11:00
Westend Club, Westend, Frankfurt, Germany
By the time Sohel stepped out of the shower and returned to the lobby, Liora was gone. No trace of her remained—no footsteps, no perfume trail, only silence. But on the seat where he'd left his racket lay a white envelope, pinned neatly against the handle. He tore it open with a flick of his thumb.
Cash. Crisp, uncreased bills. Ten thousand euros, stuffed to the edge. Payment.
Sohel slung the racket over his shoulder, pocketed the envelope, and climbed the staircase to the café on the second floor. The air smelt of espresso and disinfectant polish. Leon and Mitali sat by the glass wall overlooking the courts below, coffee cups steaming in front of them. Both wore the kind of smirks that meant they'd seen everything.
"How was the play, boss?" Mitali asked without looking up from her tablet.
"Good."
"Did you win?"
"Yup."
Leon leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. "A celebratory lunch is due, then."
Sohel dropped into the chair beside him, loosening his collar. "I'll take a drink first." He flagged a server and ordered a cold cola. The glass arrived in seconds, condensation bleeding down the sides. He took a long sip, then exhaled in quiet satisfaction.
"You did really well in the end," Leon said.
"You were watching?" Sohel raised an eyebrow.
"From right here," Mitali replied, her suspicious smile sharpening. "Though for a while it looked like you were getting battered. Before those last three games, you were falling apart."
Sohel smirked. "That can happen in any game. Golf, tennis, you name it."
"But this felt different." Mitali tapped her stylus against the tablet. "Too coincidental. So, I asked Leon to investigate."
Sohel leaned forward on the table, curiosity narrowing his eyes. "Investigate what?"
"Whenever you aimed close to the net, the ball died against it," Mitali explained. "Over and over. But it never once happened to her."
Sohel frowned, replaying the points in his mind. He had felt it too. "And?"
Leon leaned in, a sly grin on his face. "I noticed something strange. No manual crank for the net. Meaning it's software-controlled, probably underground. And guess what? Mr Hulk—Lee Tonkin—never once took his eyes off a tablet during the game."
Sohel's grip tightened around his cola. "You're saying—"
Leon cut him off, his grin widening. "I walked behind him. Clear as day: he was adjusting net height from his screen. Raising it when you served, dropping it for her. It was rigged from the start."
Mitali nodded. "So that's why she insisted on Court 2. A court they could control."
Sohel leaned back, the pieces clicking together in his head. "That's why she hit the net before every round. A signal."
Leon chuckled. "Exactly. So I took a quick video of him doing it. Walked up, told him if he didn't cut it out, I'd hand it to you and the club. Big scandal. He shut it down fast after that."
For a moment, Sohel let the silence stretch, watching the courts below. Players came and went, their laughter and grunts faint through the glass. Then he smirked, setting the envelope on the table with a soft thud.
"Well, in that case," he said, "looks like lunch is on Ms Schmidt."
Mitali's lips curled into a grin. "Here? You know this place charges half a pay cheque for a salad?"
"That's fine," Sohel said, tapping the envelope. "We'll consider it… damages."
The three of them laughed, the tension easing for the first time since they set foot in Frankfurt. Yet beneath Sohel's smile, his mind still lingered on Liora. The hatred in her eyes when she shook his hand. The way she stormed off without another word.
He had rattled her. That was good. But in rattling her, he had woken something far more dangerous.
As the plates were cleared from the café table, Aura's quiet, almost imperceptible voice brushed against Sohel's ear.
"Major, a message from the princess."
Sohel didn't look up from his fork. "Play it."
Annabelle's voice crackled into his earpiece, crisp but urgent.
"Major, sudden movement. Liora Schmidt just boarded her private jet. Destination unknown, but early tracking shows she's heading toward Iranian airspace."
The message cut out. Aura asked softly, "What's your plan, Major?"
Sohel stabbed one last piece of steak, chewing slowly. His tone was flat, calm, deliberate.
"To finish my lunch."
Mitali and Leon exchanged a knowing look but said nothing. They had served with him long enough to understand: rushing wasn't his way. Timing was everything.
Sohel leisurely drained his cola, folded the envelope of euros into the bill tray, and pushed back his chair. "Okay," he said finally. "On your feet, soldiers. We are leaving."
18:30
Imam Khomeini International Airport, Tehran, Iran
The descent into Tehran revealed a harsh beauty. Through the oval window, Sohel studied the jagged peak of the Alborz mountains, their summits dusted white even in midsummer. Beyond them stretched a dark ribbon—the Caspian Sea—its southern shore cutting the horizon like a blade.
The C-02 touched down smoothly, but the moment the hatch opened, the city greeted them like a furnace. A wave of dry heat slammed into their faces, thick and punishing after the cool cabin air. The desert wind carried dust that clung to skin and uniforms instantly.
Leon emerged from the cockpit, already wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "Feels like we landed on the sun."
"Welcome to West Asia," Sohel muttered, adjusting his collar.
They moved quickly through the sparse terminal—mostly soldiers, a few weary travelers, no tourists. Outside, the taxi rank baked in the heat. Sohel hailed one, sliding into the back with Mitali while Leon took the front. The driver, a man in his fifties with sharp eyes and a neat moustache, glanced at them through the mirror.
"Where to?"
"The best hotel", Sohel replied, "in the most expensive district you know."
The driver nodded without a word and pulled into traffic. The ride carried them through Tehran's sprawling arteries—mosques with turquoise domes, neon-lit markets, and boulevards choked with cars, horns blaring like an endless symphony of impatience.
By the time they stepped into the marble lobby of the hotel, the contrast felt surreal. Air-conditioning kissed their sweat-soaked skin. A pianist played in the corner, his notes drifting lazily across chandeliers and polished floors.
At the reception desk, Sohel booked three adjoining rooms under their cover identities. Once keys were in hand, they split.
In his room, Sohel locked the door and swept it methodically—first the vents, then behind the paintings, then under the bedframe. He found no cameras, no bugs. Satisfied, he stripped off the dust-stained suit, stepped into the washroom, and let the scalding water of the shower beat against his skin. The day's tension, the lies, even Liora's venomous stare seemed to wash down the drain with the desert grit.
Wrapped in a towel, he picked up the intercom. "Room service. Black coffee. Strong."
He had just set it back down when his phone rang. Sohel answered on instinct, his tone neutral. "Yes?"
The voice on the other end was warm, almost playful. "Brigadier Arash Kian, Director of Espionage, SNA West Asian Command. How was your journey?"
Sohel rubbed his temple. "Unexciting."
"Good," Arash chuckled. "I like unexciting from time to time. But only in the air. On the ground, life's more… vivid. Couldn't meet you at the airport; apologies. I'm sending a car in a few hours. You'll come, yes? Fighting wars is for the assault division. My work is before and after the wars. Which means, lucky me, I have plenty of time."
Sohel remained silent.
Arash continued, undeterred, his words flowing like a river. "Come tonight. I'll feed you the best dinner you've ever had. Start with caviar—fresh, caught this morning from the Caspian. Then kebabs, saffron rice, pistachio stew. The kind of meal that makes men forgive their enemies. What do you say?"
Sohel exhaled slowly. "You speak a lot."
On the other end, Arash only laughed.
"But fine," Sohel added. "Send the car. One hour."