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

A short, heavyset man with deep smile lines greeted her on the other side of passport control. He wore a dark brown sport jacket, khakis, and for some reason a baseball cap sporting the CAT logo from Caterpillar Tractor Company. “Hi, I’m Charlie Pastor,” he said, extending his hand. “Are you Kella?” He took out a burgundy-colored official U.S. passport from his jacket pocket and showed it to her, who returned the gesture, although her passport was blue. It provided no diplomatic protection, but she did not think she would need it.

“I only have this carry-on,” Kella said, as Charlie nodded approvingly and shouldered her bag. “So we can go directly to the car.”

As they got into Charlie’s black BMW, he said. “This used to be my official car, and I was able to buy it when I retired. Bucharest was my last posting. It’s still a great car. Sinaia is about two hours away, depending on the number of cows, goats, and horse carts on the road.”

“Who watches the villa when you’re not there?” Kella asked.

“Well, right now, it’s my wife. We’re also supposed to have a guard, a former SEAL. He’s a contractor, just like my wife and me. But he had to go back to the States, because his father is having a heart bypass. Even SEALs have parents. I guess there’s not enough money in the budget to replace him until he comes back, which will be in a week. I think. As I assume you know, there are no prisoners at the site at the moment and no interrogators. We’re just waiting for your guy.”

They drove in silence for a while, and Kella’s thoughts returned to Paris, where her stepmother, Alexandra, was already aggressively organizing the wedding and reception—the décor, the flowers, the menu, the music. It made Kella feel more like a bridesmaid than a bride, so Romania seemed like the last place she should be at the moment.

After Charlie had taken the bypass around Ploieşti and driven along Route 1 toward Sinaia for about half an hour, he broke the silence. “Pardon me for asking, but in spite of compartmentalization, it’s hard to totally squelch corridor rumors. Are you the Kella who ran that operation in Iran with Steve Church?”

“Let me ask you a question,” Kella replied. “Marshall Church had some good things to say about a Charlie who had succeeded him as chief in Bucharest. Are you that Charlie?”

“Yes.” He paused for a moment. “We’re almost there, the house is up the mountain,” he said, as they passed a Sinaia town limits sign. “This is essentially a winter resort, and it’s still a bit early for the tourists. There are splendid ski trails here, but not as modern as in Western Europe. Are you getting hungry? We’d like to take you to the restaurant at the Dragului Hotel for dinner, but we can’t leave the villa vacant. In fact, we’re sort of restricted to barracks until Joe returns.” Then he added, “I’m sure Liz will think of something.”

When Charlie drove past a street pointing uphill, Kella caught him repeatedly looking at his rear view mirror. “What’s going on?” she asked, her internal alarm switching on.

“I don’t know for sure, but I think we’ve caught a tail. Almost as soon as we got into town. Looks like Romanian security is going upscale. It’s a Mercedes. I don’t know why they would track us here. They’ve cooperated from day one on this site. Well, whatever they’re up to, I’m not going to lead them to our front door.”

Kella restrained herself from turning her head but located the suspect car in her side-view mirror; there were two men in the front seat. This was territory Charlie knew best, his home turf, and Kella restrained herself from telling Charlie what to do. Besides, she thought he probably had more extensive experience in counter-surveillance.

Charlie drove at a sedate pace for another mile, past an entrance labeled “Monastery,” entering a road into a large estate the area of a small town. As he followed Strada Manastiriu, as it was called, several large wooden buildings appeared around a sharp curve. Out of sight of the Mercedes, Charlie turned immediately after what appeared to be the main church, a tall structure with three octagonal towers, each topped by a cross.

Kella accepted Charlie’s logic. Either the Romanians had mistaken them for somebody else, or these were local cops who had not been read in on the operation. If, on the other hand, this was not a Romanian tail, it could be a Jihadist group that somehow had discovered the existence of the operation and thought they might get lucky. Whatever the case, she felt naked without a weapon.

As if reading her thoughts, Charlie pointed to the glove compartment, where she found a .38 Smith and Wesson automatic, which she laid on the seat beside her.

Charlie made another slight right, passed a row of trees, and entered a narrow track. The BMW’s headlights illuminated automatically, as the car followed the track underground for about 100 yards and resurfaced on a street leading back to the highway. “I found this tunnel three weeks ago,” he said. “I knew it might come in handy one day.”

They drove up the side of the mountain, passing buildings that reminded Kella of Swiss chalets she had seen on postcards. They stopped in front of a three-story house fronted by small evergreens and topped by two red-roofed towers. The front door was opened by a gray-haired, slim woman with thick-rimmed glasses hanging from her neck on a silver chain.

After the introductions, Liz said, “This afternoon, I became a pioneer in the world of catering in Sinaia. I persuaded Mr. Georgescue, owner of the Dragului, to have one of his waiters drive up here and deliver our dinner.”

“Great!” Kella said, smiling.

“We like some of the Romanian cuisine. I