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

You haven’t done anything wrong, you have broken no American laws. The lie detector—they call it a polygraph—is nothing. It’s just a machine. Those wires and clips and computers are there to scare you into saying things you don’t have to say, don’t want to say. Stay calm inside. Within yourself. Be peaceful. They need translators. With your Arabic and your Farsi, they will be easy on you, Insha’Allah.”

Inside, the guard took her driver’s license and, with his eyes still on her in a way that made her anxious through the bullet-proof window, made a phone call. He nodded to the voice on the line, hung up, returned her license, and gave her a parking permit. “Space twenty-three is in the second lane.” He pointed to the right and gave her another smile. “Good luck.” He winked and opened the gate. She gave him a grateful nod, as she pushed back her dark hair and wondered if their common age had elicited the unexpected encouragement.

She parked and lowered the visor, the mirror reminding her yet again that her nose was too sharp, too Semitic, too much like her father’s, who had died in the Shia rebellion following the First Gulf War. Lamina, her best friend in Lebanon, had told her, “Be pretty, or be smart.” She had found, however, that being a smart woman in the Arab world, even in Beirut’s relatively liberal atmosphere, wasn’t often to her advantage.

She refreshed the light makeup on her olive skin, starting and ending by dusting the sides of her nose. She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse and got out of the low-slung Mustang long legs first. As she smoothed out her slacks she wondered if she should have worn her mid-thigh black skirt, instead. She took a breath, and pointed her high heels toward the building’s entrance.

I have broken no American laws.

She tried to recall her time as a student at the American University of Beirut, of her Sundays on the Corniche with its nightlife, oblivious of the daily violence. Although the Civil War was over, there seemed to be no end to the killings, the car bombs, and the hostage takings. Now, it seemed so long ago.

An hour later, she was sitting in a small, windowless office in the basement of the red-brick building.

John, an African American polygraph operator with rimless glasses, sat across the desk and explained at the outset that all answers had to be yes or no. He then reviewed the ten questions he intended to ask during the test. “If any of your answers need discussion, let’s clear them up beforehand.”

Um nodded, and John ran through the questions. She said she understood. He attached sensors to measure her pulse, blood pressure, respiration, and galvanic skin response. She didn’t ask about the wire coming out of the cushion on her chair.

“Only yes or no during the test. Okay?

“Is your name Um al Ali?”

“Yes.”

She maintained a friendly expression, just as Ahmed had instructed her. “Establish rapport with him,” he had said.

“Is today Monday?” Another control question, John had told her, to establish her reaction during a truthful response.

“Yes.” She tensed the muscles of her legs as she spoke, just as she had for the first question. Would Ahmed’s instructions work? John lifted his eyes from the screen to her face.

“Let’s try that again,” he said. “Is today Monday?”

“Yes.” This time she tensed only one leg.

“Were you born in a Shiite family?”

“Yes.” She tensed her muscles a bit less this time.

“Did you move to Beirut at the age of twelve?”

“Yes.”

“Did you come to California to join your brother Malik?”

“Yes.” She tensed with the other leg this time. Perhaps she should have followed him to Montréal as well, she thought, and she would not be going through this insane test.

“Do you have any contacts with government officials from any country’s intelligence service?”

“No.”

She stayed relaxed. Ahmed was not with a government. He hated all governments.

John studied her again and repeated the question.

“No.” She moved her foot slightly under the desk.

“Did you apply for this translator position of your own free will?”

This was crucial. She found the part of her mind that revealed a wide expanse of beach with the Riviera Hotel on the left as she gazed to the west.

“Yes.”

She remained still. No one had actually forced her. When she had met her brother’s friend Ahmed in Montréal, he suggested it one day. Being a substitute teacher of Arabic at San Francisco’s Transworld School didn’t pay enough, and he had suggested she look at openings in the government, specifically in the CIA. He had even found the agency’s Web site for her and walked her through the online application. He had been so helpful.

“Again,” John repeated the question, his eyes steady on her face.

“No.” The waves ... the sky ... Had Ahmed actually suggested the CIA? She couldn’t remember exactly.

“Do you intend to use this position to harm the United States Government in any way?”

“No.” She didn’t move. She and John had discussed this question prior to the actual test, and she had explained in the most earnest way she could that she was now a U.S. citizen, that she took her oath very seriously, that this would be her life career, and that she would be very proud to work for her new country.

“Is there anything in your background that could potentially expose you to blackmail?”

“No.” She twitched slightly. John had already told her that whatever she had smoked as a student in Beirut was not a problem, unless she was still smoking it.

“Besides your mother in Beirut and your brother in Canada, do you have any blood relatives outside of the United States?”

“No.” No need to mention Ahmed, since he was not a relative. She thought about her mother and