Thirteen men and one woman—that was all that was left of all the persons taken from the Mediterranean Sea during the air attacks on the ships suspected of staging the raid on the missile base at Samah. They were taken and separated from the others for one reason only: They looked, spoke, or behaved like Americans. And of the group, the most important and the most intriguing one was the woman.

She was hanging, naked, from manacles bolted to a concrete wall. Her strength had given out days ago—she was no longer able to support herself except for a few brief hours every day, so her wrists were blackened and the flesh had been scraped almost to the bone. Her hair was thin and falling out from dehydration; her ribs protruded so far that they appeared as if they would likely pop right through her skin.

Zuwayy thought she had been very pretty, once. Not anymore.

The lights were turned on as he stepped into the cell. The one lightbulb was like a red-hot poker to the woman’s eyes, but she could not shield them. “Any more information, Sergeant?” Zuwayy asked.

“No, Your Highness,” the jailer responded. “Her response to all questions is ‘Help me, please.’ No names, no other information.”

Zuwayy examined her. The interrogators had tried every possible combination of physical torture, drugs, deprivation, and disorientation to try to break her. He was impressed. “Very strong, very tough young woman,” he said. He was surprised when she opened her eyes and moved unsteadily to her feet. “I see you are awake. How are you feeling today, miss?”

“Help me, please,” she muttered through swollen, cracked lips. “Please, sir, help me.”

“I will be glad to help you,” Zuwayy said. “All you have to do is tell me your name.”

“Help me. Please.”

“You don’t need to resist,” Zuwayy said. “Your comrades have told us everything about you. You were responsible for infiltrating and attacking a Libyan military base, then escaping via helicopter to your ship. We know everything. We know you are American commandos, on a secret mission to inspect and, if necessary, destroy our military weapons. You might as well talk. If you do, we will treat you like a combatant instead of a spy and afford you treatment under the Geneva Conventions. Do you know what that means?”

“Please, Your Highness . . . please, help me, I beg you.. ..”

“I see you recognize who I am? Good! I can guarantee you much better treatment, everything to which a captured combatant is entitled—food, water, clothing, medical attention, and contact with the International Red Cross.”

“Please ... help ..