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morning’s events unfolded, his mind was thousands of miles away in Iran.
    Three months ago, Iran captured twelve men outside of the central desert city of Yazd. It was the only thing agreed upon as factual. The Iranian government alleged it was a joint mission of the CIA and Israeli intelligence to “invade” Iran and “steal” nuclear secrets. The US and Israel denied the allegations, and counter-claimed that the hostages were civilians captured in neighboring Iraq for the purposes of Iranian propaganda. The US maintained that Iran’s motive was to gain leverage in the on-going nuclear disarmament discussions.
    When the hostages refused to talk, and the US wouldn’t budge, they were put on trial. Then this morning, not coincidentally September 11, all of the hostages were publicly executed in the streets of Tehran. The US’s first response was just moments away.
    Naqui buzzed Wendy, his long time assistant, and instructed her to hold any calls. Then with a regrettable flip of the remote control, he turned on the flat-screen television that hung on the wall of his office.
    On the screen appeared Kerry Rutherford, using the White House as a symbolic prop in the background. The morning sun glistened off the silver hair of the sixty-one-year-old, newly appointed intelligence czar. The position was created in the post-9/11 world to be one point of contact for all intelligence agencies to filter information, hoping to eliminate the bureaucracy and ego that doomed past efforts to stop attacks. His official title is U.S. Director of National Intelligence.
    Nothing Rutherford said surprised Naqui. The US condemned the “murder” of the hostages without a fair trial, and strongly denied that the hostages were part of the CIA or the Israeli intelligence service.
    Naqui paid more attention to Rutherford’s body language, hoping to pick up a clue as to what really happened. He looked into his eyes and gauged his tone, but learned little.
    Naqui wandered to the wall nearest to his desk and studied a few of his framed diplomas—undergrad at Rutgers—medical school at Columbia—too many honorary degrees to count. They were a symbol of his work ethic. His eyes then moved to his Vietnam medals, which were displayed like a museum exhibit behind a glass partition. They represented sacrifice.
    He was most proud of his service as a medic in Vietnam. Back then, things were black and white—making a sacrifice for America equaled making a sacrifice for the greater good. That’s why he became involved in Operation Anesthesia all those years ago. But as he looked out his window to the spot where the Towers once proudly stood, on the anniversary of their death, he understood that the world would be forever colored in shades of gray.
    No matter how many 9/11s Operation Anesthesia stopped, Naqui knew the one they didn’t stop would be the one that lived in infamy. As he watched the Towers burn on that horrible morning, all he could think was that he had let his country down. But what he didn’t count on was that his country—the one he sacrificed everything for—would turn on him.
    He could still feel the brutal beating he received by a mob of “patriots,” their vicious insults actually hurting him more than any blows from their angry fists. It happened just days after the attacks during a house call Naqui made to a wheelchair-bound MS sufferer on the Upper West Side. The hangman jury of his peers didn’t know the lengths Dash Naqui had gone to keep their country safe, nor did they care.
    “We just don’t think the climate is right to get a conviction in this type of case,” the DA tossed more salt in his wounds that night, while Claire sat shaking beside his hospital bed. The message was clear—Naqui and his fellow Muslims were no longer considered true Americans.
    Naqui noticed his hands were flexed in tight fists, reliving the pain. Just the thought of the attack filled him with a hatred he never knew existed. “Not the