THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) (12 page)

21

MOROCCO

General Zhou was puzzled when he received the early morning call in Paris from Musa on the encrypted Chinese cell phone. “Can you come to the base to meet with me?” Musa said. He sounded so anxious and eager that General Zhou was on a plane to Marrakech later in the morning.

Now he closed his eyes as Musa’s car and driver climbed into the Atlas Mountains. It was dusk, and a blanket of fog was descending over the area. He didn’t want to look down, as the driver took one hairpin turn after another at breakneck speed. He was glad Androshka wasn’t with him. She’d be in a panic and screaming at the driver to slow down.

General Zhou had a fatalistic view of life’s risks. His mission in life was to extend Chinese hegemony against all odds. When forces beyond his control decided to end his life on earth, it would end.

General Zhou’s last visit to the base was a month ago, and he
was pleased at how the size of Musa’s army had swelled with Berber recruits from North Africa. Musa then had an army of five thousand, which was still growing. Chinese officers had been conducting rigorous training exercises. Musa’s men had been unloading crates of sophisticated new Chinese equipment.

It was dark when they reached the base. Musa was waiting for General Zhou in his refurbished headquarters outfitted with lots of high-tech Chinese equipment. Computers and monitoring screens filled half the office.

“I have to show you something,” Musa said. He sounded exhilarated.

He led the way to a table in the corner where a dusty roll of architect’s drawings were stretched out.

Before General Zhou had a chance to inspect them, Musa said, “Schematics for the Vatican’s water supply. Omar stole them. My plan is to inject poison chemicals at several points. I need you to supply the chemicals.”

As General Zhou studied the plans, Musa continued, “Can you get me something odorless and colorless? It has to kill from dermal contact. The Pope and his Cardinals may drink bottled water, but they surely use the Vatican’s water to bathe.”

General Zhou was focused on a spot in the center of the drawing. “This is the central reservoir,” he said pointing. “Poison injected here will permeate the entire water supply in a matter of hours.”

“Then I should inject it at the end of the day to increase the likelihood the Pope will have contact with the water before the poison’s detected.”

Listening to Musa, General Zhou was getting an idea. “Is this your primary objective. To assassinate the Pope?”

“Absolutely. He more than any other individual is the symbol of the Christian religion. But I’m not wedded to the idea of poisoning the water. If you have another way of achieving this objective, I’m willing to consider it.”

“OK. Let me suggest this. On Easter morning, Sunday, March 28, the Pope will go out onto the balcony overlooking St. Peter’s Square, as he does every Easter Sunday. There he talks to the huge assembled crowd. Thousands of people. Suppose at the time he was speaking, your men launched four missiles through open windows from different Rome apartments outside of the Vatican facing St. Peter’s Square. One aimed at the Pope and his entourage. Another at the Basilica of St. Peter’s. Two others at the crowds in the square. The damage would be tremendous. Death for the Pope and his advisors. Destruction to the Vatican. Death for thousands in the crowds from a direct hit and also from pieces of the structure falling on the square. Death will rain down. It will be far more devastating than 9/11. What do you think?”

“I like it,” Musa said, his voice pulsing with excitement, while pumping his fist into the air for emphasis. “It will cause much more damage and many more casualties, achieving greater publicity. And most important, it will increase the chances of assassinating the Pope. But how do we manage the logistics?”

General Zhou’s mind was racing ahead. “We’ll deliver the missile parts to a warehouse in Torino on Friday, March 26. Good Friday. There we’ll make the handoff to your people and provide them with instructions to assemble and operate the missiles. Your men can transport them in four separate vans to apartments in Rome. Omar stole the plans for the Vatican water system. He must know his way around the city. He can find the apartments.”

Musa was nodding. “With two weeks until Easter Sunday, we have plenty of time to do that.”

“Now let’s talk about the invasion of Southern Spain. Are you on schedule to launch this attack on March 28, Easter Sunday as well?”

“Absolutely,” Musa said. “Fortunately King Hassan has not recovered sufficiently from his stroke to know what’s happening. In return for the money I deposited in Prime Minister Farez’s Swiss bank account, he’s agreed to look the other way and let arms come into the country.”

“Is that relationship secure?”

“Definitely. Farez wants to move the country away from a secular state toward Islam and he hates the Christians in Europe. He’ll be cheering us on. I’ve had to agree not to launch any attacks on Moroccan soil and not to do anything impinging on Moroccan sovereignty. But that’s no problem.”

“Has the Chinese equipment been arriving?”

“Everything except the pontoon boats.”

“They’re in route.”

General Zhou hoped that was true. He had no idea.

“They should have been here by now,” Musa said, his voice showing concern. “They’re critical for the attack.”

General Zhou made a mental note to talk to Freddy Wu as soon as he returned to Paris. For now he wanted to change the subject. “Where will you store the boats when they arrive?”

“I’ve taken control of a warehouse and pier at the point of embarkation on this side of Mediterranean. We won’t have a problem. But …” Musa paused and looked troubled. “I’m worried what we’ll encounter in Spain.”

“What do you mean?”

“I sent Omar into Southern Spain on a fact-finding mission. He learned that Spain has large land and naval contingents on their southern coast supported with heavy artillery. I’m certain my troops are better trained and tougher than the Spanish army, which idles around growing fat. If my troops make it onto Spanish soil, they’ll outfight the Spanish troops. But if they can hold us off even for a short while, they’ll be able to call in air support and wipe us out. If I had an air force …”

General Zhou shook his head. Musa had raised this before, and General Zhou had turned him down. Chinese planes meant Chinese pilots. In exile, there were limits to what he could do. “Not possible.”

“Then what? I can’t expose my men to certain death. You’re the
military man. You have to give me a solution.”

General Zhou was thinking. “Suppose the Spanish Defense Minister were to move his troops out of the area before Easter?”

“The problem goes away.”

22

LANGLEY

Craig realized he had an uphill battle as he glanced at the morning
Washington Post
while waiting in the reception area outside the office of CIA Director John Norris.

Twenty minutes ago, Dale, the gray-haired receptionist who had been on the desk inside the entrance to the building forever, remembered Craig and gave him a friendly greeting. “Good to see you, Mr. Page. I heard we lost you to Paris because the women and wine are better,” he said with a broad smile while they were waiting for Craig’s escort.

“Who said that?” Craig fired back.

“You know. People talk. That’s the word around the agency.”

Craig wasn’t sure whether Dale was putting him on or whether that was the gossip.

“The wine for sure,” Craig responded. “The women are about even.”

Dale answered the phone on his desk, put it down, and told Craig, “Your escort will be with you shortly.”

After working with the agency for twenty years and roaming freely through this building, it felt strange for Craig to need an escort. He’d had a meteoric rise followed by a sudden plunge.

Waiting for his escort, Craig walked over to the window and looked at the rolling Virginia countryside with spring bursting out. He remembered the first time he’d set foot in the headquarters building, twenty-three years ago. After graduating from Carnegie Mellon in chemical engineering, he was working in Houston for Spartan Oil. He and Caroline were happy, and Francesca was the smartest, cutest, and most athletic five-year-old he had ever seen. Then the agency recruited him for his oil expertise. “Energy is the Achilles heel of this country,” the recruiter had said. “You have the knowledge we need. With your background you’ll have the perfect cover for a Middle East assignment.” He knew Craig’s bio. How the US Army had saved his father’s life. He appealed to Craig’s patriotism. Ultimately, that carried the day. Craig was thrilled to have a chance to serve his country.

When Craig said he was interested, the agency flew him, Caroline, and Francesca to Washington. The final decision on his hire was made by the Director of Personnel, on the fourth floor.

After two years analyzing oil data in Langley, he was sent to Dubai to open an oil development firm, CCF Industries, his cover for an assignment that meant trolling for information that could affect the flow of oil to the United States. With the increased terrorist threat, Craig’s job morphed into counterterrorism work. He wasn’t surprised. The terrorists happened to be where the oil was. And Craig had distinguished himself in training at the Farm. His natural athleticism coupled with strength and hand-eye coordination made him an effective killer. Equally adroit at self defense.

He loved his work. Everything was wonderful, until Caroline died. He came back to Langley so Francesca could finish high
school. Once she started college, Craig went back to Dubai as Director of Middle East Operations. The perfect job, wrecked once that asshole Kirby became Director, or DCI as it is known. A former congressman with no intelligence background, that arrogant prick insisted on controlling everything. When Craig learned that Al Qaeda planned a huge suicide bombing in Madison Square Garden, Kirby wanted Craig to stay in Dubai. He had no intention of doing that. He was the only one who knew the MO of Achmed, the ringleader. So instead, he followed Achmed to New York, killed Achmed, and foiled the attack. That earned him the Medal of Freedom from President Brewster.

Easily the best day of my life, Craig recalled. That morning at the White House, accompanied by Francesca, when President Brewster presented him with the Medal of Freedom in the Oval Office.

“On behalf of a grateful nation,” Brewster said, as he held out the medal and shook Craig’s hand. Craig could still hear Brewster’s words as if it were yesterday.

Unfortunately, Craig’s disregard of Kirby’s orders and the Presidential award led to Kirby’s hatred. Six months later it was payback time. The DCI announced a reorganization that eliminated Craig’s job. “A bureaucratic way of Kirby firing me,” Craig explained to Francesca.

When Craig had received the Medal of Freedom, Brewster had said, “My door will always be open to you.” Craig considered calling Brewster to complain and seek reinstatement. But that seemed inappropriate. Kirby was the DCI. He could run the Agency however he wanted.

In addition, Craig was dismayed that no one in the CIA, none of his so-called friends, except for Betty Richards, were willing to support him. They were all too afraid of losing their jobs. He didn’t want to work in the kind of place the Agency had become in the last few years. So he picked up and moved to Milan, where he opened a private consulting firm. How bizarre, he thought, that a year and a
half later he ended up back in the Oval Office with Brewster, because of General Zhou and Operation Dragon Oil. That now seemed very long ago.

His reminiscence was interrupted by a sharp voice from behind. “Mr. Page.”

He pivoted and saw a thin woman, with a narrow face and a pointed nose, and dyed black hair, stiff from this morning’s coiffing, wearing a prissy-looking, mud-brown suit and walking from the elevator toward Craig as if she had a stick up her rear. He immediately recognized Adrian, Norris’s secretary. “I’ll take you to his office,” she said in a frigid voice.

“Happy to see you again, too.”

She said not a word in the elevator, then pointed to a chair in the reception area. “He’ll be with you shortly,” she said tersely.

When the door finally opened, Norris walked out. No smile. No handshake. Simply, “Come on in, Craig.”

He led Craig to a small round table in the corner. “Something to drink?”

“How about a cup of hot, black coffee. There’s a chill in the air.”

Norris ignored Craig’s words, hit the intercom and placed the order.

Craig didn’t expect to be welcomed with a brass band, but he hadn’t anticipated downright hostility. As he thought about it, he understood what was driving Norris. John had always been insecure and a good company man. Dalton was committed to an isolationist foreign policy, and the President had made a point of showing his disdain for Europe. That meant any European representative was the enemy in Dalton’s, and hence Norris’s, view. Then there was the personal factor. Norris no doubt knew that Brewster had offered Craig the CIA Director’s job before Norris. It was only because Craig turned it down in favor of the EU position that Norris was DCI. They’d never gotten along when Craig was with the Agency. This had to exacerbate their relationship.

Sizing up the situation, Craig decided his only chance of obtaining Norris’s cooperation was by presenting Musa as a common threat.

“Things have changed a lot since Dalton replaced your friend Brewster,” Norris said.

“I gather that.”

“The country was ready for a change. We’d been hemorrhaging money. Having our best young men and women killed off in foreign wars we couldn’t win. As President Dalton said in his Philadelphia speech, ‘Let the rest of the world worry about their own problems. It’s time we rebuilt America.’”

Craig saw his opening. “That assumes what happens abroad won’t pose a threat to people in the US.”

“True. But in the past, those fears have been exaggerated. What brings you to Washington?”

“I want to sound the alarm about a new foreign threat that could reach these shores and seek your help in heading it off.”

Adrian returned with coffee. Craig took a sip and waited until she left to summarize for Norris the Spanish train bombing and the theft of Vatican water plans. “At this point, all I’m asking is access to your routine satellite photos of Northern Africa, particularly Algeria and Morocco.”

Norris frowned and tapped his fingers on the table. “What’s any of this have to do with us?”

“You have a considerable Catholic population. They care about the Vatican.”

“You ever heard of the separation between church and state in the American Constitution? Besides, you don’t have hard evidence of an imminent attack on the Vatican or anywhere else.”

Craig couldn’t disagree with that. “I want the photos to shut down the Spanish Revenge before their next attack.”

“Sounds to me as if this character Musa is focused on Europe. He’s not our problem.”

“Do you honestly believe that a powerful Islamic terrorist
organization won’t eventually attack the United States? … The dominant power of the Christian western world.”

“We have a long time to worry about that threat.”

Craig was feeling frustrated. “C’mon, John. Think about Al Qaeda. These organizations are like cancer. You have to eradicate them when they’re still small. If you wait, it’s too late. That’s precisely what happened with Al Qaeda. We had chances to destroy their organization before 9/11 and didn’t do it.”

“Good debater’s point, but the answer is still no.”

Craig decided to take another tack. “All I’m asking is to examine a couple of satellite photos. How big a deal is that?”

“It’s the principle.”

“Afraid Dalton will find out and sack you?”

Norris reddened. “That was out of line.”

Craig kept going. “Dalton won’t know about it. I promise you. There won’t be any fallout.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I agree with the President?”

“Bullshit.” Craig was raising his voice. “You’ve become a damn chameleon. What happened to the John Norris I knew, who told Kirby he was wrong for disciplining me for disobeying his orders and stopping the Madison Square Garden bombing? You had balls then, John. Dalton’s not Putin for God’s sake. You know it’s right to give me photos. So do it.”

“I won’t. That’s final.”

Craig realized it was hopeless with Norris. And going over the CIA Director’s head to the President wasn’t an option. Brewster was gone. Dalton was in the Oval Office. Craig thought of the biblical line, there came a new pharaoh who knew not Joseph. Even if he could get in to see Dalton, he realized the answer would be no.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Craig said bitterly. He stood up.

“Sorry you made a long trip for nothing.”

“Looks that way.”

Norris stood too. He locked eyes with Craig. “You have lots of
friends in this building. I know that. So I’m warning you: Don’t try to make an end run around my decision.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Norris narrowed his eyes. “I’m damn serious. We’ve gotten tough about enforcing our laws dealing with leaks of classified information. You might not be prosecuted, but you’ll be wrecking the career and life of whoever helps you.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“I don’t trust you. I’ll have people watching you twenty-four-seven until you get on a plane back to Paris.”

“I’m flattered with the attention.”

Norris hit the intercom. “Mr. Page is leaving. Are the guards out there?”

“Yes, sir.”

As Craig left the Director’s suite and walked down the hall toward the elevator, he had one armed guard on each side. Craig realized Norris had been afraid to have Adrian escort him out, no doubt fearing Craig would break away from her, locate and steal the satellite photos. Craig recognized one of the guards, George Polk, a burly black man from his CIA days.

Waiting for the elevator, George said, “Hey Craig, how are you? Haven’t seen you in a couple of years.”

“I relocated to Europe. Your son still playing basketball?”

“He’s at Duke on scholarship,” George said.

“A good choice.”

The elevator arrived. Craig got in with the two guards. Satellite recon was on the fourth floor. Craig thought about persuading George to let him stop there. Ostensibly to say hello to another friend. It was tempting—but no. He didn’t want to cost George his job.

Craig drove through the main gate of CIA headquarters in his rental car. An unmarked, dark blue Ford fell in behind. He made two quick turns. The Ford was still there, close behind. They weren’t
making any effort to conceal their mission. Norris wanted Craig to know he was being followed.

As Craig drove, he realized he had only one way of getting those satellite photos: Betty. Thinking of the woman he had called “my company mother,” made Craig smile. When he had joined the Agency, she was already a senior analyst. After his training at the Farm, he was stationed at Langley headquarters analyzing Middle East oil data. Craig was in the crowded Agency auditorium when the Deputy Director, in a briefing about Middle East developments, said that the cornerstone of US Middle Eastern policy had to be placating Saudi Arabia, because the Saudis had a virtually unlimited oil supply. “As long as we remain close with them, we won’t have an energy problem.”

In the Q and A, Craig castigated the Deputy Director for “either ignoring or not being aware of Hubbert’s Peak,” the bell shaped curve that predicted a decline in Saudi oil production around the turn of the century.

People in the audience gasped. A rookie was criticizing the Deputy Director. Red-faced, the speaker tried to make light of Craig’s comment. Afterwards, Betty came into his office, introduced herself, and closed the door. “We need smart people like you,” she said. “And I want to make sure you stick around, so I’ll mentor you on survival in this minefield we call the CIA. Rule number one is never criticize a superior when anyone else is in the room. Certainly not a hundred people.”

“But what he said was so stupid. And his error is basic to our whole Middle Eastern policy.”

“I agree. But you won’t change it by what you did. I’ll teach you how to get around the bureaucracy.”

That day they formed a bond that transcended the office. He and Caroline often invited Betty to their house for dinner. For Betty, who had never married, they became like family. She developed a close relationship with Francesca, who called her “Aunt Betty.”
Many Saturdays, Betty took Francesca to the movies, sneaking the seven-year-old into what Francesca referred to as “action flicks. Not that G-rated stuff. Aunt Betty told me the ‘G’ stands for garbage.”

Craig pulled into the parking lot for a strip mall on Route 123, parked, and took out his cell phone.

As he punched in the familiar numbers from memory, he visualized Betty at her desk on the sixth floor of CIA headquarters, curtains closed to keep out the sunlight, her eyes peering through Coca Cola bottle-like lenses close to the computer screen, a cigarette in her hand, which Betty couldn’t light because she was inside, but would as soon as she stepped out. Her stringy, brown hair scattered on her head. In the years since Craig had known her, she had grown chunky, adding twenty pounds to her five four frame, because she hated to exercise, telling Craig, “It’s for jocks like you.”