“Don’t thank me.” Hunter replied. “It was Steve’s idea to hit them early, before they got close to our exchange location. They were so not ready for us.”
“The CIA,” Vanness said, laughing as he joined them the kitchen, “does not play fair.”
“Playing fair is for losers,” Hunter countered.
“With that prematurely balding head of yours,” Kristen said, “you remind me of Prince William.”
“Okay,” Hunter said, “then you can be my Kate Middlebum.”
“No, I can’t,” Kristen replied with a smile. “I never mooned the boys from my dorm window.”
“Here, let me help you,” Kella said, as she helped Kristen bring coffee to the dining room, where Vanness, Steve, and McCabe were about to sit at the table.”
“You’re not on duty today Kella,” Steve said, as he took the coffee pot from her. “You sit down and relax.”
“Sounds good to me,” she said. “But first, let me open the curtains. This must be the first sunny day I’ve seen in Brussels since we got here. You can’t imagine how good that shower felt. And clean clothes.” She looked down at her pressed khakis with a smile.
“And I don’t know what we would have done without you last night,” she said struggling to maintain her composure. “Bringing your private doctor here saved my life. That bastard Yosemani killed our child. I am not going to forget it.” She touched the bruises on her cheek and forehead.
Steve took her in his arms and hugged her for a minute. Then he pulled the chair out for her, as Kristen began serving the omelet.
“By the way, Kristen,” Steve said, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Lester took over my job as the message carrier for Dalton, or should I call her ‘Nightingale?’ I don’t think he could stand having a junior officer get more face time with the president’s chief of staff than he did. He has that type of reputation in the station. Before I got here, he forced himself into an operation with high potential. The recruitment target was an Algerian code clerk. Someone else had established a personal contact with him and had developed and assessed him, but Lester horned in on the recruitment in order to take the credit. Anyway, I’m going in late this morning.”
“You all know I talked with headquarters during the night,” Steve said. “Let me bring you up to date. Bob Trent called. He’s head of the Counter Terrorism Center. He said NSA had detected a change in the pattern of the communications between the Iranian mission—much, much more chatter—and Tehran.” He took a sip of coffee and continued. “And then they plugged in the word ‘Nightingale’ in their search. It turns out our girl has been very busy these last few days getting debriefed at the Iranian Embassy.”
He looked around at everyone at the table and said, “Of course, the fact NSA is able to read Iranian communications out of Brussels is very closely held. C” Looking specifically at Colonel Vanness, he said, “You’ve been very helpful to us, Colonel, and I am treating you as a member of our team. I trust you will honor the secrecy of this information.”
“You have my word,” he replied giving Steve a military salute.
***
Later that morning, after Vanness and Kristen had left, Steve received the results of the VP meeting from LaFont by secure email. “It looks like a lot of people stayed up all night,” he said as Kella, McCabe, and Hunter sat patiently in the living room to hear their new marching orders.
“Dalton’s father worked for a tire company in Shiraz, where he met and married an Iranian girl. They gave birth to Victoria Aisha and stayed in Iran long enough for the child to attend an Iranian school, where she began a very serious Shiite education under her mother’s tutelage. The mother apparently brought her on a pilgrimage to Karbala, during which a large number of Shiites, including a brother, were killed during a Sunni attack. There is no record of her having ever been in India.”
“That only proves she lied about her place of birth. But is she a spy?” McCabe asked.
“According to the reporting from the Iranian Embassy here quoting the Nightingale, she has blown every CIA and JSOC operation in the Middle East, from Benghazi and what the CIA was doing there, to our training camps on the Turkish Syrian border, to our special-ops teams with the rebels in Syria and, of most interest to the Iranians, the locations and timing of the insertion teams we’ve been sending into Iran to locate their defensive missile sites. They also know we’ve been placing sensors all around their nuclear installations; Natanz and others. Thanks to the Nightingale, Tehran is also informed of our ship movements in the Persian Gulf.”
By now, McCabe’s mouth was gaping. “That definitely makes her a spy.”
“Spy? Hell, she’s a traitor!” snarled Hunter.
“You’re right about that!” Steve said. “It’s our job to bring her to justice.”
“If NSA has been reading the Iranian traffic, then there’s nothing new here. Except now they know the identity of the Nightingale,” Kella said.
“According to Trent,” Steve replied, “the NSA breakthrough has taken place only in the last twenty-four hours.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” Kella asked. “Seems to me that, instead of canceling our rendition operation, the White House would want us to grab the general.”
“Trent said that for the moment, all we should do is keep an eye on Nightingale, although the vice president agrees with you Kella. We need to snatch the bastard. Meanwhile, the president has sent a message for her to come home. What we can do is make sure she gets on the right plane. I’ll call Vanness and tell him to get some of his watching the Nightingale, twenty-four seven.”
A few minutes later, Steve returned from his bedroom after making the call. “Okay, we’re going back to work, guys. Vanness’s team is no longer available. I think they’re still a little frazzled from their confrontation with the DuChemin group. Our target is now at the Iranian Embassy. McCabe, you and Hunter start tracking her there. Kella and I will watch for her at her apartment building.”
27. Iranian Embassy, Brussels
The Iranian ambassador, a tall man in a buttoned-up collarless shirt and suit, was followed by his secretary as he entered his conference room. She set her tray of tea and cookies on the large mahogany table and turned to leave the room.
“Thank you Leila,” Aisha said, knowing this stern-looking, hefty woman had been called on to perform a wide array of duties in her thirty years of service. She respected and liked her.
“We have been here long enough,” Yosemani said. “The White House has ordered Aisha back to Washington. The president probably wants her to prepare for direct negotiations with us; choose a staff, define negotiation options, et cetera.”
Looking at his wife, he said, “There is a KLM flight tonight that goes to Dulles Airport after transiting Amsterdam. You should be on it.”
“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.”
Yo
semani 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. Gulick opened the right rear door for her and went around to let himself in on the other side.
“Well,” Steve said, “At least Gulick knows protocol. Let’s go. Call McCabe and Hunter. Tell them to meet us at the information desk. Come to think of it,” he said before turning the corner to follow the car, “You’d better ask Vanness to meet us there, too. We won’t be able to get beyond security, but he probably will.”
***
“Oh my goodness!” Aisha blurted, as the car headed for the airport, “I forgot to take my pill.”
“Your pill?” Gulick said, looking at her questioningly. “Anything I can do? Should we stop at a pharmacy?”
“Oh, I’ll be all right. I’ve got some in my pocketbook. I’ll just go to the ladies’ room after we get to the airport.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” he asked, now sounding genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. I should not have said anything.” She paused for a moment as if deciding whether to explain. “Well, I might as well tell you, since we’ll be traveling companions. I get fainting spells. Can I trust you with this secret? I assume you know how to keep secrets.” She smiled at him, having decided her plan would work only if she appeared to be his willing companion. Her read of Gulick was that if the timing on this trip was truly coincidental, he would relish establishing a connection with her. If, on the other hand, he was on the plane to make sure she returned to U.S. territory, where she would be arrested, any hope to escape depended on his conviction she was totally unaware of the suspicion that surrounded her.
She took out a monogrammed handkerchief from her pocketbook and pressed it against her forehead, giving Gulick a weak grin. “I’ll be all right. I just need to take my pill.”
***
“Yeah, we got here before they did,” McCabe said. “They came in together and they both registered at the KLM window. Their flight is 723, transiting Amsterdam, destination Dulles airport. Hunter and Vanness are keeping an eye on them. Their flight takes off from Gate 72. Vanness said he can get through to the passenger side. So he’s the only one who will be able to confirm she actually gets on the KLM flight.”
“What do you mean,” Steve asked, surprised, “They both checked in? Are you telling me Gulick is traveling?”
“Sure looks that way,” McCabe said. “I guess he’s going back with her.”
“Headquarters isn’t aware he’s chosen to be her personal bodyguard. Trent didn’t say anything last time I spoke with him,” Steve said, looking toward the signage indicating the direction to the gates. A large electronic board over the information desk listed all outgoing flights and informed him Dalton’s flight was at 19:50 hours, while the Tehran Air flight was at 18:45. He looked at his watch; it was 18:00.
“According to Kristen at breakfast yesterday, that’s just the kind of thing Gulick would do to advance his career,” Kella said. “‘Madame Director, I personally captured and brought to justice the most dangerous spy of the century.’” She stood on tiptoes and spread her elbows wide, mimicking Gulick.
“Well, I still want to monitor her departure,” Steve said, “And then we can report it to headquarters.”
“And then, we can go to Paris right?” Kella said.
“Absolutely,” Steve said mentally crossing his fingers. “But I won’t feel right until we’ve got control over Yosemani.”
28. Zaventem Airport
While she walked through security and then through passport control, Victoria Aisha Dalton searched the faces of the Belgian officials for any sign she might be on some sort of watch list. Her heart quickened when a second official entered the control booth, while her passport was still lying open in front of the you
ng man in uniform who was flipping through the pages. Had he pressed an alarm button under the desk?
The second man was considerably older. A supervisor?
The young man stood and, glancing in her direction, exchanged a few words with his superior, raising all of her antennas. She glanced around but could not see Gulick. The two men then changed places. The older man glanced at her passport, looked at her then stamped a clean page and handed back the document as he looked for the next traveler.
Hoping she was ahead of Gulick, she was disappointed to see him waiting for her past passport control. Then she remembered he was probably carrying a black passport, which again infuriated her. They walked together past the lace and chocolate shops. One large store was dedicated to the Belgian cartoonist Hergé and the adventures of Tintin, his internationally famous creation. Although she was aware of Gulick trying to tell her something, her mind was rehearsing what she was going to do and the many ways Murphy’s Law could interfere.
Just then, Laila walked out of the Tintin bookstore and right past them. Aisha looked up at Gulick, but he gave no sign of recognition or suspicion. As far as he was concerned, Laila was just one of hundreds of people going to or from their gates and frequenting the duty-free stores.
“How are you feeling, Ms. Dalton?” Gulick asked.
“I’ll be okay, but I need to find a ladies’ room, so I can take my pill.”
They walked along the concourse for another few minutes and could see Gate 72 ahead of them, when Aisha pointed to a snack bar and said, “Why don’t you go sit over there and get yourself a beer or something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She nodded toward a ladies’ room across from the snack bar.
The Red Cell Page 14