Amun Chalthoum said with evident disgust. He was staring down at the young man Soraya had fished out of the Red Sea after he’d jumped overboard to escape her questioning. They were in one of the shipboard cabins provided for them by the owner of the dive shop, a narrow, foul-smelling place whose exaggerated rocking made the sunlight an inconstant companion. Chalthoum’s expression was a combination of frustration and fear. “He’s nothing but a runner—an advance man for drug smugglers.” That didn’t seem like nothing to Soraya, but she could see that Amun wasn’t in the mood for thinking about anything other than the terrorist cadre. It was at this moment, when his distress was most evident, that she abandoned the notion that he might be misleading her. She was sure he wouldn’t be so emotional about this situation if he was covering up al Mokhabarat’s involvement. The wave of relief that ran through her was so powerful, she rocked on her feet.
