Read THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) Online
Authors: Allan Topol
“Only by his reputation. The butcher of Grozny. He ordered his men to attack mosques during prayers. He killed children in front of their parents to make them talk. Of all the despicable Russian pigs, he was the cruelest towards the Muslims in Chechnya. I would gladly give him the justice he deserves. Not as a favor to you, but on behalf all those he killed.”
Musa paused for a moment, then continued, “You’ll stay here tonight. Tomorrow you will see how I deal with Mikail Ivanoff. I promise you he will not be a threat to Androshka or anyone else.”
At sunrise, one of Musa’s men woke General Zhou, Androshka, and Captain Cheng. A woman handed each of them a cup of scalding, strong coffee, then led them to a flat, rocky field on which General Zhou had seen men playing soccer yesterday. The goals were gone. In the center of the field stood four wooden stakes, each about six feet high.
The morning air was chilly. General Zhou was shivering.
Standing next to a magnificent gray horse, Musa, robed in a multicolored vest, was waiting for General Zhou.
“My Berber ancestors knew how to deal with their enemies,” Musa said. He pointed to the three chairs along the side of the field. General Zhou sat in the center with Captain Cheng on one side and Androshka on the other.
Musa climbed onto his horse and raised his hand. That was the signal for Berber guards to bring Mikail and his three Russian
bodyguards onto the field from an adjacent building. The four were bound at the ankles with rope. Their wrists were tied behind their backs. The guards dragged the Russians by heavy ropes wrapped around their chests, stopping in front of Androshka.
Mikail was glaring at her. He fired off a string of curses in Russian. She glared back and returned his diatribe. Then she got up and boldly moved forward. She spit in his face. “For all the beatings you gave me.”
Before he could spit back, she retreated.
“I’ll kill you, bitch,” Mikail cried out.
“You’re done killing people,” Musa shouted. “Now you’re getting justice for what you did in Chechnya.”
He signaled the guards, who pulled the four Russians to the stakes. The men were forced to their feet. Each was tied tightly with his back to a stake.
From across the field, three other Berbers were approaching Musa on roan horses, carrying spears. One of them had two spears. He handed one to Musa.
General Zhou had heard that a sport like this was practiced in Muslim mountain areas of China, but he had never seen it.
He watched in awe as the four horsemen rode to the far end of the field. Then, with Musa in front, each spurring his horse, one arm outstretched, a spear in his hand, the four galloped toward the Russians, their horses kicking dust in the air. At a distance of fifty yards, they split, with each of them heading toward a separate captive. Musa was on a beeline for Mikail, the terror on the Russian’s face visible to General Zhou.
In a swift motion, Musa plunged the spear into Mikail’s chest. He left it stuck there. The others did likewise with their prey. The four Russians were screaming in agony, blood pouring down their bodies.
Ignoring the screams, the horsemen turned and rode back to the far end of the field where they picked up new spears. Two more
times they repeated the exercise. By then all the Russians were silent.
One of the Berbers walked from one to the other checking pulses. “All dead,” he announced.
Watching Musa dismount, it occurred to General Zhou that Musa was truly amazing. He was a man trying to span six centuries. One leg was in the twenty first—thoroughly modern using high tech resources—the other back in the fifteenth.
Musa walked over to General Zhou. “Your friend Androshka never has to worry about these Russian pigs.”
“I thank you for that.”
“I know how to treat my friends … and my enemies.”
The words hung in the air. General Zhou now understood that Musa had an additional objective with this morning’s show.
Craig sipped espresso from a china cup and glanced at Elizabeth and Giuseppe across the conference room table. Both were completely absorbed, reading the report Philippe had compiled on Ahmed Sadi, now calling himself Musa Ben Abdil.
When they were finished, he asked, “Well, what do you think?”
Giuseppe responded, “She did a thorough job. We now know everything about Musa … let’s call him that … from the time he was born in 1978. From his Arab mother and Berber father, who moved to Paris from Morocco in 1970.”
“Until a year ago,” Craig replied. “When he disappeared.”
“Went underground,” Elizabeth corrected. Then thoughtfully she added, “But what do we really know? He was like millions of other poor Muslim kids growing up in the slums outside of Paris, London, Amsterdam, Rome, whatever. All of Western Europe has
this incredible problem of Muslims, children of immigrants who can’t or won’t assimilate into mainstream society.”
She paused to take a breath. “You have to understand these people. How hopeless their plight is. They realize they’ve been marginalized by mainstream European society. The Paris riots in ’05 were kid stuff. The next one will be far more bloody. They’re now controlling expanding crime-ridden, poverty-infested areas within large cities, where the police are afraid to go.”
“I’ve seen it in Italy,” Giuseppe said. “But what’s the solution?”
“There isn’t one,” Elizabeth said. “It’s too late. We’re sowing the seeds of well meaning, but failed, policies. When the immigrants began arriving
en masse,
the Western European governments were unwilling to require assimilation as the price of entry, or even citizenship. That wouldn’t have been PC. Let them follow their customs, even if it meant circumcision of girls on the kitchen table and wife beating.” She was raising her voice.
“This is obviously a hot-button issue for you,” Giuseppe said.
“Damn right. How these supposedly enlightened governments let them treat their women is outrageous. Nor did the Christian leaders think about demographics. You don’t need a Ph.D. in math to realize that, over time, the Muslim immigrants who have many children, some with more than one wife, will multiply exponentially, while the children of the current majority, hell-bent on careers, upward mobility, and leisure, often decide to have no children, or one at most. We’re typical. Craig had one child. I never had any. Giuseppe, what about you?”
“One. Paolo is twelve.”
“My point exactly. In mostly Catholic France, Muslims are already more than ten percent of the population. Most of them are descendants of immigrants from Algeria, Morocco, or elsewhere in Africa. In the Paris suburbs and Marseilles they’re a much greater percentage. In Brussels, where a fourth of the residents are foreigners,
sixty percent of the children born last year were born to Muslims. In Amsterdam and Rotterdam, Muslims will be a majority by 2020. In Berlin and Manchester, England, the governments have virtually ceded areas to Muslims.”
“But haven’t the European governments shut off the flow of new Muslim immigrants?” Giuseppe asked.
“They want to, but they can’t anymore than a seawall can stop the waters from a tsunami. Look at the facts. Millions of impoverished Muslims live, not only in North Africa, but in strife-torn Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran. For them, Western Europe, with its generous welfare states and the promise of jobs, is paradise. Those most determined will get there. Some by boat, risking their lives on the Mediterranean or Atlantic. Others over land, crossing the border between Turkey and Greece, some of which is being fortified with barbed wire and armed EU troops. It won’t succeed in blocking the flow. The Muslim Turks, furious at the EU for denying them membership, are facilitating the movement of these illegal immigrants across their border into EU Greece. From there, they can easily travel to Germany, France, or England.”
Craig turned to Giuseppe. “Elizabeth’s doing a book on the subject.
Heads in the Sand
—
Europe Ignores Its Islamic Threat.
Everything she told you is right.”
“But how’s it help us locate Musa?” Giuseppe asked.
“We know he’s a lot smarter than most,” Elizabeth said. “Thanks to benevolent teachers and scholarships, he has an educational background that very few in the
banieues
—the poor suburbs of Paris—ever obtain.”
“That may explain why he’s never taken up with the religious nuts,” Craig said. “According to the report Philippe prepared, and Lila confirmed this, Musa has no interest in going to a mosque or observing religious practices.”
“Clearly a belief in Allah isn’t motivating him,” Elizabeth said, “If indeed he believes at all.”
Craig said, “I think the riots of 2005 and police brutality turned him into a terrorist. A French psychiatrist, who read Philippe’s report, reached that conclusion.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “That’s only part of it. The key to understanding Musa is back at Columbia University, where he switched from engineering to history. He sees himself as a fifteenth-century warrior, confronting Isabella and Ferdinand.”
“You think he’s delusional?” Craig asked.
“I’m not a shrink. I imagine he views himself as a visionary.”
“All of this philosophical crap is interesting,” Giuseppe said, “but we still have to find Musa.”
Elizabeth looked at Craig and smiled. “Your friend keeps his eye on the ball.”
“Somebody has to,” Giuseppe replied.
“Alright,” Craig said. “I want to take stock of our dismal situation. Jacques’s people are pressing every source they have in the Paris
banieues.
So far, they haven’t gotten squat. No one has any idea where Ahmed and Omar are. It’s as if they vanished into thin air. I hate to admit it, but we’re stymied.”
Elizabeth said, “I’ll bet they’re holed up somewhere in the Spanish countryside. And Musa’s planning his next attack.”
Craig thought she was right, and he hated hearing it. Alvarez would never cooperate with Craig. Somehow he had to work around the mustache-twirling Spanish Defense Minister and get to Musa before he launched that attack.
Musa flew to Seville, rented a car, and drove to Granada. He had been there twice before. Now, under the ambitious plan proposed by General Zhou, the Alhambra was key. He had to see it again. To Musa, seizing a portion of Southern Spain meant retaking the Alhambra.
As he approached the exquisite red palace, which had been the home of Moorish kings for centuries, he felt pride and bitterness. Pride that such an awe-inspiring structure was built by his Islamic ancestors. Bitterness as he thought about January 2, 1492, when Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand planted a cross on Alhambra Hill and occupied the building. The final conquest of the Catholic sovereigns. The final defeat of the Muslims in Europe.
It gnawed at him that
they
took over
our
palace and converted it to
their
own.
Musa parked in a public lot, purchased a ticket, and followed the crowd of tourists moving slowly inside.
He walked through the corridors, astounded by the beauty and opulence of the magnificent palace constructed by the Nasrid kings, the last Muslim dynasty in Southern Spain. They drew upon the finest architects and artisans of their beloved Al Andalus.
Musa walked from room to room, amazed by the incredible craftsmanship. Walls were adorned with carved plaster, lacy and delicate abstract patterns, and Arabic inscriptions. Floors covered with intricate mosaic tiles. Ceilings of carved wood and ornate plaster.
As he moved from chamber to chamber, he saw numerous ponds and fountains. Light from outside, filtering through the arches, danced on the shimmering water.
He thought about his medieval hero, Musa Ben Abdil. Tried to imagine what he felt like in the final days and hours before his death. How he must have beseeched his dispirited colleagues to keep fighting. To no avail. A man of courage, death became his only option.
This time it would end differently, Musa swore. With General Zhou’s support and his own genius for leadership and ability to mobilize an army of discontented Muslims, he would be victorious. The Alhambra his prize.
At one in the afternoon, he left the building and walked back toward his car. As he entered the parking lot, he noticed a policeman across the road looking at him. The policeman removed a piece of paper from his pocket, studied it, then stared at Musa. At that moment, a group of children around ten or twelve years old, passed between Musa and the policeman heading toward their yellow bus parked close to Musa’s car. Musa moved with them, trying to use them as a shield to block the policeman’s view.
As Musa reached the back of his car, the policeman, still holding
the paper, sprinted across the road and approached Musa. “Show me your ID.”
Musa replied calmly, “Sure. It’s in the glove compartment. I’ll get it.”
The policeman was standing so close Musa could feel his breath. Musa unlocked the car on the passenger side and reached into the glove compartment. Without hesitation, Musa grabbed the Beretta and fired a shot into the policeman’s chest. As he fell to the ground, Musa yanked the paper from his hand. The children had not yet boarded their bus. Some of them screamed. Musa raised the gun and fired three shots into the windows of the empty school bus. Children shrieked in terror and raced away. Other drivers saw what was happening, cried out, and scattered in all directions, running into each other in the pandemonium.
Musa got into his car and drove away, heading down toward Granada. Minutes later, he heard the sirens of police cars coming up the hill passing him, the red lights flashing on their roofs as they raced toward the Alhambra.
To avoid arousing suspicion, Musa was careful to drive at the speed limit. Without stopping, he picked up the policeman’s crumpled paper from the car seat and glanced at it. What he saw stunned him: An Interpol alert with his name, Ahmed Sadi, and his picture. Underneath were the words: “Wanted for questioning. Armed and dangerous.”
Musa was perplexed. Someone, probably Craig Page, had figured out he was responsible for the train bombing. But how? Though that question bothered him, Musa was able to get it out of his mind. It didn’t matter what Craig knew. With General Zhou’s help, the Spanish Revenge was an unstoppable force.
He would be returning to the Alhambra. The next time would be to retake what rightfully belongs to Islam.
It was ten in the evening, and Craig was on his way to the
Herald
office to meet Elizabeth. She was working on her outline for the book, and they planned to have a late dinner.
As Craig approached the
Herald
building, his cell phone rang. It was Carlos in Madrid.
“A policeman was shot outside the Alhambra at one this afternoon,” Carlos said speaking rapidly in an agitated voice. “We believe the shooter was Ahmed Sadi. It appears as if the policeman identified him from the photograph you distributed to Spanish law-enforcement agencies.”
“What happened to Ahmed?”
“He got away.”
Craig groaned. “Now you tell me. Nine hours later.”
“Sorry. Our only witnesses were hysterical ten year olds. It took time to piece together a description and have a police artist produce a picture. We have road blocks up everywhere. We’re checking trains and planes.”
“You’re wasting your time. He’s long gone from the area. Probably from Spain.”
Craig thought about this development. “This could be useful. He might be planning something that involves the Alhambra. With this shooting, he may have tipped his hand.”
“Good point. What do you want me to do?”
“Move an army unit into the area to enhance security. Increase checks on all visitors. If the Alhambra is his next target, we’ll be waiting for him.”