The Red Room by Ridley Pearson

followed him to the Internet café, but it’s too big a leap. The easy answer is never the right one. The Iranian agencies recruit men and women who look like Israelis; the Israelis recruit Palestinians. There’s no
Who’s Who
of black-ops agents. These guys could be on Dulwich’s payroll for all Knox knows.
    “Someone going to say something?” Knox says.
    The van obeys the modest speed limit as it climbs through a series of turns and then descends, slowing at an intersection.
    Knox grabs for the handle, slides open the door and rolls out. He’s on his feet and running.
    He hears, “Have it your way, asshole.” The vehicle pulls away.
    He assumes the second guy followed him out. Knox has forced their hand: they’re going to kill him.
    Or try to.
    He glances back to measure his lead.
    No one.
    Have it your way, asshole!
What kind of an accent was that?
    He’s alone, suddenly wrapped in a swirling dust-dog of wind and sand.
    “What the fuck?” he shouts, spinning in a full circle to see who, if anyone, he missed. The night air holds only a red glow, remnants of the sandstorm. The haze crystalizes the millions of lights. White diamonds in a ruby haze. He bends over and grabs his knees, his heart racing out of control.

13
    G race has arranged herself an apartment rented by the week in a building suited for Westerners. The idiosyncrasy—that in a Middle Eastern nation she might be considered Western—is not lost on her. She and Besim made three stops: grocery store, pharmacy and liquor shop. She has everything from feminine products and mascara to Greek yogurt and vodka.
    The apartment is furnished and well appointed, with a kitchenette, nice linens, Wi-Fi and a flat-screen television with full satellite. It keeps her out of a hotel, allowing a lower profile.
    Already at work attempting to hack Mashe Okle’s investment accounts, she maintains an open videoconference with Xin in Rutherford Risk’s Data Sciences division, which operates 24/7/365. Her VPN connection has been pinged around the world, aliased and encrypted. Slipping into an investment server undetected is impossible, so once again she must cloak herself. The going is tedious. Data Services is advising her as to the exact time to make the hack. She waits, her finger hovering above the Return key.
    Her phone rings, the caller ID on her screen. She mutes the video and takes the call.
    “Ma’am.” She doesn’t like being addressed this way but didn’t have the heart to tell her driver. By arrangement, he remains parked outside, on call through midnight.
    “You have man friend maybe watching building?”
    “Explain, please, Besim.”
    “Man park twice. First time, west of building. Get out. Walk around building. Move car to see east side.”
    “How alert of you, Besim,” she says.
    “This is man you follow, perhaps?”
    “Perhaps.” She thanks him for his attention. Asks him to let her know if anything changes.
    Ending the cell call, she takes the videoconference off Mute. “Xin?”
    “Wei.”
Yes.
Thousands of miles away on an island in the South China Sea, Xin sounds as if he’s next to her.
    “You have my coordinates?”
    “Within one meter.”
    “How long for you to account for every cell phone turned on within one hundred . . . no, let’s say, fifty . . . meters of me?”
    “How many carriers?”
    “Enough to cover in the ninetieth percentile of coverage.”
    “Soonest? Fifteen minutes. Longest? An hour.”
    “Put someone on it, will you please?”
    “Copy.”
    A symbol indicates he’s muted his line. She does the same, taking note of the time. The minutes drag out. After five minutes, she’s reconnected as Xin gives her a countdown to the hack.
    She’s in. She celebrates the success by pouring herself warm vodka. Wishes she’d given it time to cool. Now, data-mining a major investment firm, she envisions herself as a salmon or sperm swimming upstream, seeking out a specific destination. It’s a journey. Sheknows she