Saul: "There's a man with a gray jacket, yellow stripes, crossing El Barghout. His partner's still on me, so I'm pinned here, but you'll be okay. Dump your radio phone, let him take you into custody. Your cover will hold until we get the Ambassador."
It is two things. Saul's voice is always the one that called her home, and when you don't know what to do, you shut down and let your handler drive. This is a comfort. But it is also something calling her away. Carrie Mathison is always going rogue. In her best years it was a badge of pride, the Girl Who Gets Away, who Gets Her Man. And every time she did it, she got back a little of what she lost that day. Everything in her is terrified, of losing and of winning, of giving chase and giving in. Both options are terrible, and both of them are seductive. But what wins out, at this moment, is a pride in her work and a need to get everybody's respect again.
Carrie: "I can lose him, Saul."
Saul: "If you run, you'll only make it worse."
Carrie: "If they arrest me, this mission is blown."
It's not the mission he's worried about, now. He can hear it in her voice. She dumps the phone -- unceremoniously, you might say -- and heads out into the market. Colors and smells and sounds, and the sweat and fear, and something waking up she'd put to sleep.
After the briefing, Nick Brody went home. He wrapped the book carefully in a towel; it's been desecrated and he can't use it anymore. Not even this show is going to show somebody burning a Koran, though, so he must commit it to the earth. His family knows, now, but it still must be buried. Dana joins him, in the dark. Digging down. Listening to him pray.
"Your mom threw my Koran on the floor, tore some pages. It's desecrated. So I'm burying it out of respect."
His daughter kneels to help.
Half a world away, Carrie runs. Her brain is clicking, faster and faster, seeking out targets and places to hide, places of weakness. Colors and smells and the zapping brain. She ducks down an alley that's a makeshift boutique, trading out the blue shayla he's been following for a lovely green hijab; she admires herself in a mirror pointed backwards, so she can see him coming. And when he does, she's ready. She drops him with a swift kick, screaming in Arabic that her husband has fallen, so the women crowd around.
Heading back out into the world is like being born. Her face twitches with pleasure, unhinged and focused at the same time, mouth moving of its own accord. It's an interstellar burst of power, thrumming through her, so strong that for a moment she burns the camera itself, shaking: It's not about spy stuff, it's not even about Saul's respect anymore. The thing that was asleep wakes up and bursts into flame: