Chapter Two

Red

Red forced her lips into a smile of gratitude when the guy in his construction boots held the heavily carved front door of the Surain Zunai Hotel wide for her. Dipping her head as a silent thank you, she passed into the relief of chilly air and the vibrant clatter of ambient noise bouncing off the tile surfaces.

This venue was a normal CIA dangle, chosen for a specific purpose. The Surain Zunai hotel—with its relative opulence—would give Moussa a taste of what life could be like for him and his family if he gathered the right kind of intelligence.

Under today's operational circumstances, it was bad luck that there were so many people milling around the same space. That wasn't always the case. It depended on the mission goals and what situation worked best. A busy subway staircase with much jostling and bumping was perfect for a brush pass where she handed off a physical item to her confederate. In a public meeting like today, Red preferred a good balance—enough people that she would be one of a crowd, yet sparse enough that she wasn't pressed shoulder to shoulder with strangers. Today, a little more room for a quiet—and more importantly—private exchange would have been nice.

The men opened a path for her as she wended toward the tearoom, where a handful of their team members took advantage of the WIFI, busily pecking at their keyboards.

Everyone sitting in the tearoom chairs looked like they were in their own headspaces, getting their work done, and no one lifted their gaze to observe her.

The others, dressed in desert tactical gear, milled around the lobby, looking like they were gathering up, ready to head out somewhere e n force . Their faces were ruddy tan from the intense desert sun. The flesh that peeked from under their shirts showed the milky line between exposed and protected skin.

Did this team know what they were getting themselves into?

The Syrian war had cooled to some degree, but there was no place in the country that didn't experience violence. Terrorists and armed groups still posed a significant threat of kidnapping, serious injury, and, yes, death.

The borderlands area had struck a precarious balance that everyone tried to respect lest that tenuous stalemate shift.

From her local contacts, Red had learned that this group of contractors from an Azerbaijani company had arrived five days ago and would be moving across the border once their equipment caught up with them. Their presence was a burr in the sandals of the tribal leaders on the other side of the border.

No, burr was much too benign—the leaders spoke of this initiative as a significant threat.

If the company got its way, this crew would usurp the elders' power by enticing the youth with jobs that came with plenty of cash flow and a shift in the power structure to a personally enriching, capitalist model.

The tribal elders didn't see this as a threat only to their authority but also a threat to their traditions and way of life.

Red predicted that the talks would prove increasingly contentious—possibly violent—if the contractors didn't carefully respect the norms of the area they wanted to exploit. It was poor timing that she was crossing paths with them. Surely, tribal members were posted about, observing, and reporting back. And Red didn't want her face caught in their surveillance.

She'd keep her head down, literally and figuratively.

Rounding behind a table in the shadow of the back corner, Red could watch the road through the plate glass window as well as the front door. Here, she had a bit more space to keep her conversation private, and she had a quick exit through the kitchen if necessary. By habit, Red always planned three points of egress. But who the hell was she kidding? She'd parked herself here because she was close to the bathroom.

Please let me keep it together just long enough to make the exchange.

Taking her seat and placing the money bag between her feet, Red relished the wafting air-conditioned air that soothed her fevered system.

Maybe she'd buck her standard protocol and let herself have a night or two here until she felt well enough to travel back home to Beirut. Would that be so bad?

Honestly, who would be taking aim at her?

Maybe it wasn't terrible that the contractors were here; perhaps they sucked up all the local vigilance.

With sunlight streaming through the window, the air shimmered with particulates. The staffer outside was using a watering can, sprinkling the sidewalk to keep the dust down.

And stepping past that worker came Moussa's slender form.

Right on time.

Even from here, Red could tell from his quick step and the glow of anticipation on his face that he was bringing her a prize. A tingle of excitement ran through her system. She couldn't wait to discover what he'd found.

A tearoom server moved into place, blocking Red's view. His pencil poised on a palm-sized pad, he bent at the waist in a quasi-bow and raised eyebrows. This posture was meant to elicit an order from her without the need for opening pleasantries, especially if she didn't speak his language.

Red wondered what might show up in front of her if she mimed drinking from a cup. Instead of following through with that thought, she leaned to the side and pointed toward Moussa, who had pressed through the doors and was elbowing his way through the huddle of contractors. In Arabic, Red said, "My colleague just arrived. Would you let him know where I'm sitting? And also, mint tea for both of us, please."

As the server proceeded to do her bidding, Red removed the scarf from her hair and let it drop over the bag.

Moussa held his arms stiffly to his sides as he wended through the tables toward her. Dressed impeccably in an urban businessman's blue suit, his white shirt looked crisp, and he contrasted with the contractors enough that they turned their heads to watch him.

Red stood. Extending her arm, she shook Moussa's hand, making direct eye contact and maintaining the body language and feel of a business meeting. Nothing clandestine going on over here .

His hand was moist and shaky. To be fair, hers probably felt the same to him. Though for very different reasons. "Won't you sit down?" Red gestured toward the seat, which would put his back to the room and block others from seeing her while leaving her view as wide as possible. "I've ordered some tea. Are you hungry for lunch?"

"No. Yes. Well, tea. Good." He sat, undid the button on his jacket, looked left then right, and, gripping his seat, he shuffled the chair a little closer to the table, scraping the back legs enough to make a bright screech.

Red winced as she ducked her head to look at her lap.

When she thought he was done making noise, she raised her gaze to find him sitting very still, blinking at her.

Red sent him a flat-lipped smile, then turned to watch the server gather their tea items on a tray from the workstation while letting Moussa settle his nerves.

This whole exchange was awkward as hell. Red had a lot of work to do to get Moussa up to speed on how to flow through an event like he was water.

Gentle, unobserved water.

As the server glided into place, Red pushed the items on the table to the side to make room for their drinks. And with a flourish, the server poured from high above, letting the syrupy tea stream into the glasses. After placing a vase-shaped tea glass in front of each of them, he set the pot near Red so she could refill their glasses as desired.

"I think we'll be having lunch. Could you bring menus, please?" she asked.

When the server left, Red lifted the top off the pot and moved it closer to her so that she could smell the freshness of the mint. It soothed her system as she closed her eyes and inhaled.

After a moment, she opened them again to find Moussa frowning at her, his head tilted. "What's wrong with you?" he whispered in French.

"I ate something." She batted a hand through the air. "Tell me, how is the family? Your wife? Your son?"

"I left them very well, thank you," he replied stiffly. He patted his breast pocket before quickly glancing around. And now, Red knew precisely where he'd placed the information he wanted to share. He wouldn't be this twitchy about his surroundings if he passed her garbage.

She was itching to get her fingers on whatever was in that pocket.

"Such an excellent scholar, your son. He will make a fine doctor one day. Is he playing sports this year?" Typically, Red would chat this guy up. She'd use this opportunity to continue to grow their friendship. Her work required honest relationships and genuine feelings of amity. It was a maternal kind of friendship that she would develop between them. She would encourage and teach, and if necessary, she'd correct his behaviors. Moussa was her asset, which meant she was responsible for him—for his education on how to do his job for the CIA, meeting his needs, and keeping him safe.

But Red wasn't sure her body would cooperate much longer, so this would be little more than a brush pass. And her initial bantering questions were about as far as she was going to take the chit-chat today.

Red lifted the hot glass, holding the tea just in front of her lips. Looking through the plate glass window, a man across the street had caught her eye. Something about the way he was staring at the hotel without moving sent off her warning bells. Was there some kind of calculation going through his mind? Perhaps this was one of the tribesmen sent to observe and report. Perhaps this was a face she knew from a past mission. As Red pulled her phone from her pocket and opened her camera, her gut knotted painfully, and she had to clench her glutes hard to brace as she curved forward.

The man, dressed in tribal robes, had squared his shoulders and now strode across the street, moving toward the hotel entrance, stopping in the middle for a donkey cart to pass.

Red shifted her gaze toward the ladies' room just a few steps away.

Situational warning bells were clanging, vying for attention with the intensity of her cramps.

Her body had picked one hell of an inconvenient time to scream at her.

With her antennae pinging, she worked to form a practical plan of action. She couldn't handle this basic meeting, let alone a complication, when she was doubled over. Maybe she could run to the bathroom, get the purge over, hustle back, and assess the situation.

Surely, whatever her nervous system had picked up on was of local consequence and had nothing to do with Moussa. Right? He could sit quietly here at the corner table out of the way.

That man and his assessing gaze belonged to someone else's circus and wasn't one of the monkeys she was meant to manage.

As the cart moved on and he was fully visible again, Red tapped the button on her camera. Then she pinned her location with a CIA app that would place her at the center of a ring radiating out thirty-six inches. It still blew her mind that they had that level of precision. When she was back at her sleeping hotel, Red would send that image through the software to see if it couldn't identify him.

Or maybe she'd do it tomorrow.

Or just pass it on to an analyst.

As she slipped the phone into her thigh pocket, Red accepted the menu from their server's outstretched hand.

Once the server left, she dropped her hand to her bag and pulled it onto her lap. Untying the top, Red opened it wide, tipping a view of the contents toward Moussa. She'd offered him a mere glance, but it was enough for him to see what was inside. When his eyes grew round with surprise, Red tied the cords back together and pulled one of the straps over her shoulder.

"Read the menu and hide your face. When you're ready to order, choose something for me. Anything will do. I'll be back as quickly as I can. I need the ladies' room." She waved a hand through the air and said, "My stomach. This might take a while. Apologies."

Moussa's face stretched taut in horror. Whether he was frightened and feeling like he was being abandoned, or he was simply disgusted that women had bodily functions that sometimes went awry, Red couldn't tell. And she couldn't care less. She was up, and as she sidestepped past the table, her hand slid into the breast pocket that Moussa had been tapping.

She pulled out a piece of folded printer paper and moved towards relief.