Page 6 of Red Line

Something was ramping up. Red could smell it past that ubiquitous sunshine and goat shit. This was a sizzle of expectation like a fatty steak on the grill, making people salivate. There was a greediness for some outcome. After so many years in the field, Red could taste when an attack was in the planning stages. It was bitter on the sides of her tongue.

Who was making the plans? Where was the money coming from?

As a member of the CIA Color Code, it was her job to find the wallet that would spread wide to pay for the impact.

Stop the money, freeze the attack.

Without funding, it was all just fantasy.

Withfunding, it was an atrocity.

Would this Moussa meeting be consequential to saving innocent lives, or would this turn out to be a nothing burger?

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 en 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.

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