The Command by David Poyer Page B

now, since the resident agent in charge was in Naples at the moment. When they’d told her where the body was, she’d started to put on a pants suit she often wore when she had to go off base. Then changed her mind, and chose instead a light but capacious
abaya
dress with long sleeves, low heels, and a scarf, which she’d converted to a
hijab
before getting out of the car. In the black leather purse locked in the white Suburban were a cell phone, a heavy, silver-toned badge with the seal of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, a container of Mace, handcuffs, a little prayer rug, just big enough for her face and hands, that she’d bought on hajj, and a nine-millimeter SIG Sauer P228 loaded with 115-grain Cor-Bon +P+ hollow points.
    She asked the police sergeant, in Arabic, “Tell me again why you called us.”
    He smiled nervously, obviously still unclear who she was, though she’d already explained. “He has American ID.”
    â€œYou’re telling me he’s an American?”
    â€œNo, that he has American ID.”
    She remembered to keep her voice softer, more polite than she would have if this was a crime scene investigation in the United States, or within the walls that sealed the American enclave from the Arab city around it. “May I see it, please?”
    She flipped through the documents in the noon sunlight. The sergeant looked uneasy, keeping an eye on the passersby. The women were all in black, covered from head to toe, only darting eyes visible. Some tugged children. The men wore the long white cotton
thobe
that was the national dress of the island. The sergeant cleared his throat, and they dropped their glances and walked quickly past, sandals scuffing up dust.
    Aisha compared the ID with the face she’d jigsawed together. The photo was good. The ID was good. The trouble was, Base Security said Achmed Hamid Khamis had been fired the year before. Not only that, he’d been in his fifties, and weighed 110 kilos. The broken body under the sheet would barely weigh 60 and was twenty years younger.
    â€œYou’ll take charge of the body?” the sergeant said hopefully.
    â€œWhat other identification did he have?”
    He showed her, reluctantly. An Omani passport, but in a different name from the base ID. Blood had soaked into one corner, bright arterial red, like raspberry juice. Same man, same face, but a different name. Another photo ID. Reading the Arabic with some difficulty—she spoke it better than she read it—she found it was a Bahraini driver’s licence in the same name as the base ID. But this photograph was of a different man, with a longer jaw and smaller eyes, one of which did not look directly at the camera.
    â€œHave you called the SIS? Major Yousif?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t.”
    â€œIt’s your decision, of course, But this may be something he’ll want to look into.”
    The sergeant went back to his car, shooing children away from it. They scattered, throwing clods of earth at him and some at Aisha, too. He shouted and they fled, brown bare feet kicking up in the sunlight.
    Left with the body, she turned the head to one side and then the other. Looking for scars, tattoos, earrings. Bone shifted beneath her fingers. They came away wet with a thin, clear, slimy liquid she figured must be cerebrospinal fluid.
    With a quick, violent jerk, because she hadn’t seen enough of this yet not to be horrified and disgusted, she peeled the sheet down to the waist and lifted the shirt. The trousers were black polyester with a cheap belt and brass-tone buckle. Above it, the midriff had been can-openered. Here, yes, bowel contents, urine, the warm organic gush-ings of shit and death.
    She covered it again, swallowing to keep nausea from overwhelming her, and went on to inspect the hands. You could tell a lot from hands. These were ringless. The watch was a cheap Casio, still running despite the impact.
    She was