The Red Cell André Gallo (essential reading .txt) 📖

from another intelligence service. I’m afraid, though, that we’re going to lose her if we don’t bring her mother to the States. We’re waiting for a reply from Beirut.”

“Tom, get Beirut in line,” LaFont said, looking at her Near East chief. “What do you make of the assassination of her case officer in Cyprus?”

“That was clearly a Mossad hit. They have used telephone explosives for years, starting back with the Wrath of God assassinations in reprisal for the Palestinian attack against the Israeli athletes in Munich. It’s a Mossad signature.”

“I wouldn’t take that to the bank,” Marshall said. “Al Khoury’s men have caused many casualties in the ranks of the secular rebel groups, and they’re starting to retaliate. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were behind the hit. We know they’re getting training from the French, from the Brits, and from the Turks.”

“It’s clear to me, more so every day,” LaFont said, “that taking Yosemani off the board would make life a lot easier for us all. Just like getting rid of bin Laden. We know Zawahiri’s taken his place, but so far he hasn’t been nearly as good.”

She walked over to the coffee tray, poured herself a cup, and returned to her seat. Instead of taking a sip, she placed the cup on her desk. “I have to say I’m concerned,” she frowned. “The White House has been reluctant to move on our plan. The chief of staff has told me the president wants to wait a while to see whether the election of Rouhani has changed the equation.”

She sipped from the cup.

“So, Marshall, pry Kella from her Paris R & R and make sure Steve’s team is ready to go when Yosemani lands in Brussels.

11. Brussels

Kella walked past the security guard into the public area of Zaventem Airport, ignoring his admiring stare. She smiled expectantly, as she searched for Steve in the crowd waiting for friends and family exiting the plane from Paris. He spotted her first, and soon, they were in each other’s arms, oblivious of the other reunions going on around them.

“Are you okay?” he asked, letting out a big sigh of relief.

“Yes,” she replied, hugging him with all her might.

A few minutes later, he was loading her luggage into the trunk of their rental car.

“LaFont’s passed the word through Marshall to step on it,” Steve said. “I’ve been here a couple of days, and I have a surveillance team. Well, I’ll know for sure tomorrow.” He glanced at Kella and answered her questioning gaze. “Marshall has put me in touch with one of his former contacts, a Colonel Vanness. He started in the Belgian police, in the mounted gendarmerie. He was head of counterterrorism when Marshall was station chief here.”

“Why create a new team? Can’t the station lend us their team?”

“Remember, this isn’t, strictly speaking, an agency operation. We’re supposed to be independent. Vanness is retired, but he still has experienced agents he can call on—if he can persuade them to take time out from perfecting their beer-tasting skills. Anyway, they’re experienced, they know the city, and Vanness trusts them.”

“Does that mean you’re going to use them to help capture our target?”

“Our swoop-and-scoop team consists of Special Ops guys, whose past experience was either Rangers, SEALs, or Delta Force. They’re ready to go, but right now I’ve got them stashed in Bruges, in Luxemburg, and in eastern France. They’re all within a three-hour drive.”

While Steve tried to keep his eyes on the road, he could tell he didn’t have Kella’s full attention. As they passed a large and closed complex of buildings, whose main entrance was covered with flags, she asked, “And what is that?”

“NATO headquarters. Its military offices are in Mons, about an hour from here. Vanness was telling me last night that since the end of the Cold War, Brussels has taken Vienna’s place as the espionage center of the world. Most countries have three diplomatic installations in Brussels. One for relations with the kingdom of Belgium, a second one accredited to NATO, and another keeping an eye on the European Union, which also has its headquarters in Brussels. All these facilities offer natural cover for spies.”

“Why does this matter to us? Where are we staying?”

Puzzled by Kella’s unusual lack of focus, Steve replied, “Since they’re all watching each other, this multiplies the number of trained observers who could stumble onto our activities.

“We’re staying at the Stanhope, a small business hotel with a low profile. But before we go there, I think we need to pay a courtesy call on the station chief.”

“I’d rather go straight to the hotel. I thought you said we’re not supposed to be in touch with the agency here.”

“He already knows we’re here through official channels. So let’s just go kiss the ring. Who knows? We might need him later. It won’t be long, I promise.”

Finding a parking space on Boulevard du Régent and getting through building security took longer than their meeting with the chief, who was visibly agitated that Langley had kept Steve out of his chain of command. Steve was polite but uninformative and left with Kella as soon as he could.

Steve knew he had totally lost Kella’s attention when they drove by the luxurious stores along Avenue Louise. “Steve, I need an in depth reconnaissance of this street. I still don’t have a wedding gown.”

“It probably wouldn’t hurt to review our cover, though I doubt we’ll have to use it. Your alias passport identifies you as Jane Mercier with a Paris address, and you’re a buyer for several high fashion stores in Paris and New York. I’m Christopher Yates with a New York address. I’m also a wannabe writer, and we’re traveling together.”

“Next time we travel,” Kella said, smiling, “It will be under our true married name—two weeks from now.”

They checked in at the hotel,