of the really weird,” Dafoe said. “Sang-mi claims that GreenSpirit spoke to her this morning and that she, meaning GreenSpirit, wants you to tell the world about the North Korean rockets.”
“Really? They’ve got the wrong hero, if they think it’s me. I’ll be talking post haste with the vice president’s office about the sulfates, and let the honchos handle this.”
“Sorry to even bring it up, but Forensia begged me to ask you to put the message out there. I’ll tell her no.”
“I think you should.” Then: “What do you think?”
“I think it’s nuts, you going on the air with something like that.”
Whew. “Does Forensia really believe that Sang-mi was talking to GreenSpirit’s … spirit?”
“She sure does,” Dafoe answered.
“She seemed so normal to me.”
“Forensia? Normal? Look, Forensia’s great, and I love her like a sister, but normal? I’d never say that, and she wouldn’t want me to.”
“Point taken. If Sang-mi’s father is getting debriefed by the CIA, then our side already knows about the rockets. If they’re keeping it secret, they might have a good reason.”
“‘Might’ is the operative word,” Dafoe said. “They also might be keeping it secret because they don’t want it to look like the president’s been asleep at the wheel. The election’s in just a few days.”
“Or maybe the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. We saw plenty of that with the FBI and CIA in 2001, and then we had 9/11.”
* * *
Rafan gazed at the headstones and monuments from behind the twin palms on the south side of the cemetery. The starlight revealed very little, but he knew Senada lay in a freshly dug grave not far from his sister; few spaces remained in the cemetery, so the two friends would be almost as close in death as they had been in life.
He could feel Senada’s presence in such a tangible way that he thought perhaps some believers were correct in claiming that the dead guide the living in times of peril. Then he reminded himself that he probably felt that Senada was near because she had stood by these same trees the night she came to say good-bye to Basheera. He ached for both women so acutely that he reached out and touched the air where Senada had stood, willing to accept even a hint of the love that he’d known. But he felt nothing of her. Only the ache. And he would have to enter the cemetery to offer his final farewell without knowing if Senada’s brothers were hiding among the graves.
Don’t do this, he warned himself. This is close enough.
But he had to see her grave, to kneel beside it, to somehow let her know that he would never forget her.
This time he did not pass under the cemetery arch. He moved quietly along the periphery, knowing he would have to scurry in from the shadows on the far side. He had a flashlight, but would use it only if necessary. And he’d brought flowers, which he would lay gently on her grave.
When he stepped from the shadows onto the hallowed ground, he walked slowly, placing his feet as quietly as possible. Row upon row of graves greeted him. He grew numb to their presence, and that, more than anything, explained why Bilal caught him unawares.
“What are you doing here?” Senada’s youngest brother demanded, seizing his arm.
Rafan smelled the must of the graveyard, glimpsed crescents and a single cross engraved in stone, and thought that he would soon join the dead who surrounded him. Bilal was a big man in the prime of his youth; a “bruiser,” Jenna would have said.
“I have come to pay my respects.”
“Don’t you know that coming here could get you killed?” Bilal held Rafan in a powerful grip. “I was looking for you.”
“That’s her grave?” Rafan looked past his accoster at the simple marker with a white crescent.
Bilal nodded. “Yes, and you could—”
“I loved her,” Rafan interrupted. “I loved her dearly.” His words sounded hollow, eternally empty in the graveyard.
“That was your mistake,” Bilal said.
“No, that’s not true,” Rafan said evenly, as a man might when he feels that all is lost. “Her mistake was him.”
They both knew whom Rafan meant: the fisherman who’d beaten Senada, and whose jihadist beliefs had led to her murder.
Bilal began to cry, and he released Rafan. The young man sank to his knees and hung his head. Rafan stared at him before crouching and putting his hand on Bilal’s back.