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

exactly what we tell you, no more no less, and in English. Are you ready?”

Karim again looked at the two Americans and, after a brief glance outside through the windows wet with rain, said, “Go to hell.”

“You think you have a choice,” McCabe said. “You don’t. If you refuse, we can easily capture your father, in which case it is also the end of life as you know it, or we can skip the preliminaries and kill him. This is not Iran. He has no protection here. If you don’t give damn about your father, there’s always Svetlana. You see, we have more options than you do.”

“Don’t harm Svetlana. Keep her out of this. She has nothing to do with whatever my father did.”

“Okay, get your cell out. Tell him you are being held and your safety depends on the safety of the woman he kidnapped a few days ago. Her name is Jane Mercier. Tell your father she must call your number as soon as possible. Once that happens, we will give him instructions about when and where he needs to release her—and then we will let you go. Now, do it.”

Karim dialed the Iranian embassy instead, confident the receptionist, who knew him, would help. He yelled, “Get the police, Maryam! This is Karim.”

Before he could say any more, McCabe reached back and seized his wrist with one hand and his phone with the other. “That’s a mistake,” he growled as he put the car in gear and drove to the other side of the forest where he parked again. “Karim, I have fought your militias in both Iraq and Afghanistan. I don’t know how many men I have killed. As far as I’m concerned, this is the same war, just a different battlefield. Your people don’t care about human life and that’s just how I feel about you. I’m finished playing nice. Are you ready to do what I tell you?”

Karim nodded.

***

A TV repair truck drove by the safe house and parked close to Avenue Wellington twenty minutes after Kristen’s call to Steve. A few minutes later, two cars passed Rue Murat and parked about fifty yards apart on Avenue Wellington, pointing toward the highway’s on-ramp toward Brussels.

“We have spoken to Kella,” McCabe told Steve over the phone. “She’s hurt but alive. But the general is trying to play games. No surprise there, right? He said he would release his captive only after we brought his son to the Iranian Embassy. Anyway, we had that conversation and he now agrees, since he’s spoken to his son and we’ve spoken to Kella—and each is relatively safe, we can proceed with the exchange. He wants it in front of the Iranian Embassy, and I insisted on a more public venue, the middle of the Grande Place.”

“So what’s the bottom line?” Steve asked.

“Obviously, he’s not a happy camper. He threatened to huff and puff and blow our house down. He even mentioned your name. He said in time he’s going to get you, one way or another. I told him I never heard of you.”

“Do we have a place and a time?”

“The middle of the Grande Place in two hours.”

“Okay, good job. Hustle down here.”

***

“Blue calling Red, over,” Vanness said in his portable radio from the TV repair truck.

“This is Red, over,” Steve replied about a hundred yards away on Wellington.

“I see movement. She is in the first car with two men, not native. It’s a black Mercedes four door. One man is in the back with her. Wait a second … three men have just come out of the house. One of them just lit a cigarette. He’s motioning for the others to wait. I recognize one of them. It’s DuChemin.”

“Has the black car started moving?”

“The black car is starting to move. The others are starting to move as well, toward their car, a blue Volkswagen. They’re going to be at least 100 yards behind. Wait, wait … the black car just passed us and has made a left. He’s yours.”

Steve allowed the Mercedes to reach the middle of the block before blocking is path with his Range Rover SUV. Almost immediately, a black limo pulled up behind the Mercedes, bumper to bumper, its horn blaring.

***

After the black Mercedes made a left on Wellington, Vanness looked back to see DuChemin’s blue VW come toward him. He drove the TV repair truck to block DuChemin, who immediately leaned on his horn.

DuChemin jumped out of his car shouting expletives, and Colonel Vanness emerged from the truck together with three men who deployed around the VW, their hands either in their jacket pockets or behind their backs at belt level.

“My friend!” Vanness said, his hands empty and in the air. “Don’t tell me you are now working for the Iranians. Do they pay as well as the KGB?”

“Get out of the way!” DuChemin shouted, motioning for his two men to get out of the car. “And you worked for the Americans, for the CIA, and you let them run your office. How much money did they give you? Just get the truck out of the way!”

“Our cooperation with the Americans has always been officially approved and for the good of our country. We are allies, remember? I have also heard you worked for the Syrians. Are you not forgetting North Korea?”

By that time, DuChemin’s two men were looking at each other and then at DuChemin questioningly. “Is that true, Louis?” one of them asked.

“Get on the other side,’’ DuChemin said as he drew his pistol and kneeled behind the VWs fender. “Get out of the way Vanness!” he said as he squeezed off a round hitting the TV repair truck.

Immediately Vanness deployed his men across the street. Two of them jumped over the low stone wall separating a yard from the sidewalk.