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

Her previous meetings with Khazaee had taken on a pattern, and this one began no differently. She briefed the Iranian on the requirements he had given her during the previous meeting, all of which dealt with the CIA’s evidence the Syrian regime had used chemical weapons against its own citizens.

“The intelligence community,” she said, “knows where the shells were fired from and when. They all originated from areas controlled by the Assad regime. Actually, the intelligence is more precise. The chemical canisters were fired by the Fourth Armored Division, commanded by the president’s brother Maher.”

“Have you seen any of the NSA reports?” Khazaee asked.

“No, but I have seen a summary, which concluded the command came from the top of the Syrian Army, from Syrian Army headquarters. It was also confirmed by a human source.” Here, she fixed her gaze on Khazaee’s eyes without blinking, as Trent had coached her. She was about to condemn one of the Syrian Army’s most able generals, a man most loyal to the regime, to death. “Do not be furtive,” Trent had said. “Be cool, look him in the eyes and he will believe you.”

“What do you mean? Do you have a name?” Khazaee asked, as both he and the older man sat up straighter.

“No, I do not,” Um said. “But I know his position.” The two men leaned forward. “He is head of Syria’s Air Force Intelligence. He has been reporting for a while, but I just heard him mentioned at lunch the other day. Apparently, we pay him through a Swiss bank account. That is all I know.”

The two men looked at each other in stunned silence, as a cloud darkened their brows. Um kept her face passive, feeling as though she had just delivered a death sentence.

“You told me before,” Khazaee said, “sometimes you take a shuttle to go to work. Where does the shuttle stop and where do the busses originate?”

“You mean the Blue Bird? I cannot possibly tell you where all the stops are. Basically, the shuttle provides transportation from CIA headquarters to other government buildings in the Washington area.”

“Does the bus take you into the compound? Are people searched before the bus is allowed through the front gate? Are you searched before you enter the building?”

“No. We are not searched, but everyone on the bus must show a badge. And everyone is let out at a bus stop not very far from the main building. We are not searched to go in the building, but we must pass through a turnstile activated by our badges.”

The older man spoke for the first time. “The Supreme Leader is aware of your service to the nation and, in the name of Allah, he sends you his thanks.”

“Alhamdu’llah,” Um responded, automatically lowering her eyes. She was surprised but gratified at the same time. This was equivalent to briefing the White House. Bob Trent would be impressed.

“If the Supreme Leader were here, he would remind you Iran’s troubles were caused by the CIA, by the coup that overthrew our government in 1953. The CIA is the Devil’s hand. You are going to be Allah’s sword and cut off that hand.”

He paused briefly to sip his tea, lending more weight to his words. “A week from today, Khazaee will visit your apartment in Virginia. He will bring you a package. He will tell you where and when to deliver the package. It is crucial you deliver it on the date he gives you. Much depends on the timing. As a daughter of the Revolution, you will obey him. In the name of Allah, you will obey him.”

She looked him dead in the eyes.

“Yes, in the name of Allah, I will.”

41. Marin Headlands

“What do you say, navigator?” Steve asked, as he and Kella approached the Golden Gate Bridge on 101 in Elise and Didier’s black Lexus. “Should I be making a right here?”

“Are you talking to me or to the GPS lady?” Kella replied.

Following directions from the British-accented GPS voice, Steve made a right immediately before the bridge and then a quick left. The road climbed sharply and, after a quarter mile, Steve turned into an overlook.

They got out of the car, and Steve retrieved a backpack from the trunk. They walked to a metal railing, the ground on the other side of which sloped steeply down to the water several hundred feet below. The San Francisco Bay extended in front of them and to the right for miles. Sailboats dotted the bay like colored pixels in an Impressionist painting while, farther out, giant, ocean-crossing cargo ships headed toward or departed from the Port of Oakland.

“I wonder why,” Kella said, “they let the bridge get so rusty.”

“Don’t let anyone hear you,” Steve replied. “California taxpayers have paid a lot of money to paint it this color. It’s not rusty, it’s gold when the sun cooperates. But look at that city.” he added, lifting his gaze across the water, “It reminds me of Algiers the way the white buildings slope down toward the bay. What are those tall buildings?” he asked, pointing toward two structures punctuating the skyline. One was triangular and the other cylindrical.

“Let me see,” Kella said, taking her guidebook from Steve’s backpack. “The first is the Transamerica Building, one thousand and sixty five feet and the other is the Coit Tower, two hundred and ten feet. The first is an insurance company and the second was built in honor of firefighters and also used for training.”

“If there’s ever another 9/11-type attack,” Steve said, “that Transamerica Building is a candidate. By the way, did you call Margo? Do we have a date to go up the bridge tower?”

“Tomorrow, at lunchtime. Margo said to bring a picnic if we want.”

“You know what,” Steve said. “I just remembered I brought binoculars.” He took