Chapter 29 — The Spider’s Web

The jet touched down on the runway at Ben Gurion International Airport, its undercarriage whispering across the tarmac like a secret arriving in the dead of night. Michael Ogunlade stepped off, dressed not in formal regalia but the muted elegance of a man who belonged anywhere—whether a desert bunker or a prime minister's war room.

Tel Aviv was bristling beneath the surface. Public relations nightmares from Gaza bled into every news cycle. The Houthis were causing chaos on the Red Sea. Israeli drones were falling from the sky, and American credibility was wearing thin. The Saudis played a double game—partners in strategy, competitors in ambition. Jordan stood uncertain, with King Abdullah vacillating between rhetoric and restraint.

Into this chaos, Michael had been dropped—no, inserted—as Nigeria's newly appointed Chief of Station in Israel and the broader Middle East division lead for the Imperial Intelligence Service. His mandate was simple in wording but staggering in scope: assert Nigeria's will in a theatre long dominated by America, Israel, and Iran.

From the moment he landed, whispers followed him like perfume. Diplomats murmured his name. Analysts exchanged theories. But the most intrigued—and perhaps the most dangerous—was Director Cohen.

She was polished steel wrapped in silk. Her reputation as a manipulator of allies and adversaries alike was legendary. Their first encounter was charged—her plan had been to measure him, perhaps manipulate him. Instead, she found herself leaning closer than intended during briefings, laughing at the edges of his sarcasm, and—at times—forgetting who was handling whom.

Their collaboration blurred the lines between diplomacy and something else. They shared long strategy sessions that slipped into dinners, and dinners that stretched into midnight "debriefs." Eyes in Tel Aviv noticed, of course. But Cohen didn't seem to mind. And Michael—well, seduction was simply another kind of statecraft.

She wasn't the only one.

As regional chief, Michael oversaw a network of station chiefs across the Middle East. Many were formidable women—Lebanese, Turkish, Persian, even Druze. Each had earned her post through cunning and capability. But they too found themselves drawn into Michael's gravity. Meetings were often charged with subtle tension—hands brushing over shared intelligence files, glances held just a bit too long.

He never confirmed anything. But the rumors swirled: that he'd quietly turned allies into lovers, competitors into confidants. That a Jordanian chief once delayed an operation just to meet him in Cyprus. That a Saudi liaison had offered him more than data in exchange for silence. Michael neither denied nor acknowledged any of it. Let them speculate. Let them sweat.

Amid this web of seduction and subversion, Michael played his true hand—reconfiguring Nigeria's reach. He turned intelligence flows to Abuja before Langley or Mossad. He seeded whispers in the right places, altered data streams, forged partnerships in Ankara and Muscat, and inserted Nigerian-backed assets into networks long thought impenetrable.

For Israel, his value became indispensable. But to Michael, Israel was just another node—important, yes, but not sacred. His endgame was greater. Nigeria wasn't here to play second fiddle.

It was here to write its own symphony.