LONGER CHAPTER - PLEASE BE AWARE - THERE IS SOME ALLUDING TO WHAT MIGHT BE TRIGGERING FOR SOME. I NEVER KNOW HOW TO WARN PEOPLE WITHOUT GIVING IT AWAY. I WONDER IF I SHOULD JUST LET YOU KNOW - THIS IS RATED M FOR A REASON. BE A SMART READER. IDK. I'LL FIGURE THAT OUT LATER.
ENJOY. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.
The live feed played on Isabelle's laptop on her desk. Much to her joy and irritation, she'd needed a translator in her ear to help her keep up with the rapid way Emma could speak with Amira. Sure, she could make her way through the language, but this was something else. Through her time working in the field, she'd been able to hold her own in Arabic, but nothing like what Emma was able to rattle off. But, compared to the other agents who had tried to question Amira, Isabelle could see how that fluency and natural speech had changed the asset's body language, even from the beginning.
Isabelle kept trying to remind herself of those things. Otherwise, she'd have crumbled under the fear that she'd sent her goddaughter into the field with little experience.
But the fact that Amira was speaking with Emma was a miracle. Even her body language was more open, especially after Emma had shared her own personal journey. And that was the point of the job, Isabelle reiterated.
As Emma began moving more into informational things, Isabelle looked up to the deputy Director. "I'm due at the White House for a briefing about the uranium theft. Will you take over here?"
Relinquishing her place at the desk, Isabelle grabbed her jacket and briefcase, put the updates from the agents in the field at the Syrian desk into her briefcase, and walked out of the office.
She didn't stop worrying the entire way to the White House.
Isabelle had begged Emma to tell her mother from the moment Emma had taken the job, almost a year ago. Normally, agents were only able to tell their spouses or very significant others about the truth regarding their job. While spouses needed to know to keep from very intense assumptions being made when agents disappeared without contact for days or weeks on end, in general, the Agency wanted to keep everyone else in an agent's life from knowing. The fewer people who knew, the better the secret would be kept.
But. That was different with Emma. Not because she was Isabelle's goddaughter, but because Emma's mother had the highest security clearance in the entire country. Elizabeth, as President, was the top in the top-secret chain of command.
Which was why Isabelle had been so crestfallen when Emma declined to inform her mother.
Sure, there was a selfish reason. Isabelle knew that keeping Emma's involvement in the CIA from Elizabeth could easily backfire on her. It had never been her intention to keep her best friend from knowing.
And if Emma hadn't shown potential she hadn't seen in a long time, Isabelle wouldn't have even considered recruiting her. Having watched Emma's response to Craig Sterling and Lydia Dalton – how she'd mentally gone through each scenario, calculated the risk for each option, and meticulously planned step by step – Isabelle couldn't overlook that. How careful Emma had been to keep the secrets that needed to be kept until she had all the information she needed. And then seeing how Emma could handle herself under intense pressure at Lydia's trial – Isabelle had tried to wait as long as possible to reach out to Emma, but she couldn't let a person with so much to offer go to waste.
She hadn't seen potential like Emma had since Isabelle had gone through training with Elizabeth.
As the car pulled into the back entrance of the White House, Isabelle again felt the pit in her stomach. Seeing the grandeur, the vast power that this place gave off, she knew if and when that came out, she'd be feeling the wrath of the entire administration from Bess' mighty hand. Especially when Bess had promoted her to CIA Director three weeks before she'd offered Emma the job.
Walking down the hallway towards the Oval, Isabelle prayed she hadn't done the wrong thing. She'd have a better chance of surviving Bess' anger if Emma was back home at a desk. But, after watching Emma over the feed, Isabelle knew she'd made the right decision. At least she told herself that.
And Isabelle was thankful that the only reason she was at the White House was to brief Bess on the report from Syria about the stolen uranium. If the case progressed as she saw it progressing, Isabelle could get Emma home and back to a desk without Elizabeth knowing anything about it.
That was the goal.
Blake stood up, buttoning his jacket, as he said, "She's ready for you."
Isabelle nodded her thanks, and then entered the office.
Secretary of Defense Becker and Admiral Hill were already seated on the couches in the office. Elizabeth sat in the chair facing away from her desk.
"Isabelle," Bess acknowledged and gestured for her to take a spot. "Did you get the update from Defense?"
"I did." Isabelle chose the armchair directly across from Elizabeth. Sitting down, she pulled out her files and listened into the conversation, catching her bearings. Leaving the Baghdad interrogation out of her mind.
"From the ballistic report from the attack, we're confident in our identification of the origination of the weapons." Gordon said, "We've had a watch out for these weapons."
Flipping through pages she'd brought with her, Isabelle added, "The arms dealer, Omar Shaaban." She cleared her throat, "We've had him on our radar for a while. He operates out of Syria, from what we can tell." And she started listing, "Illegal arms dealing, sex trafficking, as well as possible ties with the Saraya al Mukhar terrorist group in Bahrain."
Admiral Hill said, "And we've intercepted a few of his shipments through the Persian Gulf in the past few years, but we've been unable to apprehend him."
Isabelle looked up as Gordon went through the different weapons they could tie to Omar, but she already had that information. Instead her attention went to her oldest and closest friend.
She could see the wear on Elizabeth that today had taken. Her normally open personality was clouded with seriousness. A seriousness that Isabelle could read through. Worry. Elizabeth watched Gordon with eyes that were holding back. Her legs were crossed, and her foot bounced as she listened. Her elbow rested on the arm of the chair while she fiddled with her earring. Wisps of her hair fell from her updo, trailing down the sides of her face.
Isabelle wished she could help her friend.
Well – she could. Catching whoever had stolen the uranium.
Elizabeth's voice pulled Isabelle from her observations.
"So just because Shaaban's weapons were involved in the attack," Elizabeth thought out loud, "That doesn't mean he is the one who orchestrated the attack, right?"
Isabelle nodded, "Right."
"We're working through our list of possible buyers of those weapons." Gordon said, "But, unfortunately, guys like this don't exactly keep paper trails."
Elizabeth moved her hand from her ear to her chin, thinking. "Do we have anyone who might have knowledge of that?"
"Well." Gordon said, "Weapons used at the attack on the nuclear base have also been used by Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, who we believe funded the attack by Hezbollah on Gaza."
Isabelle tried to keep her cool as she scoured the report.
"Do we have an inroad with anyone from that attack?" Elizabeth asked.
Isabelle frantically read through. And she talked as she was looking, "Well, I'm not sure if they're connected, but we recently have found intel about another major financial influencer in the attack on Gaza."
She could hear the understanding in Elizabeth's voice. "The raid on the compound where we had mistaken intel that Behrouz Milad would be?"
Isabelle cussed in her head. But she kept a calm exterior. "Yes."
"And you were able to keep an asset from that attack?" Ellen Hill asked.
Isabelle nodded, "We were."
"And?" Elizabeth asked.
Isabelle cussed again in her head. And she said, "It's been slow going getting the asset to talk." Sure, that sounded good, right? She looked up from the paperwork and met Elizabeth's eyes. "We have an agent with her right now." Isabelle was glad for spy training at that moment.
Elizabeth stood up and said, "Well, see if you can get some intel on Shaaban's involvement – if she knows anything in that sense."
Everyone stood up, knowing the meeting was over.
"Of course." Isabelle agreed, her heart pounding with hidden knowledge.
"Continue to update me with any pressing information."
They all agreed, and Isabelle was glad she was closest to the door. She needed to get out of there. Get the information to Emma. Isabelle was still reeling from the possibility that Amira might be connected to the missing uranium. And that she'd sent the agent best suited for the job. They needed someone who could get through to Amira. And, so far, Isabelle felt confident she'd made the right decision. But that was liable to change.
"Ma'am."
Elizabeth could still see Ellen Hill walking from the office when Blake called her attention.
"Yes?" She asked, looking over her glasses to where he stood. And something was wrong. He was nervously moving back and forth.
And he opened his mouth, then closed it, looked at the pad of paper in his hands, then back up again. "Well, Ma'am… I, um… contacted Charlotte."
She sat down behind the desk, leaning back. Expectancy pulled her attention in. "And…?"
He cleared his throat. Then the words spilled out. "Well, Ma'am, she said that she was in the middle of the school day. And that she, um…" He swallowed again, "…would rather not… um… speak with you."
Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. She took off her glasses. And asked, "Wait, she said what?"
"She said she'd rather not speak with you."
It wasn't just Blake's delivery of the message that told Elizabeth that this was unprecedented. And the disbelief surrounded each word as she said, "She said she wouldn't speak with me?" She paused, "The president? She does know that when I ask for a meeting with someone, I get it? Does she know that heads of state drop everything when I want to meet with them? Does she know that?" She took a breath, then asked again, "She said she wouldn't speak with me?"
Blake just nodded. Then added, "Well, said that she'd rather not."
Elizabeth had always had a feeling about Charlotte. From that day in court, where Charlotte had insisted that Elizabeth let Emma figure it out, Elizabeth had bad vibes regarding that girl. And the last conversation they'd had, where Charlotte had openly argued with Elizabeth about Emma, played through in her mind.
The uncertainty regarding Emma and the fight with Henry all combined with this last slight, and Elizabeth shook her head. And said to Blake, "Call her back." Her voice grew louder, "It's not a request this time. I want her in my office."
Blake looked uncertain. "So you want me to tell her…?"
"I don't care what you tell her." Elizabeth snapped. "I don't care if you have to send the Goddamn Navy Seals out to bring that schoolteacher to my office, I want her here. Is that clear?"
Blake overenthusiastically nodded, "Crystal, Ma'am."
When he shut the door behind him, Elizabeth fought the urge to throw something. To kick something. To pound something.
She was the goddamn president. And she'd get what she wanted.
Emma set down the containers with food from the mess down on the metal table in front of Amira. After finally feeling like she'd found an inroad with Amira, Emma hadn't wanted to push too hard right away. So she'd stepped away and gotten them both some food – looked to be beans and rice with some sort of green lumpy vegetable on the side.
In Arabic, she said, "Sorry, this was all they had."
Still, the smell reminded Emma how hungry she was at the moment. Refusing to use brain space to calculate when she'd had her last meal, Emma handed the girl across the table a set of silverware.
The confused look on Amira's face reminded Emma.
Until she remembered, "Wait." And then she pulled out naan bread she'd snagged from the kitchen. "Bread."
Soon they were both eating, Amira faster than Emma.
"I hate to brag," Emma said with a smile on her face, "But I could make better rice than this."
Amira nodded in agreement. "I don't think it would be hard to make anything better than this."
Emma laughed. In between bites, she casually asked, "Can we talk about where you're from?"
"About four marhalas east of Damascus."
Four village-lengths from Damascus. "A small village?"
"Just a few families." Came the reply with food in her mouth.
"Do you miss it?"
Amira shook her head. "No. It was not a good place to be."
"No?" Emma asked, attempting to sound uninterested in the conversation. "No stores with candy there?"
"No. Not that." Amira said quietly. "Many men came through there."
Emma understood.
But she let Amira talk.
"My father. He had no money. My little brother and sister were hungry."
Emma knew enough about the region to know where it was going.
"We had nothing. So I went to work for a man who took me away from my family."
It wasn't a news story. It wasn't something uncommon. In some cases, it was like an indentured servant, where after a few years of work, the child was allowed to go back home. In other cases, especially with girls, they were considered ruined and their fathers wouldn't let them come back home. Emma didn't need that explained to her. She'd seen enough of that throughout the years.
Emma just let it sit. She didn't want it to seem like what it was – an interrogation. She let it sit in the space.
"Did that happen to you?" Amira asked, pushing aside the now empty food container. "When you were here?"
"It did." She said, being honest. "I was sold to someone for work." She wished it got easier to talk about. It didn't. But at least she was talking with someone who might benefit from talking about it with. Then she added, "But it wasn't just for work."
Amira nodded, folding her hands back in her lap.
Emma knew she had to keep going with the questions. So she pushed away from the current topic. And asked, "Were you in Syria long?"
"No. I was ten when my father sold me." Amira stared off into the distance, which was just the wall behind them. But Emma knew Amira wasn't looking at the wall, but at the past. "I don't really know where we went. It was dark sometimes. And you lose track of time."
"You do." Emma said from experience. "Then when you try to figure it out, you have no frame of reference for what happened when."
"Yes."
Emma knew she had to get into the pressing issue. So she took a deep breath. "The other agents here, they told me about where they found you." Amira flinched at the thought. She didn't want Amira to close up by having to give all the information, so Emma tried to fill that in. "We don't have to talk about what went on, please don't feel that." If only Emma had been told the same thing. Emma waited until Amira was looking at her before Emma asked, "But do you remember anything about who it was that was keeping you there?"
Emma pushed away her own thoughts and memories. That would be another time to think about. Right now, she watched as Amira sat there, like a statue, viewing in her mind things from the past. She could see the fear and pain on her face. Her lips drawn tight. Her shoulders caving in, trying to protect herself from the memories.
But Emma waited.
Gave it time.
"I don't want to talk about him." A pitiful plea came from the broken girl.
Emma nodded. "I know you don't want to." No one would've.
She tried to think about what she would've wanted someone to say to her. What would have helped her in that moment?
Then, softly, Emma asked, "Can I tell you why I was asking the question?"
Confusion drew Amira's eyebrows, and she questioned, "Why would you do that?"
"Because." Emma said, adjusting in her chair so she sat farther back from the table. Giving Amira some physical space to herself. "I want to make sure you know that I'm not just asking because that's what I'm supposed to do." Emma took a breath, imagining the child in her, that sixteen-year-old, sitting in that debriefing room. And she knew what she had needed in that moment. And she desperately wanted to give that to the girl now sitting across from her. "It's not fair to ask you to talk about something so painful for no reason."
The quiet sat.
Amira bit her lip. And said, "You don't need to tell me." Then she made eye contact with Emma. "I know he is a bad person."
Emma nodded in agreement. Then asked, "What makes you say that?"
"I saw it."
The words were quiet. But full. Significant.
And Emma waited. She could feel a cathartic need to be known coming from Amira.
And the voice that came from the girl in front of her held the weight of the world that Amira knew.
"He said Allah wanted him to do it. He said that Allah wanted him to get rid of people. He said that he was doing Allah's work."
Emma just listened. Watching Amira wring her hands as she talked.
"But I know that Allah didn't want him to kill people. I know Allah didn't want him to kill the babies and the women…"
Emma could see the pictures spread on the floor of her mother's office years ago. Children killed. Little ones who only wanted to be loved. Blood spilt because of madmen.
"And I don't think Allah wanted him to hurt me like he did."
This time, Emma whispered, "No. He didn't want that, Amira."
The girl nodded, still in her own memory. And Emma allowed her to continue. "There were a lot of men there at the compound. They always had guns. And then they would drive away. Sometimes I knew them. Sometimes I didn't."
Emma didn't want to clarify. Not yet. Didn't want to know if it was the men coming and going from the compound. Or her.
"But I know that he wanted to kill people."
There was some finality to what Amira said.
So Emma asked, "Who was the man who bought you?"
"He bought me from someone else." Amira said, still in her own mind, "But he was Milad."
So they'd been right. Emma pressed on. "Did he ever talk about plans to move? Or about other attacks he was planning? Anything you can remember would be helpful."
She shook her head. "He didn't like me. He never told us anything."
"Us?"
"The women. We did the work. Laundry. Made food."
Emma knew that life. Deeply.
But she also knew, "Even though he didn't tell you anything, did you overhear anything?"
Amira appeared to think for a second, "No. He was always talking about the Infidels. But that wasn't anything new."
But if he was talking about it – maybe there was something there that she knew about.
Emma almost jumped out of her chair when, for the first time, her earpiece went off.
Mike's voice. "Keep pushing that. Ask her what she remembers about that."
Settling herself, she kept from rolling her eyes at what was obviously going to be her next question. "When he would talk about the Infidels, what things would he say?"
Amira looked at her quizzically, "It was all the time. But just things like, 'the Americans declared war on Allah, his messenger, and Muslims,' or 'Death to America.' But just that."
Mike's voice, "Ask her about any specific times or places."
Emma rephrased it. "Do you remember any of those conversations happening like, in celebration?"
"Well, that was…" The girl was thinking, and then she changed her answer, "It all blurs together."
Emma nodded, despite Mike's voice, telling her, "Push her on it."
She took her own approach. "Amira, from what we can tell, Milad was involved in a bombing of a school building in Daraa."
The girl shook her head, defiantly. "He was a bad person. But he never would've done that."
Emma pushed her a bit. "Well, we actually have proof that it was planned by Milad." Amira shook her head again. Emma continued, "There were thirty-four children and six teachers killed that day."
She was watching the girl to see the reaction. She needed to make her understand that it was serious. That they needed the information. But she needed to do it without pushing her too far. Like others probably would've.
Amira's body tensed. Her hands clenched into fists. She remained resolute. "No."
"And we think he might be planning something else, Amira." Emma said quietly.
Now the head shaking became intense. "No. No. No." And Amira's eyes clouded over for a second.
Emma waited. She knew others would bring out the pictures of that horrific bombing, making her look at the reality of the carnage. And frighten her and horrify her into talking. Which, Emma argued, wouldn't work.
That was as far as she'd push the girl.
Amira looked from the void into Emma's eyes. And she could see reality ripping through Amira's preconceived notions.
And Emma just held there. And she said, "I just want to make sure that doesn't happen again to someone else."
It happened so fast.
Faster than Emma had expected it.
If she hadn't been trying so hard to give Amira time, Emma would've seen it coming. But Amira pushed herself to her feet, her hands ripping through the space between them, and circled around Emma's throat.
Digging into Emma's skin.
And Amira yelled, "HE DIDN'T DO IT!"
With Amira this close to Emma, her eyes were wide and wild. Fear shot through Emma's body. Emma's skin burned with fingernails scratching her, and throbbed as Amira squeezed with all her might against her throat.
The door to the interrogation door slammed open.
But Emma threw out her hand, her palm facing Mike and she said, "STOP."
Because while the girl in front of her was holding her neck, there wasn't force behind it. There wasn't anything but a desperation.
She could still speak. "Mike. Stop."
And Emma raised her hands to Amira's wrists. And she saw the deep hurt inside of the girl in front of her. Something clawing out. Something needing to keep the façade up because without it…
And tears fell from the girl's face as Emma gently moved Amira's hands away from her neck.
Falling back into her chair, Amira buried her head into her hands. And she cried, "If he did that to them… what did he do to my baby?"
While that had been just what Emma had expected, her stomach still turned. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mike shake his head in realization and disgust as he turned to leave the room.
Reality shattering the girl in front of her, Emma wanted to reach out and pull the girl into a hug. Wanted to touch her arm and comfort her.
But Emma knew to resist that impulse.
Instead, Emma just sat there. Listening to the sobs of a child mourning her own child. And all she could do was whisper, "I'm so sorry, Amira."
Emma didn't count the minutes. Just sat there as grief filled the room, sucking the life out of the living while they coped with the idea of the dead.
Amira sat up, wiping her nose with her sleeve. Her lips quivered when her broken eyes met Emma's gaze. But Emma recognized something else. Resolve. And Amira whispered, "What do you want to know?"
And her earpiece chirped.
This time it wasn't Mike's voice.
She'd know that voice anywhere. Isabelle. "Omar Shaaban."
Emma took a breath, "Do you recognize the name 'Omar Shaaban?'"
Without hesitation, Amira nodded and said, "Yes." Then she said, "He was the one who sold me to Milad."
"Ask her if…" Isabelle's question was interrupted by Amira's continuation.
"He was also there before they killed the other women and left me."
