The Red Cell

by André Le Gallo

  “Nigel Barnes and I were in Tehran during the Ayatollah’s revolution. I helped him, and he helped me. He had been in Iran for many years, spoke Farsi, and was a Persian expert. He’s retired, but we’re still in touch. He has a house in Southern France, like a lot of Brits. They still haven’t gotten over once owning and then losing most of France.”

  “And what about that French guy who had us to dinner one time in Paris. Was he intelligence also?” Steve asked, smiling.

  “That was my good friend, Jean-Claude Clair, head of the French counter-terrorism squad,” Marshall said.

  “You’re still in touch with that Belgian colonel, right?” Steve added.

  “You mean Colonel Vanness. Yes, a good guy and a good intelligence officer. We had some successes.”

  “I’m so glad you’ll take Pascal,” Kella said, single-mindedly.

  Marshall raised both hands and, shaking his head, said, “Oh no. I don’t get along with philosophers, especially French philosophers. But, if the two of you want an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe, let me make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  Kella accompanied Marshall to the door and returned to find Steve sitting on the sofa, his hands entwined behind his head. “An offer we can’t refuse? That’s ridiculous! You were awfully quiet. Don’t tell me you want to do this.”

  He leaned forward, popped a couple of peanuts into his mouth, and said, “Well, it’s not like last time, going into denied territory and running for our lives. Belgium is a member of NATO.”

  Kella could see he was trying to tread carefully, which made her suspicious. “You know as well as I do these short, low risk operations never turn out as planned. Besides, the White House is not going to let you go on such short notice.”

  She picked up the cat again and sat down beside Steve. “Let’s forget about Belgium and go to Paris. We’ll see my grand-père and have some fun.”

  “I know this is a prestigious position I have, and it was an honor for the president to offer it to me. But it’s a desk job, and you know what I think about bureaucracy and paperwork.”

  He moved closer to Kella and put his arm around her shoulders. “Here is what I’m thinking,” he said, moving closer. “As long as we’re going to be in Paris, where you have seen and done everything there is to be seen, let’s do something different, something special.”

  Kella, leaned back against his chest, took the cat off her lap, and turned toward him. “What?”

  “Well, after we’re done with the general, which should take no longer than a week, we could go to Paris and get married.”

  Kella’s eyes widened. She made a purring sound, leaned closer against Steve, and slipped his hand inside her blouse.

  6. The White House, West Wing

  V.A. Dalton, the president’s chief of staff, made up for her short stature with a famous temper and her close relationship with the chief executive. She had made her reputation in Chicago politics, which was also President Tremaine’s political cradle. He called her Vicki, but no one else dared.

  Kella, Steve, and Marshall were Dalton’s luncheon guests in one of the West Wing dining rooms. Thérèse LaFont and Hank Maloney, the president’s counter-terrorism adviser, completed the guest list. The dining room was rather small and, unlike other government spaces where agency logos were the dominant decoration, paintings adorned the white walls. Marshall recognized one by Winslow Homer: “Breezing Up,” portraying three boys and a man in a catboat on a choppy sea, a simile for the luncheon.

  LaFont made the introductions as they sat at the round table. “So you’re the girl who won’t stay down,” Dalton, dressed in black pants and blouse, short black hair covering her ears, said to Kella. As everyone at the table understood, she was referring to Kella’s life-and-death struggle with several assailants in the dark of an Israeli defense installations, where she had shot a Jihadist who was about to kill Steve.

  “Are you part of a hit team? I thought the purpose was to capture, not kill.”

  “Hit team?” Kella replied with an annoyed frown “We are not assassins. The target is responsible for many American deaths. But we want him for what he knows about current plans to kill more. My role will be to assist in the initial surveillance and then get the base in Romania ready.”

  “Kella saved my life, and now I am her eternal responsibility,” Steve said with a grin.

  “I should have noticed that ring,” Dalton said, glancing at Kella’s hand. “I took the liberty of ordering, so we don’t waste a lot of time,” she immediately added, as though she was angry at herself for spending time chatting, Marshall thought. “We’ll have Gazpacho and Maryland crabs. Now, let’s go over this so-called extraordinary rendition, which sounds not only illegal but also a political risk that could harm the president’s reelection chances.” She fingered the filigree gold necklace hanging down past the top of her blouse.

  Silence descended on the room, as a waiter entered to serve the Gazpacho. When he left, Maloney, a bald and large framed man, made the first tentative thrust in what Marshall thought was going to be a battle. “Well, the subject here is General Ghassem Yosemani who is the head of Iran’s Quds Force, an ambitious hard liner who may have a political future. Thérèse, you want to take it from here?”

  As the others spooned their soup, LaFont, blonde and looking elegant in a red Dior scarf that, in Marshall’s eyes trumped Dalton’s necklace, began. “Yosemani was born in Kerman Province in 1957. His parents were peasants, and he started out as a laborer. We do not know what he did during the 1979 Revolution, but he volunteered for the Revolutionary Guard that same year. He covered himself with glory during the Iraq-Iran war, from which he emerged as a general. He then took a leading role in putting down a Kurdish revolt and earned Tehran’s gratitude when he shut down a narcotics route from Afghanistan.”

  “All I have to say about that,” Dalton said, putting her spoon on the table. “Is it appears irrelevant to why we’re here. I haven’t heard anything yet to warrant our time and resources. Please get to the point.”

  Marshall, who knew LaFont to be the sharpest blade at the table, looked at her expectantly. “You’re right,” LaFont said. “We should add a little color. Yosemani is believed to have orchestrated the attempt to assassinate Steve right here in the capital last month. He is responsible for the killing of hundreds of American soldiers in Iraq, using IEDs made and provided by his Quds Force. His men are training and arming Syrian militias to support the Assad regime, and we have obtained intelligence that indicates he is providing missiles as well as sarin gas to the Hizballah for an eventual attack against Israel.”

  Marshall could see LaFont’s response did not please Dalton, but he wasn’t sure why. He noticed her frowning, putting down her spoon, and nervously fingering a gold medallion hanging from her necklace.

  LaFont added, “He has a wife and two daughters in Tehran, and a son in Brussels. His first wife died shortly after their marriage, but we don’t know why. Politically he is extremely loyal to Supreme Leader Khamenei, although he is more a nationalist than a religiously driven individual.”

  “If I could add something?” Steve asked, looking toward LaFont. “There is increasing but fragmentary intelligence pointing to Yosemani as the brain behind the assassination of our ambassador in Yemen last week.”

  “I don’t think that is conclusive,” Dalton said, “The State Department and the FBI have begun an investigation, and we should not rush to judgment.”

  “Let’s also keep in mind,” Marshall said, “That killing our ambassador in Yemen is not the same as a 7-Eleven robbery gone bad. I don’t think we’ll be bringing the killers in front of an American court requiring strict rules of evidence. This was an act of war, not a crime. If and when we can identify the responsible parties, I’m sure the president will put them on his kill list and order a drone strike.”

  “I was not aware,” Dalton said, with what Marshall thought was anger her authority was being challenged, “That you were here speak
ing for the president. If I understand your status, you are a contractor.”

  “Mr. Church’s Red Cell will be charged with carrying out this operation,” LaFont said, firmly returning Dalton’s gaze. “He and Steve and Kella all have experience in this type of activity. The president himself has thanked them and recognized their successes as extremely important to the nation. It’s important for us to have them here.”

  Silence again, as the waiter returned, removed the soup bowls, served the Maryland crabs, and discreetly left the room.

  “Kella, what did you say about Romania?” Dalton asked. “How are the Romanians involved?”

  “Our embassy in Bucharest owns a villa in Sinaia, in the Carpathians,” Kella answered. “We will use it for the interrogation. The embassy staff has used it for R and R for many years. I understand it has been renovated to accommodate its new purpose.”

  “Well, that’s another problem isn’t it?” Dalton said.

  “It should not be,” Maloney answered, shaking his head. “This was all done with approval and help from the Romanian government. In any case, the Sinaia villa option is a detail yet to be settled…”

  Just then, a heavy-set man in a dark suit entered the dining room.

  “I was just walking by and thought I’d drop in,” he said, looking at Dalton. “Can I be of any help?”

  Marshall recognized Vice President Harry Baxter who, by habit born of long practice, shook hands with everyone around the table.

  “Harry, we are discussing an extraordinary rendition of the commanding general of Iran’s Quds Force,” Dalton said. “Some of us think this is an extralegal operation, while others are arguing he is an enemy of this country.”

  “The extralegal aspect is why it’s called a covert operation. I say go get his ass!” The vice president smiled at everyone then left the room.

  7. Washington

  When Steve glanced up at a United Airlines plane making its approach to Reagan National Airport over the Potomac, Kella gave him what she meant to be a quick kiss. Steve prolonged it into a warm embrace. Laughing, she said, “Wow, I can’t surprise you, can I?”

  They were sitting on a bench in East Potomac Park overlooking the river with the Lincoln Memorial behind them and the FDR Memorial on the left.

  “I try to be alert at all times,” he said, grinning.

  Kella had noticed a definite change in Steve after he finally had proposed they get married in Paris. Although she had been making not-very-subtle suggestions for weeks, she was careful to let him think he had come up with an original idea. At least he was no longer walking on eggs regarding their future together. Having crossed that divide, he was more caring and less hesitant to initiate their now-more-frequent lovemaking. He had been positively enthusiastic the day he had given her the ring. This was definitely a new Steve.

  “This is one of my favorite places,” she said, watching another plane approaching the airport, while crews in a pair of eight-oared shells raced each other upstream. “Well, after the cherry trees, of course.” In Afghanistan on behalf of her Pentagon job, she had missed the few days in May when the famous Japanese cherry trees around the Tidal Basin were in bloom.

  “That is where my father began his CIA training,” Steve said, pointing behind them. “There were still Quonset huts on Ohio Drive left over from World War Two, when the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services that predated the CIA, occupied many of the offices.”

  “By the way, did Marshall have any feedback on that Quds Force hit team?” Kella said, as she started to unpack a picnic lunch of delicacies, bread and wine, she had picked up at the French delicatessen earlier that day.

  “Spencer, my FBI buddy, took part in the interrogation of the bike driver in the hospital. Everyone was surprised at his lack of resistance. He confirmed he was a Quds Force member and the assassination attempt was blowback for their failure to capture us last year. What they really want is to get whoever helped us get to the coast. But I guess they’ve given up on that and their Plan B was simply to take me out with an IED.”

  “Well, what about me? What am I, chopped liver?” She grinned at her word. “I love these American expressions.”

  “It appears that, although my name was in the paper, the Iranians never got yours.”

  “It looks like an act of desperation, planning an attack in Washington in plain daylight. What is the FBI going to do with him?”

  “Guantánamo, I guess. Unless the attorney general thinks an attempt on my life is the equivalent of a 7-Eleven robbery and lawyers him up.”

  “By the way, I called my grand-père today, and he’s going to make an apartment available to us. He usually rents it out but is going to keep it free for the next month or so.”

  “That’s great. Where is it?”

  Kella handed him a slice of baguette slathered with French pâté and said, “It’s in the 16th arrondissement, an upscale neighborhood of Paris.”

  She handed him red wine in a paper cup. “It’s a St. Emilion, your father’s favorite, a Burgundy. I hope you like it.” She knew he would have chosen a cold beer, but she was trying to get him used to French wines. “It’s a part of growing up,” she would tell him, half-jokingly.

  “That’s very generous of him,” Steve said. “But if he’s going to go all the way, maybe he could lend us his chauffeur. Did he keep Leon after he retired from the DGSE? After all, is anything too good for his granddaughter’s honeymoon?” He put out his hand and asked, “Do you have any more of that terrible French stuff?”

  As they talked and enjoyed the wine and bread, parents shepherding running and laughing children, and couples holding hands, walked by their bench. A little girl approached Kella and just stared at her and then at the food with wide eyes. Glancing at the girl’s mother for approval, Kella gave her a garnished piece of baguette. The child took it and, also glancing at her mother, wolfed it down.

  “You know, there does not have to be an after-Paris,” Kella said hopefully. “We could just stay there. In any case, I’m tired of these quick trips to Kabul, Islamabad, and Sinaia. You work all day, I’m on the road, and we’re hardly ever together. I hate it that we haven’t even had time to furnish our apartment.”

  “I’ve said it already,” Steve replied. “I’m not in love with this White House job, either. But I can’t imagine how we’re going to survive in Paris financially.”

  “You could write a book. In France, that would give you more prestige than a White House job,” Kella smiled, taking a sip of her wine. “By the way, I did not much like that Dalton person. What’s her problem?”

  “Her problem is she’s a loyal-to-the-president apparatchik. She has an interesting background. I heard she was born in India of an Indian mother and an American father,. Her father apparently was trying to set up a factory for General Tire and the family was reassigned to France for a couple of years. The father’s originally from Chicago, which is where she went to high school. That’s all according to my father.” He took his cup of wine and pretended to clink glasses with her. “Oh, one more thing: She served a term in Congress before President Tremaine recruited her for his personal staff. Did you know elected officials like congressmen received security clearances without the indignity of a background check?”

  They remained silent for a few moments, enjoying the setting and their picnic, when Steve said, “Okay, change of gears. I think while I get the team ready for Brussels, you should go to Romania and make sure the base is ready for prime time.”

  “Ah, Romania, an island of Latins in a sea of Slavs,” Kella replied, lifting her nose up. “Some famous person must have said that.”

  8. Larnaca, Cyprus

  Um had never been on the island of Cyprus before; nevertheless, she felt at home. The people were a mixture of just about every ethnic group in the Mediterranean. Some of the women dressed in Muslim garb, but most preferred European fashions. Many of the men, whether Greeks, Turks, or Lebanese, were bronze-skinned and liked to hide behind huge bl
ack mustaches. She no longer felt self-conscious about her nose.

  While she glanced at the passing landscape from Larnaca Airport to her hotel, Um nervously reviewed her instructions. Ahmed had said he would meet her in the lobby of the hotel and introduce her to an important person, someone who would explain exactly what he needed from her as a translator with the CIA. Bob, her case officer, had told her to “act naturally” and not to ask too many questions—to find out, basically, this new player’s life history: his date of birth, schools attended, sexual preferences, permanent address and phone number, the name of his superior, and anything else she could “without raising suspicions.” She did not know whether to laugh or cry at the impossibility of such guidance.

  As Um stepped out of the taxi, two porters from the Livadhiotis City Hotel rushed to help with her bags. She understood her attraction. She was not only a woman and her clothes easily identified her as an American, and she most likely would tip them generously.

  She felt apprehensive at the range of circumstances that could befall her in her new role as an international spy like the first time she swam past the point where her feet could touch the bottom. She scanned her vicinity, almost expecting the worst. Was the local police onto her? Was the Mossad about to kidnap and interrogate her? But the scenery was benign; palm trees framed the horseshoe driveway leading to the front entrance, a couple of taxis awaited American or European tourists, hoping to book them for the day, and she saw no threatening figures with submachine guns lurking in the bushes. She took a breath and followed her luggage to the reception area defined by majestic ferns in tall stone pots. Before she could start the check-in process, however, Ahmed appeared behind her, greeted her curtly and led her toward two athletic-looking young men in Arab dress and Reeboks.

  “They will take us to El Khoury,” Ahmed told her, “a Hizballah military leader who wants to talk to you. Leave your luggage at the front desk. You will get it later.”