Author's Note/Explanation:

To avoid having to deal with a tiring amount of exposition and background explanation, I often make references in this fic while not addressing the fact that the information I'm using really isn't well known (at least, I didn't know most of it until I started doing research). For the purpose of avoiding confusion, I'm going to explain a few of these things in this note.
First, because it would have been difficult to try to work in the meanings of these words into the fic without it being rather awkward, these are the words that are useful to know in order to understand certain scenes. If I don't mention it here, then whatever is being said in Turkish isn't really important to what's going on, and you can just ask me if you're extra curious.

"Anne" means "mother"
"Oglum" means "son"
"Çocuk" means "child"
"Üzgünüm" means "I'm sorry"
"Evet" means "yes"
"Kus" means "bird"
"Tesekkür ederim" means "thank you"

There are also scenes in which the characters should be speaking Turkish - but as much as I pretend to, I don't speak Turkish (and you probably don't either - but if you do, you're more awesome than I am), so it's implied that the characters are speaking Turkish.

It's important to point out that the timeline of events is based off the information (that apparently came from the fanphone, so don't ask me) that season 4 takes place in 2010. I've approximated the day of season 4 as in very late March of 2010.

And I sincerely hope you enjoy this fic :)

Section One

The Restaurant Scene

"Wars teach us not to love our enemies, but to hate our allies."
-W.L. George

"A family is but too often a commonwealth of malignants."
-Alexander Pope



Iskenderen, Turkey, June 2003.


Through the window, he could see dark waves roll up against the beach. He could still feel sand sticking to his feet from when he'd been walking with his mother. Avoiding crabs and other skittering creatures while sand crept into his sandals. She smiled at him from behind her menu and said something indiscernible to his father as the waiter stepped in.

"Yardýmcý olabilir miyim?" he asked. Behrooz closed his menu and slid it onto the table, watching his mother.

"Midye dolmasý, lütfen," his mother ordered quickly, taking up the menus and handing them to the waiter. His eyes lingered on them for a moment, but he nodded, took the menus, and headed behind the bar where three patrons were stirring their drinks and watching football on the television on the other side of the counter. Behrooz watched the waiter speak with the bartender, briefly meeting eyes with him.

"Did you have a good weekend, son?" his mother asked gently, prying his eyes toward her.

"Evet, çok iyi – "

"Your mother spoke to you in English, Behrooz," his father interjected. He paused and ran through the words in his head.

"Yes, mother. It was very nice." His father smiled and took his hand.

"You must get used to speaking in English," he picked up his glass of water, and his eyes went up to the bar. After drinking, he touched his wife's shoulder and stood up. She kept her eyes on her son.

"You'll have to speak in English in America," Dina said quietly, as her husband walked to the bar. Behrooz could tell she was trying to distract him from whatever his father was doing, but didn't look away.

"We aren't in America," he argued.

"But we will be soon, and no one speaks Turkish there."

Behrooz sat back in the chair, not feeling like protesting anymore. He looked back out the window and tried to imagine how cold the sea was. His parents had explained why they were moving to the States, but he still blocked it out of his mind like the hushed conversations he wasn't supposed to understand. He kicked his feet under the table impatiently and looked back to his mother.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he mumbled, looking back at the bar. The bartender was gone, and the waiter was behind the counter, watching the game and talking to one of the patrons.

"I have to go to the restroom."

"Do you remember where it is?"

He slipped out of the chair; his sandals tapped the dusty cement floor. Behrooz could feel his mother's eyes on his back as he left, but tried to ignore them – to step just out of her grasp for a moment.

*

"You're lying." The American just smiled and smashed what was left of his cigarette into the glass ashtray, leaning back in the plastic chair. The room was windowless and humid, and perspiration was forming on his forehead and neck.

"I don't know what to tell you," the American muttered, crossing his arms, his blazer sleeve contracting to reveal a large, gold wristwatch. "There's nothing more to it."

"The U.S. government has invested millions in unrecorded funds in this project," a slender British man across the table countered. Next to him, a veiled Syrian woman who exposed only her eyes was pulling up windows on a black laptop. Navi entered the room, closing the door behind him, and leaned over her shoulder, looking at the communications she was decoding.

"Where's Dina?" she asked in English.

"Watching Behrooz," he replied, observing her progress.

"How old is he now?" she asked, organizing the files and using a program to translate them into English.

"He turned ten a couple months ago."

"Does he know why you're going to the States?"

Navi paused at this question. He tried to occupy his attention for a moment on finding a chair, but he knew she was expecting an answer.

"Dina and I haven't told him everything. We're going to wait until he's old enough to understand it."

"You shouldn't wait too long, Navi," the woman admonished. "Being in America changes you – it changes everyone. I talk to my sister sometimes and it's like I'm talking to a stranger."

"I have faith in my son," Navi muttered. The woman didn't reply as she worked, and Navi straightened up and found another folding chair. The other two at the table continued to argue, but stopped abruptly when the final member of the collecting group stepped in, holding a tray of amber-colored drinks and leaving the door slightly ajar. He silently placed the tray on the table and put glasses in front of the two men, but they didn't accept the offer. They kept their eyes diverted, and for a moment the only sound was the woman's fingers snapping on the keyboard. Their host, a broad-shouldered man from Ankara, met eyes briefly with Navi and the woman before pulling up the last chair next to the table.

"I see you gentlemen aren't thirsty tonight," he said smoothly, slipping into the accent-free English he used around foreigners. The American, his heaviness accentuated by his small business suit, frowned and took out another cigarette.

"Our American friend is being uncooperative," the Briton charged, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. The American looked up from his palm tree lighter with a mix of annoyance and alarm.

"I'm just a businessman," he argued. "I know what I'm told. The project's been delayed. Indefinitely."

"We have people in the States already," the woman cut in. "They haven't noted any change in the status."

"I'm just giving you what's been passed down to me." The American successfully lit his cigarette. "The word is there was conflict on the state level and with the plant managers – they didn't like the idea of such centralized control."

"And, what, they gave up on it?" the Briton asked incredulously. "Your superiors and the United States government have spilled millions in funding and resources into this project."

"You're intelligence. If you know something, why don't you share it?"

The Briton paused, but a smiled curled up on his lips. The American tapped his cigarette over the ashtray and Navi briefly tried to catch the host's eye. The host, however, was preoccupied with the look on the Briton's face.

"You've been broken, haven't you?"

"Of course not," the American snapped, pounding his fist onto the table so the drinks rattled. The woman gently moved the notebook into her lap.

"They've clearly excluded you," the Briton persisted. "Your story doesn't make any sense."

"What would you know about it?" the American jeered.

"I've been among enough businessmen to know they don't just give up on their more generous investments because of a few 'managers.'"

"Mr. Wolff," the host interrupted, " – if you've tipped off your employers –"

"I haven't," he muttered, nervously tapping his cigarette against the ashtray again. Sweat was beginning to dampen his collar, and with his free hand he tried to inconspicuously loosen his tie. Navi again tried to catch their host's eye – and this time succeeded.

"Maybe you've had a change of heart," the Briton said derisively.

"Maybe you should stop busting my chops," Wolff leaned over the table, but their host took his shoulder and pushed him firmly back into the chair.

"Regardless, Mr. Wolff," he said quietly, "if your position is in jeopardy, we need to know and inform our people abroad."

"I'm telling you what I know – they've discontinued the project." He mashed another cigarette into the tray and picked up the glass in front him. While he drank, Navi stood and walked away from the table, facing the wall.

"Natara," their host said, turning to the woman, "have any of our allies within the U.S. indicated this is true?"

"No," she replied. "But there is no indication anyone is aware of our work, either."

Navi didn't turn. He heard another chair moving, and the footfalls circling around, approaching him.

"If there's a chance you've been exposed, Mr. Wolff, you know we need to know that."

"I have nothing else to say."

"You're stonewalling." The Briton had spoken what Navi was already thinking. He didn't really care for working with Europeans or Americans, but was willing to accept their aid with a certain dose of suspicion. He certainly didn't believe them capable of understanding the true goal of these plans, the true meaning behind them – they were too interested in their white-bred rivalry and century-old greed. They were often guiltier than those who would suffer at their hands.

But they could be helpful, and the outcome would far outweigh any unpleasant associations along the way.

"Look," Wolff slammed his fist on the table again, glaring at the Briton. "I'm working to maintain my cover, but doing it for so little doesn't make it any easier."

"Of course," the Briton snorted. "You're an American – you're not feeling guilty, you just want to line your pockets."

"I don't know what you're asking," the host said quietly. Navi turned to face the table again.

"I'm saying," Wolff began slowly, but confidently, "that if my cooperation is to continue, I'll need some kind of – incentive to push things along."

Navi didn't wait. He came forward and picked up the table by one of its metal legs and over turned it, sending the glasses shattering and alcohol and ice spilling on the cement floor.

"This isn't a negotiation," he spat, leaning over the heavy-set man and forcing him to keep eye contact. "We're serving a greater purpose than improving your finances."

Wolff didn't say anything. His eyes flittered briefly to the door, then down the glass littering the floor. There was a slight crackling sound as their host approached, treading on the crushed glass.

"You must understand, Mr. Wolff, there will be no increase in 'incentive', as you put it" he said calmly. "Let your incentive be that you are working for something far greater than yourself."

"I'm sorry, but I can't buy Armani with 'higher purposes.'" Wolff stood and tried to brush Navi off, but Navi grabbed his shoulder and slammed him back down in the chair.

"If you're not telling us everything –"

"You've already refused to meet my request," Wolff muttered, meeting Navi's eyes and trying to look confident. "I'm going to walk away now."

"Mr. Wolff, you realize that even if you are not, we are very dedicated to our cause," their host said, putting a hand on Wolff's shoulder. "If you're not being completely open with us, we won't hesitate in offering you … a different sort of incentive."

Natara gently placed her laptop on the ground and slid it beneath her chair. She lifted a large cloth black pouch from the floor beside her, held it in her lap, and looked up at their host, her fingers sliding over the button that secured the top. This briefly distracted Wolff, but he quickly looked up to their host.

"I'm leaving now," he mumbled. He stood again, but in a matter of seconds, Navi grabbed him, dragged him to the wall and slammed him against it. His arm lodged against Wolff's throat, he pulled out a switchblade from inside his jacket.

"You're going to talk to us," he whispered. Wolff attempted to push him off, but there was a click behind them, and their host pressed the barrel of a gun to the side of his head.

"You have five seconds," he muttered. Wolff remained silent, looking over Navi's shoulder, where their British colleague was leaning back in his chair, apparently concerned with something on the ceiling.

After he didn't speak, Navi extended the knife and cut into his arm. Blood slid down onto the blade and onto Navi's skin as he tore the knife down a few inches, and pulled it out again. Wolff, whimpering and clutching his arm, slid to the floor.

"That doesn't have to happen again," their host said. As Navi knelt down, his eyes crossed the doorway – the opening was blocked by a small figure. He paused, still holding the knife in his bloodstained hand. A moment later, another figure appeared and took the first away. Navi dropped the knife and stood up again.

"Where are you going?" the woman asked, but Navi threw the door open and ran into the hall.

*

"Üzgünüm!" he shouted as she yanked him down the hall. "Üzgünüm, anne! Anne, anne!" He dug his face into her sleeve as she pulled him around a corner and knelt down next to him. There were loud footsteps down the hall, and her husband appeared around the corner.

"Navi-" Dina began, but he snatched Behrooz from her grasp and smacked him across the face with his bloodied palm.

"What were you doing down here?" he snarled at the boy. Behrooz didn't respond – he touched his cheek and felt the blood his father had left on it, looking too frightened to speak.

"Navi, kendin yatistir!" Dina shouted, prying the child away from him.

"You were supposed to be watching him," he yelled at her, his eyes still on his son.

"They're waiting for you," she hissed. "Just go back, we'll talk about it later."

He glared at both of them for a moment, but turned around and headed back down the hall. Dina didn't say anything as she pulled Behrooz the other direction, to the small restroom, where she switched on the light and locked the door. Behrooz curled up on the floor with his back against the wall and hid his face in his knees as she turned the faucet on.

"Üzgünüm," he mumbled again.

"Stop it," she snapped, dampening a few paper towels under the hot water. She squeezed out the excess moisture, and knelt down in front of him. He kept his face hidden, and trembled slightly as she came closer.

"Look at me, Behrooz," Dina whispered. It took a moment, but he slowly lifted his head and met her eyes – his trembling grew worse, but she just touched the wet paper towel to his face, gently washing the blood off. His shaking slowly subsided as she wiped the blood away and used another towel to dry his face.

"You shouldn't have lied to me," she said softly, and his eyes dropped to the floor.

"I didn't mean to," he replied without looking at her. "I heard father down the hall..."

"Asik, you know better than to disturb your father when he's working," she said as she carefully pushed his hair out of his eyes. He looked up at her briefly, then back at the floor again.

"What was he doing?"

"That's not something you need to know." Dina's tone was a warning to not ask anything further about that topic. Behrooz just shifted uncomfortably and looked too afraid to say anything.

"Behrooz, your father is angry because you interrupted our work – and our work affects everyone, not just you or him."

"Why was he hurting that man?" He kept his eyes diverted, clearly petrified at having inquired further into a matter Dina had made clear was closed. Instead of scolding him, she was silent, and let him pretend he hadn't spoken at all. After a few moments, he looked cautiously back at her.

"Will father forgive me?" he asked instead. Dina put her arms around him and pulled him up to her. He fell limply against her, his head resting against her shoulder, and she kissed his hair.

"You can apologize to him later," she whispered. "Be quiet and obedient and he won't be angry with you." Dina squeezed her son against her briefly, and released him. She stood, and took his hand, pulling him up as well.

"The mussels will probably be done by now." She gave him a small smile, and he walked with her out of the bathroom and back toward the stairs. In the dining room, there were fewer patrons than before, and the waiter was piling stuffed mussels onto their plates. He exchanged a brief glance with Dina before she sat down and began helping Behrooz empty the shells.

Section Two

Oglum

"Agac yas iken egilir." ("A tree is bent while yet is young.")
-Turkish Proverb



Strength

Gaziantep American Hospital, March 2000.

"Do you want to eat anything?" his father asked as he entered the room. Behrooz didn't say anything for a moment – he pulled the starchy, stiffly pressed sheet over his shoulder and turned away from his mother, who was sitting beside the bed, holding a plastic cup half-full of ice. He met his father's eyes and shook his head. His father nodded, and walked around the bed, sitting in the chair next to his mother. Behrooz rolled over in bed to watch him walk, but his father spoke to her in nearly a whisper. She responded in kind, switching to English, and Behrooz closed his eyes to block out whatever they were talking about. He didn't particularly want to think beyond how cold he felt and how much his throat hurt. Dimly, he felt a hand slip into his, and he opened his eyes to see it was his father's. He involuntarily shook, and thinking he was shivering, his mother stood and unfolded the blue blanket at the foot of his bed.

"You're going to have to be strong now," his mother mumbled, pulling the blanket over him. His father removed his hand. Part of Behrooz longed for it to stay, and he pulled himself further under the blanket, so just his nose and eyes were exposed. She put the back of her hand on his forehead and frowned.

"You're hot," she said quietly.

"I don't feel that way," he replied, his voice muffled by the blanket. His mother sat back down again, and looked nervously to his father. He seemed distracted by his thoughts for the moment, but quickly noticed her anxiety and took her hand.

"You don't put enough faith in him," he said reassuringly, caressing her fingers. Behrooz found he couldn't suppress the bit of pleasure it gave him to hear his father speak well of him. "He's the son of warriors and martyrs, bana dön, he's strong inside."

Behrooz smiled underneath the blanket. For a moment, he knew his father could tell. His mother leaned her head on his father's shoulder, and blinked a few times, clearly getting tired.

"His eyes are like your father's," she mumbled. His father didn't say anything, but looked at Behrooz, who though feeling uncomfortable under the scrutinizing gaze, didn't divert his eyes.

"You're right," he replied. He let go of his wife's hand and instead put his arm around her shoulder, and she closed her eyes, nodding off slightly. Behrooz shifted in the bed, still feeling frigid, at the same time wanting to throw the blanket off.

"Do you remember the black-and-white photo on the bookcase in the living room?" his father asked slowly. Behrooz became aware his father was asking him, and nodded, despite not being able to bring up a clear image of it in his mind. His father leaned his head on his mother's and looked away.

"That is your grandfather. He died before you were born." This was a story Behrooz was used to hearing. His father seemed distracted, and Behrooz turned in bed and looked up at the darkened fluorescent light above.

"He couldn't stand to watch as the Westerners carved up our lands, then pleaded innocence as they claimed to grant 'independence.' He couldn't sit as they bullied us and reprimanded us like they would children, washed our streets with our blood and called it peace. He died in Egypt fighting their murderous hypocrisy."

Behrooz listened – it was the kind of story he heard often from his parents. Stories about martyrs and blood and overwhelming injustice. He didn't think he could do what the heroes of those stories did – dying, killing themselves to fight this foreign evil. His father seemed to want it so desperately of him, but Behrooz was afraid of death. No matter what anyone promised him, he didn't want to face it or think about it. He'd only reluctantly looked at his grandmother's body at her funeral – her lifelessness frightened him. The first thing he thought of when they'd brought him to this hospital was death.

A moment later, the light flickered on. Behrooz squinted his eyes, and heard someone wheeling a cart into the room. His mother and father straightened up in their chairs as the nurse, dressed in white with her dark hair tied tightly back, pushed the cart up next to his bed. She didn't speak, but handed him a paper cup with two blue pills in it and a glass of water. Behrooz looked at his father, and swallowed the pills without the water.

*

Food Court

LAX Terminal 2, June 2005.


"How old are you?"

"Twelve," Behrooz took out a couple French fries from the bright orange carton. He didn't know how much he liked their salty, soggy taste, but he'd said he wasn't hungry at the layover in Amsterdam, and after a total of eighteen hours he thought he'd fall asleep if he didn't occupy himself. His cousins had brought out the tray with large cartons of fries and a small mountain of ketchup packets. They didn't seem to understand that Behrooz had rarely visited McDonald's or other American chains, as common as they were at home. His parents usually deterred from going to Western restaurants and stores. His cousins squeezed out the ketchup and watched him curiously.

His mother was at the next table, talking to his uncle, gently twirling the straw of her drink between her fingers. He was doing most of the talking – only in English. Behrooz listened enough to discern that the conversation was about his father, and turned back to his cousins, whom he realized were starting at him.

"What grade are you in?" asked a girl he dimly remembered from some party when he was younger.

"Seventh," he mumbled and tried to look interested in the French fries. Though his mother looked distracted, he was awkwardly aware of how near she was, how easily their conversation could drift to her.

His parents had instructed him to be silent in front of their relatives. Just smile and tell them how well he was doing in school. That was all they really cared about. But these cousins – the boys a little older and girl a little younger – seemed excruciatingly interested in him. He took one of the napkins not damp with ketchup and wiped the grease from the fries off his fingers and mouth as they looked nervously at one another and back at him. Behrooz wasn't foreign to this – people his age usually gave up on him quite quickly after he didn't engage in conversation.

"Are you tired?" one of the boys asked.

"No," Behrooz lied, for no particular reason. His mother laughed and said something about him. He wanted to stand up and walk around – being crumpled in a seat for eleven hours had left his legs feeling mushy, and his mind floated dimly among the mixed languages of the terminal.

This was the first time he'd been to a Burger King. He watched his cousins play with the plastic covers on top of their drinks, popping the little bumps in and out. He sipped his soda rather quietly and almost dutifully. His mother noticed his silence and leaned over to him.

"We'll go to our home and see father soon," she whispered. Behrooz didn't know how much he wanted to see his father or his new, apparently large house. His cousins looked at his mother, and began talking quietly amongst themselves. He was rather accustomed to this – his parents often hovered near him with a manner that scared children but to which adults were oblivious. This worked to keep away talkative schoolmates and parents. He couldn't really remember the last time he'd said more than a few sentences to anyone that wasn't his mother or father.

Behrooz got up and said he was going to use the restroom. At his mother's request, he agreed to be accompanied by his uncle.

"How are your studies, Behrooz?" his uncle asked as they stepped out of the food court.

*

Plaj
("The Beach")

Long Beach City Beach, March 2010.


"What's this?"

"El."

She looked at her outstretched hand for a moment, moving it so the sunlight glistened on the chipped pink paint on her nails. A little distance away, they could hear shouts coming from the rest of the group – a few of the girls were wading into the water, splashing to taunt the others after them. The heat wave that struck in the last days before spring break had infected the students with a feverish lightheadedness that made them nearly incapable of keeping their attention on chalkboards or schoolwork as the last few hours ticked by.

"And this?" She closed her hand, holding up only her index finger.

"Parmak," he answered. Debbie put down her hand and pulled her hair back over her shoulder. She'd kept her white t-shirt and denim shorts, saying she didn't feel like swimming. She leaned back and smoothed the flowery blanket she'd brought.

"Do you still speak it with your parents?"

"Sometimes." Behrooz checked his watch and looked back up at her as she sat forward again. "Not really so much anymore. Usually only if we're arguing."

"Do you have something to do?" she asked, noticing the glance at his watch.

"I told my father I'd meet him at the store at 5:30."

"That's still a while." She slipped her hand into his, delicately entwining their fingers. Feeling uncertain, he didn't reject the gesture, but didn't move in response to it, either. He watched the tide creep up along the coastline, leaving the sand soft and dark. Their friends were grouped near the water's edge – he could see a few of them occasionally glancing over, talking softly with knowing smiles. She seemed to notice he was distracted – with her left hand, she scooped up a small handful of dry sand and let it drain between her fingers, falling over his knee.

"What's that?" she asked. He gave her a look of mock annoyance and brushed the remaining sand off his knee.

"Kum." Behrooz kept his mind off the Mediterranean coast, tightening his grasp on Debbie's hand a little and trying to comb his blank mind for something remotely significant to say. His fingers played with the glass beads on her bracelet and, as usual, she did the work for him.

"Is that why you're so good in Spanish?" she asked with a hint of resentment in her voice. "You've already done this."

"I didn't learn that much English in school. My parents made me use it before we moved."

"Why haven't I met your parents?"

And that, he reminded himself, would be why he usually avoided mentioning his parents. He knew she'd noticed that he'd never invited her over to his house, despite having visited hers and meeting her parents several times. It had come up before, usually resulting in an awkward change of subject that was becoming increasingly obvious. She wouldn't understand if he attempted to tell the truth, and he didn't want her to try coming to his house or talking to his parents on her own.

He realized, as he tried to come to a conclusion, that he hadn't said anything for several minutes. Debbie looked away, her hand loosened in his, and her eyes fell to the sand.

"You don't need to say anything –"

"It's not like that," Behrooz interrupted, moving in front of her as she drew her knees up, still looking away from him. "There hasn't been any time –"

"I could go with you to the store," she mumbled. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of walking up to his father with her next to him.

"We're going to be busy tonight." It was a flimsy excuse, and Debbie looked away again. He knew he'd have to give her something more substantial.

"We have that test in Physics next week," he said, trying not to look as if he was making this up as he went along. "You can come over to study for it. Is that ok?"

She looked up at him impassively, and didn't say anything. After a moment, she tapped his nose.

"What's this?"

He smiled as she giggled and took his hand again.

"Burun."

*

Homework

West Valley, California, March 2010


It wasn't that the assignment was particularly difficult – it was just that Behrooz really didn't feel like writing another short essay on Eisenhower's foreign policy. He sat at the table, staring at his textbook and empty page with his head in his hand, while his mother unknowingly distracted him as she set up ingredients across the kitchen island. Finally, he tore off his headphones and put his pencil down. She put a skillet on top of the stove and turned the gas on.

"What are you making?" he asked. She turned on the oven light and peered through the small window.

"Pide," she replied, pulling on a pair of red oven gloves. The scent of bread that wafted out of the oven when she opened the door made Behrooz think of the kitchen where he'd learned to walk.

"You haven't made that in…" His voice trailed off as she laid the tray of flatbread on the counter to cool. She turned and smiled at him as she piled beef onto the skillet and pressed it down to cook.

"That's why I am now," she left the meat for a moment to sort out onions and peppers. She pulled out a knife and sliced an onion in half. "What are you working on?"

"Nothing," he lied, stuffing the unfinished assignment in his book and closing it. She eyed the cover of the book as she cut the onion into small pieces.

"History?"

"I'm done." He pushed away the book and cd player and stood up. He had the feeling explaining what he was studying would end in a lecture he wasn't in the mood for today. She left a lingering look on the book, but abandoned the onion to stir the meat.

"Ok, then can you finish chopping those for me?" He nodded and walked over to the onions, working the knife carefully away from his fingers. As the scent of onions spread onto his hands, they heard the sound of his father pulling up in the driveway. Behrooz finished with the onions and pushed them aside and reached for the peppers as the front door opened and closed. His mother put the spatula aside and walked past him through the French doors to greet her husband in the entrance hall. They kissed as he lowered his briefcase to the floor, and Behrooz occupied himself with the peppers. However, when he looked up, he could see his father's eyes on him.

That was a very bad look.

Behrooz dropped the knife and stepped away from the counter. His father broke away from his mother and headed quickly toward the kitchen, his eyes stirring a childhood terror that made Behrooz stumble as he stepped back toward the counter. His mother recognized the moment immediately and rushed worriedly behind his father, but he pushed her aside when she took his hand and asked what was wrong. He knocked the left door aside and cornered Behrooz against the back kitchen counters, leaning dangerously close to him.

"When were you going to tell us?" his father roared.

"Tell you what?" Behrooz regretted his defiance a moment later when his father hit him across the face. As he touched his skin, his mother yelled something in Turkish to his father from behind the counter.

"He's seeing an American girl!" his father shouted at her. His mother pursed her lips and looked at Behrooz, who could only look off to the side. She put her face in her hand and said something under her breath.

"I'm not... seeing her..." Behrooz tried, knowing he sounded desperate. This comment, however, only worked to further infuriate his father, who snatched him by the shoulder and shoved him against the cupboard, the back of his head hitting painfully against it.

"You will stop lying to us," his father hissed, but released him and took a step away. "And you'll end it immediately."

Behrooz looked to his mother for a moment, but she'd gone back to cooking the meat, and ignored him. He turned back to his father and tried to come up with some excuse or reason to challenge him.

"Have you been spying on me?" His father just sighed and looked away. In the corner of his eye, Behrooz could see his mother working at the sink, steam rising gently around her. He looked back to his father. "You didn't answer me."

"You are my responsibility, Behrooz," his father shouted, rounding back on him. "You need to realize there are greater things going on."

"I don't talk to her about that," Behrooz countered, feeling much less courageous than he sounded. "She's not a part of my life here."

"She's a liability that you need to get rid of," his father snapped, growing angrier. "She is exactly like the rest of them and you are not to be associating with that."

"She hasn't done anything," he argued, knowing full well it was a lost cause. "She doesn't care about that kind of thing."

"That makes her guiltier than many, Behrooz." It was his mother who spoke this time, as she walked to the kitchen island and began to chop up the peppers in his place. "You're different from them, and you have to remember that."

"This ends now," his father said as Behrooz tried to speak again. "You'll end it. Now go upstairs."

He didn't like being ordered to his room, but he didn't want to risk his father's anger again. Without speaking, Behrooz picked up his history book and cd player, and walked out of the room.

On his way up the stairs, he realized with a certain mixture of terror and satisfaction that he'd soon be disobeying his parents.

Section Three

Anne

"For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme, Nor take her tea without a stratagem."
-Edward Young, Love of Fame


Evlat Öfkeli
("Angry Child")

Ankara Prenses Hotel, June 1967.


Her father was hunched over the desk, the white receiver of the phone nestled on his shoulder as his pen sped over the yellow legal pad. Suna and Umay sat at the other end of the bed, sporting their blue and pink pajamas with patterns of roller skates and cherries printed on them. They were giggling, and Dina turned away, looking instead to the fuzzy black-and-white images floating on the television. An unseen announcer was talking about Israeli forces in Gaza as images of bloody Egyptian soldiers swam before her. Dina's small fingers clenched the covers and a sound like waves striking rocks filled her ears – she could felt the blood streaking down her neck –

"Dina." Her mother's voice shook her out of her dream. She looked up at the woman dressed in a pink bathrobe; her black hair was tied up, and she was glowering down at her daughter as though trying to hide her apprehension. The girl sat back on the bed, returning the glower with a much more vicious glare.

"What?"

"Your sisters and I are going to Cikrikcilar Yokusu tomorrow," she said. The other girls whispered loudly as she spoke. "You can stay here with Naseem if you want."

"Right." Dina sat up and slumped off the bed. As she headed to the other room, she heard her mother talk softly with her sisters. Those two beautiful girls who flipped through colorful American catalogues and liked to speak in fractured English. They kissed their father and laughed with their mother and occasionally made Dina wish she could smile like that.

But being so insincere made her want to rip her hair out.

In the next room, her younger brother was sitting alone on the bed, poking at a stuffed yellow bird that smelled like saffron. Dina crawled up next to him and took the bird, rubbing her fingers against its glass blue eyes.

"Have you decided what to call it?" she asked, handing the bird back.

"Kus," he said quietly, pressing his fingers through the bird's yellow fluff.

"That's kind of dull," Dina muttered coldly. The boy shrugged and snuggled up next to the animal, and she looked up to see her father in the doorway.

"Your mother told me you were rude," he said. His tall figure was imposing to clients and employees, and indeed Naseem turned away. Dina got off the bed and stood at her full height.

"I answered her. I don't know what she means." Her father looked down at her little figure, then up to Naseem on the bed.

"You should be pleasant to your mother, Dina," he said, not looking at her.

"I haven't done anything to her," Dina countered. "I don't want to go to the market. I'll stay and watch Naseem."

"You're too young for that," her father briefly looked down at her, and up to her brother again.

"Mother didn't say that. She said I could stay if I wanted."

Her father rubbed his forehead, letting out a frustrated sigh, as she stood motionless on the floor. Her parents hadn't successfully talked her into anything since she was three years old. She'd already heard them talk of how difficult she'd be to marry and of setting aside money for her university costs.

The seven-year-old stomped past her silent father and into the other room, where her mother was sitting with the other two girls.

"Anne," she called. Her mother turned sharply, as though expecting the girl to be wielding a knife.

"I don't want to go to the stores tomorrow," Dina announced, ignoring her sisters' horrified looks. "I want to stay here with Naseem."

"Fine," her mother replied quickly. Dina suppressed a smile when she saw her father's exasperated face, and instead climbed up on the bed to watch the television again.

*

Pisirmek
("To Burn")

Gaziantep, Turkey, January 1993.


His hand slipped under her top, his palm resting over her gently rounding stomach. Dina continued to slice zucchini into pieces and smiled as he kissed her cheek.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Dull," she answered, pushing the zucchini pieces together with her knife and moving slowly to the stove. He walked with her, kissing her neck and she slid the zucchini into a saucepan, the sizzling sound making her shiver.

"You're becoming a distraction," she mumbled as he moved down to her exposed shoulder.

"I'm trying to make things more interesting." His right hand slipped over hers as she stirred the frying vegetables. She laughed derisively and reached over him for the olive oil. Navi reluctantly released her and stepped away, and she heard a quiet clatter as he set the table.

"Did you talk to your brother?" he asked as he folded the napkins with tight creases.

"His second son was born. They named him Ismet."

"So they must be doing well in America." Dina didn't really care that much. She knew what her husband was planning, and longed for it as badly as he did, but talking like this only helped surface a sense of isolation she'd started feeling since spending most of her time at home with her pregnant stomach. Navi seemed to notice her disinterest, and came close to her again as she turned off the stove.

"We're approaching something, Dina," he whispered, gently caressing her cheek. "This will change everything – this isn't cutting off a finger. This is complete paralyzation."

Dina's first reaction was a short spat of jealousy – resting at home with her swelling stomach was not something she particularly enjoyed. Cooking and cleaning were temporary distractions, but she seemed to take out her frustration by rubbing the counters so hard that scratches appeared, or by making increasingly spicy dishes. She didn't really like exchanging pregnancy tips with her sister-in-law in the States or buying toys and small blankets. As much as she loved Navi, she didn't enjoy being the woman he came home to. At one time they had been partners – he'd enabled her. Now she felt diminished and trapped.

But Dina immediately pushed these thoughts out of her mind – they were irresponsible distractions, and she knew she whatever Navi was speaking of was of much more importance than her own discomfort. She let her mind clear as she served the plates, and noticed as she sat the concerned gaze he was giving her.

"I don't understand," she said quietly, allowing him to help her slowly settle into a chair. He took the chair next to her, and tore the bread she'd put on his plate.

"It's early, Dina. No one knows very much." As she reached for her glass, he put his hand over hers. She held on, and looked down at her food, not feeling hungry at all. Closing her eyes, she felt soft motion inside, and instinctively touched her stomach.

"Do you want to lie down?" he asked. Dina nodded, and he helped her move out of the chair. It was her initial instinct to push away any sign of dependence, but for a moment, she let herself be the needy one. She didn't shake him off as he walked her into the bedroom, or when he helped her up as though she were a much frailer woman. She didn't say anything as she laid back on the covers, nor when she felt him kiss her hand. And her shoulder. Their food cooled in the next room as she pulled him fiercely up to her.

*

Trust

Gaziantep, Turkey, September 2003.


Afterwards, she found him sitting at the kitchen table, resting his head in his arms. There was a dark spot forming above his right eye. She leaned over him, brushing up his hair. He winced slightly when she touched it, and she walked to the sink. Taking one of the blue glasses from the drain rack, she filled it, and sat down across from him, placing the glass between them.

"What did you say to him?" she asked. Behrooz looked at the water for a moment, not taking his head off the table, and then up to her.

"Ben is-"

"Speak to me in English, Behrooz." He flinched slightly at her sharp tone and buried his head deeper into his arms.

"That I don't want to go to America, and I don't care about the reasons why."

Dina folded her arms and sat back in her chair, still looking coldly at her son. But she knew that intimidation and fright would ultimately only instill distrust. She leaned forward again and pushed the glass toward him. He looked up at her, and clearly understood from her expression that everything would be better if he just drank the water.

"Do you believe that?" she asked as put the glass back down.

"What?" he replied, sitting up straight, wary of her eyes on him.

"You don't want to go to America, and you don't care why we're going."

He looked down at the glass, apparently trying to think of something to say. Dina stood and walked to him, and he kept his back straight and his eyes on the glass. She knelt down next to him, meeting his height, and gently turned his face to look at her. His eyes were moist, and he spoke slowly.

"I do care," he mumbled, sounding as though he were trying to convince himself. "I want to. I don't understand it, anne."

Dina gave him a small smile and his shoulders dropped a little.

"Do you understand what your father tells you about your grandfather?" she asked. Behrooz nodded and smiled somewhat awkwardly, and she knew he was trying to look confident. Trying to please her.

"You're too young to understand who we are," she whispered, putting a hand to his face. "But you have to understand that this means more to you than anything. You have no hope for a true life in this world – that's why we are going to help transform it. Your father understands what it is to lose something for this. He expects you to understand that doing something you don't want to is a small matter compared to what our work will accomplish."

His eyes had drifted slightly as she spoke, but as she finished, he obediently fixed them on hers.

"Do you trust me, Behrooz? Can you make this sacrifice for us?"

"Evet." He said it with enough sincerity that Dina excused that he'd spoken Turkish. She knew he could say the same in English, and took it as a sign of his conviction. She stood up again, picked the glass up off the table, and drained it in the sink, replacing it on the rack. She took a washrag from the sink and ran it under cold water, then squeezed the excess out, clumped it up, and handed it to her son.

"Hold it over your eye if it hurts," she told him. Behrooz took the cloth, but sat still, watching her uncertainly. She smiled and kissed his forehead, and motioned him out of the room.

*

Not Like Them

Ankara Hilton Hotel, June 2005.


Dina had requested the maid service not come to their room. She said she could keep it clean enough herself, and didn't want to be depending on Suna any more than possible. She usually tried to stay in the room, letting Behrooz go to the pool when he became restless, and visiting with her sister when it seemed necessary. It was Naseem who had talked Suna into allowing Dina to stay for the last week before she and Behrooz left for the States, and Dina knew she had to compensate her sister with cheerful visits and pleasant conversation. She wore artificial smiles while talking to her sister's superiors – visiting Europeans and Americans in colorful attire that amused themselves with Turkish fragments and complimented her good English.

She brought Behrooz with her to one such occasion, where they sat with some vacationing executive director from New York and his wife on the café terrace. Dina only cautiously entered conversation, and Behrooz remained silent until the wife asked him how old he was and how he did in school. Behrooz looked nervously to Dina before speaking, but she simply smiled and encouraged him. When the American woman bought him a cup of chocolate ice cream, Dina reminded him to thank her (the woman asked him to help her pronounce "Tesekkür ederim") while she imagined blood dripping from the woman's chest. Like the Egyptian soldiers. When they left, she knew Behrooz could tell she was angry – she walked so fast she could feel his feet dragging slightly and her nails unconsciously dug into his palm. When they made it back to the room, she slammed the door, sat him on the bed, and told him sweets and prizes were poisons offered by Westerners to distract their victims.

"Why does Suna talk to them?" he asked. Dina sat back in her chair and kept her eyes locked with his. She'd finally perfected her way of keeping her son's attention during these talks.

"My sister is distracted," she said, sighing as if she really cared. "She doesn’t realize that they've already destroyed her."

Before Behrooz could respond, something clicked at the door. Dina motioned Behrooz to go to the door while she stood, straightened her blouse, and walked to the dresser, resting her hand on top. The door opened in front of Behrooz, a woman in white standing the frame.

"Afedersiniz, bay," the woman was looking at Behrooz, but quickly noticed Dina standing by the dresser. She stood in the doorway, looking confused, one hand on her cart of cleaning supplies.

There was an awkward moment in which Dina stood silently, oddly aware of the handgun wrapped in a blouse in the top drawer. She didn't know exactly why the thought had even crossed her mind – it would only accrue attention she wanted to avoid. Closing her eyes, Dina gathered her thoughts together and looked up again. Behrooz and the maid were still standing at the doorway, waiting for her to speak.

"I asked that the maid service not come here," she said, walking forward to the door.

"Ah, özür dilerim, bayan." The woman closed the door, but Behrooz was still watching her. Dina went to the bed and lied back, and heard Behrooz's footsteps trailing nervously around her.

The woman – the first person she'd killed – had been a servant – a whore to the West. They'd eventually discovered she was an American-trained spy that reported on their activities. Paid in sweets and prizes to watch over them. This was over a decade ago, before her son was born. For a moment, Dina had felt the same sensation of exhilaration she'd thrived on back then – the mounting pressure inside her chest and loud hum that took over in her head when she felt her enemy so close to her and knew she could destroy it like an insect. Those women weren't really that different – both were servants to a corrupt order that murdered and pillaged the world, claiming it was all in the name of justice and peace. Both had ignored and disavowed their own spilled blood.

Dina turned her head and saw Behrooz watching her. She put a hand on his face and didn't speak for a moment.

He'd pulled her out of her reverie. The restless anger she remembered diminished into a poisonous determination.

"You won't be like them."

He didn't say anything. After a moment, she sat up.

"Do you want to go down to the pool?"

"Evet."

"Fine. I'll come with you."

Author's Note/Explanation II:

Again, because it would have been difficult to try to work in the meanings of these words into the fic without it being rather awkward, these are the words that are useful to know in order to understand certain scenes. If I don't mention it here, the whatever they were saying in Turkish isn't really important to what's going on, and you can just ask me if you're extra curious.

"Anne" means "mother"
"Baba" means "father"
"Çocuk" means "child"
"Evet" means "yes"

Misc. info about Turkey:
Gaziantep, Turkey is usually referred to as "Antep" and is famous for producing pistachio nuts.
In 1980, a military coup took control of Turkey's government, temporarily disbanding all political groups within the country. During this time, political activists were imprisoned (and were known to be victims of human rights violations) and no political activity was allowed again until 1983, when the military allowed the reintroduction of three political parties, the drafting of a Western-influenced national constitution, and elections that were held in September 1983.
All Turkish men are required to complete compulsory military service, for periods ranging from 8 to 18 months.

Section Four

Baba

"A family is a tyranny ruled over by its weakest member."
-George Bernard Shaw


Zayif Taraf
("Weakness")

Gaziantep, Turkey, May 1976.


Everyone loved his mother.

She was stunningly beautiful, but balanced by modesty. After the death of his father when he was eight, she moved to the city without complaint, found her own work, and never remarried. The old photograph of her husband was still framed, and it watched them from its place at the end of the table next to a vase of white tulips that were faithfully watered and replaced so they never seemed to brown. When she told her unfortunate story to curious diners, they expressed sorrow for the pious young widow, and left larger tips for her to pocket.

She was still in her work outfit when he entered the apartment – her flowery headscarf was tied hastily under her hair, but her white skirt revealed her calves and bare feet, and Navi paused after closing the door, watching as she stepped away from the stove, the hem of her skirt floating gently around her knees. His mother looked up at him briefly, and then back down to the bowls she was removing from the drain rack.

"Where were you?" she poured the light green soup into the bowls and Navi put his bag in the chair near the door.

"I was doing something for Hasad," he muttered, taking glasses from the rack and putting them on the table. She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, and set the bowls down.

"I don't like you going there, çocuk." As she sat down, he pulled out a moderate sum of lira and put it on the table between them. His mother's eyes went to the money, and up to him.

"I just fixed the television he has in there," Navi said, somewhat defensively. "He needs it done and pays me for it. That's all."

His mother didn't say anything, but motioned for him to sit down. For a moment, he ate while she just watched him. She didn't reach out for the money that was place between them.

"Navi, those men are just not a good influence on you," she murmured. "They gamble and drink, and I don't want you –"

"I wouldn't do that, anne," he interrupted, leaving his spoon in the soup. "We can use the money. I just do work for Hasad – I don't talk to the customers."

She didn't look completely convinced, but put her hand on the money and slid it across the table toward him. He looked up to her, but she started eating.

"Anne-"

"You earned it, so you can have it," she said flatly. "You'll need it in a few years."

He looked down at the lira, and then up to his mother, as she gracefully spooned up her soup. Studying her movements had been a secret obsession of his since childhood – the way her eyes flickered like flames, and how she moved without any hint of clumsiness. As if she always knew exactly what to do. Her dark hair was slipping out from under her headscarf, and she noticed him watching her.

"What is it?" she asked. Navi's eyes went to the photograph of his father.

"Why do you care if I work for Hasad when you work for Americans?" She put her spoon down, and suddenly seemed awkwardly aware of her exposed skin and low neckline. After a moment, he regretted the question, as she frowned and stood up, tossing her napkin onto the chair.

"You're still young, çocuk," she muttered, folding her arms and looking away. "You don't understand everything."

He wanted to tell her that he understood more than she knew. But, he knew if he told her, he'd reveal that he'd been weak – that he watched her when he shouldn't have. He knew she was the reason his father now only existed in a photograph.

"I'm not çocuk anymore," he said instead, standing up. His mother looked over at him, her face completely impassive.

"Then you'll understand," she said coldly, "that this isn't the same. We're soldiers, Navi. While those men sit idly with their alcohol and cards and American cigarettes, we are always working. That's what you need to know right now."

When Navi didn't say anything, she walked up to him, and touched his face. He suppressed the tingling sensation in his stomach as the back of her fingernails traced his cheek.

"Sometimes we want to be weak when we must be strong," she whispered, and he felt like she could look right through him. Like she knew what he'd seen. "It's a fault, Navi. Nothing else matters – you must be strong."

"Did you kill father because he was weak?"

She didn't react at all – she didn't even take her hand from his face.

"Your father betrayed us," she murmured. "He was weak. And you can't be tempted to forget that, Navi, because they will only betray you again. If you are weak once, you will always be weak."

Navi finally couldn't look at her anymore, and his eyes went to the floor. She stepped back, and walked away to clean up the table.

*

Interrogation

Ankara, Turkey, July 1983.


The television set finally sparked and buzzed, and hazy black-and-white images lit up the screen. Navi leaned back from the wiring, closed the side panel, and began tampering with the knobs that lined the bottom of the set, bringing the figures into focus. The quality was still somewhat poor – the images were grainy and the figures rather blurred, but it was the best he was going to do with such equipment. He took a step back, and the other man in the room examined the images that came up on the screen.

"When do you finish your service?" he asked, looking at the monitor.

"In December, sir," Navi answered. He didn't particularly feel like a conversation, but he knew he wasn't going to avoid one by asking to leave. Instead, he stood by the door in the dark, waiting for the officer to say something.

"It's a good thing you're skilled, then," he said finally. Navi didn't respond.

"Are you married yet?"

"No, sir." He didn't have an interest in marriage, either. Navi wasn't interested in something that would cling and become burdensome, something that could ultimately prove an obstacle. In the short time between finishing his education and starting compulsory service, he'd focused on improving his proficiency in electronics and working in underground activist groups. His mother had no inclination to see him marry, and without close relatives or family friends, there wasn't much demand for it, either.

"You'll be getting old soon. You might want to think about it."

Navi didn't reply again. The figures on the screen were moving quickly in and out of the frame. His superior was still looking at the screen, and Navi was getting tired of this interrogation.

"Where are you from?"

"Antep, sir."

"So you like pistachio a lot?"

"No, not really, sir." Maybe he should have pretended to be mildly amused by the officer's joke. The officer didn't seem to care much, in any case. He just proceeded with his questioning.

"And your family is there?"

"My mother is –"

"And your father?"

"He was a soldier – he died in combat when I was younger."

He was privately hoping that this lie would satisfy the officer's curiosity. There was a moment of silence in which he thought the conversation might finally be over.

"But you don't plan to carry on the family tradition?"

Yes. I fight a far greater enemy. "No, sir."

The officer switched off the television set. There was a moment of total darkness before he turned on the bulb above them.

"Do you plan to vote September?" he asked. Navi knew this was a useless intimidation tactic, but played along all the same.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you decided yet?"

"I'll wait until September, sir." He knew what the correct answer to this question was, but he wanted to avoid acquiescing entirely. Navi wanted no part of a government stained with Western influence, but he knew he'd probably have to vote, and vote with the military's pocket party. It made little difference to him at this point – he'd just as well watch the ballot be cast into flames. He intended to work in more potent ways to shape the course of events.

Before the officer could respond, another man walked quickly into the room.

"They're waiting for you, sir," the man said. The officer abruptly left, and Navi reached to turn off the light.

"Did you get it working?" the other asked. Navi nodded as he clicked the light off.

"Tesekkürler, Habib," he added. Habib gave him a sly smile and left the room.

*

Distraction

Gaziantep, Turkey, April 1992.


When she finally came out, Dina was violently yanking her hair up and clipping it to the back of her head. Navi turned off the television as she entered the room, and walked in front of her as she headed to the bedroom.

"We have to talk."

"About what?" she said sharply, straightening her red bathrobe to further cover herself. She tried to move around him, but he took her arm and pulled her into the living room.

"You know what." She pushed him off and stepped away, looking at the wall.

"There's nothing to say," she didn't look at him when she spoke. "He attacked you and I took care of it. That's it."

"Look at me," he put a hand on her neck and pushed her face toward his.

Dina's anger was the first thing he'd admired about her. It was part of what had made her so impossible to marry – her inability to submit or yield to any authority, her prickled surface. She took work, and most didn't feel the need to deal with that when more properly mannered women were so available. But, once her anger was tapped, she was an ideal partner – her passion translated into a fierce dedication for their cause. When her eyes sparked and her voice dissipated into a smoldering murmur, Navi could feel his heart slow. Now under his hand, her skin was burning.

"You're not controlling your emotions, Dina," he said finally. She violently pushed his hand off her neck and took another step back.

"I don't need you to instruct me like a child," she spat.

"You can't let your feelings color your judgment," he shouted. She turned away from him, breathing unsteadily.

"I'm not sure about this."

"About what?"

"About having a child!" she yelled, rounding back on him with such fury that he moved away before she could strike at him.

"Dina, we must maintain appearances-"

"You can't control a child, Navi!" she shouted, this time closing in on him. "You cannot make it like you! It can turn on you!"

At this point, her rage had subsided, and she fell on the sofa, wiping her eyes and struggling to slow her breathing. Navi sat down next to her and touched her shoulder, but she looked away.

"We can't afford suspicion," he hissed, growing impatient with her.

"Listen to me," she turned to him and took his hand, clearly trying to calm him down. "My parents tried to control me. They tried to make me like them – and it only made me hate them. You know I haven't spoken to them in –"

"That's because you were strong, askim," Navi interrupted, squeezing her hand. "You resisted their attempts to Westernize you."

"If we try to force this life on a child," she whispered forcefully, "it could become a liability."

"Dina, you know what the priority is," Navi said seriously, "you cannot put anything else above it."

"I know that. I just don't want to risk a distraction."

"Askim, you are strong," he put her hand to his lips, kissing it almost ferociously. "You know how to resist such weakness."

She smiled and moved her hand down to his shoulder. "I don't want to regret this," she mumbled.

"It will be an ally, not an enemy."

Dina shook her head. "You cannot know that."

"It will," Navi insisted, taking her hand off his shoulder and caressing her palm between his fingers. "We will make sure of it."

*

Responsibility

West Valley, California, March 2010


"You need to control yourself."

"Don't lecture me, Dina."

She scribbled a signature and neatly stacked up the papers, sliding them into the pocket of a gray folder. Navi watched her, and checked his watch again as 8:30 ticked by. Dina capped the pen, closed the folder, and handed it to him as she walked around the kitchen table.

"You're going to have to trust him now," she said carefully. He opened the folder and looked away from her.

"How am I supposed to do that when he's not being truthful with us?" Navi asked flipping briefly through the documents before closing the folder. He looked up to see her right next to him, watching him gravely.

"If there's mistrust between you two, it could put our work in jeopardy."

Navi paused, but realized she was changing the subject to distract him. A very clever, subtle move, making this about their mission rather than their increasingly distant son. She was watching him closely, and he knew she was waiting to see how he would react.

"He's made you soft," Navi hissed and walked away to put the folder in his briefcase. Dina stayed standing at the table, following him with her eyes. She looked over to the glass doors, and walked up to him.

"If you're challenging my commitment –"

"I'm not," Navi snapped at her, making her stop short, "it's his that I'm concerned about."

"Navi, he's a teenager, he's going to be out late –"

"No, Dina," Navi closed the briefcase and set it on the floor. "He's not just a teenager."

Before she could say anything, they both turned to hear the sound of a car pulling up outside. Headlights flooded the front curtains, then disappeared. Navi pushed the kitchen door open as he stepped into the entrance, Dina's footsteps behind him. A few moments later, his son stepped into the doorway, a navy backpack slumped over his shoulders. He closed the door without looking up, and began to sling the backpack off before noticing Navi's eyes on him.

"It's late," Navi called. Behrooz carried the backpack into the room and put it on the floor next to the white armchair.

"I said I was going to a study session," he replied, and Navi could sense the slight hint of hesitation in his voice.

"For what class?" Dina approached her son, her tone concerned rather than interrogative.

"Econ," he answered, his eyes on his father.

"Until eight-forty?" Navi asked.

"And I gave someone a ride home."

"Who?"

"No one," Behrooz said a little too quickly. "Someone in my class. He'd left his keys in the classroom after Mrs. Dietrich locked it. I had to drive him home because his parents didn't answer when he called."

Navi glanced at Dina, who returned his look with an uncertain face. She reached over, picked up the backpack, and unzipped it. Behrooz didn't say anything as she pulled out a blue Economics book, and flipped through it to find a few loose-leaf notebook pages covered in bullet points and definitions. She put the book back in the bag and looked to Navi, who stepped between them, leaning very close to his son.

"If you're not telling us something," he said coldly, "we'll know."

"I'm not," Behrooz replied in the same tone. He gruffly took his bag from Dina and headed up the stairs. Dina turned to Navi, and he was glad to see she looked just as skeptical as he felt.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. He didn't reply. His son didn't seem to understand how much depended on him, and Navi knew that was his responsibility. He listened to hear Behrooz's door close, then looked back down at Dina.

"Make sure he isn't using the phone," he told her. Dina nodded and followed her son as Navi instead went to the computer in the other room.

Section Five

The Deception Act

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


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 Hazar.com, OnlineTurkish.com, 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 hillschan and catch22girl. 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.
I apologize sincerely to the Turkish language for likely slaughtering it with my attempts to use it.
Thank you very, very much for reading your way through this whole fic. I commend you :)

Did you like the story? You have complaints?
How about letting the author now what you think about her work?
Feedback to Sho-ro Ko (Please write in English)