The Red Cell

by André Le Gallo

  Ali Khazaee, whom she had met in Cyprus, was waiting for Um in New York. He had explained to her that her service was of such importance his ministry had assigned him specially to handle her case. She had met him once before, in a rather shabby hotel in SoHo. He had not been satisfied with the information she was bringing him. For a simple reason: Bob was measuring the quantity and quality of what she was permitted to give Khazaee with an eyedropper.

  Um was not happy. She felt like a cork on a swiftly moving river. She had lost control of her life. If only she had not listened to Ahmed. He was responsible for having thrown her into this world, where nothing was as it seemed. Was it a chess game between hostile countries with millions of lives at stake? Or was it simply liars’ poker between players with vastly overblown judgments of their own importance? Initially, she had rationalized her participation in this game because she wanted to protect her mother. It soon became clear to her, however, from Khazaee’s not so subtle insinuations, that her mother was a hostage to guarantee her good behavior. She had discussed this issue with Bob and asked that he protect her mother in Beirut. After all, the CIA had powerful friends in Lebanon. Also, she would not be in this pickle if he had not pushed her to develop contacts with Hizballah and now with Iranian Intelligence. It was really his fault. So far, her bottom line was Bob was more words than action. On the other hand, she had no doubts Khazaee would harm her mother if she did not perform up to his expectations.

  She got off the train at Grand Central and made her way to the taxis. Khazaee had instructed her to take the first taxi to the Ritz Carlton, wait in the lobby for fifteen minutes to try to detect surveillance, take a second taxi by going out the hotel’s side entrance, and do the same thing at the Sofitel, which also had two entrances. Only then could she take a cab directly to an apartment building not far from the United Nations. Apartment 777. Easy to remember.

  Sitting in the first taxi, she chuckled at the humor of the situation. She of course had given the address and the apartment number to Bob, so there was no need for anyone to follow her. She wondered if the FBI had already put listening devices in the apartment. Probably, so she would have to be very accurate when she reported about her meeting with Khazaee. She wondered if Khazaee would be alone. She hoped not. What if that woman from Cyprus was with him?

  She followed Khazaee’s instructions up to the Ritz Carlton. She did wait in the lobby for a few minutes, but then she took another cab directly to her destination. Why bother with all the rest of her instructions?

  Khazaee opened the door to the smoky interior and led her to a spacious living room where a well-dressed, gray-haired man sat in an easy chair with his legs crossed. He did not get up but nodded to her when she greeted him in Farsi. Khazaee disappeared for an instant and came back with an elderly woman carrying a tray with a teapot and three cups, which she put down on a small table near the wall. She gave each a cup of tea and returned to the kitchen.

  “As I told you last time,” Khazaee said, speaking as much for the older man’s benefit as to Um, “your information so far does not reflect your position in the CIA. You have not given us much or any actionable intelligence. We are wondering why. What have you brought this time?”

  “I told you before that the agency’s first principle is compartmentalization. Information is not shared between departments. Therefore my main source is what comes across my desk, and what I work on myself. But I did bring you something,” she said, opening her pocketbook and taking out a folded manila envelope.

  “This is my translation of a conversation of an al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb cell. They are apparently discussing their plans and activities for their war against the French and West African forces in Mali,” Um said, hoping Bob’s assessment was right, that Khazaee would be satisfied.

  “What is the date of this conversation?” Khazaee asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about the location?” he asked, beginning to show impatience.

  “From the content of the conversation, I would say it was in Algiers.”

  Nervous that the document was not as impressive as Bob had said it would be, Um added, “They are discussing not only their tactical plans but also logistics, supply routes, weapons, and so on. I don’t really understand it, but I’m sure you will. It looks like they are getting weapons from Libya through the desert.”

  She felt more comfortable, as both Khazaee and the person she took to be his boss both perked up at this information.

  “I will look at this later,” Khazaee said. “As I told you before, what we need are the operations the CIA is running inside Iran—names, dates, locations. The CIA is sabotaging our economy. Our people are suffering as a result. We must know the name of their collaborators, their agents inside the country. That is your first priority.”

  “I am not in that department. I do not have direct access.”

  “Then get into that department. Get reassigned. Or, be smart, socialize with the people who have that information, and they will be happy to brag about their accomplishments. Americans are not that different.” He looked at the older man apparently seeking his approval.

  “My mother. I know you have many assets in Beirut. Can you make sure she is safe?”

  She saw the older man grin as if her question fulfilled his expectation.

  “We can indeed,” the older man said, speaking for the first time. “You see, there is much we can do for each other.”

  14. Mechelen, Belgium

  Steve waited for Kella at the restaurant for about half an hour before calling her cell phone. Getting no response, he took a short walk to the Avenue Louise stores and spent another half-hour scouring their wedding dress departments to no avail. After his call to the Chez André, which also proved unfruitful, he bypassed the station chief and called LaFont directly using an encryption program on his phone and hiding from the consistent drizzle in a doorway.

  “Number one,” she replied with steel in her tone, “this operation was called off by the White House. I assume you got the word. You and Kella should be on your way home. It’s going to be difficult to ask the Belgians for help since they were not with us at the take-off. Secondly, you’re both in Belgium on alias passports.”

  “Thérèse,” Steve interrupted before she could go further, “I know all that and I would not have called you unless I thought Kella’s life was in danger. I think it’s time to cut through the bureaucracy and call in some chips. I am not leaving Belgium until I get Kella back. Just so you know, I’m going to call her grandfather in Paris. I think you know who he is.”

  “Non de Dieu,” General Joulet swore after Steve gave him a short hand version of the situation. “You Americans still think this is the Wild West!”

  “Yes, mon général,” Steve replied refraining from reminding Joulet that the French Service under his leadership had been much more aggressive than the CIA had ever been.

  “I still have friends in Brussels and I think they will listen to a request from Paris.”

  ***

  Steve knew the first few hours were the most important, and he hoped the first result of his calls would be the closing of the borders. His worst nightmare was Yosemani—and he was sure Yosemani was behind Kella’s disappearance—had already flown Kella out of the country. His second worst nightmare was her being taken to Iran, or perhaps to a location in the Middle East, such as Southern Lebanon or the Bekaa Valley, where the Quds Force held de facto sovereignty, and which had an infamous history as the location of choice for the Hizballah to hold hostages.

  He then went to meet Colonel Vanness at his home in Mechelen, halfway between Brussels and Antwerp.

  “I spoke to her about half an hour before she was supposed to meet me at the Chez André, so she must have been taken on the sidewalk on her way to the restaurant. Incredible! Incredible they did it in broad daylight.”

  The colonel’s living room was crammed with overstuffed chairs and sofas, not what Steve would have expected a forme
r cavalry officer’s house to look like. But he understood when the colonel’s wife, a plump, flaxen-haired woman, brought each a mug of Orval beer. “I bet you have not even had lunch, have you?” She asked Steve, as she looked reprovingly at her husband.

  “It is too early for the police to have filed a report,” the colonel said. “But let me make a couple phone calls. I might be able to find out something for you.”

  “Here, come with me,” the colonel’s wife said. “And bring your beer.”

  She sat Steve at a heavy oak table and, as she served him chicken waterzooi, a Flemish cross between a soup and a stew, she discoursed lightheartedly on the history of Orval and other Abbey beers. “Do you know we have more beers than France has cheeses?”

  He tried to listen to the colonel in the other room but, unable to understand Flemish, Steve had no other choice but to focus on his lunch, which he truthfully told his hostess was delicious.

  “I was right,” the colonel said, as he came into the kitchen. “There is as yet no report. But I spoke to an old friend at police headquarters, who told me this case had already reached the prime minister. In fact, it was the prime minister’s office that alerted the police.”

  They walked back into the living room, as the colonel continued. “You must have important friends.” He raised his eyebrows. “I am impressed! First, General Joulet, the retired director of France’s DGSE, talked to his counterpart here in Brussels, alerting him of a kidnapping of a certain Jane Mercier. Within minutes the French prime minister called our prime minister with the same information and a request for immediate assistance in the name of our European alliance.”

  The colonel took a sip of his beer. “Did I mention this Jane Mercier is a French citizen?”

  Steve simply nodded, eager for the colonel to continue.

  “And then, Thérèse LaFont, your director, also called our external intelligence director for help in finding a Kella Hastings.” The colonel grinned, as he looked at Steve. “There is some confusion here. The police are wondering if this is the same person, or whether we are talking about two different kidnappings.”

  “You understand Kella was using an alias, right?” Steve asked, as he searched the room for ashtrays, evidence there was a smoker in the house. He was starting to want to smoke a cigarette. The last time he had smoked was during his escape from Tehran to the coast. He saw no ashtrays and said nothing.

  “Yes, of course. You had told me,” the colonel replied. “But I did not think it smart to give that explanation to the police. They will figure it out. No one will be happy when they find out your Kella was involved in a CIA operation on Belgian territory without Belgian knowledge or approval.”

  “But what have the police been able to find out? It was full daylight. Someone must have seen something.”

  “So far, nothing. Brussels is a big city. If I tell them I think she was picked up on Avenue Louise, I will have to provide my source—you. Perhaps you should go to the police directly.”

  “Or perhaps I should carry out the investigation myself—with your help of course. I am sure General Yosemani is responsible for Kella’s disappearance. Somehow, he learned Kella and I were in Brussels. Having failed to kill either of us in Washington, he wasn’t about to let this opportunity go. I would not be surprised if he was using DuChemin as his local action arm. What is your surveillance team telling you about Yosemani’s activities today?”

  “It’s too early for their report. But let me call the team leader right now.”

  After a quick phone call, again in Flemish, the Colonel said, “so far, the general has spent most of his day at the Iranian Embassy. But we think DuChemin went to see him at his hotel very early in the morning.”

  “I don’t want to do it, but I think I should go talk to the station chief.”

  ***

  Steve parked a block from the embassy and lit a cigarette, as he walked down Rue de la Régence. The rain had stopped for a couple of hours during his trip to Mechelen, but the dark skies had returned, and Steve held his collar closed with one hand to keep the rain from going down his back.

  The Marine guard standing behind bulletproof glass in the lobby told Steve someone would be down to get him. Since his pacing seemed to make the Marine nervous, he sat down and waited impatiently. A few minutes later, the glass door behind the metal detector opened, and his CIA escort waved him through.

  “Well this is a surprise,” Kristen said, as she led him to the elevator. “I don’t think you remember me, but we met in your office at the Executive Office Building the day after the Quds Force attempt on your life.”

  “Yes of course. How many people do I meet who are 1920s poster girls?” This time Steve looked at her more closely. She still had the short, jet-black hair and ruler-straight bangs over her forehead. Her lipstick was not quite the arrest-me-red shade he recalled; probably a good idea if she was now an agency operative in Belgium. Feeling a little guilty, he couldn’t help but notice her knee-length dark red dress that showed off shapely calves.

  “I’ve only been here two weeks. It’s a part of my probation period. I’ll be here for another month and a half and then go back for another module at the Farm, ‘locks and picks’ and ‘flaps and seals.’ I’ve already had the core recruitment training,” she said with a hint of pride. “I hope they show us how to get through electronic locks. No one uses key locks anymore.”

  They stepped out of the elevator, and she led him through an opaque glass door with a swipe of her badge. “Bulletproof,” she said, as she tapped the glass with her knuckles. “The chief isn’t here. He’s attending a conference at Ramstein. This is the deputy’s office. His name is Lester Gulick. But let me know if I can help with anything.”

  The deputy’s secretary smiled and nodded for Steve to go in. Gulick was a massive human being who, although sitting, still towered above his desk. He made his large wooden desk look puny. On the wall behind his head was a colorful football poster, apparently there to make excuses for his circus-like size or to intimidate visitors, or both.

  “The chief isn’t here,” Gulick said without getting up. “He told me to tell you if you came in you’re supposed to be on a plane back to the States. Did he not call you this morning?”

  “Don’t they teach rapport at the Farm anymore?” Steve said with a smile, as he sat down across from this edgy giant. “I did speak with your boss this morning. But I also spoke with the director. I guess she didn’t bother to inform you guys. My colleague, Kella Hastings, has disappeared, most probably kidnapped. The agency has a lot to lose if we don’t find her immediately. LaFont has already called the head of the Belgian service. Again, you may not be aware of this.”

  Gulick’s frown and tight lips were metamorphosing into a mask reflecting more amazement than anger. The director? The Belgian service?

  “Yes, headquarters expects you to task all relevant agents to try to find her before the Iranians get her out of the country.”

  “The Iranians?”

  “I assume you know General Yosemani is here. We suspect he’s behind the kidnapping.” Seeing Gulick’s puzzled look, Steve added, “He’s head of Iran’s Quds Force.”

  There seemed to be nothing else to be accomplished, and Steve left Lester straining to jumpstart his gray matter. His secretary called Kristen to accompany him back downstairs.

  “I know you’re at the Stanhope,” Kristen said as they entered the elevator. “Is Miss Hastings with you?”

  Steve looked at her sharply. Sensing there was nothing to lose, he said, “As a matter of fact, no, she’s been kidnapped. I was just informing Gulick that the director has a special interest in this matter, and she expects the station to harness all of its capabilities to find her.”

  “Kidnapped? I can’t believe it. You know, one of my duties here is to assist V.A. Dalton, President Tremaine’s chief of staff, during her visit to Brussels. She doesn’t like to come into the embassy even for her cables. So I take them out to her a couple of times
a day and run errands for her. Should I tell Ms. Dalton? Maybe she could get the Belgians to move faster.”

  “The Belgians are already alerted. No need to tell her. In fact, do not tell her.”

  “Well, here is my number,” she said, writing it on the back of a business card. “Call me at any time of the day or night. I am ready to do anything for you.”

  15. Charleroi, Belgium

  When the van started to move, Kella was on her hands and knees on its metal floor still trying to recover her breath and looking at two sets of legs. She noted with great satisfaction that one of the men standing above her seemed to be in worse shape than she was, bent over with his hands covering his privates and his face covered with blood. She tried to scramble up between her captors, but a hand pushed her back down firmly, and angry words erupted above her head. The language seemed to be a version of French she did not quite understand—Walloon, she supposed. Following Laurent’s barked orders, Yves wrapped a cloth of some sort about her head, and she could no longer see.

  “Why are you doing this?” She shouted in French, after she was able to regain her breath. “Who are you? Who do you think I am?”

  “Fermes ta gueule!” Was the response in very loud and understandable French: Shut your trap!

  Still on her hands and knees, she sensed they had left the city traffic and were speeding along a highway. Her knees were getting sore, and she started to squirm, which triggered a slap to the back of her head.