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

“But Dad, I’m not in a position to travel, either. What are you suggesting?”

“I think you and he should connect, so you will be able to decide on the right course of action. I gave him your cell number. He should be calling you soon. Believe me, if he says it’s important, it is.”

“By the way, how is your other business doing?” Steve asked. “The topic we discussed in Thérèse’s conference room.”

“At the moment, you’re the only thing on my plate. That other was taken over. They’ve adopted my concept, and they have unlimited resources, so it’s still viable.”

“And how are you feeling? What’s going on with you?”

“You already know there’s no cure. All the doctors can do is monitor my case. Meantime, I’m getting around with a four-wheel walker. I’m in line to get a power chair. And I’ve just heard about a clinical trial that should begin in the next few weeks. Biogen is putting a hundred million dollars into it, so the obviously think it’s going to work. Otherwise, I’m taking it one day at a time.”

After the call, Steve picked up his beer and went to the living room to see how Kristen was doing.

“I have good news and bad news,” she said. “I did speak to Svetlana. Guess what Karim is doing today?” She arched her eyebrows.

“He’s going to train for a marathon?” Steve said, shrugging his shoulders.

“He is going to spend time with his father, who is visiting from Iran.”

“Holy shit! Do everything you can to avoid meeting or even being seen by his father!”

“Don’t worry. Karim is already gone. His father sent a car to pick him up. I think they’re going to have lunch somewhere. Anyway, all I’m going to do today is jog with Svetlana.”

“Okay, that gives us twenty-four more hours to get our stuff together.”

***

Steve drove to the town Waterloo, site of the battle that marked the beginning of the end for Napoleon Bonaparte and interrupted the death spiral of European monarchies that had been sparked by the French Revolution. Steve thought it ironic the only monument on the grounds of the information center on the north side of the battlefield was of Bonaparte, the loser. Were the French Revolution and the Iranian Revolution comparable? Only that each began a desire for change, he thought. In time, most of the European monarchies had fallen by the wayside, and Islamic jihad had taken Khomeini’s success in overthrowing the Shah as a hopeful model.

He turned past an open gate onto a cobblestone courtyard fronting a two-story pink house with a tower on one corner overlooking a large grassy area. The original waist-high fence had been augmented by about six feet of wire. Steve guessed the previous owners must have kept a dog. He parked parallel to two other cars and walked by two heavy iron rings fixed to the wall of the house for anyone needing to tie up his horse.

Colonel Vanness opened the door and led him through a dark hallway with wooden stairs into a large, peach-colored living room with sliding doors to the outside, a large fireplace at the far end, and an alcove on each side, one with a game table and the other serving as a library. Glass tables on golden metal legs flanked a white sofa.

“I am glad you came,” Vanness said. “I have information for you. The general spent last night at an apartment building on the north side of the city. Unfortunately, we don’t know which apartment he visited.”

Steve heard steps coming down the stairs, and McCabe entered the room. “We have enough room in this house to hold the entire Belgian royal family,” McCabe said. “Upstairs there’s an office without windows that can be his home while he—what’s his name, Karim?—is our guest.” He sat opposite the other two men. “But the place is so big it’ll take at least six guys to cover the perimeter.”

Steve looked questioningly at the colonel, who said, “I will have four men here starting tonight.” He looked at his watch and added, “I think my men have discovered where Yosemani is holding Kella. It is about half an hour from here in Charleroi, to the south.”

“When were you going to tell us?” Steve asked, now standing. “How many guards? What about weapons?”

“It would be better if we just took a ride and took a look at it ourselves,” McCabe said.

20. Waterloo, Belgium

The three men left in Colonel Vanness’s car, and they were soon on the outskirts of Charleroi, a working-class area. Steve could well imagine what the place had looked like when van Gogh was inspired to paint “The Potato Eaters,” a dark view of the life of miners in the late nineteenth century.

The Iranian safe house where Kella was being held was on Rue Murat, a narrow one-way street in a middle-class neighborhood.

Tradecraft 101, Steve thought. A safe house should never be on a one-way street or a cul-de-sac; it gives the opposition an advantage. It indicated to him the other team was more law enforcement than intelligence. Rue Murat was like the center of an I-beam. At the bottom was Avenue Blucher and at the top Avenue Wellington.

They drove past the house and, when they came face to face with a sign on Wellington indicating Brussels to the left and Mons to the right, turned to the left and stopped. “There’s only one guard outside the house, and he is certainly not Iranian,” McCabe said.

“We could probably get Kella, right now,” Steve said, as he checked his Glock below the level of the car window and felt his pulse quicken.

“I’m willing,” McCabe said, also checking his weapon and as calm as if discussing the weather. “We will have surprise. I can easily take care of the guy outside. How many