Page 7 of Red Line

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 tocontinue 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.

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