A few hours after Kirkuk fell.
In the suite of a five-star hotel in the Baghdad Green Zone, known for its tight security.
Simon had just slept for less than an hour.
A sharp ringing of the phone pulled him out of his dream.
He jerked up from the bed, his heart pounding frantically from the sudden ring, almost leaping out of his chest.
An ominous premonition, born from the instincts of a seasoned intelligence officer, wrapped around him like a cold vine.
His intuition told him that this call was related to Song Heping.
Turning on the bedside lamp, he fumbled for the phone. The number displayed on the screen – the internal emergency line of the CIA's Illigo Intelligence Station – made his fingers tremble slightly.
"Hello?"
His voice was thick with sleep, and a slight tremor he himself wasn't aware of.
"Director! It's Stephenson!"
The voice of the station chief on the other end sounded urgent:
