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

“The FBI will pick me up at the airport when I land,” she replied. “But I am a little worried about my new messenger.”

“Why the change, I wonder? That young girl Kristen was just fine. Now they sent me this monstrous man. He said he was the deputy chief in Brussels. He can be funny but threatening all at the same time. I don’t know what to make of the change. I just don’t trust Lester Gulick.”

“Right now, just tolerate him,” Yosemani said. “You have only a few more hours to go. Gulick will take you to the airport, and that is the last time you will see him.” He took a sip of tea, looked at the large clock on the wall, and said, “I thought I would also be leaving today on the weekly flight home, but I have unfinished business with DuChemin.”

“I am sorry to hear that, General,” the ambassador said. “I will be on that flight. This is my first trip back this year. It is a good time to be back in Tehran as President Rouhani’s administration sets up shop. I do not know what your plans are for this DuChemin fellow, and I do not want to know—another good reason for me to be out of the country. My flight leaves about an hour before yours.”

Yosemani acknowledged the ambassador’s comments with a wry smile and, turning toward Aisha, said, “What else can you tell us about the special-operations teams crossing our borders? And can you provide us with more details about the successor operations of STUXNET and FLAME?” He placed a recording device on the table, pressed a button, and leaned back in his chair.

***

“Steve,” Kella said, as they sat in a rental car at one end of Aisha’s street, “I wish you would go back to your non-smoking days. At least open the window all the way. Your cigarettes are smelling up my clothes.”

“It’s just something I do,” Steve replied, “When I’m working. I’ll get you a new wardrobe, when this is all over.”

“You mean you smoke only when you’re under stress? But you don’t look under stress. I’m under stress. I’ve been tortured physically and mentally. My body is in the middle of a typhoon. We’re supposed to get married in a few days, remember? You talk about a wardrobe as if that is going to make everything right. When is this all going to be over? Don’t answer that. As far as I’m concerned, this will never be over, not until I get my hands on Yosemani.”

They both sat quietly for a moment when Steve broke the silence. Jerking forward, he said, “Look, an embassy car just pulled up.”

Lester Gulick, all six feet five of him, stepped out of the front passenger seat and walked into the building.

“Is he delivering a message, or is he picking one up?” Steve asked.

“Or something else,” Kella added.

After a while she said, “He’s been in there fifteen minutes already.”

***

Although her apartment was spacious, Aisha felt as though Gulick’s physical presence sucked up most of the oxygen. She also considered his conversation from the living room, where he was waiting for her to finish packing, a thin effort to elicit information. She was the president’s chief of staff, and he had the arrogance—the audacity—to think he was going to outwit her?

These spooks are not as smart as they think they are.

This one was not stupid, but he was as subtle as a grizzly bear. Now he was trying to make conversation about Isfahan architecture, about which he obviously knew nothing. Why would he choose to get her to talk about Iran? Was the CIA on to her? Her fingers searched for the nickel finish of her Beretta in her pocketbook, when she remembered Laila had taken it to slip it to her at the airport after she went through security. Aisha’s red official passport did not give her diplomatic immunity, which would have permitted her to bypass the normal security line. Laila had been bribing the lowly paid guards for months and was now waved through with only a cursory search. Aisha made a mental note to travel only on black diplomatic passports in the future.

“Mr. Gulick,” she called out from the bedroom, hoping the exasperation she felt did not show in her voice, “Please wait for me downstairs. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.” Before Gulick could leave, however, she emerged from the bedroom with a large, black roll-on suitcase. “Here, this one is packed. Could you please take it with you?”

“I am also going back to the States tonight,” Gulick said. “I have a personal emergency at home, so it looks like we’ll be traveling together.”

Gulick went out the door with her suitcase before Aisha had time to compose a response. She returned to the bedroom, leaned on the dresser, and studied herself in the mirror as she fingered her gold medallion. Was Gulick simply going to be a travel companion—an extremely tiresome travel companion? Or, was he under orders to bring her back to the United States to face the judicial system? She found her cell phone and dialed her husband, but she closed the cover after a couple of rings. Had he not said to tolerate the man? Ghassem seemed confident she was not under suspicion and she could return to Washington to continue as the eyes and ears of the Shiite nation. But she realized she no longer shared his optimistic assessment of her situation.

Was she becoming paranoid, or were her instincts right?

***

 “Look at that,” Steve said. “Gulick is loading her suitcase in the back of the car. Oh, here comes the driver to help him. I bet that sonofabitch is taking her to the airport.”

A few minutes later, Aisha, aka Dalton, aka Nightingale, emerged from the building with a carryon bag.