The Red Cell

by André Le Gallo

  “Do we have a place and a time?”

  “The middle of the Grande Place in two hours.”

  “Okay, good job. Hustle down here.”

  ***

  “Blue calling Red, over,” Vanness said in his portable radio from the TV repair truck.

  “This is Red, over,” Steve replied about a hundred yards away on Wellington.

  “I see movement. She is in the first car with two men, not native. It’s a black Mercedes four door. One man is in the back with her. Wait a second … three men have just come out of the house. One of them just lit a cigarette. He’s motioning for the others to wait. I recognize one of them. It’s DuChemin.”

  “Has the black car started moving?”

  “The black car is starting to move. The others are starting to move as well, toward their car, a blue Volkswagen. They’re going to be at least 100 yards behind. Wait, wait … the black car just passed us and has made a left. He’s yours.”

  Steve allowed the Mercedes to reach the middle of the block before blocking is path with his Range Rover SUV. Almost immediately, a black limo pulled up behind the Mercedes, bumper to bumper, its horn blaring.

  ***

  After the black Mercedes made a left on Wellington, Vanness looked back to see DuChemin’s blue VW come toward him. He drove the TV repair truck to block DuChemin, who immediately leaned on his horn.

  DuChemin jumped out of his car shouting expletives, and Colonel Vanness emerged from the truck together with three men who deployed around the VW, their hands either in their jacket pockets or behind their backs at belt level.

  “My friend!” Vanness said, his hands empty and in the air. “Don’t tell me you are now working for the Iranians. Do they pay as well as the KGB?”

  “Get out of the way!” DuChemin shouted, motioning for his two men to get out of the car. “And you worked for the Americans, for the CIA, and you let them run your office. How much money did they give you? Just get the truck out of the way!”

  “Our cooperation with the Americans has always been officially approved and for the good of our country. We are allies, remember? I have also heard you worked for the Syrians. Are you not forgetting North Korea?”

  By that time, DuChemin’s two men were looking at each other and then at DuChemin questioningly. “Is that true, Louis?” one of them asked.

  “Get on the other side,’’ DuChemin said as he drew his pistol and kneeled behind the VWs fender. “Get out of the way Vanness!” he said as he squeezed off a round hitting the TV repair truck.

  Immediately Vanness deployed his men across the street. Two of them jumped over the low stone wall separating a yard from the sidewalk. The other stayed behind the truck and Vanness ran to the other side of the street behind a telephone pole. All had their automatic pistols out.

  As Gold Glasses jumped out of the Mercedes, gun in hand, Steve was already kneeling in back of the car and he could see Hunter had Gold Glasses in his sights while leaning against the hood of the SUV. At the same time, he saw McCabe emerge from the limo holding Karim by his collar. Steve shook his head at Hunter who was looking toward him.

  “We can do this with guns if you prefer,” McCabe shouted. “Another dead raghead means nothing to me. Put the gun away. Let your prisoner go, and you can have this guy here,” he said holding onto Karim with one hand and pointing his automatic toward Gold Glasses with the other.

  Gold Glasses was talking to the other guard, Muscles, in the back of the Mercedes and looking toward Rue Murat.

  “They’re not coming. Your other car is not coming. Trust me,” Steve shouted.” Put your gun away, now. We have a lot more fire power than you do.”

  “If any of you fires,” Gold Glasses shouted, “the next shot will kill the girl. First let our guy go!”

  The back door of the Mercedes opened, and Muscles stepped out of the car, trailing Kella behind him. Steve, only five feet away behind the car, lunged and struck Muscles in the back of the head with his pistol. As Muscles crumpled to the ground, Steve, one arm around Kella’s waist, ran to the other side of the SUV looking behind him at Gold Glasses who had turned and was pointing his weapon at him. But in the next instant he saw Gold Glasses tumble forward from Hunter’s shot.

  Looking disoriented, he walked toward the Mercedes.

  24. Aisha’s Apartment

  She always thought of herself as Aisha when she was with her husband. She reminded herself of that, as she took a cab back from the Iranian Embassy to her apartment, not wishing to attract attention by getting out of an embassy car. She looked at her watch, wondering what time Ghassem, whom she had just left, would come tonight.

  She also worried about her negotiation initiative. Was her idea too transparent? So far, she had not detected any suspicion of her true role. Although she often worried about it as well, she felt confident she was much too smart to be caught, and too intimidating in her role for her actions to be questioned.

  But how much longer could she play this dangerous game? Despite her confidence, it was beginning to wear on her nerves, particularly when she thought of the highly placed spies who had been exposed in the past. The KGB had executed more than a dozen CIA spies because Robert Hanssen, an FBI agent, had turned traitor. A KGB officer working for the CIA had uncovered his activities. And Aldrich Ames, a CIA officer working for the KGB, was now in a maximum-security federal prison for life, because he had not exercised the operational precautions taught him in basic CIA training.

  What if a high-level Iranian official revealed her true status? Although there was no official American presence in Tehran, there were Western embassies. What if an Iranian official revealed her role to the British, for example? Ghassem had assured her that initially only the Supreme Leader and President Rouhani knew her true identity, and she trusted him to make sure her secret would be tightly held. But she also knew knowledge is power, and secrets are often shared in return for a favor, or for leverage. Washington politics could not function without quid pro quos, and she well knew the same was true in Tehran.

  During her service to the Islamic Republic, she had occasionally entertained the idea of simplifying her life and returning to Tehran. But her vow as a child to devote her life to the Shiite nation had always buried the instinct. Now, this furtive conjugal visit with her husband had brought her life commitment to the forefront again. She could board the next Iran Air flight. A year ago, she had slipped on a plane to Tehran from Brussels, staying long enough to receive praise from the Supreme Leader and from the previous president. The Minister of Intelligence, although not on the shortlist to be informed of her allegiance, was waiting to see the president when she emerged from his office, and so Ghassem was forced to brief him. At his request, she had also met the head of the Republican Guard. Had any of these people confided in their second in command, their family, their wives, their mistresses?

  Ghassem had told her long ago she could return home at any time, that they could have a good life in Tehran. His first wife had died two years before and was not around to see Karim, her son, graduate and make his own life. This fact reminded her she had not yet seen Karim since her arrival, she had spent so much time at the embassy briefing Ghassem and the ambassador on Washington’s intentions and capabilities concerning the entire Middle East.

  Entering her apartment, she removed her coat and shoes, laid her pocketbook on the sofa, and went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. A few minutes later, she took the tea to the sofa, sat and put her feet up on the coffee table, and leaned back. A moment later, she put her cup down, opened the pocketbook, and took out Ghassem’s gift, extracting the clip and running her fingertips over the nickel handle. Such a handsome and deadly gift. She had never fired a gun; would she be able to use it? In what circumstances? She had accepted it only because Ghassem had insisted. But why now? Was she in danger?

  Her debriefings at the embassy had been intense and generated voluminous reporting to Tehran. She had, rather proudly, underlined her role in o
rchestrating the administration’s love affair with the Palestinian cause. Probably driven by guilt, the Americans, as well as the Western European powers, preached the centrality of the Palestinian issue.

  “Reinforce the Palestinian issue,” Ghassem had told her. “This American obsession suits our priorities. It gives us the flexibility to focus on Syria, on Egypt, and on our nuclear program. Lead the Americans to believe the Arab Spring is the debut of democracy in the region. The Palestinian Authority is thoroughly corrupt. Hamas in the Gaza Strip only survives with my help. Hamas is only a pawn for us to use against Israel.”

  She glanced at her watch and clicked the TV on. The newscaster, whom she recognized as the mistress of a French minister, was switching from local news to the most recent terrorist attack in Iraq. Aisha sat forward, as the scene suddenly showed a half-destroyed mosque, and, through the smoke, the chaos of victims being pulled out of the building, bodies lying on the ground, firefighters spraying water onto the flames, and armed police trying to control onlookers, some appearing dazed, others screaming and waving their fists in the air. Another Sunni attack against a Shiite mosque during the holy day of Ashura.

  She stood and clenched her fists by her side. Would these Arabs never stop? The Islamic Republic was the only hope for Shiites across the world to live in peace. She suddenly understood the hopeful symbolism Israel held for the Jewish diaspora. Iran must play a similar role and provide the security umbrella for Shiites in the face of Sunni arrogance and terrorism. And who but the United States was the power, the sponsor, of the terrorist regimes of Saudi Arabia and the other Gulf sheikdoms?

  She turned off the TV and put on a CD, “Rabana,” “Our Lord,” composed and sung by Mohammed-Reza Shajarian. She did not care Shajarian had used his popularity to support the Green Movement during the 2009 elections. His music and verses had captured her soul. Preparing to take her first meal of the day, the Iftar, to end her daily fast of Ramadan, she kneeled, faced east toward Mecca, and soon the music transported her to a different world. She closed her eyes, touched her forehead to the rug, and prayed Allah would help her stop the slaughter of Hussein’s children.

  25. The White House

  LaFont stepped quickly past the uniformed guards at the side door of the West Wing and was accompanied to the president’s private quarters. The guard gestured her toward a couch and retreated to the door through which they had entered. It was not her first visit to this part of the White House, but it was the first time she had requested to see the president after normal working hours; it was 10 p.m. She had received Steve’s call four hours earlier, at midnight Brussels time, relating the sensational story told by Nigel Barnes that evening.

  During those four hours, Directorate of Intelligence analysts and the operations officers of the National Clandestine Service had been researching Barnes’s information to establish whether it passed the snicker test.

  While she checked her earrings and straightened her blouse, she noticed a painting depicting the burning of the White House during the War of 1812. No wonder, on his first day in office, the president had sent the bust of Churchill, which had been in the Oval Office since World War II, back to London.

  “Good evening, Thérèse,” Tremaine said, as he entered from a second door. He was dressed casually in khakis and an open-neck white shirt. “This is a first,” he added, as he looked at his watch. “But I’m glad you’re here, I was getting tired of reviewing position papers on healthcare. How are your children? Brittany and Preston, correct?”

  “They’re fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I don’t think this information can wait until morning.”

  The president sat and leaned forward. “Tell me.”

  “I had asked the Director of the FBI to meet me here, because this issue falls more in his area of responsibility than mine.”

  “Go ahead and start, Thérèse. He can catch up later.”

  “The information I have concerns your Chief of Staff, V.A. Dalton,” LaFont said, as she nervously ran a hand through her hair.

  “Yes, Vickie sent me a short note from Brussels. She can’t stop working, even when she’s supposed to be taking a few days off.”

  “First, let me say this information comes from a recently retired MI-6 officer with whom the agency has worked in the past. We have always had full trust and confidence in him. And his source had direct access to the information.”

  The president nodded impatiently and motioned for LaFont to go on.

  “I will cut to the chase, Mr. President. It appears V.A. Dalton is working for Iranian intelligence under the direction of the head of Iran’s Quds Force, General Ghassem Yosemani. Both are now in Brussels, and Yosemani has stayed with her for the last two nights.”

  Tremaine’s eyes widened, to a degree LaFont had never seen before. For a few moments, he said nothing, then: “That’s the most absurd accusation I have heard in my entire career in politics. I know you have an excellent record, Thérèse, and your integrity has always been beyond reproach; otherwise, I wouldn’t have named you to this position.”

  He paused again and picked up a small crystal donkey from the coffee table in front of him. For an instant, LaFont thought he was going to throw it at her. He was clearly upset.

  “Thérèse, you’ll have to give me more. Forget about protecting sources and methods. I’m the president, and what you’ve said has grave implications for our national security.” He paused once more and added, “As well as for your own job security.” He fiddled with the crystal donkey, but kept his eyes fixed on her.

  “I understand. The original source is the brother of the Iranian Minister of Intelligence, the man to whom MI-6 has given the codename ‘Cain.’ He was a contact of the retired officer, Nigel Barnes, who met with him personally last week, which is when Barnes acquired the information. We received it today in Brussels; Barnes drove from France, where he was on holiday, to Brussels to tell Steve Church. Steve called me on the secure line from our bilateral embassy.”

  “Steve Church? Wasn’t he ordered back to the States a few days ago? Didn’t we cancel that extraordinary rendition? How does Steve know this Barnes? And do we even know the minister has a brother”

  “Actually sir, Barnes contacted Marshall Church, and Marshall put Steve and Barnes together. As far as the brother is concerned, MI-6 ran him for several years and shared the reporting with us. The Brits lost official contact with him, but Barnes and Cain reconnected.”

  “Well, Vickie should be here in a day or two, and we’ll be able to get to the bottom of this,” the president said as if to dismiss LaFont, and she well understood his skepticism and reluctance to act on a single report.

  They were both getting up when Jonathan Spencer, a tall man impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, with his black hair combed straight back, was ushered into the room. Although Spencer was an Iranian specialist, LaFont always thought of him as a cross between a character in a De Niro gangster movie and a Las Vegas croupier.

  “I’m sorry to be late, sir,” Spencer said. “I just got the call, the director is traveling. And I understand this has to do with Iran?” LaFont noticed Spencer’s signature diamond ring and smiled.

  “Jonathan,” the president said, “Thérèse will brief you. Is there any more, Thérèse?”

  “Yes, there is,” LaFont said. “According to Cain, V.A. Dalton or ‘Nightingale,’ which is her Iranian codename, is originally an Iranian citizen, born in Shiraz.”

  “That is patently false. We all know she was born in India.” The president seemed to be containing his anger by shutting down his emotions behind tight lips. LaFont thought she was looking at a gunslinger about to draw. “Nightingale? Cain? Is this for real?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” she continued. “The Nightingale is the Iranian National Bird. As far as her place of birth is concerned, she came directly from the Senate and, apparently, her background was not thoroughly checked.” She did not look at Spencer—the FBI
was responsible for background checks—before adding, “There’s one more thing, sir.” She watched Tremaine return the crystal donkey back to the table and stand to leave the room. “She could choose not to return to the United States. It would be very easy for her to go back to Tehran from Brussels, or simply to disappear. In that case, we would lose a great deal of intelligence.” She glanced at Spencer, who seemed lost. “Do we have your authorization to either hold her, try to double her back, or use her as an unwitting channel of false information to the Iranians?”

  “Thérèse,” he said, head thrust forward and index finger pointing at her, “You are talking about my chief of staff as if you were her judge and jury. In this country, she is not guilty until proven otherwise. Good night.”

  He took two steps toward the door, stopped, and turned. “I want the two of you to come back with a well-thought-out recommendation in the morning. And bring Harry. I’ll talk to him then, too.”

  LaFont hesitated a second before saying, “Yes, sir, good night.” She decided the president was probably better off for the moment not knowing about the kidnapping and counter-kidnapping that had taken place in Brussels.

  As she walked out with Spencer, she wondered which way the vice president would lean.

  26. Back at Kristen’s Apartment

  The appetizing smells of butter and sausages bonding in the frying pan wafted into the dining room from the kitchen, where Kristen, wearing well-fitting jeans and a snug sweater and a barefoot Hunter in a long sleeved shirt hanging over well-worn jeans were making breakfast.

  “I am better known for my cheese omelets than for my breakfast sausages,” he said. “So, who’s up for my world-famous dish?”

  “All of us,” Kella said, as she walked into the kitchen. “That’s five plus the two of you, I assume.” She gave Hunter a hug and said, “I don’t think I’ve thanked you for saving my life yesterday. I probably shouldn’t say this, but Muscles, the guy you shot, deserved that bullet. Frankly, I don’t care if he lives or dies.” She put her hand to her stomach and she was back in the Charleroi house for a moment deciphering the wallpaper and, hate in her soul, waiting anxiously for the guard’s footsteps.