“You lost someone close to you, didn’t you, Castor?” Susan asked. Patrick did not reply. “Someone very close to you. I could tell it in your voice, even all electronically fuzzed.” Still no reply. “You must be hot in that metal suit, Castor. Take it off. I won’t hurt you, and I certainly won’t report a fellow American soldier to the Egyptian authorities.” Silence. “At least take off the helmet and let me look at you. You look like a cross between Robocop and Darth Vader—but your voice doesn’t sound like either one of those characters.”

Patrick simply had no idea why he did it—he had already ordered her away, and he was on watch, and the navies of at least two countries were within a moment’s notice of blowing him to hell. But Patrick hefted the big electromagnetic rail gun in his left hand, unfastened his helmet, and slipped it off.

Unaltered by the electronic visor, he could see that she was even more beautiful. She had let her hair fall to her shoulders in dark, shining cascades; her lips were full and red; her cheekbones high and striking; her neck graceful; her skin smooth and dark, adding to the allure. Her one good right eye widened in pleasant surprise as she studied his face.

“That’s much better,” she said in a low but sweet voice. She couldn’t believe how young and how innocent he looked—she had expected some grizzled old warhorse. He looked more like a high school teacher than a commando. He didn’t look dangerous in the least, although his dark blue eyes were hard to read—this was clearly not his first mission in that getup, she decided, but he looked very much out of place in it. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Now you can go.”

“Won’t you tell me your name? And I’ll bet it’s not Castor. That’s your call sign, at least the one you’re using on this mission. I’ve worked with lots of special-ops teams before. I was an intelligence officer in the Air Force—I’ve briefed dozens of teams from all branches of service before and after they do their thing. I know how you guys operate.”

“Mrs. Salaam, you will—”

“Call me Susan. Please. With my husband gone, there will be hardly anyone I know in this hemisphere that will call me by my first name now. I’ll be the Widow Salaam forever, especially around the Mediterranean.”

Patrick hesitated, his words forgotten. He nodded, averting his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss, Susan.”

“And I am sorry for yours,” Susan said. “I am an American, a former Air Force officer, an Egyptian, and a widow—but I am first and foremost a woman. I can tell when someone is suffering. It is more than just a team leader who has lost men under his command in combat— you have lost someone much closer than that.”