Read THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) Online
Authors: Allan Topol
Omar awoke at four a.m., half an hour before the alarm was set to ring, in the dingy Hotel Manzoni in Rome. He could barely suppress his excitement. Musa had given him an order: “Find out how I can poison the Vatican’s water supply.” But Musa didn’t provide any guidance.
Since his arrival in Rome a week ago, Omar had read a dozen books about the Vatican, taken public tours and made observations from hills outside of the Vatican.
From all this, Omar had learned a great deal. He now knew that Vatican City, or “the Vatican,” as it was popularly known, covering only 108.7 acres, was an independent state—the smallest in the world—fully enclosed within the state of Italy. High stone walls surrounded most of the irregularly shaped Vatican. It had its own armed forces, the most famous of which are the Swiss Guards, their
yellow, orange, and blue uniforms said to have been designed by Michelangelo.
But most important for Omar, the Vatican had its own water supply. Somehow he had to locate a point of access to that system—a reservoir, a pump, a flange—any place at which a fast-acting poison could be injected.
After six days, Omar was becoming worried. Stating the problem was easy. But he didn’t have the faintest idea of the solution. And Musa didn’t tolerate failure. He couldn’t stay in Rome forever.
Yesterday morning, he decided to hang out in a caffe on Via Aurelia, close to the point where railroad tracks carrying freight in and out of the Vatican pass through the walls. There he had seen lots of laborers who worked inside the Vatican. He hoped to overhear some hint about how he might sneak into the Vatican. To his happy surprise, he heard one of them say that Rossi and Rossi, a Roman contractor, would be starting a project tomorrow to upgrade a portion of the underground piping for the Vatican’s water system. The foreman would be hiring about twenty day laborers at six tomorrow morning at the southwestern gate of the Vatican.
Omar figured the six o’clock hiring would be a madhouse. So yesterday afternoon he drove his Vespa to Rossi and Rossi’s office and found Ernesto, the foreman. “I have a sick baby and need the work,” Omar pleaded. That elicited the response, “Lots of people have sick babies.”
Omar took a different tack. He offered to pay up front to Ernesto twenty-five percent of each day’s wages. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash for tomorrow, which Ernesto was quick to pocket.
Omar still wanted to be early this morning. He didn’t trust Ernesto. After downing a double espresso in an open all-night caffe, he bought bread and cheese for lunch and jumped on his Vespa. Omar tore across the still, deserted streets of Rome.
He parked the Vespa in a corner of the courtyard outside the
entrance. Six men were already in line in front of the metal gate. Before jumping off the bike, he made a quick call on his cell phone. “Rashid, have the boat in place from noon on. I’ll call you if I’m coming.”
Then he pulled up the collar on his jacket to brace against the biting cold wind and got into line.
By five-thirty, the line broke down. Day labor was tough to find in this economy. About a hundred men, a diverse polyglot of Arabs, Africans, and Asians, mixed in with Sicilians and Calabrianas, were pushing and shoving. At six, Ernesto, holding a police truncheon, accompanied by two armed guards, opened the metal gate. The sea of humanity surged forward. Ernesto began pointing with his baton, selecting men to come inside. Omar yelled, “Hey Ernesto.” The foreman spotted him and waved him in. He followed the others into the Vatican, along a narrow road, then down a steep flight of stone steps, badly in need of repair, to a grotto with rough stone walls.
The work was menial and brutal: blasting through stone and concrete with jackhammers. Then shoveling dirt to reach the buried water pipe, much of which was heavily corroded. Omar worked hard for two hours, all the while looking, listening, and committing to memory details about the water supply. Somebody blew a whistle. Time for a break.
As he trotted off to the toilet, Omar passed a small, windowless office that served as Ernesto’s command center. Peering inside, Omar could hardly believe what he saw. In the center of an old, battered wooden table, a roll of architect’s drawings was spread open with wrenches on each side keeping it flat. Ernesto was hunched over studying the dusty sheets. Omar knew exactly what he had to do.
He labored for two more hours while hearing increased grumbling from other workers who were tired and slowing down. Not Omar. Musa had put all his warriors, as he called them, including Musa and Omar, through rigorous physical conditioning. He could easily handle this work.
Another whistle blew.
“An hour for lunch,” Ernesto called.
The workers dropped their tools and moved into corners of the grotto to eat. Omar, munching on his bread and cheese, remained close to Ernesto’s office, where the foreman was examining the plans. Five minutes later, Ernesto walked out, heading for the toilet. Omar watched him disappear around a corner.
Now go for it.
Omar stood up. Casually, he strode into Ernesto’s deserted office. He moved the wrenches, rolled up the drawings, tucked them under his arm, and bolted toward the stairs. None of the workers made a move to stop him.
Halfway up, he heard Ernesto shout, “Hey you, stop right there.”
Ignoring the command, Omar kept climbing. He had to be careful. Chunks of stone were falling off the stairs.
“I’m coming after you,” Ernesto called.
Omar peeked over his shoulder. He saw Ernesto stumble as a step gave way. The foreman lost his balance, fell, and tumbled down the stairs. Omar saw him whip out his cell phone.
Oh, oh. This won’t be easy.
At the top of the stairs Omar raced through an open doorway. He was on the road leading to the gate he had entered this morning.
Twenty yards from the gate, he heard a shout, “Stop now, or I’ll shoot.” Omar wheeled around to face one of the Swiss guards. From his reading, he knew these guards might once have been an effective fighting force, but not for decades. And the World War II vintage pistol the guard was holding confirmed that.
“Give me the drawings,” the guard called.
Looking intimidated, Omar walked toward the guard. “There must be a mistake. Ernesto, the foreman, asked me to take these to the Rossi and Rossi office. Call the company. They’ll confirm that.”
While the confused guard reached for his cell phone, Omar raised the paper roll and swung it, whacking the guard on the side
of the head and knocking him to the ground. The pistol fell out of his hand. Omar grabbed it and resumed running. He paused for an instant at the gate leading out of the Vatican, saw that the path was clear to the Vespa, and took out his cell phone. He punched in one number. As soon as he heard Rashid’s voice, he said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Rev the engines. They’ll be chasing me.”
He strapped the drawings to the back of the Vespa. Police sirens were approaching. As he started the engine, a municipal police car turned into the road and stopped, blocking Omar’s path. He saw only one policeman in the car, who was climbing out, gun in hand. “Stop, now,” he shouted.
Omar raised the Swiss guard’s revolver.
I hope this thing works.
Holding his breath, he fired, striking the policeman in the chest. The man collapsed to the ground.
Omar sped past the police car. He was now on a main street. He heard sirens converging on him from several different directions. Through the mirror, he saw a
carabinieri
car approaching fast from the rear.
Omar turned right onto a narrow road, jammed with heavy midday traffic. The
carabinieri
followed. In the auto gridlock, the police car, even with its wailing siren was no match for the Vespa. Omar sped between lanes of vehicles stopped for red lights. Now there were two
carabinieri
cruisers, both blasting their sirens, but they couldn’t get through the traffic.
Omar had spent long hours during the last week memorizing the map of that portion of Rome, leading to the sea and the dock near Fiumicino. He kept zigzagging from street to street, making it impossible for the police to fix a position on his Vespa. His fear was that they’d send up a helicopter armed with rockets, but that didn’t happen.
When he was a mile from the dock, he had exhausted the twists and turns. He had a stretch of straight road ahead. No other way to
the boat. And behind, he heard a siren and saw two
carabinieri
cars in the mirror. The lead was twenty five yards and the gap was closing fast.
Omar watched the cop on the passenger side reach out his hand with a gun and fire. To avoid a hail of bullets, Omar drove in an “S” pattern. Ahead, he heard the boat’s engine idling. Head down, he kept going.
Rashid had lowered the back of the boat. Omar sped up the ramp and braked the Vespa. Rashid immediately gunned the engine and pulled away from the dock.
The lead car kept going, hoping to make it on board. It flew off the dock, its front tires landing on the boat, but it couldn’t gain traction. It fell into the sea with the driver cursing and his partner firing wildly into the air.
Meantime, the
carabinieri
from the second car were shooting at the boat. Omar, concealed behind a bulky chair, returned their fire.
When they were out of range, Omar raced over to Rashid at the wheel. “Good work,” Omar said.
“It’s not over yet.”
Rashid pointed to a screen that showed two fast moving objects approaching from the northeast. Rashid was heading in a west-south westerly direction.
“Italian Navy,” Rashid said grimly.
“Musa said this Chinese boat is faster than anything they have.”
“We’re about to find out.”
The Navy ships were closing in. They heard shouts on an amplifier. “Stop now.”
“Hold tight,” Rashid said.
He opened the boat up to full throttle.
Musa was right. The Italian Navy couldn’t keep pace.
Craig looked into the mirror in the men’s room outside of his office. He didn’t like what he saw. A very old forty-eight. He had aged five years in the last six months. Deep lines were etched in his face and forehead. Spots of gray appearing in his formerly dark brown hair. He had heavy sacks under his gray eyes. He wasn’t eating well. He’d lost ten pounds, and his clothes hung loosely on his five ten frame. Sometimes he couldn’t perform at sex with Elizabeth.
He knew why. He was continually haunted by those bloody, maimed bodies in the Spanish train bound for Seville and on the ground alongside the tracks. A total of eighty-four dead. Scores more permanently injured. Despite Elizabeth repeatedly telling him, “You did everything humanly possible to prevent it. Don’t give yourself a beating,” he couldn’t stop himself.
Throughout his career, he’d always been able to compartmentalize,
to bury deep in his mind the things that hadn’t gone well. To move on. Not this time.
Images of victims, like the eight-year-old girl, in shock, her right arm severed at the elbow, bleeding from the chest, her glasses smashed against her face, kept popping into his mind. He had visited her in the hospital and learned she’d lost her sight. There were others, too. He still saw their faces and broken bodies.
If only he had gotten to the bomber more quickly. If only …
In addition to the past, the future was haunting him. After six months, he was no closer to apprehending the man who called himself Musa Ben Abdil, the leader of the Spanish Revenge. Craig had French and Spanish police combing all parts of their countries. They’d come up empty. This must be how the CIA Director had felt in the hunt for Osama Bin Laden after 9/11. What agonized Craig was his conviction that Musa would strike again. It was only a question of time. Craig was also convinced that Musa’s next attack would be far more daring and potentially devastating than the Spanish train bombing.
After the murder of the Spanish policeman next to the school bus in the parking lot in October, Craig had expected that attack to occur at the Alhambra. The enhanced security Craig had arranged with Carlos had been all for naught. A month ago, Alvarez had cancelled it.
While Craig was washing his hands, the cell phone in his pocket rang. Craig checked caller ID: Giuseppe.
“We have to talk. I’m on my way to the airport in Rome. Be at your office ASAP.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s do it in person. Have Elizabeth there, if you can.”
“The Spanish Revenge?”
“You tell me.”
Craig hung up the phone and felt a surge of hope.
“I know this will be difficult for the two of you,” Giuseppe said to Craig and Elizabeth sitting across the table in Craig’s office, “but will you let me tell the whole story without interrupting?”
“Only this one time,” Craig said, smiling. “Now talk, for God’s sake!”
For the next twenty minutes, Craig and Elizabeth didn’t say a word while Giuseppe told the story of the theft of the plans from the Vatican and the chase of the Arab-looking man on the Vespa. At the end, Giuseppe said, “So we have one dead Roman policeman, the guy who tried to stop the Vespa outside the Vatican. Fortunately, we rescued the two
carabinieri
from their cruiser in the sea. Wet and humiliated.”
When he was finished, Craig pounced. “I don’t understand why the police in Rome or the Italian Navy didn’t call for helicopters. We’d now have these people in custody.”
“Agreed. I asked the same question.”
“And?”
“Machismo. ‘I can do it myself.’ Italian men get that attitude from their mother’s milk. It’s in the air we breathe.”
Craig sighed. “Which way was the boat heading?”
“On a line toward the border between Morocco and Algeria. Our people didn’t get an ID number. But they know it was of Chinese manufacture. Very fast.”
“Son of a bitch,” Craig said excitedly. “This has to be the Spanish Revenge. We’ve been looking for them in France and Spain while their base is in North Africa.”
“How can you be sure it’s the Spanish Revenge?” Giuseppe asked.
“The explosive device used on the Spanish train was state-of-the-art Chinese. Ditto for the boat. Also the guy who stole the plans is an Arab. Only one reason he would want them.”
Elizabeth completed Craig’s thought. “To launch a terrorist
attack on the Vatican. That’s exactly what Musa Ben Abdil would do.”
“Precisely,” Craig said. “Hitting Christianity at its heart.”
“More than that,” she added. “Pope Innocent the VIII lent his support and prestige to Isabella and Ferdinand’s battle to drive Islam from Spain and Europe. When they succeeded with the fall of Granada, ending eight hundred years rule of Islam in Spain, the Pope celebrated their victory with a solemn procession from the Vatican to the Piazza Navona and the Church of Spain. There he hailed Isabella and Ferdinand as the Catholic Monarchs and declared them to be ‘the Athletes of Christ.’ So for the man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil, an attack on the Vatican is logical.”
“It’s a tough place to defend,” Giuseppe said. “They refuse to let Italian police or military inside the Vatican. Their Swiss guards have exclusive jurisdiction.”
“Can’t you get them to waive it under the circumstances?”
“Never. Not this Pope.”
“What do you know about the stolen drawings?” Elizabeth asked.
“They’re for the Vatican’s water supply.”
“Which means Musa wants to poison it.”
“Or introduce bombs into the pipes,” Craig said. “Tell us about the Arab-looking man who stole the plans.”
“We don’t have a name.”
Craig was flabbergasted. “Wait a minute. A contractor like Rossi and Rossi can hire guys without looking at papers or listing them?”
“It’s day labor. Under the table. They’re mostly illegals. If the contractor demands papers, the market will dry up.”
“And they’ll have to pay full wages and benefits to Italian citizens, which will drive up the cost of construction projects. I love Italy dearly, but the corruption is mind boggling.”
Giuseppe shrugged. “Don’t get sanctimonious. I’ve heard the US has a few illegals doing work from time to time. But this Arab killed a cop, so our prosecutors are going all out. They sent an
artist to talk to Ernesto, the foreman. Once he makes a sketch of the Arab, the police will take it to every hotel in the city. To see if someone recognizes him. That way we may get an ID. Also, a copy of a passport. Under Italian law, all hotels have to copy passports and register guests with the police. Even the fleabags do it, or the police will shut them down. Very few places violate this law. I’ll work closely on this with the police and let the two of you know.”
“If we locate him,” Elizabeth said, “he could lead us back to Musa.”
Craig was on his feet, pacing, hands behind his back, not saying a word.
“What’s he doing?” Giuseppe asked Elizabeth.
“He has a great thought running around in his mind.”
“Will he share it with us?”
“Eventually.”
Craig stopped pacing and wheeled around. “Listen, you two. Satellite photos of North Africa. That’s what we need. The base of Musa’s Spanish Revenge must be in the Atlas Mountains in the border region between Morocco and Algeria. Just as Osama Bin Ladin’s base for Al Qaeda was in the mountains between Pakistan and Afghanistan.”
He turned to Giuseppe, “Do you know whether any of the European governments have good recent satellite photos of that area?”
Giuseppe shook his head. “Negative. Only the Americans. And since Dalton became President, they won’t share anything with us. At least not with the Italian government.”
“What about with the French? Do you think they would share with Paris?”
“I don’t know.”
Craig called Jacques. “I’m working on a hypothesis that Musa’s Spanish Revenge base may be in North Africa. I need satellite photos of the Atlas Mountains.”
“Only Washington has them.”
“Can you get them from Norris at the CIA?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Dalton won’t let the CIA give me a bottle of water. Even after we saved his life.”
Craig looked at Elizabeth. “Want to fly to Washington with me?”
“No, but I’ll fly to New York. I’d like to meet with Ned, my editor, about the book tomorrow morning. I gave him part one, the first two hundred pages last week. I’d like to get his reaction in person. I’ll come down to Washington in the afternoon.”
“Perfect.”
Her nose wrinkled, Elizabeth was looking at Craig. “Do you really think you can get cooperation in Washington? I mean the way President Dalton hates Europe.”
“I’ll give it a shot. I have some old friends in the CIA. And I can be persuasive.”
Craig called the travel agent.
“I’m on a four thirty Air France to Dulles. You’re on their five to JFK,” he told Elizabeth. “Time for lunch. Then we go to the airport.”
“You and Giuseppe do lunch. I have to finish up something at the
Herald
.”
Craig took Giuseppe to a small bistro a block away. When they had ordered, Giuseppe said, “Back in the office you told me you have Italian roots.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Page doesn’t sound like an Italian name to me.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m interested. Tell me. If you don’t finish your steak and frites, it won’t kill you. The airline will feed you.”
Craig groaned.
“Air France isn’t bad. C’mon, stop stalling. I want to hear this.”
“My dad’s parents had a farm between Milan and Verona. They grew grapes and some other fruit. He was the youngest of
five children. Four years old at the time the American troops were fighting their way north in Italy and the Germans were retreating.
“The Jews had been able to survive in Italy as long as it was just Mussolini, but once the Germans moved into the country, they rounded up and deported the Jews. Although nobody in my family was Jewish, my grandfather hid in his barn and fed for months a Jewish family he had been friendly with. Two adults and two children. Then one day, the retreating Germans were so close my grandfather could hear them. He hid everybody, his wife and all five of his children. My grandfather put my father at the bottom of a pile of hay in the field. He faced the German soldiers himself, telling them he lived alone.
“The Germans found everyone except my father. The rest of his family. The four Jews. They killed them all with machine gun fire. My father waited hours before coming out. When he did, the Germans were gone. The dead were left behind. Can you imagine what it would be like to deal with that as a four year old?”
Giuseppe was too stunned to respond. Craig answered his own question.
“I can’t. I heard the story from my father. He told me that he laid down in his bed and cried. All alone. Not knowing where to go or what to do. Four years old.
“The next day the American troops arrived. When a captain by the name of Page was searching the farmhouse, he found my father, who could barely speak. Captain Page pieced the story together from what he saw. He couldn’t leave my father on the farm. So he took him with his unit. A couple of weeks later, Captain Page was hit with a bullet in the shoulder. When they shipped him back to the United States, he took my father home with him to Monessen, Pennsylvania.”
Giuseppe asked, “What was your mother like?”
“Blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Her family had been from Sweden. My dad met her when he was in college at Carnegie Tech,
where he got an engineering degree. Then they went back to Monessen to live. He began as an engineer and eventually became part of the management team at the local steel mill. My Dad died about two years ago. When I was still with the CIA. My mother a year before that. I never had any siblings.”
Craig paused for a minute and swallowed hard. “Behaving honorably meant a great deal to my dad. And he loved the United States. He never stopped being grateful to Captain Page and the American Army. All the freedoms my friends assumed, he wouldn’t let me take for granted.”
“He must have been proud of what you were doing. I mean a top agent with the CIA.”
“He was. I wanted him to come to the White House when I received the Medal of Freedom. He was sick so I lined up a car and driver. But he lapsed into a coma two days before. He died a week later.”
Craig paused. Remembering was difficult. He still felt a strong bond with his dad.
“When I graduated from college, he gave me a plane ticket and told me to visit the old family farm, so I would never forget where I came from and if it weren’t for the US Army, I would never be alive.”
“What’d you see?”
“Not much. Developers had built housing on the spot, but that didn’t matter. I closed my eyes and imagined my dad lying in bed when Captain Page found him. That story’s been pivotal to my whole life. I had to do something to serve the United States. That’s why I joined the CIA. I’d still be there, if it weren’t for Director Kirby and his jealousy.”
“Kirby always was a miserable son of a bitch. We despised him here in Europe, if that’s any consolation.”
“Now I’m heading back to Washington. Kirby’s gone. Norris has the Director’s job. And I’ll still be walking into a hornet’s nest.”