.
Thanks to beta readers Hills and Rachel. Your comments and corrections were greatly appreciated.
Thanks to the 24 writers and Shohreh Aghdashloo, Nestor Serrano, and Jonathan Ahdout for creating these ridiculously interesting and complex characters to take over my brain.
Thank you very, very much for reading your way through this whole fic. I commend you :)