Larnaca smelled of salt and citrus and secrets left too long in the sun.
The plane touched down just before dusk, wheels kissing the tarmac with the softness of something that had done this before, many times, too many. Alon Regev stepped off without luggage, blending into the crowd of sunburned tourists and business travelers. His shirt was plain. His shoes dusty. His passport clean, unmarked by real history.
Nora waited near a kiosk that sold overpriced SIM cards and lukewarm coffee. She wore a white dress, sunglasses too large for her face, and a necklace she hadn’t worn since before Berlin. A costume. A signal.
She didn’t speak until they were both walking away from the terminal.
“He’s in the city.”
Alon kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Koren?”
“No. Someone from the old Beirut network. Codename: Hadrian. We’ve seen pings from a burner cell registered out of Shatila, then ghosted through Cyprus. Four hours ago, it reappeared near the old British quarter.”
“And?”
“And he checked into a hotel under the name Avi Lahav.”
Alon’s jaw tightened. Lahav had been one of theirs. Years ago. Dead now, killed in an extraction gone sideways outside Baalbek. The use of his name wasn’t a coincidence. It was a message.
They reached the car Nora had parked in the back lot of a seafood restaurant, the kind that looked just authentic enough to fool tourists, just neutral enough for spies to use as meeting points.
Inside the glovebox: a small field kit. One gun, one encrypted comm, two sets of Israeli credentials buried beneath fake Greek ones.
Alon pulled out the comm unit and powered it up. A single message flashed across the screen:
GHOST PROTOCOL: INITIATED.
They drove through Larnaca’s narrow streets in silence. The city was different from Tel Aviv, older, more bruised, like a man who had survived every war but no longer believed in any flag.
It was here, in these decaying villas and hollowed-out embassies, that Alon had once chased phantoms for a living.
Now he was one of them.
The hotel was tucked between a pharmacy and a fruit vendor, its entrance narrow and shaded. The sign read The Adonis Rooms. Cheap. Quiet. The kind of place where guests stayed for the wrong reasons.
Nora went in first. Her hair pulled back. Her heels purposeful.
Alon waited across the street, leaning against a wall, watching the second-floor window.
Five minutes.
Then seven.
Then the light clicked on.
A figure stood in the window, broad-shouldered, motionless, watching the street below.
Nora returned. Fast. Her jaw clenched.
“It’s him,” she said. “Hadrian.”
Alon didn’t speak.
“He said one thing: ‘Koren’s alive. And you’re already too late.’”
That night, they set up surveillance two buildings down. No bugs, no drones. Just optics, shadows, and patience.
They watched the room.
Three hours in, Hadrian left. Walked calmly down the street. No tail. No rush.
Alon followed.
The alley was long and cracked. Faint graffiti along the wall. When Alon turned the corner, he saw him, standing near a dumpster, half-lit by a flickering streetlight.
“Regev,” Hadrian said. His voice was dry, not unkind.
“You’re using the name of a dead man,” Alon replied.
“So are you,” Hadrian said. “You think the name they gave you means anything anymore?”
“Why Cyprus?”
Hadrian tilted his head. “Why not? This is where the ghosts gather. Old assets. Retired shadows. Everyone pretending they never bled for the same lies.”
Alon stepped closer. “Where is Eli?”
“He’s not the one you should be asking about.”
Alon froze. “Then who?”
Hadrian smiled.
“The one who gave him access.”
Before Alon could answer, the streetlight above them blinked out.
And in that sliver of darkness, Hadrian was gone.
Back in the apartment, Nora was reviewing traffic cams.
“No sign of him?” she asked.
Alon shook his head. “He walked into the dark like it belonged to him.”
She paused, then turned the screen toward him.
“I found something. Surveillance drone from last night, scanning the port authority checkpoint.”
The grainy image resolved into a timestamped feed.
A figure in a long coat. Walking through the customs gate.
The gait was familiar.
The posture.
Alon leaned in.
The camera zoomed.
It was Leah.
Alive. Again.
This time, walking alone into the unknown.