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

University. But it was also part of his job to report on public and private meetings focusing on Iran, and he had become a regular, to the extent that he had once been part of a panel discussing the recent presidential election. The main speaker at today’s event would be Hossein Nikzad, a Stanford scholar and published author. He was also an occasional adviser to the White House, and it was important to be aware of his most recent lies.

As he drove through the upscale suburbs of Palo Alto, he wondered if the computer experts who had written the program for the STUXNET virus lived in any of those homes. The virus, reportedly a joint effort between the CIA and Mossad, had destroyed several thousand centrifuges and delayed Iran’s nuclear program, by at least several months.

He crossed onto the Stanford campus, randomly noticing students walking and bicycling to their next classes. Stanford was perhaps the most difficult school to get into. Yet, Kazemi thought, these people were ignorant for their failure to understand the divide between the faithful and the infidels. They stupidly and slavishly pledged allegiance to a piece of paper they called a Constitution, when the only law came from Allah through the Prophet. That the students would probably have successful and comfortable lives while his Shiite brothers and sisters continued to be persecuted was wrong. His role as a sleeper was unsatisfying. He had to find a way to be more useful, more productive, and more faithful, to his people and to Allah.

13. New York

When Um had boarded the Amtrak train at Union Station, she used all of her instincts to try to detect any unusual attention to her movements. Situational awareness, her case officer Bob had told her, would help to keep her out of trouble. But who in the world would be following her in Washington, D.C.? After all, this was not Cyprus.

Although she still trusted Bob, the relationship was clearly one-sided. He would tell her what to do and she would report the information she was able to elicit from her new Iranian case officer. But his initial promise to take care of her mother in Beirut seemed empty. At first, she simply wanted her mother to come to the United States. All she needed was money, which Bob had been willing to provide. Then her mother had told her over the phone she was not willing to start her life over again in another country. Visit America? Perhaps. But move permanently and say good-bye to her friends? That was an issue she was not willing to discuss. It was now too late anyway.

Ali Khazaee, whom she had met in Cyprus, was waiting for Um in New York. He had explained to her that her service was of such importance his ministry had assigned him specially to handle her case. She had met him once before, in a rather shabby hotel in SoHo. He had not been satisfied with the information she was bringing him. For a simple reason: Bob was measuring the quantity and quality of what she was permitted to give Khazaee with an eyedropper.

Um was not happy. She felt like a cork on a swiftly moving river. She had lost control of her life. If only she had not listened to Ahmed. He was responsible for having thrown her into this world, where nothing was as it seemed. Was it a chess game between hostile countries with millions of lives at stake? Or was it simply liars’ poker between players with vastly overblown judgments of their own importance? Initially, she had rationalized her participation in this game because she wanted to protect her mother. It soon became clear to her, however, from Khazaee’s not so subtle insinuations, that her mother was a hostage to guarantee her good behavior. She had discussed this issue with Bob and asked that he protect her mother in Beirut. After all, the CIA had powerful friends in Lebanon. Also, she would not be in this pickle if he had not pushed her to develop contacts with Hizballah and now with Iranian Intelligence. It was really his fault. So far, her bottom line was Bob was more words than action. On the other hand, she had no doubts Khazaee would harm her mother if she did not perform up to his expectations.

She got off the train at Grand Central and made her way to the taxis. Khazaee had instructed her to take the first taxi to the Ritz Carlton, wait in the lobby for fifteen minutes to try to detect surveillance, take a second taxi by going out the hotel’s side entrance, and do the same thing at the Sofitel, which also had two entrances. Only then could she take a cab directly to an apartment building not far from the United Nations. Apartment 777. Easy to remember.

Sitting in the first taxi, she chuckled at the humor of the situation. She of course had given the address and the apartment number to Bob, so there was no need for anyone to follow her. She wondered if the FBI had already put listening devices in the apartment. Probably, so she would have to be very accurate when she reported about her meeting with Khazaee. She wondered if Khazaee would be alone. She hoped not. What if that woman from Cyprus was with him?

She followed Khazaee’s instructions up to the Ritz Carlton. She did wait in the lobby for a few minutes, but then she took another cab directly to her destination. Why bother with all the rest of her instructions?

Khazaee opened the door to the smoky interior and led her to a spacious living room where a well-dressed, gray-haired man sat in an easy chair with his legs crossed. He did not get up but nodded to her when she greeted him in Farsi. Khazaee disappeared for an instant and came back with an elderly woman carrying