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

She had, rather proudly, underlined her role in orchestrating the administration’s love affair with the Palestinian cause. Probably driven by guilt, the Americans, as well as the Western European powers, preached the centrality of the Palestinian issue.

“Reinforce the Palestinian issue,” Ghassem had told her. “This American obsession suits our priorities. It gives us the flexibility to focus on Syria, on Egypt, and on our nuclear program. Lead the Americans to believe the Arab Spring is the debut of democracy in the region. The Palestinian Authority is thoroughly corrupt. Hamas in the Gaza Strip only survives with my help. Hamas is only a pawn for us to use against Israel.”

She glanced at her watch and clicked the TV on. The newscaster, whom she recognized as the mistress of a French minister, was switching from local news to the most recent terrorist attack in Iraq. Aisha sat forward, as the scene suddenly showed a half-destroyed mosque, and, through the smoke, the chaos of victims being pulled out of the building, bodies lying on the ground, firefighters spraying water onto the flames, and armed police trying to control onlookers, some appearing dazed, others screaming and waving their fists in the air. Another Sunni attack against a Shiite mosque during the holy day of Ashura.

She stood and clenched her fists by her side. Would these Arabs never stop? The Islamic Republic was the only hope for Shiites across the world to live in peace. She suddenly understood the hopeful symbolism Israel held for the Jewish diaspora. Iran must play a similar role and provide the security umbrella for Shiites in the face of Sunni arrogance and terrorism. And who but the United States was the power, the sponsor, of the terrorist regimes of Saudi Arabia and the other Gulf sheikdoms?

She turned off the TV and put on a CD, “Rabana,” “Our Lord,” composed and sung by Mohammed-Reza Shajarian. She did not care Shajarian had used his popularity to support the Green Movement during the 2009 elections. His music and verses had captured her soul. Preparing to take her first meal of the day, the Iftar, to end her daily fast of Ramadan, she kneeled, faced east toward Mecca, and soon the music transported her to a different world. She closed her eyes, touched her forehead to the rug, and prayed Allah would help her stop the slaughter of Hussein’s children.

25. The White House

LaFont stepped quickly past the uniformed guards at the side door of the West Wing and was accompanied to the president’s private quarters. The guard gestured her toward a couch and retreated to the door through which they had entered. It was not her first visit to this part of the White House, but it was the first time she had requested to see the president after normal working hours; it was 10 p.m. She had received Steve’s call four hours earlier, at midnight Brussels time, relating the sensational story told by Nigel Barnes that evening.

During those four hours, Directorate of Intelligence analysts and the operations officers of the National Clandestine Service had been researching Barnes’s information to establish whether it passed the snicker test.

While she checked her earrings and straightened her blouse, she noticed a painting depicting the burning of the White House during the War of 1812. No wonder, on his first day in office, the president had sent the bust of Churchill, which had been in the Oval Office since World War II, back to London.

“Good evening, Thérèse,” Tremaine said, as he entered from a second door. He was dressed casually in khakis and an open-neck white shirt. “This is a first,” he added, as he looked at his watch. “But I’m glad you’re here, I was getting tired of reviewing position papers on healthcare. How are your children? Brittany and Preston, correct?”

“They’re fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I don’t think this information can wait until morning.”

The president sat and leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“I had asked the Director of the FBI to meet me here, because this issue falls more in his area of responsibility than mine.”

“Go ahead and start, Thérèse. He can catch up later.”

“The information I have concerns your Chief of Staff, V.A. Dalton,” LaFont said, as she nervously ran a hand through her hair.

“Yes, Vickie sent me a short note from Brussels. She can’t stop working, even when she’s supposed to be taking a few days off.”

“First, let me say this information comes from a recently retired MI-6 officer with whom the agency has worked in the past. We have always had full trust and confidence in him. And his source had direct access to the information.”

The president nodded impatiently and motioned for LaFont to go on.

“I will cut to the chase, Mr. President. It appears V.A. Dalton is working for Iranian intelligence under the direction of the head of Iran’s Quds Force, General Ghassem Yosemani. Both are now in Brussels, and Yosemani has stayed with her for the last two nights.”

Tremaine’s eyes widened, to a degree LaFont had never seen before. For a few moments, he said nothing, then: “That’s the most absurd accusation I have heard in my entire career in politics. I know you have an excellent record, Thérèse, and your integrity has always been beyond reproach; otherwise, I wouldn’t have named you to this position.”

He paused again and picked up a small crystal donkey from the coffee table in front of him. For an instant, LaFont thought he was going to throw it at her. He was clearly upset.

“Thérèse, you’ll have to give me more. Forget about protecting sources and methods. I’m the president, and what you’ve said has grave implications for our national security.” He paused once more and added, “As well as for your own job security.” He fiddled with the crystal donkey, but kept his eyes fixed on her.

“I