The Red Cell

by André Le Gallo

  She felt the van slow down, apparently turning off the highway, and stop about twenty minutes later. Her captors then brought her inside a house and tied her to a chair with her hands handcuffed behind her back and her eyes still blindfolded. She heard the men leave the room and close the door behind them. She also her heard the click of a lock.

  She immediately tried to get free, but handcuffs and ropes held firm. Where was Steve now? Where was the police? Would Steve even want to get the police involved? Would he ask the station for help? After all, they were in Belgium without the knowledge or approval of the Belgian service. And, most of all, why would these three Belgian men want to kidnap her. Was it a random criminal act? She kept pushing back the possibility of Iranian involvement. Possibility—or probability?

  The door opened after what seemed to be an hour, and an accented English voice broke the silence. “First, you will tell us your name. And why you are here in Belgium.”

  Was this the Belgian police that had discovered she was here on an intelligence mission? A mission that had not been coordinated or approved by the Belgian government. Although they would arrest her, they probably would not treat her like this if they knew she was CIA. But the question had been in English. Was her worst fear, her nightmare, coming true? Was she in the hands of the Iranians?

  “Your name and your reason for being here. We have found your passport in your purse, so let us proceed quickly.”

  “Well, then you know my name is Jane Mercier,” Kella replied, taking the cue.

  “I am asking for your real name. We know your passport is a fabrication.”

  “It is not!” she said, still assuming and hoping her questioner was a Belgian police officer. “My name is Jane Mercier, and I am a French citizen. I am in your country to purchase various fashion accessories for my clients in Paris.”

  She suddenly felt the sting of an open-handed slap across her face.

  Furious, Kella struggled against the ropes that held her fast to her chair. “Barbarian!” she shouted. “The French Embassy will file a formal protest to your government.”

  When she heard the laughter of the two men in the room with her, she assumed they were Iranians rather than Belgians.

  “Your name is Kella Hastings and you are a CIA killer. Today, you can answer our questions, and we will let you go. Or, you can continue to play games and we will continue this conversation in Iran.”

  “You have the wrong person. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You are wasting our time. Your superiors have said publicly that waterboarding is a very effective interrogation tool. We could confirm that claim if you wish. Why are you here? Because, two years ago, you and your friend Steve Church interfered in our internal affairs. Now you will tell us who helped you acquire our country’s national security information. Further, you will tell us the names of everyone on your escape route. We know you did not get to the coast all by yourself.”

  “You have my passport. You can see I have never been to Iran. My passport will tell you my travel is usually between Paris and New York. This is the first time I have been to Belgium.”

  This time the blow was from a closed fist, which knocked her head to the side violently, causing her blindfold to slip down around her neck. Her two interrogators seemed to be in their thirties and overdressed for their jobs. Both wore dark suits and had well-trimmed dark beards. The one closest to her was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. The other stood to one side and wore gold-rimmed glasses.

  “This need not be physical. We are not in an American TV serial,” Gold Glasses said in a voice Kella recognized as the only voice that had spoken so far. He was apparently the leader, while the other one was the strong-arm, the muscles.

  “I don’t know anything about Iran. I am here as a buyer of high fashion clothes for my clients in New York and Paris. My name is Jane Mercier.”

  A baton had appeared in the hands of the man in front of her, and he thrust it into her stomach viciously.

  She gasped for air, but the cramps made her not care if she ever breathed again.

  16. Free University of Brussels

  Steve did not want to return to his hotel, but he had run out of action items on his list. He had alerted the station, and Belgian authorities presumably had been persuaded to close the borders and take other action by LaFont and by the French Prime Minister. And he had just conferred with Colonel Vanness for the second time that day.

  Vanness said his men had little to report: Yosemani had spent most of the day at the Iranian Embassy, but his two security guards had disappeared, probably enjoying the sights and the mussels of Brussels.

  Steve, replete with unused nervous energy, turned away from the elevator and took the stairs up to his floor. He thought he should be doing something other than heading for his room while Kella was still in enemy hands. They would probably keep her alive, as long as they thought she held useful information. But had the Belgians moved fast enough to keep the Iranians from taking her out of the country?

  He saw the red light on his phone blinking when he walked into his suite. The message was from Kristen. “Steve, I have very important information, which I can’t discuss on the phone. I’m staying at the Embassy Apartments in the building next to the embassy itself. I have the unit on the top floor. Come any time.”

  He checked the airline schedule, and only one Iran Air flight departed Zaventem each week, the next one in four days.

  Driving to Kristen’s apartment, Steve wondered about something else, an option he had not yet considered. It had come to him as he toweled off after a shower he realized he seriously needed. He searched all the drawers and closets for a phone book. Not finding one, he went to his iPad and opened the Université Libre de Bruxelles Web page. There, he found a map of the campus and a list of ULB officials. He searched for the name “Yosemani” and found “Karim,” a student in the law faculty, but no address. He was disappointed but not surprised.

  The rain had finally stopped, and the moon played hide and seek with the passing clouds which had almost all disappeared.

  He parked down the street to avoid the Belgian police patrolling in front of the embassy. As Kristen had said, only one apartment occupied the top floor of the building. He knocked. The door opened almost right away, and Kristen, wearing only light makeup and a man’s oversized blue-striped dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, gave him a platonic two cheek air kiss—though there was nothing platonic about the way she pressed her body against his.

  A bottle of wine and two glasses sat on a coffee table in front of a large and comfortable-looking couch. “Come on, get dressed. We are going out,” Steve said, wondering whose shirt she was wearing. “Besides, greeting someone at the door in somebody else’s shirt is not professional; Tradecraft 101.”

  “There’s no need to go out Steve,” Kristen said, a little startled at Steve’s comment but pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I can prepare something. I’m not a bad cook. But let’s have a glass of wine, and I can tell you what I learned today.”

  “Tell me later. Right now, go get dressed. We’re going to see what kind of case officer you are.”

  Looking disappointed but intrigued, she walked toward a bedroom but stopped and turned around when she reached the door. “If you’re in a hurry, come and help me get dressed,” she laughed and whirled out of sight, leaving the door half open.

  Still feeling Kristen against his chest, Steve went to the kitchen to look for a beer. Not finding one, he opened the bottle of Chablis, poured two glasses and took one out on the balcony, where he lit a cigarette. As he looked over the city, he wondered if Kella could be hidden in a building under his nose. He would find her, he told himself, or he would force Yosemani to release her. But what if she was already beyond Belgium’s borders?

  “In case you were wondering,” Kristen said, joining him on the narrow balcony with a glass of wine, “that shirt is mine. I started wearing men’s shirts instead of jammies
in college. Men’s clothes are so much more practical, don’t you think? Did you see the size of this place? Five bedrooms! It’s usually reserved for visiting VIPs, but it was the only apartment available.”

  Steve turned away from the view of the city to find himself face-to-face with Kristen outlined against the lights of the living room. Wearing heels, she was almost as tall as he was. When she tilted her face up toward him, her eyes reflected the night sky and the dark clouds moving across the moon. He felt a magnetic pull, as she moved her lips toward his.

  “You look very nice,” Steve said, catching himself and backing up against the railing. “Much too seductive. Let’s get out of here.” Kristen smiled.

  “We’re on our way to ULB,” Steve said, as he drove in the after-dinner traffic of the capital. “Or rather we’re going to check out the night life at ULB.”

  Kristen was amused at the way Steve had deflected her seduction-lite attempt. He had not overreacted, nor had he fallen for her little game. She suspected, however, that at another time, in another place, she might have been successful. As she had learned in training, she had weighed the risks and rewards and decided she had nothing to lose. He wasn’t offended, and who knew what the future held? As far as Kella was concerned, Kristen felt no obligation, never having met her. Besides, Steve and Kella weren’t married. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  “So, what are we going to do?” she asked.

  “First, you have to understand this is not an agency operation. In fact, if you get involved in this and someone finds out, it could ruin your career. So, you’re free to back out. This is going to be a counter-kidnapping. I won’t be negotiating with a certain Iranian general. Instead, I’ll be doing something I think he well understands: an eye for an eye.”

  He stepped on the gas to get through a traffic light before it turned red.

  “If you think I can help,” she replied, “I’m in.”

  He looked at her and nodded.

  “Fair enough. Here’s where I am. First of all, right now I have no idea where to look for Kella, and I doubt the Belgians are going to give her priority over their dinner. So, I’m taking the initiative. I’ve learned the general has a son studying at ULB. I found him on the ULB Web page, and his first name is Karim, a law student. I plan to find him, grab him, and exchange him for Kella.”

  “Just like in the Cold War, when we exchanged spies with the Soviets in Potsdam?”

  “Yes, in 1962, across the Glienicke Bridge; Rudolf Abel for Francis Gary Powers.”

  “But first we have to find Karim. How do we do that?”

  “We’re going to start here,” he said, as he parked within sight of a corner bar. “We’re a few blocks away from the University, and I hope we can get a lead on students’ favorite watering holes. By the way, we’re freelance writers working on a story about foreign students in Belgium.”

  They walked into the bar and sat down, both ordering Belgian beer and, when the waitress set the bottles on the table in front of them, Steve nudged Kristen, who asked, in English, “Don’t the students come out this far? We were afraid the student crowd would keep us out of here.”

  “Luckily you did not go to the Brasserie Gaillard on the Rue du Hogeschoolaan,” the waitress said. “That place is always crowded.” She wiped an invisible spot off the table, looking surreptitiously left and right. “We’re getting invaded by foreigners; I bet half the students at the University are Arabs. They are stealing places from good honest Belgian students.”

  “I can understand that.” Steve said.

  Steve paid, and they left a few moments later. If parking was any indication, the waitress had been right about the popularity of the Brasserie Gaillard. The brasserie did double duty as a night club, which Steve and Kristen entered through a side door to the restaurant. All the tables were occupied, but Steve encouraged the waiter to seat them at a large rectangular table by asking its occupants to make room.

  The entertainment consisted of a Jacques Brel impersonator who did not have Brel’s almost cadaverous appearance of his later years but was doing a very creditable job of sounding like the international star. Under the heavy rhythms of “Amsterdam,” Steve and Kella ordered more beer and surveyed their table partners. About half of them were students, and the other half were young Belgian workers. Each group kept to itself. While Steve struck up a conversation with the student on his left, Kristen spoke Russian to a girl across the table.

  About an hour later, Kristen and her new Russian friend went to the ladies’ room. When she came back, she leaned toward Steve and said, “Let’s go. I’m going to meet Karim tomorrow,” and smiled at Steve’s surprised look. Since he did not move, she repeated, “Let’s go. Trust me.”

  They left under the plaintiff refrain of Brel’s “Ne Me Quitte Pas.”

  “Fill me in,” Steve said, once they were outside.

  “Guess who is Karim’s girlfriend?”

  As Steve gave her a palms-up shrug, Kristen said, “Svetlana, the girl I’ve been talking to for the last hour. She wants to help me with my article. She thinks foreign students in Belgium have gotten a bad name. That the public should learn to differentiate between the foreign students who will be going back home and the immigrants and refugees from North Africa and the Middle East who are for the most part uneducated.”

  “How will this convince Karim to come out and play?”

  “I told her it would be better if I could interview students separately, one on one. Since I just interviewed her, she said she’d produce her boyfriend tomorrow at lunch. Same place.”

  “I heard you speaking Russian. I assume Svetlana is Russian? And where did you pick up your Russian?”

  “Both Svetlana and Karim are law students,” she said as they walked back to the car. “It’s Friday, and Karim is attending a meeting at the mosque. Svetlana is Russian, and we bonded right away when I told her I was born in a refugee camp in Austria. My parents were both Russian, and Russian was my first language. It’s not quite native, but it’s pretty fluent.”

  “You did good. Is that really your background?”

  “Yes. I guess you never looked at my file,” she said, almost pouting. “I was five when my family reached the United States. We spoke Russian at home.”

  “I’m not sure this restaurant is where we want to contact Karim,” Steve said. “Interesting he chose to be at the mosque tonight, rather than with his girlfriend. He’s probably a true believer, just like his father.”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t seem to me she was Muslim, not a practicing Muslim anyway. He can’t be a very good Muslim if he’s living with his girlfriend.”

  “You’re probably right. But then, what the hell is he doing in the mosque? I think it’s time to bring in some reinforcement. I’m going to get my two guys in Bruges and Luxemburg.”

  “My team followed Yosemani and someone else from the Iranian Embassy yesterday afternoon,” Vanness said, when Steve called him the next morning. “But they lost them at the off-ramp to Charleroi. That’s about an hour south of Brussels. But it’s a good lead. My guess is they stashed Kella around there.”

  ***

  Kristen reviewed her instructions from Steve, as her taxi headed toward the Brasserie Gaillard. When Steve had driven her home the night before, and she was wondering whether he would accept her invitation to return to her apartment, he told her that her job was to establish trust with Karim. The interview was only a vehicle. The longer-term goal was to manipulate him into a position where it would be easy to grab him. Together they came up with a plan.

  Steve let her out of the car in front of the building. After he declined to come upstairs for a drink, Kristen suddenly said, “Oh, I almost forgot, and so did you. I did have something to tell you. It’s about Dalton. You’d better come upstairs after all, so I can check my notes.”

  Later, after Steve had returned to his hotel room, he studied the contents of Dalton’s message to President Tremaine, which Dalton had inadvertently reve
aled to Kristen as she played her messenger role. He reread the final sentence of the memo: “In other words, I strongly believe this is the time to test the new Iranian president and open talks, probably here in Brussels, with General Yosemani.” Had she already met Yosemani in Brussels? Where? And why had Vanness’s men not reported it?

  17. Brasserie Gaillard, Brussels

  As a waiter led Kristen to a table in the back of the restaurant, she passed by Steve’s “Man from Bruges,” Hunter Templeton, whom she had met only two hours before. Hunter, sparse blondish hair, thin face, misleading boyish grin, and two tours in Afghanistan, occupied a table by the window with a view of the street. Steve had also told Kristen his “Man from Luxembourg” would be lurking somewhere outside within sight of the brasserie.

  Both men were armed, and Hunter had given Steve a Glock pistol as well.

  She understood this protection might not be totally necessary. But if Karim was his father’s son, he might smell a trap. Or he might even have discussed his lunch invitation with his father, who most probably had already kidnapped one American operative.

  “Establish trust,” Steve had told her, “and find out what his schedule is over the next day or two.” Steve’s plan was to invite Karim to a film showing by an up-and-coming young Iranian director. He wanted to make sure this ostensible film showing did not interfere with Karim’s weekend agenda, which would allow him to refuse.

  Kristen had not finished scanning the menu, when she saw Svetlana enter the restaurant accompanied by a short twenty-something, slim, dark-haired man carrying a book. The plan was already going off track, she thought. Svetlana had said she would send Karim, not join him.

  Kristen stood, as the couple reached her table, and she and Svetlana kissed each other on the cheeks. Svetlana made the introduction and as the man sat down, she said, “I’m going to borrow Karim’s Vespa to run a couple of errands while you two have lunch. I’ll be back for coffee.” As Svetlana walked out, Kristen caught her looking back as if questioning her decision to leave the two alone.