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

me get dressed,” she laughed and whirled out of sight, leaving the door half open.

Still feeling Kristen against his chest, Steve went to the kitchen to look for a beer. Not finding one, he opened the bottle of Chablis, poured two glasses and took one out on the balcony, where he lit a cigarette. As he looked over the city, he wondered if Kella could be hidden in a building under his nose. He would find her, he told himself, or he would force Yosemani to release her. But what if she was already beyond Belgium’s borders?

“In case you were wondering,” Kristen said, joining him on the narrow balcony with a glass of wine, “that shirt is mine. I started wearing men’s shirts instead of jammies in college. Men’s clothes are so much more practical, don’t you think? Did you see the size of this place? Five bedrooms! It’s usually reserved for visiting VIPs, but it was the only apartment available.”

Steve turned away from the view of the city to find himself face-to-face with Kristen outlined against the lights of the living room. Wearing heels, she was almost as tall as he was. When she tilted her face up toward him, her eyes reflected the night sky and the dark clouds moving across the moon. He felt a magnetic pull, as she moved her lips toward his.

“You look very nice,” Steve said, catching himself and backing up against the railing. “Much too seductive. Let’s get out of here.” Kristen smiled.

“We’re on our way to ULB,” Steve said, as he drove in the after-dinner traffic of the capital. “Or rather we’re going to check out the night life at ULB.”

Kristen was amused at the way Steve had deflected her seduction-lite attempt. He had not overreacted, nor had he fallen for her little game. She suspected, however, that at another time, in another place, she might have been successful. As she had learned in training, she had weighed the risks and rewards and decided she had nothing to lose. He wasn’t offended, and who knew what the future held? As far as Kella was concerned, Kristen felt no obligation, never having met her. Besides, Steve and Kella weren’t married. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“So, what are we going to do?” she asked.

“First, you have to understand this is not an agency operation. In fact, if you get involved in this and someone finds out, it could ruin your career. So, you’re free to back out. This is going to be a counter-kidnapping. I won’t be negotiating with a certain Iranian general. Instead, I’ll be doing something I think he well understands: an eye for an eye.”

He stepped on the gas to get through a traffic light before it turned red.

“If you think I can help,” she replied, “I’m in.”

He looked at her and nodded.

“Fair enough. Here’s where I am. First of all, right now I have no idea where to look for Kella, and I doubt the Belgians are going to give her priority over their dinner. So, I’m taking the initiative. I’ve learned the general has a son studying at ULB. I found him on the ULB Web page, and his first name is Karim, a law student. I plan to find him, grab him, and exchange him for Kella.”

“Just like in the Cold War, when we exchanged spies with the Soviets in Potsdam?”

“Yes, in 1962, across the Glienicke Bridge; Rudolf Abel for Francis Gary Powers.”

“But first we have to find Karim. How do we do that?”

“We’re going to start here,” he said, as he parked within sight of a corner bar. “We’re a few blocks away from the University, and I hope we can get a lead on students’ favorite watering holes. By the way, we’re freelance writers working on a story about foreign students in Belgium.”

They walked into the bar and sat down, both ordering Belgian beer and, when the waitress set the bottles on the table in front of them, Steve nudged Kristen, who asked, in English, “Don’t the students come out this far? We were afraid the student crowd would keep us out of here.”

“Luckily you did not go to the Brasserie Gaillard on the Rue du Hogeschoolaan,” the waitress said. “That place is always crowded.” She wiped an invisible spot off the table, looking surreptitiously left and right. “We’re getting invaded by foreigners; I bet half the students at the University are Arabs. They are stealing places from good honest Belgian students.”

“I can understand that.” Steve said.

Steve paid, and they left a few moments later. If parking was any indication, the waitress had been right about the popularity of the Brasserie Gaillard. The brasserie did double duty as a night club, which Steve and Kristen entered through a side door to the restaurant. All the tables were occupied, but Steve encouraged the waiter to seat them at a large rectangular table by asking its occupants to make room.

The entertainment consisted of a Jacques Brel impersonator who did not have Brel’s almost cadaverous appearance of his later years but was doing a very creditable job of sounding like the international star. Under the heavy rhythms of “Amsterdam,” Steve and Kella ordered more beer and surveyed their table partners. About half of them were students, and the other half were young Belgian workers. Each group kept to itself. While Steve struck up a conversation with the student on his left, Kristen spoke Russian to a girl across the table.

About an hour later, Kristen and her new Russian friend went to the ladies’ room. When she came back, she leaned toward Steve and said, “Let’s go. I’m going to meet Karim tomorrow,” and smiled at Steve’s surprised look. Since he did not move, she repeated, “Let’s go. Trust me.”

They left under the plaintiff refrain of Brel’s “Ne Me Quitte Pas.”

“Fill me in,” Steve said, once they