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

two of them, “I am in no danger here. You two were my only concern. So, from now on, let’s work together. No need to play hide and seek. I’ll tell you where I’m going and, hopefully, that will make your life easier, too. Right now, I’m going to go buy a newspaper and then return to the apartment on the Villa Guibert.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “General Joulet’s apartment. You can buy a paper about one-hundred meters farther on this side of the street. Just before you get to the police station.”

34. United Nations, New York

Two men dressed in pinstripes, ties, and polished, black leather shoes stepped off the tour bus with the rest of their group and entered the General Assembly Building through the North entrance. The four bas-relief doors, the guide explained, had been donated by Canada. The entrance hall was dominated by a large, colorful mural from Brazil and a large poster proclaiming “The Year of the Woman.”

As the guide, a young Chinese woman, discoursed on the funds disbursed by the U.N. to alleviate AIDS in Africa and led the group from one item of interest to another, Yosemani and his bodyguard kept their eyes peeled for their contact. “Why doesn’t the United Nations do something when a country breaks the principles of the U.N. Charter?” asked a high-school-age boy armed with a small electronic notepad. “On the contrary,” the guide replied, “the several committees of the General Assembly are aggressive in making statements condemning the guilty country. Last year alone, over a dozen such condemnations were issued.”

They entered the main General Assembly Hall from the rear. At the front, a massive green marble podium resembling an altar from which the Secretary General presides was dwarfed by a wide wooden panel reaching up to the ceiling. At its center was the U.N. seal. A huge television screen flanked each side of the panel like the wings of a predatory bird watching over the assembly.

“That mural,” the guide said, pointing to a side wall, “was designed by Fernand Leger, the famous French artist, and painted by Bruce Gregory, an American.” The slight question mark at the end of her statement seemed to imply she was surprised by her own statement that an American had the necessary skills.

In the same direction as the mural but much closer, Yosemani saw Khazaee step through a doorway and into the hall and look in their direction.

As the group moved toward the mural, the two men lagged behind and disappeared through the door Khazaee had left open. “Since the United Nations was created to maintain peace,” the high-school student asked, “what was its role in the search for Osama bin Laden, who had killed three-thousand people in New York? And, what did it do when Qaddafi started killing his own people? Oh, what about Syria? Isn’t the president of that country also killing his own citizens?” He looked at his electronic notepad and added, “a hundred-thousand, according to the media. Isn’t that genocide?”

Yosemani and his bodyguard followed Khazaee down the corridor before the startled guide could formulate a reply.

Khazaee brought them to a small conference room where they sat, exchanged greetings, and caught up. “It is an honor to be with you, General.” Khazaee said. “Your office in Tehran informed us you were on your way. How can we help you?”

“I have work for you. You are about to participate in a great blow against the American bully. America has insulted us and disrespected us long enough. We are on the verge of becoming a world power despite the West’s attempt to sabotage our efforts, both on the world stage and by degrading the technology in our nuclear centers such as Natanz.”

“Yes,” Khazaee replied. “The Americans are very active here at the U.N. They are trying to increase the sanctions against us.”

“So, I am here to direct our operations in the heart of the enemy’s homeland. Our retribution will be swift and effective. In diplomatic language, this would be called reciprocation.” He smiled at the prowess of his vocabulary. “I understand we have assets here, and they will be our platform. Tell me about them.”

“I do have two promising developmental cases,” Khazaee replied with a self-satisfied smile. “One is a second secretary at the Pakistani mission, and the other is the Indian Ambassador. Both are scheduled to return to their countries soon, and they will be very useful sources.”

“This is not a promotion interview,” the General said, tapping his fingers impatiently on the conference table. “Tell me about the assets, the fully recruited and responsive agents we have here. I know the Ministry of Intelligence has an officer somewhere on the West Coast. What is he doing?”

“Hayder Kazemi is focused on the Persian diaspora. In California, they are mostly thieves and traitors left over from the Shah’s era. Some are former military who stole enough money from our country to be able to settle here. But there are pockets of Iranians loyal to the Revolution who are here simply to study and who intend to return home. I am sure many of them are potential intelligence assets, and Kazemi has already identified several. He is doing a good job. But I sense he is unsatisfied, that he would like to do more.”

“I am going to give him that opportunity. What is his training? What else could he do?”

“He has the full one-year intelligence training, including the usual recruitment of foreign nationals, hand-to-hand combat, maritime, sabotage, et cetera.”

“But I believe you have another asset, this one an American citizen?”

The door suddenly opened, and a fashionably dressed, middle-aged woman looked in. “Oh, I am so sorry Monsieur Khazaee.” The scent of her perfume stole into the room like a squad of Ninja warriors. . “I did not know this room was occupied. My boss needs a conference room. They seem to be hard to find today.