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

retrieved the Beretta from her pocketbook, slipped it into Aisha’s open handbag, smiled and kissed her hand, and went out the door.

Making sure she was indeed alone, Aisha took the gun from her bag, feeling its weight in her hand. She ejected the clip, made sure the bullets were aligned properly, and pushed it back. She glanced at herself in the mirror to check her composure and locked herself in one of the stalls. She heard two or three people come in while she extracted the roll of toilet paper from its holder. When she was sure she was alone again, she left the stall, put her pocketbook on the edge of a sink, and went to the door. She opened it but could not see Gulick through the crowd of passengers going to or coming from their assigned gates. She had to wait to get a clear view of him and then waved to get his attention. But another cluster of passengers obscured her view. She closed the door, took a breath, and asked herself whether it would not be wiser to call Ghassem. He would know what to do.

It was too late. She took another breath, opened the door and, this time, Gulick was in full view, looking in her direction. She waved at him, hoping she was conveying a sense of emergency. He hesitated at first but stood and came toward her. She let the door close and went to stand by her handbag. The door opened slightly and Gulick’s voice said, “Ms. Dalton, can I help you?”

“There’s no one here. Please come in, come in, I need your help.”

Gulick took several steps toward Aisha who had her back turned. Before he could reach her, she turned around, holding a roll of toilet paper in her left hand. She fired her .38 through the cardboard tube and hit Gulick in the chest. Going instantly into shock, he kept walking toward her. She fired again. This time, he fell to his knees and then flat on the floor. Aisha quickly put the gun back in her bag and went out the door.

“She’s gone,” a glum Vanness said, facing his four American colleagues on the public side of Zaventem who looked as if they were about to fly off in four different directions. “It happened very fast. She was in the ladies room; then she waved to the big guy who had accompanied her to the terminal. She summoned him into the ladies room and she came out alone shortly after that. I thought I heard two sharp reports.”

“Shots?” Steve asked.

“Difficult to tell. The concourse is noisy. But I think so. She headed straight for Gate 83, the Iran Air gate. A tall man I recognized as the Iranian ambassador joined her from the aircraft, after the guy at the gate made a call. Then she embarked with the ambassador. The gate closed a few minutes later, and the plane is probably in the air by now.”

“Let me get this straight.” Steve said with frustration, looking up at the electronic departure board, which informed him the Iran Air flight had indeed taken off. “She is on her way to Tehran, not Amsterdam and Washington? And she’s alone, without Lester Gulick?”

“So what happened to him?” Hunter asked.

“As I said, she was moving quickly after she left the ladies’ room. I followed her. “After she got on the Iran Air flight, I went back to the ladies’ room. By then, a crowd had gathered and the doorway was blocked by airport security. I asked what had happened and learned there had been a shooting. I think we know what happened to Gulick in there.”

“I can’t say I liked him much,” Steve said, “but I’m sorry to hear that.”

“His mama should have told him never to go into a ladies’ restroom,” Hunter said.

29. Ramstein Air Force Base, Germany

As soon as the plane’s wheels had left the ground, Aisha felt a tremendous load lift from her shoulders—she had left her fictional persona behind. From now on, she would use only her Muslim name. Although she never admitted it to herself, the pressure had been heavy. Valium—the pill she so desperately needed in the airport ladies’ room—had long ago become her friend. She could never be herself in Washington. She did not socialize since there was no need for it, for which she was thankful. Unlike all of the hangers on, the sycophants, the toadies, she had served the president well. Hers was more of a technical job than a political one. Organizing his schedule to reflect his priorities and acting as his praetorian guard to control the flow of people and information into the Oval Office were her primary duties, and she had performed them to President Tremaine’s great satisfaction. Further, her access to America’s greatest secrets was invaluable to her cause. She never needed to go out on a limb and take chances. And yet, she never got over the feeling of self-consciousness, that somehow she was always on the verge of being exposed by White House security, by the FBI, or by someone on the White House staff. She was forever on the edge, feeling she was about to be arrested. The humiliation would have been killing.

On the other hand, she had often dreamed if the worst happened she could turn the tables and use her public trial as a forum to preach her cause, to explain to the West the history of her people, and the righteousness of their cause. But the president, for whom she had respect, and the entire Washington community—the entire world except for Iran—would always remember her as a traitor.

She had noticed she and the ambassador were the only passengers in first class. Although she had surprised him by appearing at the gate, he had not asked questions and easily persuaded the crew to let her on board. Once in