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

and it was only after they had washed up and Steve was sipping a beer while Kella had a glass of Perrier when he said, “by the way, I talked to my mother yesterday.”

“Oh, I love Kate. She is so energetic, so…” Kella paused for an instant looking for a word. “Together. How is she?”

“My father took a fall,” he said, haltingly. “He was turning into the bedroom from the hallway with his walker, when his right leg gave out. My mother had to get help. I don’t know what it means, exactly, but his mobility and activities are obviously going to be more limited. Mom said she’s ordered a power chair. She also said his fingers could no longer hold a pencil.”

Kella digested this information before saying, “I am so sorry. Is there anything I should do?”

“Mom said she has things under control.”

“If anyone can, Kate will take charge of this situation. Oh my God, will your parents be able to come to the wedding?”

“I don’t think so. And by the way, how was Paris? Am I authorized to know what my wedding arrangements are?”

“I thought you had lost interest,” Kella said pouting. “The church is reserved. Alexandra is still searching for a suitable restaurant, which to her means seats for at least a hundred people, and Grand-Père’s apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement is ours for as long as we want.” She paused and added, “Two weeks.”

“You’ve got to be kidding, a hundred people? I can think of some names to put on the list, but where are the other ninety going to come from?”

Kella went to the window, taking her glass with her and looking out for a moment. “I have something to tell you,” she said, turning toward him.

“No, don’t get up.” She took another sip and smiled broadly, “Steve, I’m pregnant.”

***

“Be careful,” Vanness said. “I broke a tooth here once on, how you say? Shotgun?”

“Oh, the shot, you mean?” Steve said. “I’ll be careful, and thanks for recommending this place. Excellent boar. And Belgian beer is my favorite.”

Steve and Vanness were having lunch at Restaurant Barbizon in Overijse, east of Brussels proper, in the Flemish-speaking part of the country. Steve, on learning Kella’s news the night before, had insisted she get on the next plane to Paris and get clear of this dangerous operation. But she had insisted right back that being pregnant was not the same as being sick, that she was perfectly able to do anything Steve could do, and she had even challenged him to a foot race. She at least had decided, however, that she would not be needed at the luncheon meeting, and she could make better use of her time if she explored the potential of the Avenue Louise stores.

Two weeks to his marriage in Paris? If everything went smoothly, two weeks would be doable.

“Your man arrived last night,” the colonel said. “He was met at the plane by the former head of Belgian security, Louis DuChemin, who escorted him through. In other words, VIP treatment. I don’t know what DuChemin’s business is with the Iranians, but I can tell you he is no friend of your country—and no friend of mine either.”

The colonel was short, his hair was still black, and his paunch was evidence of a bon vivant. He took a bite of his rabbit stew. “Your father and I planned several counterterrorism operations here and in other restaurants in Brussels,” he laughed. “The spy business could not function without good food,” he laughed again.

The remark spurred Steve to examine the salt shaker in front of him and run his hand under the table, now suspicious that if this was a well-known watering hole for spies, it must have occurred to someone to bug the place.

“Where is General Yosemani staying, and how many men does he have?”

“He has two bodyguards, and they are occupying half of the sixth floor of the Royal Windsor Hotel Grand Place. Price is no object.”

“We obviously can’t grab him in the hotel. But if your guys can establish a pattern to his movements, I would like to take him at night outside the city.”

“I did not know you wanted night coverage. My men are off duty at six. I will need more people.” He looked at Steve with questioning eyes.

“Price is no object,” he said, grinning.

***

Yosemani had needed only a short time to convince DuChemin it would be to his advantage to do business with Iran, forgetting his commitments to Syrian intelligence. “Make an appointment to see our ambassador,” he told the Belgian. He will be alerted, and you and he can deal directly. You know what we need: dual-use equipment for our nuclear program. The ambassador will have a full list.”

“Yes, mon général. My friends in Belgian industry will be more than happy to work with me and sell you whatever you need.”

Yosemani concluded his business with DuChemin by the time the two reached the hotel. He and his men checked in, after which he told them, “You can take the night off. You are within walking distance of the Grande Place. Go and amuse yourselves.”

The general then took a shower, changed, and 45 minutes later his taxi dropped him in front of a luxurious apartment building in northern Brussels. On the way up to the third floor in the elevator, he checked himself in the full-length mirror, which took the entire back wall of the cabin. He ran his hand through his hair and full beard.

When the doors opened, he walked halfway down the wide, empty corridor. Licking his lips, he knocked lightly on a door to his left. The door opened almost instantly, revealing a slim, dark-haired woman dressed in a silk robe. After he closed the door behind him, they looked at each other for the instant.

“My treasure,” he