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

Furious, Kella struggled against the ropes that held her fast to her chair. “Barbarian!” she shouted. “The French Embassy will file a formal protest to your government.”

When she heard the laughter of the two men in the room with her, she assumed they were Iranians rather than Belgians.

“Your name is Kella Hastings and you are a CIA killer. Today, you can answer our questions, and we will let you go. Or, you can continue to play games and we will continue this conversation in Iran.”

“You have the wrong person. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You are wasting our time. Your superiors have said publicly that waterboarding is a very effective interrogation tool. We could confirm that claim if you wish. Why are you here? Because, two years ago, you and your friend Steve Church interfered in our internal affairs. Now you will tell us who helped you acquire our country’s national security information. Further, you will tell us the names of everyone on your escape route. We know you did not get to the coast all by yourself.”

“You have my passport. You can see I have never been to Iran. My passport will tell you my travel is usually between Paris and New York. This is the first time I have been to Belgium.”

This time the blow was from a closed fist, which knocked her head to the side violently, causing her blindfold to slip down around her neck. Her two interrogators seemed to be in their thirties and overdressed for their jobs. Both wore dark suits and had well-trimmed dark beards. The one closest to her was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. The other stood to one side and wore gold-rimmed glasses.

“This need not be physical. We are not in an American TV serial,” Gold Glasses said in a voice Kella recognized as the only voice that had spoken so far. He was apparently the leader, while the other one was the strong-arm, the muscles.

“I don’t know anything about Iran. I am here as a buyer of high fashion clothes for my clients in New York and Paris. My name is Jane Mercier.”

A baton had appeared in the hands of the man in front of her, and he thrust it into her stomach viciously.

She gasped for air, but the cramps made her not care if she ever breathed again.

16. Free University of Brussels

Steve did not want to return to his hotel, but he had run out of action items on his list. He had alerted the station, and Belgian authorities presumably had been persuaded to close the borders and take other action by LaFont and by the French Prime Minister. And he had just conferred with Colonel Vanness for the second time that day.

Vanness said his men had little to report: Yosemani had spent most of the day at the Iranian Embassy, but his two security guards had disappeared, probably enjoying the sights and the mussels of Brussels.

Steve, replete with unused nervous energy, turned away from the elevator and took the stairs up to his floor. He thought he should be doing something other than heading for his room while Kella was still in enemy hands. They would probably keep her alive, as long as they thought she held useful information. But had the Belgians moved fast enough to keep the Iranians from taking her out of the country?

He saw the red light on his phone blinking when he walked into his suite. The message was from Kristen. “Steve, I have very important information, which I can’t discuss on the phone. I’m staying at the Embassy Apartments in the building next to the embassy itself. I have the unit on the top floor. Come any time.”

He checked the airline schedule, and only one Iran Air flight departed Zaventem each week, the next one in four days.

Driving to Kristen’s apartment, Steve wondered about something else, an option he had not yet considered. It had come to him as he toweled off after a shower he realized he seriously needed. He searched all the drawers and closets for a phone book. Not finding one, he went to his iPad and opened the Université Libre de Bruxelles Web page. There, he found a map of the campus and a list of ULB officials. He searched for the name “Yosemani” and found “Karim,” a student in the law faculty, but no address. He was disappointed but not surprised.

The rain had finally stopped, and the moon played hide and seek with the passing clouds which had almost all disappeared.

He parked down the street to avoid the Belgian police patrolling in front of the embassy. As Kristen had said, only one apartment occupied the top floor of the building. He knocked. The door opened almost right away, and Kristen, wearing only light makeup and a man’s oversized blue-striped dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, gave him a platonic two cheek air kiss—though there was nothing platonic about the way she pressed her body against his.

A bottle of wine and two glasses sat on a coffee table in front of a large and comfortable-looking couch. “Come on, get dressed. We are going out,” Steve said, wondering whose shirt she was wearing. “Besides, greeting someone at the door in somebody else’s shirt is not professional; Tradecraft 101.”

“There’s no need to go out Steve,” Kristen said, a little startled at Steve’s comment but pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I can prepare something. I’m not a bad cook. But let’s have a glass of wine, and I can tell you what I learned today.”

“Tell me later. Right now, go get dressed. We’re going to see what kind of case officer you are.”

Looking disappointed but intrigued, she walked toward a bedroom but stopped and turned around when she reached the door. “If you’re in a hurry, come and help