The Red Cell by André Gallo (the top 100 crime novels of all time TXT) 📕

white walls. Marshall recognized one by Winslow Homer: “Breezing Up,” portraying three boys and a man in a catboat on a choppy sea, a simile for the luncheon.

LaFont made the introductions as they sat at the round table. “So you’re the girl who won’t stay down,” Dalton, dressed in black pants and blouse, short black hair covering her ears, said to Kella. As everyone at the table understood, she was referring to Kella’s life-and-death struggle with several assailants in the dark of an Israeli defense installations, where she had shot a Jihadist who was about to kill Steve.

“Are you part of a hit team? I thought the purpose was to capture, not kill.”

“Hit team?” Kella replied with an annoyed frown “We are not assassins. The target is responsible for many American deaths. But we want him for what he knows about current plans to kill more. My role will be to assist in the initial surveillance and then get the base in Romania ready.”

“Kella saved my life, and now I am her eternal responsibility,” Steve said with a grin.

“I should have noticed that ring,” Dalton said, glancing at Kella’s hand. “I took the liberty of ordering, so we don’t waste a lot of time,” she immediately added, as though she was angry at herself for spending time chatting, Marshall thought. “We’ll have Gazpacho and Maryland crabs. Now, let’s go over this so-called extraordinary rendition, which sounds not only illegal but also a political risk that could harm the president’s reelection chances.” She fingered the filigree gold necklace hanging down past the top of her blouse.

Silence descended on the room, as a waiter entered to serve the Gazpacho. When he left, Maloney, a bald and large framed man, made the first tentative thrust in what Marshall thought was going to be a battle. “Well, the subject here is General Ghassem Yosemani who is the head of Iran’s Quds Force, an ambitious hard liner who may have a political future. Thérèse, you want to take it from here?”

As the others spooned their soup, LaFont, blonde and looking elegant in a red Dior scarf that, in Marshall’s eyes trumped Dalton’s necklace, began. “Yosemani was born in Kerman Province in 1957. His parents were peasants, and he started out as a laborer. We do not know what he did during the 1979 Revolution, but he volunteered for the Revolutionary Guard that same year. He covered himself with glory during the Iraq-Iran war, from which he emerged as a general. He then took a leading role in putting down a Kurdish revolt and earned Tehran’s gratitude when he shut down a narcotics route from Afghanistan.”

“All I have to say about that,” Dalton said, putting her spoon on the table. “Is it appears irrelevant to why we’re here. I haven’t heard anything yet to warrant our time and resources. Please get to the point.”

Marshall, who knew LaFont to be the sharpest blade at the table, looked at her expectantly. “You’re right,” LaFont said. “We should add a little color. Yosemani is believed to have orchestrated the attempt to assassinate Steve right here in the capital last month. He is responsible for the killing of hundreds of American soldiers in Iraq, using IEDs made and provided by his Quds Force. His men are training and arming Syrian militias to support the Assad regime, and we have obtained intelligence that indicates he is providing missiles as well as sarin gas to the Hizballah for an eventual attack against Israel.”

Marshall could see LaFont’s response did not please Dalton, but he wasn’t sure why. He noticed her frowning, putting down her spoon, and nervously fingering a gold medallion hanging from her necklace.

LaFont added, “He has a wife and two daughters in Tehran, and a son in Brussels. His first wife died shortly after their marriage, but we don’t know why. Politically he is extremely loyal to Supreme Leader Khamenei, although he is more a nationalist than a religiously driven individual.”

“If I could add something?” Steve asked, looking toward LaFont. “There is increasing but fragmentary intelligence pointing to Yosemani as the brain behind the assassination of our ambassador in Yemen last week.”

“I don’t think that is conclusive,” Dalton said, “The State Department and the FBI have begun an investigation, and we should not rush to judgment.”

“Let’s also keep in mind,” Marshall said, “That killing our ambassador in Yemen is not the same as a 7-Eleven robbery gone bad. I don’t think we’ll be bringing the killers in front of an American court requiring strict rules of evidence. This was an act of war, not a crime. If and when we can identify the responsible parties, I’m sure the president will put them on his kill list and order a drone strike.”

“I was not aware,” Dalton said, with what Marshall thought was anger her authority was being challenged, “That you were here speaking for the president. If I understand your status, you are a contractor.”

“Mr. Church’s Red Cell will be charged with carrying out this operation,” LaFont said, firmly returning Dalton’s gaze. “He and Steve and Kella all have experience in this type of activity. The president himself has thanked them and recognized their successes as extremely important to the nation. It’s important for us to have them here.”

Silence again, as the waiter returned, removed the soup bowls, served the Maryland crabs, and discreetly left the room.

“Kella, what did you say about Romania?” Dalton asked. “How are the Romanians involved?”

“Our embassy in Bucharest owns a villa in Sinaia, in the Carpathians,” Kella answered. “We will use it for the interrogation. The embassy staff has used it for R and R for many years. I understand it has been renovated to accommodate its new purpose.”

“Well, that’s another problem isn’t it?” Dalton said.

“It should not be,” Maloney answered, shaking his head. “This was all done with approval and help from the Romanian government.