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

“Remember, General Joulet’s driver is available. We could call him if you want.”

She eyed him seductively.

“Maybe we’ll want to use him after lunch,” he said, drifting closer to her.

They took the tiny and rickety elevator down and, hand in hand, strolled past the dozen houses that bordered the sidewalk-free Villa Guibert, where a young boy was rolling along on a red bicycle. About ten yards ahead of them, he stood up on the pedals but quickly fell over the handlebars. They ran to help him. “Are you hurt?”

“All you have to do,” Steve said when the boy shook his head, “Is to tense your arms when you get up on your pedals. Keep them straight.”

The boy got back on his bicycle, stood up on the pedals, and successfully negotiated the distance to the gate at the end of the street.

“Well done, well done,” Steve said when they reached him again.

“I’m impressed,” Kella said. “You will make a good father.”

They turned left on Rue de Latour, made an immediate right, and soon found themselves on Avenue George Mandel. The chestnut trees lining both sides of the wide thoroughfare and ornamenting the narrow sidewalk dividing the avenue were losing their leaves, but their symmetry and alignment gave the neighborhood a certain elegance.

“Would you like to live there?” Kella asked, pointing to the apartment buildings on each side.

“Sure, as long as your ENA diploma is worth the $5 million purchase price. But what about those apartment buildings we just passed?” he said as he scanned the sidewalk behind them. He counted one repeat pedestrian he had seen just before turning onto the avenue, maybe two.

From the football-field-sized esplanade of the Trocadéro, they could look down on gardens decorated with water jets arcing over the statues. The Seine River lay adjacent, and a bit farther, the Eiffel Tower protecting the city. Children rollerblading and skateboarding among camera-toting visitors from all over the world and being offered handicraft by African vendors lent the area a festive air.

Steve noted two men buying ice cream from a stand near the street bordering the esplanade

They retraced their steps past the Trocadéro Metro station to a café on the side of the square. “I have seen photographs of this restaurant,” Steve said. “During the first National Day following the liberation of Paris, there was dancing in the street right in front here. And many of the merry makers were American GIs.”

“I wonder if the younger generation remembers that,” she said. “Well, let’s order. I’m going to have oysters. How about you?”

“Croque-Monsieur for me. You order and I’ll go outside to call our driver. It’s getting dark out there. We don’t want to get caught in the rain. I think we brought the Brussels’ weather with us.”

While on his cell, Steve confirmed the surveillance, one man near the entrance to the Metro and the other on the other side of the square.

***

Back in the apartment, Kella made coffee, while Steve went out to the roof garden for a moment. “I don’t want to sound paranoid,” he said when he came back, “But I had the feeling all afternoon we were being followed. Remember when I went outside to ask the driver to come and pick us up? There were two men out there loitering. And I’m sure I’d seen them as soon as we left that boy and his bike and reached Rue de Latour. Did you notice anything?”

“No. But don’t ask me. I’m on my honeymoon and am not looking for bad guys. All I want is one virile hombre, but if you’re not up to the task….”

“I think you’ve had too many oysters,” he said, smiling. “Virile? That’s my middle name—strong as an ox.” He laughed and, lifting her in his arms, carried her to the bedroom.

***

The next morning, Steve got up early. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go pick up a paper. Do we need anything?”

“Whatever you want for breakfast, Chérie. Croissants for me.”

Steve scanned the street as he emerged on Rue de Latour. He spotted two men in a blue sedan parked on the other side. Rue de Latour was one-way from his right to left and the men had a clear view of the gated street. Steve turned left and turned left again on Rue de la Pompe. He continued without turning around until he saw a bakery, which gave him the opportunity to cross the street and look both ways. He saw the same two men, one on each side of the street, fitting in well with the people going to their offices.

He spotted one of them through the large, plate-glass window after he entered the bakery. He guessed the other one was waiting for him on the left side of the bakery, assuming he would be going to the right.

Carrying half-a-dozen croissants in a paper bag, Steve turned left from the shop and almost ran into the man on his side of the street, who, fiercely avoiding eye contact, turned away to walk in front of him. Steve caught up with him and said, “If you had asked, I could have told you where I was going. I could even have bought you some croissants. Who the hell are you?”

“S’il vous plaît, do not be upset, Monsieur Church,” the man, in his late thirties and dressed for a chilly fall day, said with a frown. “I am on your side.”

“On my side? What about the other guy, your friend on the other side of the street?”

“Oui, Charles is with me. We were assigned to stay with you by Jean-Claude Clair, a friend of your father. He is concerned about your safety in Paris. I am Jean. We are both with the DST.”

Jean waved his friend over to cross the street.

“As far as I know,” Steve told the