Eilat wasn’t a city, it was a mirage stitched together by sun and silence. The kind of place where things disappeared. People. Weapons. Truth.
The Red Sea lapped quietly against the rocks as Alon and Nora walked along the southern promenade. Tourists drank cocktails in plastic cups. Music drifted from a hotel balcony above them, some synth-pop beat that meant nothing to either of them.
They weren’t here for sunsets and soft jazz.
Alon wore a linen shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled, sunglasses mirrored. He moved like someone who didn’t want to be seen, but knew he was being watched.
Nora, always a step behind or ahead, kept her posture casual, her eyes scanning reflections in every surface they passed, glass doors, car windows, polished chrome on rental scooters.
They turned into a narrow alley behind the marina, dirt-stained walls, rusted AC units, the smell of diesel and brine. A single door waited at the end, marked by a faded red hamsa hand and a flickering motion light.
Alon knocked twice. Then once. Then twice again.
The door creaked open. No words.
Inside was darkness, broken by the orange glow of a single desk lamp. The room was low-ceilinged and cluttered, old maps, crates of fish hooks, what looked like a dismantled radio from the 80s.
Seated on a cracked vinyl chair was a man who looked like he’d survived six wars and forgotten four of them.
“Majid,” Alon said.
The old Bedouin smuggler nodded slowly. His beard was white, his eyes sharp. “You bring the ghost woman.”
Nora didn’t react. She was used to being called less flattering things.
Majid motioned to the table. Three plates. Grilled sardines, olives, flatbread. And a chipped bottle of arak.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, custom dictated hospitality, even if trust had long since left the building.
Majid finally broke the quiet.
“The tech, this Barak, you say it was buried. Now it swims.”
“It’s not supposed to exist anymore,” Alon replied.
Majid tilted his head. “Then someone has reached into your graveyard.”
Nora placed a tablet on the table. A freeze-frame image: a woman, stepping out of a chartered speedboat near Coral Beach. Hooded. Tall. Movement like a soldier.
“This is the buyer,” she said. “Facial match pending. But we ran body metrics. Military. Israeli training profile.”
Majid leaned closer, squinted, then made a strange noise in his throat. A laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’ve seen her before. Long time ago. Before she died.”
Alon’s face didn’t change. But inside, something twisted.
“Where?”
“North Sinai. She was watching a deal between Hamas and a rogue Egyptian colonel. But she never made the extraction. Word was, she drowned running back to your side.”
Nora tapped again. The woman’s face sharpened, partially turned, but the jawline, the posture… unmistakable.
Alon whispered, “Leah Matalon.”
Nora’s fingers froze. “You trained her.”
“I did more than that,” Alon said quietly.
Majid poured three fingers of arak into a cloudy glass. “You see, ghosts are tricky. You think they rest. But they only wait.”
The air inside the room thickened. Somewhere in the distance, a boat engine coughed to life.
“Where is she staying?” Alon asked.
Majid smiled, a thin, knowing curve of the lips. “She isn’t. She moves. Always. Between safehouses. But tomorrow night, there is a drop. Industrial zone. Old desalination plant near the edge of the port. Midnight.”
Nora looked at Alon. “That’s not enough time to prep a strike team.”
“We don’t need a team,” Alon said. “We need to know why she’s here.”
Majid stood slowly. “Just remember, my friend, when ghosts return, they don’t come for answers.”
He stepped away, fading into the shadowed hallway.
Outside, the stars were crisp and cold above the desert.
Alon and Nora didn’t speak until they reached the car.
She broke the silence. “If Leah’s alive, and she’s holding that weapon…”
“She’s not holding it,” Alon replied.
Nora frowned. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because Leah wouldn’t use it. Not unless someone was forcing her to.”