Hashim had come here from the alley he’d found himself in. The dream with his grandfather had unbolted his memory. And in the mirror, the warm eyes of his dead mother appeared and stared at him.

He knew she’d hated his being sent away by his father to study under the dark cloud of jihad. He knew she had loved him and wanted him to be a good man. He had loved her, too. But his father had been enamored by the power of the shadow. And that’s the path Hashim followed.

It broke his mother’s heart.

She died soon after Hashim returned from his first jihad in Saudi Arabia. This was another memory unearthed as he looked into the mirror. What his mother feared had become true. The sweet boy he’d been had become a dark savior. But at what cost? He heard her implore him to answer.

Hashim stared at the straight razor in his hand. A litany of sins he once thought were victories now ripped open his mind. And in answer to his mother’s haunting memory, he placed the edge of the razor at his throat.

18

18

The clock struck midnight inside Adana Airport in southern Turkey. A boarding announcement was made for Turkish Airlines, Flight 1269 to Washington, D.C.

At the sink, in the men’s room, across from the gate, Hashim splashed ice-cold water to his clean-shaven face. He was burning up—his forehead hot with fever.

He dried his face with a paper towel.

When an elderly man entered the bathroom, Hashim stood up straight and buttoned the middle button of the dark blue jacket he wore.

Hashim exited the men’s room and walked to the attendant taking boarding passes. He took his boarding pass out of his jacket pocket. He was nervous. He wasn’t used to not being in control. But it was his choice to be here. His choice to escape.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He was dizzy.

“Are you all right, sir?” the young man in line behind him asked.

At first Hashim didn’t know the young man had addressed him.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Hashim regained his balance, and turned to the young man. “Yes,” he answered, with a smile.

The woman in line before him boarded the plane.

Hashim showed his passport to the attendant. It was a Greek passport. The name on it, Nicolas Sandor.

He handed her the boarding pass. She scanned it and gave it back. He boarded the plane.

Hashim found his seat on the aisle in the last row. The other two passengers had already been seated.

Hashim’s eyes went to the elderly woman next to him. He found himself intrigued by the beads she ran through her fingers.

“Such a simple thing can give such peace,” she said, when she saw his eyes on her rosary.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”