The thirteen-hour flight from Dulles to Dubai had been something of an endurance test. Meredith had eschewed the movies, filet mignon, and French wine in favor of long blank stares out the window and a steady stream of Perrier. Maggie O’Dea was doing well with her consultancy; she could afford riding business class on Emirates Air. But Meredith Morris-Dale couldn’t abide it. She barely ate or slept.
When the fuselage door finally opened, she gathered her things. Her hair was red, eyes green. She wore her favorite Lululemons under a button-down linen shirt and atop running shoes. Despite the exhaustion, a glance through her phone showed the concealer she’d applied on initial descent was doing its job. A mere hint of depression under the eyes, lipstick redder than the way she usually wore it. But that was Maggie’s style, not hers.
On the long walk toward immigration, wearing a backpack and dragging her specially equipped roller, she checked her phones. One was buzzing with messages from HQS. She skipped it, opting for the phone she used as her link to John. But she was disappointed.
The HQS messages sounded urgent. Before leaving the airport, she ducked into the expansive Emirates lounge, found a relatively quiet spot, and called Desmond. It was midnight back in DC, but answering at all hours went with the job.
“The Iranians are spinning up,” Desmond said after they’d authenticated securely. “DIA is reporting activity that they’re starting to call a war footing.”
“Great,” Meredith said, sighing. “That’s really helpful.” She ran a hand over her wig to make sure it hadn’t come loose on the flight. “What specifically?”
“Air defense radars active, lot of chatter between command centers.”
“Maybe IRGC thinks we’re coming in.”
“Sounds like it.”
“You know what I’m going to ask next,” she said.
“No word from Cerberus. Assume it’s the same on your end?”
“Yeah. Nothing—Cerberus or John.”
They talked for another ten minutes about the operational plan to get both men out. As she was about to go, he said, “Hey, Meredith, one more thing.”
“Go.”
“I know I’m analyst nobody, but if we’re really this close to an escalation with Iran, no one’s going to want to start a war by entering hostile airspace.”
She’d been thinking the same thing.
It took another half hour to get through immigration. Meredith slid Maggie O’Dea’s US passport under the glass and faced the camera. The UAE customs officer seemed to take a while with his computer. But eventually, he waved her on without saying a word.
For an additional forty minutes, she performed an SDR through the terminal, taking long pauses in secluded spaces, carefully watching the exiting stream of passengers. She was looking for the Russians, a beautiful blonde in particular. An eleven.
Finally outside on the curb, she gulped in the humid Gulf air and blinked at the sun reflecting off the modern architecture. She looked due north, across the narrow channel of the Gulf, toward Iran, just eighty miles away. She noted the line of overcast over there, orange in the morning light.
Oleg had been driving all night. He gripped the wheel of the rickety little Nissan Sentra and shook off a yawn, moving down the two-lane highway at the speed limit, a hundred kph. Though he was studiously obeying the law, he really had no other choice since he was already near the Nissan’s top speed. Its misaligned wheels and overtaxed engine had been shaking him for the better part of six hours. At least the sun was up now, he thought, glimpsing the brown hills, the brightening overcast.
He was following Zoloto’s orders. As instructed, he’d been staying in Tehran, waiting for Dale. The diplomatic team in the Tehran consulate knew who he was and had set him up with an office and access to the facilities. They knew better than to ask what he was doing there.
He’d caught the Red Notice on Dale at the consulate and waited for details from the local PR Division SVR group, which was monitoring the Iranian response. The PR men had provided a copy of Dale’s photo from the Van train station. Oleg had studied it carefully, noting the clothes, the disguise, Dale’s luggage.
He’d been amazed that Dale seemed to be smiling, looking up at the camera. On seeing the photo, Oleg had reflexively grinned. A gesture of respect among professionals.
The Iranians had been surging NAJA all along the train tracks, ready to nab Dale, whom, based on the Interpol feed, they considered a dangerous Russian criminal with a bogus Turkish passport. It was determined that they’d eventually get him in Tehran, no stops along the way. They let the Russians know the arrest would be going down a little after midnight. Oleg seriously doubted that, but waited around just in case.
By two a.m., it had been declared a bust.
Now Oleg was driving toward Alut, where Zoloto had said the meet between Dale and Rahimi would take place. Oleg had set out in the middle of the night with this borrowed consulate car. He’d asked for something rugged, maybe a Land Cruiser.
Nope. Though they’d had the best of intentions, the Sentra was the best the consulate could do on such short notice. The good news was that the diplomatic plates would get him through any roadblocks, the PR men had said.
Oleg was skeptical. Stuffed in the trunk were an AK-12, a Dragunov sniper rifle, and assorted tactical gear. He’d dyed his hair a darker color. He’d been growing out his beard, bronzing his face with long sessions under the sun. The plan was for him to look like Dale. He and Zoloto thought he might fool Dr. Rahimi into walking right up to him, provided Oleg had the exact details of the meet.
His satphone rang. He pressed it to his ear, angling his head so the antenna had a straight shot at the sky.
“Any sign?” asked Maria.
“They missed him in Tehran.”
“As expected,” she said. “How long until you’re in Alut?”
“Couple hours. Making good progress. How’s Doha?”
“Bad,” Maria answered. “She’s not here.”
Oleg knew not to ask too many questions. But he needed information on the meet. “She didn’t show? How will I know where to go?”
“We just got a new Red Notice. She’s in Dubai.”
“Huh,” Oleg said. “What do you think that means?”
“Probably that the asset I’ve been using up until now is compromised.”
Oleg rattled on in the Sentra, noting the distance to the next town on a road sign. He needed to get gas and take a leak, maybe pick up some food.
“So what now, then?” he asked. “How do we get the info on the meet?”
“I’m on my way to Dubai now.”