The Red Cell

by André Le Gallo

  “Yes, sir.”

  Half an hour later, the phone rang again. It was the ambassador to Belgium. “General, Sir, I have some tragic news. As you know, Aisha was on the flight with me. I assume you have seen the news. The Americans intercepted our plane and illegally forced us to land at their base in Germany. Just as our plane was landing, I heard a shot. She shot herself. May Allah keep her soul.”

  “Not, not possible,” Yosemani stuttered after a moment of shocked silence. “Your information is false…the Americans are lying. Do your job. The first information is always wrong.”

  “I was there, sir. I’m sorry to confirm she is dead, May Allah have her soul.”

  Yosemani hung up and let himself fall on the bed. He let his eyes stare through the wall before allowing his head to fall into his hands. He stayed hunched over for several minutes imagining the scene on the plane and the desperation Aisha must have felt.

  He eventually went to the bathroom and ran water over his face, his mind turning to action as he dried his face. First, whatever form his revenge would take, he would not leave the implementation to others who might—who would, like DuChemin—fail. He would be the tip of the spear, as he had been so many times before during the Iraq Iran war. He also decided he would strike the American homeland. He would make them bleed for this.

  31. The ‘Croatians’

  “We’re beginning to know this airport very well,” Kella said, as she and Steve walked toward their Air France flight.

  “I don’t know why you’re so concerned we’d miss our wedding,” Steve said. “We’re going to be in Paris a full day before.”

  “Yes, a smokeless wedding, right? I don’t want you to ruin my gown. Our daughter Jacqueline is going to want to use it.”

  He added, “Daughter? Our son, Marshall, is not going to look good in a dress.”

  “In any case, I want to keep it in good shape. I might have to use it again. Oh wait,” she said as they approached the Tintin store. “Let’s go in here. We still have plenty of time.”

  “Good idea. Our son’s first book.”

  They were browsing in the back of the store, when Kella grabbed Steve’s arm and pulled him behind a bookcase. “Look,” she said, crouching down slightly, and pointing past the cashier toward the crowded concourse. “That’s Gold Glasses, one of my jailers. I don’t know the other guy.”

  Steve looked where she was pointing and saw the two men in the crowd heading toward the departure gates. One was tall and clean-shaven, wearing sunglasses and a N.Y. Yankees cap. The other indeed wore gold rimmed glasses and was smaller and younger than his companion.

  “Well, if he’s one of Yosemani’s bodyguards, the general can’t be too far away,” Steve said. He led Kella out of the store and, hiding behind other passengers, they began to follow Gold Glasses and his comrade. “Yosemani has a beard, black, turning to white. But a beard can be shaven. I wonder where they’re going.” Steve guided Kella so they could observe the two men from the side. “You don’t see a lot of people with sunglasses in rainy Brussels. Or Yankee fans, either. That’s a felony right there.”

  A moment later, the two men were standing in line at the Air France gate.

  “I don’t believe it,” Kella said. “They’re getting on our flight. They’re going to Paris. What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to get on the plane. I think the big guy is Yosemani—in fact, I’d bet on it. I don’t know if they’d recognize us, but I think you should put on more makeup to hide those bruises. We need to find out what kind of passports they are using. Then I can call headquarters. Why don’t you go to the ladies’ room and I’ll check us in.”

  Steve dug into his carryon, found his Washington Redskins cap, and put it on. Two can play this game, he thought. “I’d like to talk to those two men who you just checked in,” he told the young Air France stewardess handling boarding passengers. “I visited their country last summer. But I don’t want to embarrass them. I did notice they had dark blue passports, so can you tell me if they are really from Albania?”

  “Those two?” The young stewardess said, nodding toward the two men looking for seats in the waiting area. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Listen,” Steve smiled, “the truth is I have a bet. Here…” He handed her a hundred-dollar bill. “I’m sure I’m going to win, so I’ll share my winnings with you.”

  The stewardess giggled, looked around, and took the money. “They are Croatians,” she said.

  “I knew it!” Steve said with a big smile. He retrieved his and Kella’s tickets, and left the counter. He saw Gold Glasses and his partner board early with first-class passengers. “Good,” he said to himself.

  Later, sitting in the economy-class cabin, Steve told Kella that Bob Trent, the Counter Terrorism Chief, was not in his office but he had left him a message. “I should have left it with the director,” he said. “Getting the French to act quickly could be a challenge.”

  “We didn’t ask, did we,” Kella asked, “if there was an Interpol warrant for our general? Do you think the French would arrest him?”

  “Good question. Even if they don’t, they could at least keep an eye on him while he’s in France.”

  ***

  Less than an hour later, after they had touched down at Charles De Gaulle Airport, Steve and Kella stood quickly, retrieved their carryon from the overhead compartment even as the stewardess directed everyone to stay in their seats and, explaining to anyone listening they had a connecting flight to make, were able to disembark ahead of the other economy-class passengers. Even with their hustle, however, they missed catching up with the first-class flyers, who had ridden on their own bus and reached the main terminal considerably earlier.

  When they reached the signs directing them to “Baggage” or “Transit,” signs, Steve hesitated for a moment and then chose “Baggage.”

  “If they’re transiting to another country, we’re out of luck.”

  He called LaFont while waiting for their luggage. “I already left word with Trent’s office they’re traveling on Croatian passports. No, we don’t have their names. I’m looking at a departure board and there’s a Delta flight leaving for New York in an hour and a half. No, I don’t know if they’ll be on it. There are flights going all over the world, but that New York flight is one we should be able to check.”

  “I don’t see them here,” Kella said, scanning the crowd retrieving their luggage and heading for transportation to Paris. “Did she say whether the French have agreed to arrest them?”

  “She said we had to go through the FBI to reach French law enforcement. So far, headquarters hasn’t gotten any feedback from the Bureau.”

  Steve could see Kella was becoming disappointed, frustrated, and angry.

  “The FBI! The French! The goddamned bureaucracy! What we should have done at the airport is go to the nearest cop and have them arrested in Brussels. Damn!”

  She suddenly grabbed her suitcase from the carousel and heaved it off with almost superhuman strength. Steve thought that, at this moment, Kella could probably have thrown her suitcase across the large luggage reception area.

  “Look, we’ve done what we could,” he said. “Either the French will get them or, if they go to New York, the FBI will.”

  She looked him square in the eyes. “I have an idea. Let’s go get married.”

  32. The ‘Bulgarians’

  Yosemani emerged from the Air France VIP lounge changed into a red and black Nike warm-up suit. His hair was now short and blonde, and he wore rectangular Armani glasses. He fingered his diamond earring as he sought out his bodyguard, who he found at the bar sipping a Remy Martin cognac.

  When operational, it was important to fit in with the enemy.

  He allowed himself the hint of a grin which quickly disappeared. What would Aisha say if she could see him now? She had given her life for something greater than herself, and he admired her for it. Although he had numerous battlefield decorations he was not sure he w
as as courageous. He had stayed up most of the previous night choosing a course of action. He had decided going back to Tehran and involving the IRGC, the Ministry of Intelligence, as well as his own Quds Force, would delay and perhaps totally negate what had to be done. Inevitably, there would be obstructions, political obstructions, to his goal: retribution for the death of his beloved wife and hero of the Islamic Republic. His ambition to become the commander of the IRGC, the defender and action arm of the revolution, had become a thing of the past. With the help of Allah, he would make the Americans pay.

  Leery of the Americans’ ability to intercept phone calls, Yosemani was reluctant to use his cell phone. Nevertheless, he called his office in Tehran and simply said, “Instruct Khazaee that I am on my way. I will not come to his office. But he should expect me at his other office.”

  An hour later, Yosemani and his bodyguard were boarding Delta 192 to New York. His staff had been diligent in preparing, stocking, and keeping up to date several sets of alias passports at key diplomatic installations throughout the world. This precaution had frequently permitted Quds Force operatives to travel incognito when necessary to enter or depart areas normally denied to Iranian diplomats, or to carry out operations in hostile countries.

  Yosemani congratulated himself on his foresight. Again sitting in first class, he examined his Bulgarian passport and told his bodyguard to memorize his personal data and be able to explain the several entry and exit visas and stamps. They both accepted the ice-cold vodka that accompanied their caviar.

  “How long do you think we will be in America?” his bodyguard asked.

  “It depends whether Khazaee has been using his time in America wisely. I recall he has several assets who could prove useful, one on the East Coast and another on the West Coast. So far, he has been sleeping, and so have his assets. We will soon see if they are worth the money we have been spending on them. The time to bleed the Great Satan is near.”

  “Al’hamdu Allah,” they both said quietly.

  33. Paris

  “Good morning, Madame Church,” Steve said, as he opened the curtains of their 16th Arrondissement penthouse apartment on their Parisian honeymoon.

  “Bonjour, Cheri. It’s going to be a wonderful day. We’re not following anyone, and no one is following us. But, you broke one of your cardinal rules. This apartment building is located on a cul-de-sac.” Kella grinned.

  “Well, as you said, no one is trying to kill us, I don’t think. Besides, it’s a gated street. And, your step-grandfather, the former head of the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, chose this location. It’s his apartment. Don’t blame me.”

  “Come here,” she said, pulling him down toward her on the bed.

  “My wife is insatiable! A veritable sex maniac!”

  Steve settled down beside her and pulled the sheet to uncover her body. “You are beautiful,” he said, gently caressing her bronze colored skin, being careful not to touch her bruises.

  “That is a good start, my husband. Did I tell you that my tribe, the Tuareg, is run by the women? It is the men who wear the veil. You’ll get used to it.” She glanced down at him. “T’es beau, tu sais. I know, I know, that’s not original. Edith Piaf said it first.”

  A while later, she returned from the kitchen with coffee, milk, and croissants. “This is called ‘café au lait au-lit.’”

  They were sitting at a large table of dark wood in the dining room. “I am so sorry,” she told him, “Marshall and Kate were unable to attend the wedding yesterday.”

  “Well,” Steve replied, “he is beginning to need more medical stuff, such as an AVAP at night, which is hard to travel with. And when my mother can’t be there, someone else has to be in the house. He can no longer be left by himself.”

  “We’ll see him when we get back.”

  “Speaking of going back to the States, were you there when that internationally famous photographer and her husband mentioned they have a condo in California we could use if we want to spend part of our honeymoon there?”

  “You mean Elise and Didier? That’s true. She’s had her work featured in Paris, New York, and San Francisco. You don’t happen to remember her because she is a beautiful girl, do you? Her husband is Swiss, Didier Von Widmer. They met in London when she was studying for her master’s at Christie’s Education. He owns a gallery in Paris, and another in San Francisco. If you’re interested in their offer, we should call them. But for now, let’s just relax in Paris. What do you want to do? How well do you know Paris? I can be your guide. I didn’t spend all my time at the Ecole National d’Administration studying.”

  “I bet.”

  Steve walked over to the TV. “Let’s see what going on, whether there’s any more news about the Iran Air flight, whether the Nightingale has been uncovered.”

  “Steve, this is our honeymoon. I hope you’re not going to be to be glued to the news.”

  “Absolutely not.” He took a couple of steps and leaned over her, as she sat at the table. He kissed her cheek and slipped his hand inside her bathrobe. “I’m going to be glued to you.”

  They both turned toward the TV, as an announcer said, “The mysterious action of the American Air Force last night is still a puzzle. However, our sources have confirmed the body carried off the plane on a stretcher was that of President Tremaine’s Chief of Staff, V.A. Dalton. The circumstances of her death are still under investigation. The Iranian Ambassador to the United Nations has requested that the Security Council condemn the American action as an act of terrorism. He further requested sanctions against the United States for breaching the sovereignty of the Islamic Nation. He had no comment to explain the presence of V.A. Dalton on the aircraft. Nor did he have anything to say about the circumstances of her death. The White House also has had no comment. There will be more news at the top of the hour.”

  They sat and looked at each other silently for a moment.

  “I wonder what type of cover story the White House is going to cook up to explain why the Nightingale was going to Tehran,” Steve said.

  “We are out of it,” Kella said. “You told headquarters Yosemani could have gone to the transit lounge to take that flight to New York. You should call Trent to find out if the FBI picked them up there.”

  “I thought you had lost interest. We’re on our honeymoon, remember?” Steve said, chuckling. “The way it works is that Trent called FBI headquarters, which either called or sent a cable to the Bureau in New York, who then had to determine the priority of the CIA request before committing resources and sending their agents to JFK Airport. Or, headquarters sent a cable to its office in New York, which then would get in touch with the local FBI office. In any case, I’m not optimistic. If Yosemani took the flight, he’s probably free as a bird somewhere in New York.”

  “That’s not exactly a well-oiled machine. Yosemani should be in Guantanamo, not cooking up terrorist attacks in New York.” Seeing Steve’s raised eyebrows, she said “Okay, okay. Let’s take a walk. The Nightingale is a story for the grandchildren. My all-time favorite view in Paris is from the Trocadéro. It’s within walking distance, and there’s a restaurant where we can have a late lunch.”

  “Remember, General Joulet’s driver is available. We could call him if you want.”

  She eyed him seductively.

  “Maybe we’ll want to use him after lunch,” he said, drifting closer to her.

  They took the tiny and rickety elevator down and, hand in hand, strolled past the dozen houses that bordered the sidewalk-free Villa Guibert, where a young boy was rolling along on a red bicycle. About ten yards ahead of them, he stood up on the pedals but quickly fell over the handlebars. They ran to help him. “Are you hurt?”

  “All you have to do,” Steve said when the boy shook his head, “Is to tense your arms when you get up on your pedals. Keep them straight.”

  The boy got back on his bicycle, stood up on the pedals, and successfully negotiated the distance to the gate at the end of the str
eet.

  “Well done, well done,” Steve said when they reached him again.

  “I’m impressed,” Kella said. “You will make a good father.”

  They turned left on Rue de Latour, made an immediate right, and soon found themselves on Avenue George Mandel. The chestnut trees lining both sides of the wide thoroughfare and ornamenting the narrow sidewalk dividing the avenue were losing their leaves, but their symmetry and alignment gave the neighborhood a certain elegance.

  “Would you like to live there?” Kella asked, pointing to the apartment buildings on each side.

  “Sure, as long as your ENA diploma is worth the $5 million purchase price. But what about those apartment buildings we just passed?” he said as he scanned the sidewalk behind them. He counted one repeat pedestrian he had seen just before turning onto the avenue, maybe two.

  From the football-field-sized esplanade of the Trocadéro, they could look down on gardens decorated with water jets arcing over the statues. The Seine River lay adjacent, and a bit farther, the Eiffel Tower protecting the city. Children rollerblading and skateboarding among camera-toting visitors from all over the world and being offered handicraft by African vendors lent the area a festive air.

  Steve noted two men buying ice cream from a stand near the street bordering the esplanade

  They retraced their steps past the Trocadéro Metro station to a café on the side of the square. “I have seen photographs of this restaurant,” Steve said. “During the first National Day following the liberation of Paris, there was dancing in the street right in front here. And many of the merry makers were American GIs.”

  “I wonder if the younger generation remembers that,” she said. “Well, let’s order. I’m going to have oysters. How about you?”

  “Croque-Monsieur for me. You order and I’ll go outside to call our driver. It’s getting dark out there. We don’t want to get caught in the rain. I think we brought the Brussels’ weather with us.”