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

understand. The original source is the brother of the Iranian Minister of Intelligence, the man to whom MI-6 has given the codename ‘Cain.’ He was a contact of the retired officer, Nigel Barnes, who met with him personally last week, which is when Barnes acquired the information. We received it today in Brussels; Barnes drove from France, where he was on holiday, to Brussels to tell Steve Church. Steve called me on the secure line from our bilateral embassy.”

“Steve Church? Wasn’t he ordered back to the States a few days ago? Didn’t we cancel that extraordinary rendition? How does Steve know this Barnes? And do we even know the minister has a brother”

“Actually sir, Barnes contacted Marshall Church, and Marshall put Steve and Barnes together. As far as the brother is concerned, MI-6 ran him for several years and shared the reporting with us. The Brits lost official contact with him, but Barnes and Cain reconnected.”

“Well, Vickie should be here in a day or two, and we’ll be able to get to the bottom of this,” the president said as if to dismiss LaFont, and she well understood his skepticism and reluctance to act on a single report.

They were both getting up when Jonathan Spencer, a tall man impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, with his black hair combed straight back, was ushered into the room. Although Spencer was an Iranian specialist, LaFont always thought of him as a cross between a character in a De Niro gangster movie and a Las Vegas croupier.

“I’m sorry to be late, sir,” Spencer said. “I just got the call, the director is traveling. And I understand this has to do with Iran?” LaFont noticed Spencer’s signature diamond ring and smiled.

“Jonathan,” the president said, “Thérèse will brief you. Is there any more, Thérèse?”

“Yes, there is,” LaFont said. “According to Cain, V.A. Dalton or ‘Nightingale,’ which is her Iranian codename, is originally an Iranian citizen, born in Shiraz.”

“That is patently false. We all know she was born in India.” The president seemed to be containing his anger by shutting down his emotions behind tight lips. LaFont thought she was looking at a gunslinger about to draw. “Nightingale? Cain? Is this for real?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” she continued. “The Nightingale is the Iranian National Bird. As far as her place of birth is concerned, she came directly from the Senate and, apparently, her background was not thoroughly checked.” She did not look at Spencer—the FBI was responsible for background checks—before adding, “There’s one more thing, sir.” She watched Tremaine return the crystal donkey back to the table and stand to leave the room. “She could choose not to return to the United States. It would be very easy for her to go back to Tehran from Brussels, or simply to disappear. In that case, we would lose a great deal of intelligence.” She glanced at Spencer, who seemed lost. “Do we have your authorization to either hold her, try to double her back, or use her as an unwitting channel of false information to the Iranians?”

“Thérèse,” he said, head thrust forward and index finger pointing at her, “You are talking about my chief of staff as if you were her judge and jury. In this country, she is not guilty until proven otherwise. Good night.”

He took two steps toward the door, stopped, and turned. “I want the two of you to come back with a well-thought-out recommendation in the morning. And bring Harry. I’ll talk to him then, too.”

LaFont hesitated a second before saying, “Yes, sir, good night.” She decided the president was probably better off for the moment not knowing about the kidnapping and counter-kidnapping that had taken place in Brussels.

As she walked out with Spencer, she wondered which way the vice president would lean.

26. Back at Kristen’s Apartment

The appetizing smells of butter and sausages bonding in the frying pan wafted into the dining room from the kitchen, where Kristen, wearing well-fitting jeans and a snug sweater and a barefoot Hunter in a long sleeved shirt hanging over well-worn jeans were making breakfast.

“I am better known for my cheese omelets than for my breakfast sausages,” he said. “So, who’s up for my world-famous dish?”

“All of us,” Kella said, as she walked into the kitchen. “That’s five plus the two of you, I assume.” She gave Hunter a hug and said, “I don’t think I’ve thanked you for saving my life yesterday. I probably shouldn’t say this, but Muscles, the guy you shot, deserved that bullet. Frankly, I don’t care if he lives or dies.” She put her hand to her stomach and she was back in the Charleroi house for a moment deciphering the wallpaper and, hate in her soul, waiting anxiously for the guard’s footsteps.

“Don’t thank me.” Hunter replied. “It was Steve’s idea to hit them early, before they got close to our exchange location. They were so not ready for us.”

“The CIA,” Vanness said, laughing as he joined them the kitchen, “does not play fair.”

“Playing fair is for losers,” Hunter countered.

“With that prematurely balding head of yours,” Kristen said, “you remind me of Prince William.”

“Okay,” Hunter said, “then you can be my Kate Middlebum.”

“No, I can’t,” Kristen replied with a smile. “I never mooned the boys from my dorm window.”

“Here, let me help you,” Kella said, as she helped Kristen bring coffee to the dining room, where Vanness, Steve, and McCabe were about to sit at the table.”

“You’re not on duty today Kella,” Steve said, as he took the coffee pot from her. “You sit down and relax.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said. “But first, let me open the curtains. This must be the first sunny day I’ve seen in Brussels since we got here. You can’t imagine how good that shower felt. And clean clothes.” She looked down at her pressed khakis with a smile.

“And