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

“Guess who is Karim’s girlfriend?”

As Steve gave her a palms-up shrug, Kristen said, “Svetlana, the girl I’ve been talking to for the last hour. She wants to help me with my article. She thinks foreign students in Belgium have gotten a bad name. That the public should learn to differentiate between the foreign students who will be going back home and the immigrants and refugees from North Africa and the Middle East who are for the most part uneducated.”

“How will this convince Karim to come out and play?”

“I told her it would be better if I could interview students separately, one on one. Since I just interviewed her, she said she’d produce her boyfriend tomorrow at lunch. Same place.”

“I heard you speaking Russian. I assume Svetlana is Russian? And where did you pick up your Russian?”

“Both Svetlana and Karim are law students,” she said as they walked back to the car. “It’s Friday, and Karim is attending a meeting at the mosque. Svetlana is Russian, and we bonded right away when I told her I was born in a refugee camp in Austria. My parents were both Russian, and Russian was my first language. It’s not quite native, but it’s pretty fluent.”

“You did good. Is that really your background?”

“Yes. I guess you never looked at my file,” she said, almost pouting. “I was five when my family reached the United States. We spoke Russian at home.”

“I’m not sure this restaurant is where we want to contact Karim,” Steve said. “Interesting he chose to be at the mosque tonight, rather than with his girlfriend. He’s probably a true believer, just like his father.”

“I don’t know. It didn’t seem to me she was Muslim, not a practicing Muslim anyway. He can’t be a very good Muslim if he’s living with his girlfriend.”

“You’re probably right. But then, what the hell is he doing in the mosque? I think it’s time to bring in some reinforcement. I’m going to get my two guys in Bruges and Luxemburg.”

“My team followed Yosemani and someone else from the Iranian Embassy yesterday afternoon,” Vanness said, when Steve called him the next morning. “But they lost them at the off-ramp to Charleroi. That’s about an hour south of Brussels. But it’s a good lead. My guess is they stashed Kella around there.”

***

Kristen reviewed her instructions from Steve, as her taxi headed toward the Brasserie Gaillard. When Steve had driven her home the night before, and she was wondering whether he would accept her invitation to return to her apartment, he told her that her job was to establish trust with Karim. The interview was only a vehicle. The longer-term goal was to manipulate him into a position where it would be easy to grab him. Together they came up with a plan.

Steve let her out of the car in front of the building. After he declined to come upstairs for a drink, Kristen suddenly said, “Oh, I almost forgot, and so did you. I did have something to tell you. It’s about Dalton. You’d better come upstairs after all, so I can check my notes.”

Later, after Steve had returned to his hotel room, he studied the contents of Dalton’s message to President Tremaine, which Dalton had inadvertently revealed to Kristen as she played her messenger role. He reread the final sentence of the memo: “In other words, I strongly believe this is the time to test the new Iranian president and open talks, probably here in Brussels, with General Yosemani.” Had she already met Yosemani in Brussels? Where? And why had Vanness’s men not reported it?

17. Brasserie Gaillard, Brussels

As a waiter led Kristen to a table in the back of the restaurant, she passed by Steve’s “Man from Bruges,” Hunter Templeton, whom she had met only two hours before. Hunter, sparse blondish hair, thin face, misleading boyish grin, and two tours in Afghanistan, occupied a table by the window with a view of the street. Steve had also told Kristen his “Man from Luxembourg” would be lurking somewhere outside within sight of the brasserie.

Both men were armed, and Hunter had given Steve a Glock pistol as well.

She understood this protection might not be totally necessary. But if Karim was his father’s son, he might smell a trap. Or he might even have discussed his lunch invitation with his father, who most probably had already kidnapped one American operative.

“Establish trust,” Steve had told her, “and find out what his schedule is over the next day or two.” Steve’s plan was to invite Karim to a film showing by an up-and-coming young Iranian director. He wanted to make sure this ostensible film showing did not interfere with Karim’s weekend agenda, which would allow him to refuse.

Kristen had not finished scanning the menu, when she saw Svetlana enter the restaurant accompanied by a short twenty-something, slim, dark-haired man carrying a book. The plan was already going off track, she thought. Svetlana had said she would send Karim, not join him.

Kristen stood, as the couple reached her table, and she and Svetlana kissed each other on the cheeks. Svetlana made the introduction and as the man sat down, she said, “I’m going to borrow Karim’s Vespa to run a couple of errands while you two have lunch. I’ll be back for coffee.” As Svetlana walked out, Kristen caught her looking back as if questioning her decision to leave the two alone.

“What are you reading, Karim?” Kristen asked, as the she pointed to the book, the cover of which was not written in a language she could read. “Is it in Farsi?”

“Yes, it is.” Karim replied, looking at the book. “It’s about Sharia Law, which is much older than Western Law.”

“How interesting. And is this a book from a course you are taking?”

“It’s not exactly required reading, but I’m going to write a paper comparing Sharia