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

look puny. On the wall behind his head was a colorful football poster, apparently there to make excuses for his circus-like size or to intimidate visitors, or both.

“The chief isn’t here,” Gulick said without getting up. “He told me to tell you if you came in you’re supposed to be on a plane back to the States. Did he not call you this morning?”

“Don’t they teach rapport at the Farm anymore?” Steve said with a smile, as he sat down across from this edgy giant. “I did speak with your boss this morning. But I also spoke with the director. I guess she didn’t bother to inform you guys. My colleague, Kella Hastings, has disappeared, most probably kidnapped. The agency has a lot to lose if we don’t find her immediately. LaFont has already called the head of the Belgian service. Again, you may not be aware of this.”

Gulick’s frown and tight lips were metamorphosing into a mask reflecting more amazement than anger. The director? The Belgian service?

“Yes, headquarters expects you to task all relevant agents to try to find her before the Iranians get her out of the country.”

“The Iranians?”

“I assume you know General Yosemani is here. We suspect he’s behind the kidnapping.” Seeing Gulick’s puzzled look, Steve added, “He’s head of Iran’s Quds Force.”

There seemed to be nothing else to be accomplished, and Steve left Lester straining to jumpstart his gray matter. His secretary called Kristen to accompany him back downstairs.

“I know you’re at the Stanhope,” Kristen said as they entered the elevator. “Is Miss Hastings with you?”

Steve looked at her sharply. Sensing there was nothing to lose, he said, “As a matter of fact, no, she’s been kidnapped. I was just informing Gulick that the director has a special interest in this matter, and she expects the station to harness all of its capabilities to find her.”

“Kidnapped? I can’t believe it. You know, one of my duties here is to assist V.A. Dalton, President Tremaine’s chief of staff, during her visit to Brussels. She doesn’t like to come into the embassy even for her cables. So I take them out to her a couple of times a day and run errands for her. Should I tell Ms. Dalton? Maybe she could get the Belgians to move faster.”

“The Belgians are already alerted. No need to tell her. In fact, do not tell her.”

“Well, here is my number,” she said, writing it on the back of a business card. “Call me at any time of the day or night. I am ready to do anything for you.”

15. Charleroi, Belgium

When the van started to move, Kella was on her hands and knees on its metal floor still trying to recover her breath and looking at two sets of legs. She noted with great satisfaction that one of the men standing above her seemed to be in worse shape than she was, bent over with his hands covering his privates and his face covered with blood. She tried to scramble up between her captors, but a hand pushed her back down firmly, and angry words erupted above her head. The language seemed to be a version of French she did not quite understand—Walloon, she supposed. Following Laurent’s barked orders, Yves wrapped a cloth of some sort about her head, and she could no longer see.

“Why are you doing this?” She shouted in French, after she was able to regain her breath. “Who are you? Who do you think I am?”

“Fermes ta gueule!” Was the response in very loud and understandable French: Shut your trap!

Still on her hands and knees, she sensed they had left the city traffic and were speeding along a highway. Her knees were getting sore, and she started to squirm, which triggered a slap to the back of her head.

She felt the van slow down, apparently turning off the highway, and stop about twenty minutes later. Her captors then brought her inside a house and tied her to a chair with her hands handcuffed behind her back and her eyes still blindfolded. She heard the men leave the room and close the door behind them. She also her heard the click of a lock.

She immediately tried to get free, but handcuffs and ropes held firm. Where was Steve now? Where was the police? Would Steve even want to get the police involved? Would he ask the station for help? After all, they were in Belgium without the knowledge or approval of the Belgian service. And, most of all, why would these three Belgian men want to kidnap her. Was it a random criminal act? She kept pushing back the possibility of Iranian involvement. Possibility—or probability?

The door opened after what seemed to be an hour, and an accented English voice broke the silence. “First, you will tell us your name. And why you are here in Belgium.”

Was this the Belgian police that had discovered she was here on an intelligence mission? A mission that had not been coordinated or approved by the Belgian government. Although they would arrest her, they probably would not treat her like this if they knew she was CIA. But the question had been in English. Was her worst fear, her nightmare, coming true? Was she in the hands of the Iranians?

“Your name and your reason for being here. We have found your passport in your purse, so let us proceed quickly.”

“Well, then you know my name is Jane Mercier,” Kella replied, taking the cue.

“I am asking for your real name. We know your passport is a fabrication.”

“It is not!” she said, still assuming and hoping her questioner was a Belgian police officer. “My name is Jane Mercier, and I am a French citizen. I am in your country to purchase various fashion accessories for my clients in Paris.”

She suddenly felt the sting of an open-handed slap across her