sense of misgiving rang through him, what his father called “distrust of the white eyes.”

Memories overlapped reality, triggered by the perfume of climbing jasmine and a deeper sandy scent of the old town. Ghosts shifted amid the dappled tiles, shadow plays of the past.

She could not seem to connect the past to the present.

Coral Novak was new to Sigma, recruited from the CIA only three years ago. Still, in the short time since her hiring, she had earned a Ph.D. in nuclear physics and was already a black belt in six disciplines of martial arts. Her IQ was off the charts, and she had almost an encyclopedic knowledge on a wide range of subjects.

Dr. Sean McKnight was Sigma’s founder and director, Painter’s immediate superior, an ex–Navy SEAL who had gone on to earn a Ph.D. in both physics and information technology.

Kara entered, resplendent in a traditional Omani thob gown of flowing red silk with gold filigree embroidered along the hems. She abandoned any headdress, leaving her auburn hair free, and wore Prada sandals. As always, to Kara, a line had to be drawn between the traditional and the fashionable.

The souk spread out in a labyrinthine maze. Reed roofs sheltered carts and booths, laden with bolts of silk and Kashmiri cotton, bushels of pomegranates and pistachio nuts, iced bins of crab and whitefish, barrels of pickles and coffee beans, swaths of fresh-cut flowers, flats of breads, slabs of dried meats. The air steamed from grease stoves,

They had a motto: Be there first. When it came to technological advances, the United States could not come in second place.

She stood as tall as Safia, lithe of limb, but still carried a certain sturdiness to her frame. It could be felt in her firm handshake.