The Red Cell. André Le Gallo

      The Red Cell

      By André Le Gallo

      © André Le Gallo – All Rights Reserved

      Published in the United States of America

      By D Street Books

      A division of Mountain Lake Press

      Electronic conversion by eBookIt

      ISBN: 978-0-9885919-9-8

      Cover design by Julie Medina

      No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a data base or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

      All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official positions or views of the CIA or any other U.S. Government agency. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying U.S. Government authentication of information or Agency endorsement of the author’s views. This material has been reviewed by the CIA to prevent the disclosure of classified information.

      To Cathy

      Everyone’s cheerleader, the co-author of my life, the center of my existence…

      To my parents…

      And to the American soldiers who liberated France.

      FOREWORD

      The definition of an unsung hero is one you don’t know about. So you have not heard, in all probability, of this author. I have, because we shared a training course in 1963. It was no ordinary classroom yawn. It was the CIA training for future operations officers—rigorous, physically and mentally challenging, sometimes sleep deprived, and sometimes demanding the spontaneous invention of a scenario for an unfolding operation.

      The canvas of a would-be operations officer starts with a foreign problem or even quagmire that demands insights—covertly acquired intelligence—in order to understand the true situation, or the true intentions of an antagonist.

      The training scenarios attempted to prepare us to deal with people from very different cultures, on foreign lands that might be unwelcoming. We also understood we would often be alone in using our assessment skills with a foreigner whom we hoped could be convinced to be receptive to our needs.

      A winning, compassionate personality would help. Not to mention “think on your feet” adjustments to surprising information, or hints that a person you wanted to trust was not quite what he wanted you to believe.

      The thing I remember most from the first week of that training was the quality of the men and a few women who were my new colleagues. It wasn’t just that they had good educations, law or other advanced degrees, or living experience abroad. More than that, they were bright, quick-witted, admirable young Americans, all eager to serve their country. And the author of this book, André Le Gallo, was a standout.

      André didn’t try to be a standout. Indeed, we understood from our training it was much better NOT to be noticed. Not to call attention to our covert activities. Not to be labeled by a foreign intelligence service as “probably a CIA officer”. Better to be, or seem to be “unsung.”

      But André’s background was different than most of ours. And in time, I learned that his boyhood in Brittany, France included staying out of the way of and playing tricks on Nazi soldiers during World War II. He already knew a thing or two about real life deception and guile. But in training André was solid and sensible and dependable. You wanted him on your side.

      Then we all went off into the Cold War to, in fact, serve our country. André journeyed to Laos to lead mountain tribes as his first challenge. I went in a different direction to serve. But we were in touch—not often—over the next thirty-five years of adventure and innumerable scenarios. André became very, very good as an intelligence officer. You will have to take my word for that. But near the end of those many years, I was in a position to see some of the outstanding bits of one of his fine operations. It comes as no surprise to see another scenario, this time his third novel, from my old comrade.

      I’m not going to tell you anything about his story:

      EXCEPT that it, like a James Bond adventure, will keep you on the edge of your chair.

      EXCEPT that when he tells you a detail of a place in Brussels or Bucharest or Tehran, it is because he still remembers it vividly from his travels there.

      And EXCEPT when he describes the nasty symptoms one of his characters has suffered from the disease known as ALS, it reflects his courage in personally facing that condition.

      Enjoy your read, and know you are in the hands of a distinguished, unsung American.

      —Thomas Twetten, Former Deputy Director Operations, Central Intelligence Agency

      Iran has been at war with the United States since the 1979 Ayatollah Revolution, when it held American diplomats hostage for 444 days. The Red Cell attempts to provide a fictional but realistic glimpse into the covert war that never reaches the general public’s awareness.

      PROLOGUE

      Karbala, Iraq

      BBC—Thousands of Shias will flock to Karbala today on the day of Ashura, which commemorates the martyrdom of Hussein, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, killed by a pretender to the leadership of Islam. In the belief of Shias, Hussein should have succeeded his father Ali as the next Imam. The split between Sunnis and Shias is often dated to this event, which is considered the foundation stone for the Shiite faith and which occurred in the year 61 of the Muslim calendar (October 2, 680 A.D.).

      The little girl watched from her window as the poster of a man’s head, mouth open in agony, eyes looking up to Allah, blood on his forehead, moved slowly past in the midst of thousands of marching men who covered the broad avenue and both sidewalks. She barely noticed the black pole smeared with red on which the head was fixed and she hardly registered the saddled but riderless white horse behind the garlanded poster or the green Islamic flags. She searched the moving crowd for her brother.

      Her lips formed the cadenced sounds coming from the marchers, “Oh Hussein, oh Hussein, oh Hussein, oh Hussein…” in endless repetition, each incantation punctuated by the hollow sound of the men beating their chests with their fists in unison. The rhythmic sound and gestures had slipped the men into a hypnotic trance. Bare-chested true believers flagellated themselves with small blades attached to chains and cords they flicked over their shoulders and rendered their backs bloody. And none could resist the opportunity to curse Israel and America.

      “Come help,” called the girl’s mother, who was dressed in a black shador like the other women in the room. Framed pictures of Hussein in a green cape who bore a striking resemblance to Jesus took the eye away from the peeling white paint.

      They walked to a cradle, the mothers or sisters of martyrs or of male relatives soon to be martyrs, filled with candies, sweets, and toys. “Here take a corner.” Her mother gave the girl a cloth and together they stretched it over the canopy. “This is for Hussein’s infant son.” She looked at her daughter. “He was killed before he could sleep in it.”

      The other women gathered around the cradle and listened, though they sobbed quietly.

      “A hundred thousand of Yazid’s soldiers surrounded Hussein, May Allah Bless Him and his seventy-two warriors, right here in the desert where this city was later built. It was a battle between good and evil. Our people were dying of thirst but, when Hussein walked out from his camp and held his son above his head imploring Yazid’s troops for water for all the children, an arrow pierced his son’s neck.” She touched her