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

Kristen helped Kate bring in the coffee. “So tell us,” Kate said, looking at Steve and Kella, “what your plans are for the rest of your honeymoon.”

“If you’ll have us,” Steve said, “we’ll spend a few more days here. And then we’ll get out of your hair and go west.”

“We have a beautiful condo waiting for us in California,” Kella said, “Just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ve never been in California, and I’m excited to visit San Francisco.”

“Elise’s condo?” Kate asked.

“Yes, and they’re also lending us their Lexus.”

“If you’re going to be sightseeing,” McCabe said, “you’ll want to be in touch with my friend Margo. I’ll give you her number. She knows people, and she’ll be able to get you a VIP tour of the Golden Gate Bridge. The view from the tower is fantastic.”

38. Golden Gate Bridge

Hayder Kazemi slowed his rental car as he approached the Golden Gate Bridge on Route 101 from Marin County. The sun would be making its appearance in about an hour on his left, but the bridge lights were sufficiently bright to allow him to photograph every detail of the structure. Traffic was not as light as he had expected; maybe they were stockbrokers late for work since the New York Stock Exchange was about to open.

He stopped next to the sidewalk in the middle of the bridge where the supporting cable was at its lowest. He glanced at his watch: 5:30.

Kazemi stepped out of the car, looked quickly for any pedestrians coming his way, thinking both about what he was going to do and about the bridge’s end-of-life choice for more than a thousand people a year. It was known as The Suicide Bridge.

He squatted by the front right tire and let the air out. Then he made a show of walking around the car, conscious of the security cameras recording his movements. He opened the trunk and started replacing the wheel.

The Golden Gate Security police car passed him at 5:45, speeding toward Marin County on the other side of the divided road, its lights flashing. The car took the Sausalito exit and reappeared coming toward Kazemi, having taken the tunnel under the road to change direction.               He checked his watch: 5:48.

He had jacked the front of his car up, when the police cruiser pulled behind him at 5:49. Although his problem was evident, he still had to produce a driver’s license and rental agreement.

“Mr. Caraway?” the officer asked, eyeing Kazemi’s alias license.

“Jim Caraway, yes sir,” he replied. “It shouldn’t take me long, Officer. You would think the rental company would check their cars before renting them out.”

“I’m going to have to call a tow truck to clear the bridge,” the officer said, as he returned Kazemi’s documents.

“I can have this tire changed before the tow truck arrives, Officer,” Kazemi replied.

“For your own safety, sir, please stand on the sidewalk. The tow truck will do the rest.”

It was 5:55.

39. Tiburon, California

General Ghassem Yosemani looked down at the tennis courts from his bedroom window and at the horse stables beyond. Incredible, he thought. A mere entertainer should have this material wealth. Somehow, it wasn’t right. He finished getting dressed then went downstairs, where his bodyguard had his tea ready.

“Hayder is still not back,” Gold Glasses said, as the general sat at a large table in the kitchen. “He called in earlier this morning to say he had to wait to get the rental car back from the garage where it had been towed. He should be back soon.”

“What about the trucks? Are you in touch with the drivers?”

“Yes sir, they should be here tomorrow, as will the four Quds Force commandos. One from Mexico, another from Vancouver, and the two others are flying in from headquarters. One by way of Paris and the other transiting Amsterdam.”

Gold Glasses served the tea. “I am sorry about the bread, sir. There is no decent bread in this country. But I made some toast if you want. I did find some excellent strawberry jam. It is said California is the land of fruits and nuts. These strawberries are world class.” He opened and closed several cupboards until he found a small dish, in which he emptied half the jar of jam and set it in front of the general.

“I hate this waiting,” Yosemani said. “The longer we stay in this damnable country, the greater the chances the FBI or CIA will find us.”

“There is no evidence so far they even know we are here,” the bodyguard said. “And we are away from the eyes of the public.” Acting more like a boy about to show off his electric train set than like the elite soldier he was, he pointed to a window through which the garage was visible. “Have you been in there yet, sir? There is enough room for at least ten cars, but it is only half full. There will be enough room for the two trucks when they get here. There is a red Ferrari, a yellow Maserati, a black Tesla, a camouflaged Hummer, and a silver Rolls Royce.” His eyes lighting up, he added, “and two motorcycles, a Harley Davison and Kawasaki.”

“This reminds me of the Shah’s palace, may Allah damn his soul.” After a moment he added, “Check the computer and ask Khazaee for a status report. What about that female CIA agent? It is crucial our East and West Coast attacks be coordinated to take place within the same twenty-four hours.”

After entering a password-protected bulletin board on a culinary site, the bodyguard clicked on a Members’ Only drop-down menu to read Khazaee’s encrypted report. “Sir, he said he introduced the topic with his agent, who was initially shocked at the idea. But he says he is confident she will accept your fallback suggestion to bring the bomb inside the CIA building.