Cairo stank of heat and power.
The city stretched in every direction like a fevered dream, white light bouncing off limestone facades, diesel and jasmine riding the wind. Above the roar of traffic and the distant thrum of minarets, the Egyptian capital pulsed with a rhythm older than war and more permanent than peace.
Alon stood beneath the overhang of a hotel terrace, watching the Nile snake through the city below like a lazy predator, wide and patient. The Grand Nile Tower behind him gleamed with faux elegance, limestone columns and too much marble. It was the kind of hotel built to impress visiting dignitaries who didn’t ask questions, only signed papers.
He hadn’t checked in.
He wasn’t on the registry.
But the conference was.
The Cairo Accord.
A three-day summit on regional stability, back-channeled between Israeli, Jordanian, and Egyptian intelligence factions, wrapped in a diplomatic bow, presented to the press as a cultural dialogue.
In reality: a high-stakes negotiation with six unacknowledged players, a buried hostage, and a document so classified that no one could admit it existed, even as they argued over its clauses.
Alon sipped from a chipped porcelain cup filled with thick black coffee. The taste was bitter. The kind that cut straight through jet lag and moral fatigue.
Across the terrace, Nora emerged from the elevator.
She wore linen slacks, a loose tunic, sunglasses with mirrored lenses that reflected the whole world but gave nothing in return. She moved like someone with clearance.
He stood as she approached.
“I assume you didn’t fly commercial,” she said, not smiling.
“I don’t fly anything these days.”
She nodded toward the main atrium, where a delegation of Jordanian officials passed, flanked by military attachés.
“They’re already in the room.”
“And the file?”
“In the vault,” she said. “But it’s not the real issue anymore.”
Alon raised an eyebrow.
“It’s the hostage,” she added.
He stilled. “Who?”
“Dr. Lina Mansour.”
He closed his eyes for the briefest moment.
Of course.
Lina wasn’t just a psychologist. She was a translator of people, someone who could decode motivations in a glance, predict panic before it surfaced. She’d helped Alon rebuild after Damascus. Had walked him back from the edge more than once.
She also knew too much.
And now, someone had hidden her behind the curtain of diplomacy, leverage disguised as absence.
Nora continued. “The Egyptians say she never entered the country. The Jordanians say she never left Tel Aviv. But her biometric scan hit the airport two nights ago.”
“Why take her?”
“She knows where the Accord fails.”
“And where it was faked,” Alon added.
Inside the conference room, the air smelled like conditioned confidence.
A long glass table, microphones muted, water sweating in silver pitchers. Around it: men in suits and uniforms pretending not to watch each other.
Alon entered uninvited.
Every head turned.
One man rose, Egyptian, late fifties, grey at the temples, medals that didn’t match his body language. General Adil Youssef.
“I don’t recall extending you an invitation,” he said.
“I don’t need one,” Alon replied.
He walked to the end of the table, placed a slim folder down, and opened it.
Inside: a single image.
Lina Mansour, hooded, wrists bound, sitting on a tiled floor.
Dated. Timestamped. Two hours ago.
Silence crashed into the room like a wave.
Adil’s voice was colder now. “Where did you get this?”
“She sent it,” Alon said. “Along with coordinates. North of Nasr City. Abandoned Ministry wing.”
Adil frowned. “There is no such location.”
“Then why are the lights still on?” Alon asked.
He turned to Nora, who tapped her tablet. A satellite feed appeared on the projection screen. A building. Windowless. But powered.
Adil cursed under his breath.
One of the Jordanian officials whispered something in Arabic. The man next to him paled.
Alon closed the folder.
“I’m not here to negotiate,” he said. “I’m here to extract her. But if this Accord is built on blackmail, on silence, then you’ll lose more than her.”
“You’ll blow the talks?” Adil challenged.
“I’ll burn the archive,” Alon replied.
Silence again.
Then, quietly, Adil sat.
“Go get her,” he said.
An hour later, Alon and Nora stood outside the compound.
Dust rolled across the street like smoke. The building’s windows were glassless slits. A dog barked somewhere far off. The sky above was pale gold, the kind that came before a storm.
Nora checked her pistol. “Five minutes in and out?”
“Three,” Alon said.
She smiled without humor. “Then let’s meet them in the teeth of peace.”