kayip | Recognition and Refusal

The thing about a covert terrorist cell, as Behrooz learned from spending a lifetime inside one, is they aren't the people you see on the news – bearded men wearing white robes and women in black veils. Not people holding up signs or chanting. Behrooz had never been to a rally in his life. They weren't going to publish threats, sometimes they didn't even go to mosque. They were quiet, reclusive, and intent on blending in.

And maybe that was their greatest betrayal – that they'd use the guise of the innocent people that, in many ways, they'd hurt the most.

Behrooz had noticed them sitting and standing together, among the crowd outside the mosque of mostly talking and smiling people. He probably wouldn't have thought much of them, either, if... well, if the anger hadn't been there. Soft, subtle, but... there. He noticed again coming out from midday prayer on Friday - they didn't come often, and so he watched carefully - noticed the way their eyes watched a few of the women coming out, the men already talking on cell phones, girls wearing t-shirts in the warm weather. It really wouldn't be noticeable unless you knew what to look for.

(Takes one to know one.)

Behrooz checks his watch – which is stupid. He has the day off. But it's an effort to not twist his steps, to walk over calmly, to meet eyes he thinks he knows are less friendly than they appear.

The man he meets eyes with, however, seems to smile genuinely. When Behrooz walks over, the man offers a polite nod. Behrooz returns it, with a slight hesitation, and then asks, "What did you think of the sermon?"

There are two others, but they're talking to each other and don't seem interested in the question. The man who'd looked to him immediately eyes him for a moment, then answers.

"Like most of his, not very insightful." The man's eyes don't move, and Behrooz shrugs, slightly.

"Guess it's not really the point," he answers, forcing himself to keep his eyes straight, and the man tilts his head.

"Maybe you'd like to hear another view sometime."

And Behrooz feels himself nodding before he can think.

~

"No, I don't know," he repeats, trying to keep the exasperation out of voice, though he can tell from the looks on their faces that he's failing. "You just – told me to keep my eyes open and that's what I saw, ok? I didn't exactly follow him up on it, I can't know for sure."

There's a pause, and the two of them share a glance that makes his stomach turn. A man and a woman, both white and looking like they'd just walked out of their offices. He doesn't need to be psychic or particularly perceptive to guess what they're going to say.

"No."

"Orhan –"

Behrooz folds his arms, and leans against the fence behind his back. "I'm not doing that again."

"If they didn't recognize you –"

"No."

"This isn't the same, you don't even know –"

"Are you kidding?" Somehow he feels like he wouldn't have said that if he'd thought about it, he wouldn't have said that, but it does stop the man. For a moment, long enough to continue: "I like it here, I'm not doing this again. That's it."

The light flashes at the back of his mind, the startled and disturbed faces, but he starts to turn anyway. The woman catches him by the arm, and he stops so as not to throw her off.

Very quietly, "Behrooz – we'll tell you what happened. After Pakistan."

And now he does pull away, shaking his head. "You'll lie." He can see the look on her face, but leaves anyway.

~