He reflected upon the western pleasures he noticed in Ghaffari’s life. A large screen television, a sports car, reliable utilities, and decadent food delivered on a whim. With their lives being so easy, he understood how Americans could become ignorant about the plight of the human condition. He liked the thought of remedying that.
After donning clean slacks and a dress shirt, he combed back his dark hair and slid through the door. Ghaffari was staring at him while chewing a piece of pizza, and her gaze captivated him.
“Don’t worry,” she said after swallowing. “Yes, you are a gorgeous man, but I won’t seduce you. From what little I understand about your mission, you have no time to be distracted by thinking that you’re falling in love with me.”
“Your seductive skills have become too automatic. Fortunately, one of us has self-control.”
He ducked into his bedroom and draped his dirty clothes over a chair. When he returned to the living room, she was pouring a two-liter bottle of cola into a glass.
“That shows what you know,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“I can help myself from tempting a man. I only do so for my agendas. What I might enjoy, actually, would be a man tempting me with his mind.”
“That wouldn’t happen tonight, even if I had the energy or interest.”
“Unfortunately,” she said as she stared at her half-eaten pizza, “no man ever does.”
Salem awoke feeling refreshed but numb. Glancing at his watch, he noticed it was late morning. He put on his clothes and walked into the room where Ghaffari sipped coffee while reading a newspaper.
“Good morning,” she said.
“You should have woken me.”
“You needed rest. There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
Salem didn’t move. She looked up at him.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll get it for you.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t,” she said as she stood. “I’m just being a good hostess. You can crack a stick over my head later for having gone outdoors without a male escort.”
He gestured to protest but bit his tongue as she turned the corner. When she returned with his coffee, she preempted his retort.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I still carry old wounds. Your reputation and publications prove that you’re a better man than those who destroyed my childhood.”
“I’m trying to understand you.”
“It’s not important that you do,” she said. “But then again, I imagine you need to understand everything. It’s the curse of a critical mind.”
“You’re quite the psychologist,” he said.
She sat, and he joined her at the table. His coffee tasted weak, and he squinted at the cup.
“American coffee is an acquired taste,” she said. “We’ll have some stronger brew at lunch.”
“Have you confirmed our meeting with your fiancé?”
“Yes,” she said. “I called him while you were asleep. We’ll be meeting him for lunch.”
He let her drive the Mustang and grew concerned as she maneuvered it past a sign for Naval Station Norfolk.
“We’re meeting him at a restaurant near the base?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I’m his fiancée. When I dine with his majesty, it’s in the captain’s mess.”
“Captain’s mess?” he asked.
“His personal dining room adjacent to his quarters on the ship. It’s a pompous concept that fits his personality perfectly.”
Salem cringed.
“You didn’t mention we’d be visiting the ship.”
“I assure you,” she said, “it’s completely safe. He summons me aboard for lunch every day and whines if I tell him I have to give a lecture. It’s become ritualistic.”
“And me? A Syrian national? I can just waltz aboard the Bainbridge at my whim?”
“You’re the personal guest of the captain and a colleague of his fiancée. You’re also a noted economist guest lecturing at a local university. You assured me you’d pass any background check.”
“It’s not the background check that bothers me.”
“Then what is it?” she asked.
“I refuse to set foot on the ship.”
He braced himself against the console as she whipped the Mustang to the side of the road. His chest chafed under the taut seatbelt.
“You’re paying me to manipulate a man on an American destroyer, and any idiot could deduce that there’s violence in your agenda. If you lack the spine to visit the ship and look its crew in the eyes, then you’d be better off going home.”
Her words stung, and he decided at that moment that he would demonstrate the courage necessary to take the Leviathan to its final destiny.
“Drive,” he said.
The USS Bainbridge appeared unimposing in its simple elegance. The muted grays and soft edges that enabled visual and radar camouflage subdued the ship’s profile, but the metallic world of the Burke-class destroyer swelled as Salem crossed its brow, approached its cliff-like bulkhead, and craned his neck to the bridge.
His heart raced as a sailor in a dress blue uniform snapped a salute.
“What do I do?” Salem asked.
“Nothing,” Ghaffari said. “Just wait.”
Seconds later, a young, slim man in a blue-gray digitized camouflage work uniform stepped through a door.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Ghaffari,” he said.
“Hello, Ralph,” she said. “This is my cousin, Doctor Hana Salem, Professor of Economics at Damascus University.”
“Lieutenant Ralph Dotsen,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
Salem shook hands with a man he expected to kill.
“Likewise,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Please, follow me. The captain is waiting for you.”
Salem hoped to meet few sailors, but each corner he turned or ladder he climbed produced a new face, no older than twenty-five years. Each young man smiled and stepped aside, treating him, Ghaffari, and their officer escort like honored guests.
Two flights up, a teenager with a rich skin tone and dark Mediterranean hair reminded Salem of his sister’s oldest son. As the youngster pushed his back to the bulkhead to allow passage, the crate of lettuce he carried shifted and revealed his nametag — Barakat — the surname of his second cousin’s husband.
Wondering how many family tree levels separated him from the sailor, he swallowed and labored up the next ladder. As he approached the highest decks, the lieutenant knocked on a door. It opened, and a mess specialist stepped aside.
“Your guests are here, sir,” Lieutenant Dotsen said.
“Very well,” Commander Richard Pastor said.
Salem followed Ghaffari into the room. A man of average stature wearing silver oak leafs on the lapels of his camouflage uniform sat behind a small dining table. Ghaffari moved to him and shifted into a subservient persona.
“Kiss me,” Pastor said.
She leaned over and obeyed.
“This must be your cousin,” he said.
Pastor pushed his chair back and stood, awaiting Salem to approach. Salem walked to him and extended his hand.
“Welcome to my ship,” Pastor said.
As he looked into the eyes of arrogance in the captain of the Bainbridge, Salem regained confidence that destroying him would be acceptable collateral damage.
“I am Doctor Hana Salem,” he said. “Your ship is impressive.”
“Indeed it is,” Pastor said.
Ghaffari sat to the captain’s left, and Pastor spent most of the first course doting over his fiancée while making every effort of gesture and tone to appear masculine. But Salem could see that he was a lonely, insecure man for whom Ghaffari played puppet master.