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

a tray with a teapot and three cups, which she put down on a small table near the wall. She gave each a cup of tea and returned to the kitchen.

“As I told you last time,” Khazaee said, speaking as much for the older man’s benefit as to Um, “your information so far does not reflect your position in the CIA. You have not given us much or any actionable intelligence. We are wondering why. What have you brought this time?”

“I told you before that the agency’s first principle is compartmentalization. Information is not shared between departments. Therefore my main source is what comes across my desk, and what I work on myself. But I did bring you something,” she said, opening her pocketbook and taking out a folded manila envelope.

“This is my translation of a conversation of an al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb cell. They are apparently discussing their plans and activities for their war against the French and West African forces in Mali,” Um said, hoping Bob’s assessment was right, that Khazaee would be satisfied.

“What is the date of this conversation?” Khazaee asked.

“I don’t know.”

“How about the location?” he asked, beginning to show impatience.

“From the content of the conversation, I would say it was in Algiers.”

Nervous that the document was not as impressive as Bob had said it would be, Um added, “They are discussing not only their tactical plans but also logistics, supply routes, weapons, and so on. I don’t really understand it, but I’m sure you will. It looks like they are getting weapons from Libya through the desert.”

She felt more comfortable, as both Khazaee and the person she took to be his boss both perked up at this information.

“I will look at this later,” Khazaee said. “As I told you before, what we need are the operations the CIA is running inside Iran—names, dates, locations. The CIA is sabotaging our economy. Our people are suffering as a result. We must know the name of their collaborators, their agents inside the country. That is your first priority.”

“I am not in that department. I do not have direct access.”

“Then get into that department. Get reassigned. Or, be smart, socialize with the people who have that information, and they will be happy to brag about their accomplishments. Americans are not that different.” He looked at the older man apparently seeking his approval.

“My mother. I know you have many assets in Beirut. Can you make sure she is safe?”

She saw the older man grin as if her question fulfilled his expectation.

“We can indeed,” the older man said, speaking for the first time. “You see, there is much we can do for each other.”

14. Mechelen, Belgium

Steve waited for Kella at the restaurant for about half an hour before calling her cell phone. Getting no response, he took a short walk to the Avenue Louise stores and spent another half-hour scouring their wedding dress departments to no avail. After his call to the Chez André, which also proved unfruitful, he bypassed the station chief and called LaFont directly using an encryption program on his phone and hiding from the consistent drizzle in a doorway.

“Number one,” she replied with steel in her tone, “this operation was called off by the White House. I assume you got the word. You and Kella should be on your way home. It’s going to be difficult to ask the Belgians for help since they were not with us at the take-off. Secondly, you’re both in Belgium on alias passports.”

“Thérèse,” Steve interrupted before she could go further, “I know all that and I would not have called you unless I thought Kella’s life was in danger. I think it’s time to cut through the bureaucracy and call in some chips. I am not leaving Belgium until I get Kella back. Just so you know, I’m going to call her grandfather in Paris. I think you know who he is.”

“Non de Dieu,” General Joulet swore after Steve gave him a short hand version of the situation. “You Americans still think this is the Wild West!”

“Yes, mon général,” Steve replied refraining from reminding Joulet that the French Service under his leadership had been much more aggressive than the CIA had ever been.

“I still have friends in Brussels and I think they will listen to a request from Paris.”

***

Steve knew the first few hours were the most important, and he hoped the first result of his calls would be the closing of the borders. His worst nightmare was Yosemani—and he was sure Yosemani was behind Kella’s disappearance—had already flown Kella out of the country. His second worst nightmare was her being taken to Iran, or perhaps to a location in the Middle East, such as Southern Lebanon or the Bekaa Valley, where the Quds Force held de facto sovereignty, and which had an infamous history as the location of choice for the Hizballah to hold hostages.

He then went to meet Colonel Vanness at his home in Mechelen, halfway between Brussels and Antwerp.

“I spoke to her about half an hour before she was supposed to meet me at the Chez André, so she must have been taken on the sidewalk on her way to the restaurant. Incredible! Incredible they did it in broad daylight.”

The colonel’s living room was crammed with overstuffed chairs and sofas, not what Steve would have expected a former cavalry officer’s house to look like. But he understood when the colonel’s wife, a plump, flaxen-haired woman, brought each a mug of Orval beer. “I bet you have not even had lunch, have you?” She asked Steve, as she looked reprovingly at her husband.

“It is too early for the police to have filed a report,” the colonel said. “But let me make a couple phone calls. I might be able to find out something for you.”

“Here, come with me,”