Brussels Station East Annex was located on the second and third floors of a nondescript low rise office building on the Avenue des Gaulois near the spacious Parc du Cinquantenaire, the “Park of the Fiftieth Anniversary” built for the 1880 National Exhibition commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of Belgian independence. The first floor, with its one way mirrored windows facing the street, was occupied by the International Pegasus Foundation according to highly polished brass plaque by the front door. And indeed the IPF was a legitimate “front” company which parleyed itself as a serious “non-profit” research organization with headquarters in Atlanta Georgia. The group’s mission, according to publicly available information, dedicated itself simply to promoting world peace and the eradication of hunger and poverty. The IPF, like many of the advocacy groups with a presence in Brussels, was there specifically to lobby the EU on behalf of the home ofice in Atlanta. All of that was certainly legitimate and true, to a point. Floors two and three were occupied by Annex personnel including intelligence officers, analysts, researchers, protective detail employees, secretaries and an impressive amount of sophisticated technology. The Annex employees, for the most part, came and went unnoticed from the building on the Avenue des Gaulois. It was just another business, non-descript and quiet. The way it was meant to be. The Belgian State Security Service or the Sûreté de l’État (SE), a civilian intelligence agency under the authority of the Ministry of Justice kept themselves, as best they could, au courrant or informed with the comings and goings of certain Annex employees just as they did with other known “cover” operations, be they Russian, German, French, Turkish or any other country with “interests” in Brussels. Albert Timmons, the current Director of the SE, has his hands full just keeping tabs on the whereabouts of suspected terrorists or other persons of interest of one stripe or another, to ever fully focus, to his satisfaction at least, on the information gathering activities of embassies, consulates, legations and trade groups, not to mention the hangers-on to the European Union including lobbyist and reporters many of whom served more than one master. What Timmons did not want was a repeat performance of loosing track on the whereabouts of certain terrorists. The last director’s tenure had his career shortened into an early retirement as a result.
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Max placed his skis on the outside rack, kicked the snow from this boots and opened the door to the chalet. Inside the spacious wood-panelled great room, Bobbie, Max’s wife, lay stretched out on the sofa in front of a roaring fire. “Did you hit all the skiers on slope or just some?” she asked. “No dear” he replied, “I just hit on some of the skiers on the bunny slope.” Max dodged a pillow cushion coming his way and made his way over to the bar and fixed a tall scotch with just a whisper of soda. Going over to the large window he looked out onto a view of the Mont Blanc massif. He liked coming back to ski in the Swiss Alps rather than the French or Italian Alps because after all he had learned to ski right here in Gstaadt where his prep school had their winter campus; that all seemed like a hundred years ago. Somewhere he had a photo of himself and a few of his chums all lined up with their skis along the ridge looking cocky, confidant and sure of themselves. It brought back memories. Where they were now, he wasn’t too sure but he had run one or two in professional circles while others he was sure, went on to make staggering forturnes or had taken over the family business and sometimes that meant even running a country. Max and Bobbie enjoyed their last dinner at the Restaurant Chesery considered to be one to the top 10 best restaurants in all of Switzerland. They ordered Le steak de veau du Saanenland et crème aux truffes and the rock lobster à la sauce aux herbes de Thai. They always enjoyed sharing each other’s dinner. To work into desert, they enjoyed a slice of Brie de Meaux farci aux truffes, “Chalet Chesery” and then shared an omelette viennoise et glace de caramel salé. It was a good way to say goodbye to Switzerland but an even better way lay ahead of them once they would reach the chalet. The next morning Max, now assuming the role of Professor DuBloisier an English literature professor at a Swiss boarding, sporting a long green Loden overcoat and Tyrolean hat to match, drove his rental car to Geneva where he joined a crowd of badly dressed Eurocrats to catch the late morning TGV to Brussels Gare Centrale or Central Station. A little past noon, Max arrived uneventfully in Brussels and quickly made his way out the station and across the street to the international Hotel de la Gare where he had made reservations some days before. Max inquired at the desk for any messages for Professor DuBloisier, there were none. The lobby was full of Eurocrats and lobbyist most of them speaking in English, bad English or French. Judging by the crowd, the Council or the European Commission must have had a full agenda planned for the week. He sat down in an overstuffed chair with a view of the gardens, ordered a pot of coffee and two croissants. He had plenty of time before catching a couple of cabs cross town for his rendez-vous at the Cinquantenaire.
Winnie arrived in Brussels that morning from Antwerp in plenty of time for an early lunch and despite the seemingly ever present light mist, he tightened the belt on his London Fog raincoat, pulled up his collar and walked over to the Rue de la Bourse to dine at one his favorite Brasseries. He cut through the majestic Grande Place he made his way to a little side street that lead to his culinary destination, Maison Cirio, an old Brussels styled, traditional café where time stood still somewhere around the 1900’s. Legend had it that a Count Cirio met his untimely death at the hands of an Italian anarchist as he stepped out of the restaurant. The owner, chagrined, renamed his establishment in Cirio’s honor. With a quick read of the menu, Winnie found what he was looking for without any trouble, it was the Carbonade Flamande, a hearty beef dish braised in Belgian ale with plenty of onions. He enjoyed himself thoroughly, moping up the gravy with thick pieces of crusty bread. As he was eating, Winnie went over in his mind the tactical issues that lay ahead. Critical to the project’s success was their man Dubloisier’s ability to gain the trust of Jack Rabbit, code name for an Iranian university professor of physics who was in Brussels for a convention. The research on JackRabbit was good but not extensive; they knew he had graduated from the same Swiss prep school as DuBloisier though 4 years his junior, that he was extremly well read and retained, according to an analyst at their Annex, an appreciation of, and a fondness for all things Western. JackRabbit was married to a professor also at the University of Tehran, School of Electrical and Computer Engineering who also had traveled to the West several times for conferences. Two children, one boy age 16 in the Upper School for Science and one daughter who just turned 14. There was more in the file, his and her likes and dislikes, religious views, associations -both personal and professional, photographs, and more. Winnie paid for his meal stepped outside and hailed a cab on the Rue de la Bourse, “Le Parc de Brussel, Rue Royale s’il vous plaît“, the cabbie put his little Renault in gear “oui monsieur” and smoothly pulled into traffic. Winnie would get to the Cinquantenaire but circuitously; experience and field craft taught him long ago to rely on training, craft and gut instincts or risk being deadly sorry.
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