The Crisis by David Poyer

than the Harlem summer, a closed-in, waxy, intimate torridity like a closed-up green house. His knees shook as he bowed, eyes flicking to her, then away. “Welcome, welcome . . . Agent Erculiano, Agent . . . Ar-Rahim?”
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    â€œYou are—you are with the Americans?”
    â€œI
am
an American.”
    â€œOh . . . my mistake . . . come this way . . . very glad . . . a car waiting.”
    Special Agent Aisha Ar-Rahim was used to people mistaking her nationality. Most Americans overseas wore an instantly recognizable uniform of khaki pants and polo shirts. Sometimes the khakis had cargo pockets, or the shirts were button-down, but they were always short-sleeved and wrinkle-free, and their wearers stood clear of the locals as if they carried flesh-eating bacteria. But she swished along in a voluminous cerise silk abaya, clogs, and a lavender pashmina she’d tied in a soul-singer headwrap as soon as she left Washington. In her purse was a cell phone, a gold-toned badge with the seal of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, and handcuffs. Along with a little prayer rug she’d bought on hajj and a digital Canon.
    The little man scurried ahead. Erculiano said again, “I can carry that for you.”
    Paul Erculiano, of the open-necked shirts worn with Italian slacks, was the assistant agent in charge—her subordinate—but they’d never worked together before. It was the third time he’d offered, and she wasn’t sure whether it was politeness, being patronizing, or simple brownnosing. “I can handle it,” she snapped, though her suitcase
was
heavy. The computer was in it and her Koran, and she always brought crime-scene gear overseas: a six-ounce spray can of ninhydrin, latex gloves, evidence tape, bags, and a dozen evidence-collection documents.
    Down in the bottom, inside a folded Marine Corps duffel bag from the Camp Henderson Exchange, was her body armor are a nine-millimeter SIG Sauer P228 and four magazines of Cor-Bon +P+ hollow points. The pistol was her issue weapon, but the bag had been the suggestion of one of the older agents in the Washington office. “Take along a spare duffel,” he’d said. “I always do, on assignments. You never know when you’re gonna find something worth bringing back.”
    The Naval Criminal Investigative Service was the Navy Department’s civilian detective force. Most agents focused on traditional criminal investigations, a big problem for a department as huge as Defense, but they also worked counternarcotics, counterintelligence, counterterrorism, and naval security, both aboard ship and wherever sailors or marines were stationed ashore. Aisha was a federal law enforcement officer, like an FBI or DEA agent. Her chain of command went not through the military, but up the civilian side to the secretary of the navy. Whom she happened to know, having been given the Navy Superior Civilian Service Award by him two years before for her work at the Middle East Field Office, breaking a case involving stolen explosives, forged base IDs, and a terrorist attack on a U.S. ship.
    In the car the little man sat in back with them, though the front passenger seat was unoccupied. He kept wiping his forehead, taking deep breaths, and sighing. He said his name was Bahdoon. “First or last?” Erculiano asked, leaning forward so Aisha could see his chest hair. His beard had grown out during the flight, and he reeked of lime after-shave.
    Bahdoon explained most Ashaarans didn’t have last names, not as Westerners used them. “We have the name we are given. Then our father’s name. I am Bahdoon, my father was Abukar, I am Bahdoon Abukar. Then my grandfather, so that is three names.”
    â€œDon’t you get confused?”
    â€œWe have our ways of identifying those we can trust,” he said. Beforeshe could ask he added, “Women use their