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

Just then, a heavy-set man in a dark suit entered the dining room.

“I was just walking by and thought I’d drop in,” he said, looking at Dalton. “Can I be of any help?”

Marshall recognized Vice President Harry Baxter who, by habit born of long practice, shook hands with everyone around the table.

“Harry, we are discussing an extraordinary rendition of the commanding general of Iran’s Quds Force,” Dalton said. “Some of us think this is an extralegal operation, while others are arguing he is an enemy of this country.”

“The extralegal aspect is why it’s called a covert operation. I say go get his ass!” The vice president smiled at everyone then left the room.

7. Washington

When Steve glanced up at a United Airlines plane making its approach to Reagan National Airport over the Potomac, Kella gave him what she meant to be a quick kiss. Steve prolonged it into a warm embrace. Laughing, she said, “Wow, I can’t surprise you, can I?”

They were sitting on a bench in East Potomac Park overlooking the river with the Lincoln Memorial behind them and the FDR Memorial on the left.

“I try to be alert at all times,” he said, grinning.

Kella had noticed a definite change in Steve after he finally had proposed they get married in Paris. Although she had been making not-very-subtle suggestions for weeks, she was careful to let him think he had come up with an original idea. At least he was no longer walking on eggs regarding their future together. Having crossed that divide, he was more caring and less hesitant to initiate their now-more-frequent lovemaking. He had been positively enthusiastic the day he had given her the ring. This was definitely a new Steve.

“This is one of my favorite places,” she said, watching another plane approaching the airport, while crews in a pair of eight-oared shells raced each other upstream. “Well, after the cherry trees, of course.” In Afghanistan on behalf of her Pentagon job, she had missed the few days in May when the famous Japanese cherry trees around the Tidal Basin were in bloom.

“That is where my father began his CIA training,” Steve said, pointing behind them. “There were still Quonset huts on Ohio Drive left over from World War Two, when the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services that predated the CIA, occupied many of the offices.”

“By the way, did Marshall have any feedback on that Quds Force hit team?” Kella said, as she started to unpack a picnic lunch of delicacies, bread and wine, she had picked up at the French delicatessen earlier that day.

“Spencer, my FBI buddy, took part in the interrogation of the bike driver in the hospital. Everyone was surprised at his lack of resistance. He confirmed he was a Quds Force member and the assassination attempt was blowback for their failure to capture us last year. What they really want is to get whoever helped us get to the coast. But I guess they’ve given up on that and their Plan B was simply to take me out with an IED.”

“Well, what about me? What am I, chopped liver?” She grinned at her word. “I love these American expressions.”

“It appears that, although my name was in the paper, the Iranians never got yours.”

“It looks like an act of desperation, planning an attack in Washington in plain daylight. What is the FBI going to do with him?”

“Guantánamo, I guess. Unless the attorney general thinks an attempt on my life is the equivalent of a 7-Eleven robbery and lawyers him up.”

“By the way, I called my grand-père today, and he’s going to make an apartment available to us. He usually rents it out but is going to keep it free for the next month or so.”

“That’s great. Where is it?”

Kella handed him a slice of baguette slathered with French pâté and said, “It’s in the 16th arrondissement, an upscale neighborhood of Paris.”

She handed him red wine in a paper cup. “It’s a St. Emilion, your father’s favorite, a Burgundy. I hope you like it.” She knew he would have chosen a cold beer, but she was trying to get him used to French wines. “It’s a part of growing up,” she would tell him, half-jokingly.

“That’s very generous of him,” Steve said. “But if he’s going to go all the way, maybe he could lend us his chauffeur. Did he keep Leon after he retired from the DGSE? After all, is anything too good for his granddaughter’s honeymoon?” He put out his hand and asked, “Do you have any more of that terrible French stuff?”

As they talked and enjoyed the wine and bread, parents shepherding running and laughing children, and couples holding hands, walked by their bench. A little girl approached Kella and just stared at her and then at the food with wide eyes. Glancing at the girl’s mother for approval, Kella gave her a garnished piece of baguette. The child took it and, also glancing at her mother, wolfed it down.

“You know, there does not have to be an after-Paris,” Kella said hopefully. “We could just stay there. In any case, I’m tired of these quick trips to Kabul, Islamabad, and Sinaia. You work all day, I’m on the road, and we’re hardly ever together. I hate it that we haven’t even had time to furnish our apartment.”

“I’ve said it already,” Steve replied. “I’m not in love with this White House job, either. But I can’t imagine how we’re going to survive in Paris financially.”

“You could write a book. In France, that would give you more prestige than a White House job,” Kella smiled, taking a sip of her wine. “By the way, I did not much like that Dalton person. What’s her problem?”

“Her problem is she’s a loyal-to-the-president apparatchik. She has