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

two of us will grab her at the same time, shove her into the van, and we will take off.”

Kella materialized a few minutes later, opened her umbrella, and retrieved her cell phone. She dialed Steve’s number while balancing her umbrella and phone. Having misdialed, she tried again smiling inwardly at the uncommon sight of two men looking at a window that displayed wedding dresses.

“Steve, I am on Avenue Louise. I’m getting soaked, but I’m going to do one more store, and I will see you in forty-five minutes at the Chez André. It’s around the corner from where I am.”

She resumed her walk and put her cell back in her purse. The gray van pulled in front of her, stopping at an angle into a large empty space between cars.

As the pillowcase was pulled over her head it caught onto the umbrella handle, but Yves pinned her arms to her side. Caught unaware, she nevertheless reacted instinctively and kicked whoever stood behind her. She heard a yelp, but the pressure around her arms did not lessen. So, bending her knees slightly, she rotated to the right, reaching back and squeezing her assailant’s testicles as hard as she could, triggering a satisfying scream. She started yelling, but a hand covered her mouth over the pillowcase. She dropped the umbrella and threw her head back, connecting with a nose.

Then a large fist connected violently with her solar plexus, ending her fight and making her gag for breath.

To the sound of Walloon anger, she felt herself lifted off the ground and thrown in through the open door of the van. The two men quickly got in behind her, and the vehicle disappeared in the rain.

12. Silicon Valley, California

Heyder Kazemi drove along the highway from his home in Fremont, as he thought about his forthcoming social bash with antagonists of the Iranian regime. He had been reporting dutifully the names of these wealthy and self-important expatriates for the previous four years. He addressed his letters to a post office box in Portland, Oregon and assumed they were being hand-carried across the border to Vancouver and delivered to the Iranian Consulate there.

Kazemi no longer worried whether he had made the right choice, if indeed it was a choice. He had been recruited by the Ministry of Intelligence shortly after his graduation from the University of Tehran. They had given him six months of clandestine tradecraft and explosives training, after he was deemed worthy of trust by the virtue police of the IRGC, the Islamic Republic Guard Corps, and sent to the United States via Canada to be a sleeper agent. He thought he had already accomplished his primary mission, to bore into the society of the enemy to establish cover. He had obtained a graduate degree in computer sciences at UC Davis and was now helping to build hard drives for Hewlett-Packard.

Kazemi was still motivated to defend Persian interests in a world dominated by Sunnis and other infidels, but he was not totally convinced he was making a difference. His role was too passive. Except for an occasional letter from a nonexistent aunt in Tehran, which, with the use of the antiquated technology of invisible ink, was the only feedback he ever received for his work. There had been one incident he wanted to believe was the direct result of his reporting. A leading Persian expat, whom everyone knew was the funding behind several anti-regime radio stations in the Los Angeles area, had been killed by a hit-and-run driver on the street that led to his hillside mansion overlooking the city.

Jannat had pleaded with him not to go to the States, because she had not been able to obtain a passport. Her family’s uncertain political loyalty to the Islamic Republic had consequences. It would be a two-year assignment, he was told. He now realized what a blatant lie that had been. It makes no sense to send a sleeper agent on a mission of two years, because it took at least two years to establish a presence and understand a target.

Kazemi and Jannat had had long talks. He would perform his patriotic duty and come back a hero, while she completed her studies. Although they had vowed to stay true to each other, he barely remembered the contours of her face, and he looked at her photo on his dresser less and less frequently. His requests to go back to Tehran for “family” visits had been denied. He wondered if Jannat was now married and whether she had children. His ministry’s unequivocal ban against correspondence with her was another measure of the cover department’s stupidity. In his mind, he had already written the memorandum that would illuminate the minister’s understanding of covert operations in the United States and would make him shine. Meanwhile, he knew he had better remove Jannat from his mind.

Assigning him to study at UC Berkeley had been a mistake, Kazemi thought. The cover department should have known most Iranian students there were pro-regime and planned to go back to Iran after acquiring their degrees. Because his mission was to infiltrate anti-regime elements, he was careful not to participate in the social or political activities of his fellow Iranian students. He assumed the FBI was keeping close track of everyone at those meetings, especially so after the Boston bombing, so he stayed away. He even considered volunteering to report on pro-regime students to the FBI to bolster his cover. But he decided against it; his ministry would not understand and, although he was confident he could outsmart any American, getting close to the FBI might be playing with fire. He nevertheless was contemptuous of the decision makers in Tehran, who should have sent him to UCLA or any other school in the Los Angeles area where most of pro-Shah families had immigrated after the Revolution.

Kazemi already knew most of the people also attending the seminar at Stanford