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

“I’m not a lawyer, but that is a paper I would enjoy reading,” Kristen said, trying but failing to catch Karim’s eyes. “You will find overlaps, dating back to the Arab invasions of Southern Europe.” Interpreting Karim’s frown to mean she was on the wrong track, Kristen added, “Of course. There are probably better comparisons, such as the results of Persian wars with Athens.”

Kristen knew she was speaking beyond her knowledge but hoped she would not sound idiotic. She felt relieved when Karim finally looked at her and smiled, though she couldn’t tell whether he was smiling at her ignorance or whether she had actually scored a scholarly point.

“Svetlana and I met last night, and we talked about foreign students here in Belgium. I am so glad you were able to meet with me. It’s a topic that is very misunderstood, and I am trying to get viewpoints from the students themselves.”

Karim ordered a steak and pommes frites, the quarter-pounder of French cuisine. Kristen ordered an onion soup gratinée. Although her guest was naturally shy, Kristen gradually coaxed Karim out of his shell, and he became more engaged as the lunch went on. Soon he was actually volunteering his thoughts.

“This is so useful,” Kristen said. “Here, I would like you to take my cell number, just in case you have other thoughts later. And let me have yours also.”

Svetlana returned as the waitress served coffee to Kristen and Karim. She sat and opened a box. “Look, Karim. These are the running shoes you’re buying me for my birthday.”

 When Karim only smiled quietly, Kristen seized the opportunity. “Do you run every day? I’d love to run with you tomorrow. I really need to get back in shape.”

“Absolutely,” Svetlana responded. “That would be fun. I hate to run alone. Here is our address.” She wrote it on a napkin and handed it across the table.

“Do you run too, Karim?”

“That is a joke,” Svetlana replied, laughing. “Karim takes a nap when I go running. Can we meet at one tomorrow? Meet me in front of our apartment, and we can go to the university track.”

18. Charleroi

“We are being tailed,” the embassy driver said to his two passengers in the back. “It’s a dark-colored Renault. Blue, I think.”

“Lose them before we get to the safe house,” Yosemani said.

“It should not be very difficult. They are hanging way back, trying to be clever. But I have had my eye on them for at least ten miles. I saw them almost as soon as we left the embassy.”

“I understand she is sick,” Yosemani said to Dr. Hafiz, sitting beside him in the back of the car. “Or she is pretending to be sick. She still has not said anything useful, and she is no good to us dead. If she talks in the next few days, we can get rid of her here. If not, we will have to get her on the next flight. My security guards are not interrogators. We have professionals back home.”

As the car turned off the highway onto the first Charleroi exit, the general looked back but did not see the Renault.

The driver made a few extra turns to try to detect the surveillance car before heading toward the safe house, determining the Renault must have lost them.

The two guards saluted the general as soon as he entered the house. “This is Doctor Hafiz,” Yosemani said. “He is here to examine our prisoner. You,” he said, pointing to Gold Glasses, “stay here and tell me what you have learned from her.” “Take the doctor to the prisoner,” he told the other man.

“General, General!” The doctor said, as he rushed out of a side bedroom. “She is bleeding. We cannot keep her tied to that chair. She must lie down. I think she has had a miscarriage! We need towels.”

“Go help the doctor,” the general told his two guards. The prisoner was beginning to be a problem, he thought. Although he was sure of her identity, she had not admitted to any name other than Jane Mercier. There were starting to be diplomatic repercussions. The Belgian foreign minister had summoned the Iranian Ambassador and asked, in the most diplomatic terms, whether he had any information on a Jane Mercier. The French Embassy had also sent a diplomatic note asking the same question. The Americans would use the Swiss Ambassador in Tehran for any communications, but they had not yet done so, and he was waiting to see what name the Americans would choose, Hastings or Mercier.

He needed to stop all this turmoil, all these diplomatic charades, or his own prime minister would order him to cease and desist and come home. The worst thing that could happen now was for the story to reach the media.

For the first time, he started to wonder whether DuChemin had captured the right person. Although he was always right about assessing people, could he have been fooled by the Belgian, so anxious to please? That DuChemin was venal was not a question. He had headed the Belgian Internal Security Service, so he must have some abilities. But now he was proving unable to direct a team of half a dozen men. Whatever happened, DuChemin would have a short retirement.

The more he thought about the woman, the more pessimistic he became she would reveal her information without professional interrogation. He would order the embassy to extract her via diplomatic pouch. They could easily build a crate that would hold her, he thought. But could she live through the process? That was a question for the doctor.

Speaking of which, he looked at his watch and wondered how long the doctor would need to make sure the prisoner lived long enough to answer questions. He grew eager to return to Brussels to see his wife again. He was sure the future chronicle