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

the young Air France stewardess handling boarding passengers. “I visited their country last summer. But I don’t want to embarrass them. I did notice they had dark blue passports, so can you tell me if they are really from Albania?”

“Those two?” The young stewardess said, nodding toward the two men looking for seats in the waiting area. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Listen,” Steve smiled, “the truth is I have a bet. Here…” He handed her a hundred-dollar bill. “I’m sure I’m going to win, so I’ll share my winnings with you.”

The stewardess giggled, looked around, and took the money. “They are Croatians,” she said.

“I knew it!” Steve said with a big smile. He retrieved his and Kella’s tickets, and left the counter. He saw Gold Glasses and his partner board early with first-class passengers. “Good,” he said to himself.

Later, sitting in the economy-class cabin, Steve told Kella that Bob Trent, the Counter Terrorism Chief, was not in his office but he had left him a message. “I should have left it with the director,” he said. “Getting the French to act quickly could be a challenge.”

“We didn’t ask, did we,” Kella asked, “if there was an Interpol warrant for our general? Do you think the French would arrest him?”

“Good question. Even if they don’t, they could at least keep an eye on him while he’s in France.”

***

Less than an hour later, after they had touched down at Charles De Gaulle Airport, Steve and Kella stood quickly, retrieved their carryon from the overhead compartment even as the stewardess directed everyone to stay in their seats and, explaining to anyone listening they had a connecting flight to make, were able to disembark ahead of the other economy-class passengers. Even with their hustle, however, they missed catching up with the first-class flyers, who had ridden on their own bus and reached the main terminal considerably earlier.

When they reached the signs directing them to “Baggage” or “Transit,” signs, Steve hesitated for a moment and then chose “Baggage.”

“If they’re transiting to another country, we’re out of luck.”

He called LaFont while waiting for their luggage. “I already left word with Trent’s office they’re traveling on Croatian passports. No, we don’t have their names. I’m looking at a departure board and there’s a Delta flight leaving for New York in an hour and a half. No, I don’t know if they’ll be on it. There are flights going all over the world, but that New York flight is one we should be able to check.”

“I don’t see them here,” Kella said, scanning the crowd retrieving their luggage and heading for transportation to Paris. “Did she say whether the French have agreed to arrest them?”

“She said we had to go through the FBI to reach French law enforcement. So far, headquarters hasn’t gotten any feedback from the Bureau.”

Steve could see Kella was becoming disappointed, frustrated, and angry.

“The FBI! The French! The goddamned bureaucracy! What we should have done at the airport is go to the nearest cop and have them arrested in Brussels. Damn!”

She suddenly grabbed her suitcase from the carousel and heaved it off with almost superhuman strength. Steve thought that, at this moment, Kella could probably have thrown her suitcase across the large luggage reception area.

“Look, we’ve done what we could,” he said. “Either the French will get them or, if they go to New York, the FBI will.”

She looked him square in the eyes. “I have an idea. Let’s go get married.”

32. The ‘Bulgarians’

Yosemani emerged from the Air France VIP lounge changed into a red and black Nike warm-up suit. His hair was now short and blonde, and he wore rectangular Armani glasses. He fingered his diamond earring as he sought out his bodyguard, who he found at the bar sipping a Remy Martin cognac.

When operational, it was important to fit in with the enemy.

He allowed himself the hint of a grin which quickly disappeared. What would Aisha say if she could see him now? She had given her life for something greater than herself, and he admired her for it. Although he had numerous battlefield decorations he was not sure he was as courageous. He had stayed up most of the previous night choosing a course of action. He had decided going back to Tehran and involving the IRGC, the Ministry of Intelligence, as well as his own Quds Force, would delay and perhaps totally negate what had to be done. Inevitably, there would be obstructions, political obstructions, to his goal: retribution for the death of his beloved wife and hero of the Islamic Republic. His ambition to become the commander of the IRGC, the defender and action arm of the revolution, had become a thing of the past. With the help of Allah, he would make the Americans pay.

Leery of the Americans’ ability to intercept phone calls, Yosemani was reluctant to use his cell phone. Nevertheless, he called his office in Tehran and simply said, “Instruct Khazaee that I am on my way. I will not come to his office. But he should expect me at his other office.”

An hour later, Yosemani and his bodyguard were boarding Delta 192 to New York. His staff had been diligent in preparing, stocking, and keeping up to date several sets of alias passports at key diplomatic installations throughout the world. This precaution had frequently permitted Quds Force operatives to travel incognito when necessary to enter or depart areas normally denied to Iranian diplomats, or to carry out operations in hostile countries.

Yosemani congratulated himself on his foresight. Again sitting in first class, he examined his Bulgarian passport and told his bodyguard to memorize his personal data and be able to explain the several entry and exit visas and stamps. They both accepted the ice-cold vodka that accompanied their caviar.

“How long do you think we will be in America?” his bodyguard