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off-guard.”
    The other man nodded; Highway 10 ran through the heart of the city, east to west, and was the quickest route back to the marine base east of the city. “When you start moving,” Kealey continued, “watch those guards to see what they do. If you see something you don’t like, hit your SQUELCH button twice, okay? They’ll let me keep the radio.”
    Another nod. Kealey made the necessary call to the following vehicles, and then they rolled forward, braking to a halt once more next to the guards. He handed over his rifle, stock first.
    The Delta colonel took it reluctantly. “You know, if something goes wrong, we won’t be able to help you in there.”
    “I know,” Kealey replied. “Don’t worry about me. Just watch these guys.” He slung the pack over his shoulder and climbed out of the vehicle.
    As he approached the door, one of the fighters gestured for him to raise his hands. He complied, and the man performed a quick search, briefly examining the PRC-148 handheld radio hanging from Kealey’s right hip. When he was satisfied, the guard made a move for the backpack, but it was pulled out of reach.
    “This is for Kassem.” Kealey spoke softly in Arabic, but his tone left no room for argument. “Go and ask him if you must, but no one else touches it. He will tell you the same.”
    The fighter, his face partially concealed by a wound kaffiyeh, measured him up with calm brown eyes. Kealey simply returned the stare, his face devoid of expression. Finally, the man stepped back, and Kealey passed through into the darkened hallway.

 
CHAPTER 4
LONDON
     
    A light rain was falling steadily as a young woman hurried along New Bond Street, pulling the lapels of her coat together in a vain attempt to save her blouse from further damage. She was already soaked to the skin, despite having left the small café on Oxford Street just five minutes earlier. She had eaten her lunch alone, as usual, and the clouds had waited for her to step onto the sidewalk before opening up. Looking up at the swirling sky, Naomi Kharmai wondered if the weather had joined the rest of the world in working against her. As her green eyes flickered over the surrounding sea of umbrellas, she couldn’t help but feel a little naïve, like a tourist in her own city. She briefly considered hailing a cab, but then decided she was already too wet for it to make a difference.
    Kharmai had recently celebrated her thirty-first birthday, but her small, slender build belied her years. Her caramel-colored skin betrayed her Indian heritage, as did her jet-black hair, but she had never set foot on the Asian continent. She was British by birth, but she was also a naturalized American citizen. This last qualification was something of a necessity, as her office was located in the U.S. Embassy in Grosvenor Square, where she was officially listed as a senior analyst with the Office of Defense Cooperation. This description was not, however, entirely accurate. Naomi was an analyst, but not for the ODC. In reality, she was employed by the Central Intelligence Agency.
    The recruiters had come looking for her nearly five years earlier. She’d been working at Bell Labs at the time, in the Computer Science and Software center in Murray Hill. Kharmai had truly despised the job, an entry-level position with little hope of advancement. She had graduated third in her class at Stanford, but that could only take her so far in a company that was home to some of the most brilliant minds in the field of computer engineering. Feeling more than a little neglected, she’d jumped at the chance to work in the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology, where she was given access to some of the latest innovations and, more importantly, the opportunity to actually use the technology in a meaningful way. But Naomi’s talents were not limited to the science of cryptography. It wasn’t long before her language skills earned her a place in the CTC, the Agency’s