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

She sat Steve at a heavy oak table and, as she served him chicken waterzooi, a Flemish cross between a soup and a stew, she discoursed lightheartedly on the history of Orval and other Abbey beers. “Do you know we have more beers than France has cheeses?”

He tried to listen to the colonel in the other room but, unable to understand Flemish, Steve had no other choice but to focus on his lunch, which he truthfully told his hostess was delicious.

“I was right,” the colonel said, as he came into the kitchen. “There is as yet no report. But I spoke to an old friend at police headquarters, who told me this case had already reached the prime minister. In fact, it was the prime minister’s office that alerted the police.”

They walked back into the living room, as the colonel continued. “You must have important friends.” He raised his eyebrows. “I am impressed! First, General Joulet, the retired director of France’s DGSE, talked to his counterpart here in Brussels, alerting him of a kidnapping of a certain Jane Mercier. Within minutes the French prime minister called our prime minister with the same information and a request for immediate assistance in the name of our European alliance.”

The colonel took a sip of his beer. “Did I mention this Jane Mercier is a French citizen?”

Steve simply nodded, eager for the colonel to continue.

“And then, Thérèse LaFont, your director, also called our external intelligence director for help in finding a Kella Hastings.” The colonel grinned, as he looked at Steve. “There is some confusion here. The police are wondering if this is the same person, or whether we are talking about two different kidnappings.”

“You understand Kella was using an alias, right?” Steve asked, as he searched the room for ashtrays, evidence there was a smoker in the house. He was starting to want to smoke a cigarette. The last time he had smoked was during his escape from Tehran to the coast. He saw no ashtrays and said nothing.

“Yes, of course. You had told me,” the colonel replied. “But I did not think it smart to give that explanation to the police. They will figure it out. No one will be happy when they find out your Kella was involved in a CIA operation on Belgian territory without Belgian knowledge or approval.”

“But what have the police been able to find out? It was full daylight. Someone must have seen something.”

“So far, nothing. Brussels is a big city. If I tell them I think she was picked up on Avenue Louise, I will have to provide my source—you. Perhaps you should go to the police directly.”

“Or perhaps I should carry out the investigation myself—with your help of course. I am sure General Yosemani is responsible for Kella’s disappearance. Somehow, he learned Kella and I were in Brussels. Having failed to kill either of us in Washington, he wasn’t about to let this opportunity go. I would not be surprised if he was using DuChemin as his local action arm. What is your surveillance team telling you about Yosemani’s activities today?”

“It’s too early for their report. But let me call the team leader right now.”

After a quick phone call, again in Flemish, the Colonel said, “so far, the general has spent most of his day at the Iranian Embassy. But we think DuChemin went to see him at his hotel very early in the morning.”

“I don’t want to do it, but I think I should go talk to the station chief.”

***

Steve parked a block from the embassy and lit a cigarette, as he walked down Rue de la Régence. The rain had stopped for a couple of hours during his trip to Mechelen, but the dark skies had returned, and Steve held his collar closed with one hand to keep the rain from going down his back.

The Marine guard standing behind bulletproof glass in the lobby told Steve someone would be down to get him. Since his pacing seemed to make the Marine nervous, he sat down and waited impatiently. A few minutes later, the glass door behind the metal detector opened, and his CIA escort waved him through.

“Well this is a surprise,” Kristen said, as she led him to the elevator. “I don’t think you remember me, but we met in your office at the Executive Office Building the day after the Quds Force attempt on your life.”

“Yes of course. How many people do I meet who are 1920s poster girls?” This time Steve looked at her more closely. She still had the short, jet-black hair and ruler-straight bangs over her forehead. Her lipstick was not quite the arrest-me-red shade he recalled; probably a good idea if she was now an agency operative in Belgium. Feeling a little guilty, he couldn’t help but notice her knee-length dark red dress that showed off shapely calves.

“I’ve only been here two weeks. It’s a part of my probation period. I’ll be here for another month and a half and then go back for another module at the Farm, ‘locks and picks’ and ‘flaps and seals.’ I’ve already had the core recruitment training,” she said with a hint of pride. “I hope they show us how to get through electronic locks. No one uses key locks anymore.”

They stepped out of the elevator, and she led him through an opaque glass door with a swipe of her badge. “Bulletproof,” she said, as she tapped the glass with her knuckles. “The chief isn’t here. He’s attending a conference at Ramstein. This is the deputy’s office. His name is Lester Gulick. But let me know if I can help with anything.”

The deputy’s secretary smiled and nodded for Steve to go in. Gulick was a massive human being who, although sitting, still towered above his desk. He made his large wooden desk