Read THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) Online
Authors: Allan Topol
At six in the morning, Omar was parked outside of Professor Etienne’s apartment on a narrow residential street on the Left Bank, two blocks from Boulevard St. Michel. The gray stone buildings looked as if they’d been built before the revolution. The lights were on in Etienne’s apartment, which occupied the entire third floor. In front of the building was a weather-beaten wooden door in need of painting, with a brass handle.
Omar had his eyes riveted on that door. Eventually, the professor would come out. Though he hadn’t slept all night, there was not much chance of Omar dozing. He was fully alert, running on the adrenalin charge from what he’d done to Lila, supplemented by caffeine.
Omar saw headlights behind him. It was a cop car with flashing lights on the roof. No way they could have found him. Still he fingered the Glock in his bag and held his breath. The cruiser sped up and passed.
At precisely seven o’clock, the wooden door opened. Though he had never seen Etienne in person, Omar recognized from the pictures on the internet the balding, slight figure, five foot eight, wearing wire-framed glasses and a ridiculous-looking gray, flat cap. He was carrying a heavy briefcase.
No one else was on the sidewalk. Omar watched Etienne turn right and walk in the direction of the history department of the University of Paris. When he turned the corner, Omar started the car. He followed for ten minutes, hanging back, making certain that Etienne was going to his office.
Then he made a U-turn and drove away. Today, he wanted to understand Etienne’s routine. Musa had told him professors follow the same schedule most days. Now he’d be able to make plans for Etienne’s abduction. I’ll be back tomorrow, he thought. Meantime, Omar had something else to do.
He turned north and drove to Clichy. Listening to the news on the car radio, he knew that the police had withheld the name of the victim in the Marseilles murder. That was about to change.
The morning was dark and dreary. At eight o’clock, Omar left his car on the outskirts of the banilieu and walked to a complex of six concrete twelve-story public housing buildings, inhabited primarily by Muslims. Garbage was strewn between buildings. Omar headed for one of them in the center, it’s wall covered by graffiti depicting prehistoric birds with long wingspans, done by a talented kid. Maybe he’ll break out of here one day, Omar hoped.
The lobby was filthy. The elevator smelled of urine. He rode up to the eighth floor and pounded on the metal door of apartment 802.
A burly man with a bushy, black, unkempt beard, in a white T-shirt and Jeans, opened the door. In the background, Omar heard a child crying and a woman screaming. “Don’t you throw your food.”
Abdullah, Lila’s cousin, hadn’t changed in the two years since Omar had last seen him. They were the same age and had been in class together, until both dropped out in the tenth grade.
Abdullah reached out and hugged Omar. “I hear you went off with the great man, Ahmed.” His tone was contemptuous. “Are you helping him remake the world?”
“I spend some time with him. I also travel.”
“No wife or kids. You can do what you want.” Abdullah sounded envious.
“Yesterday I was in Marseilles.”
“What’s down there?”
“I was visiting a friend, and I heard about the killing of the Muslim girl. You know about that?”
“I heard it on the television. Christian pigs.”
“They didn’t disclose the girl’s name. Did they?”
Abdullah shook his head. “Somebody you know?”
“Lila Dahab.”
Abdullah’s head snapped back. “No!” He cried out. “No! Are you sure?”
“My friend in Marseilles has buddies in the police. As soon as I found out, I came here to tell you.”
Abdullah’s face was a mask of anger and grief. “Lila wouldn’t hurt anybody. Why didn’t they disclose her name?”
“They claim to be waiting until they notify her next of kin.”
“That’s bullshit. The police always lie. They don’t want it to get out. Everybody here likes Lila. They know what will happen. Where’s Kemal?”
“I don’t know. A while ago, he met some Turkish girl from Germany and took off with her.”
“They could have notified me. I’m her kin.”
Abdullah grabbed a navy shirt hanging over a chair.
“What are you doing?” Omar asked.
“Making sure everyone knows those Christian pigs killed Lila.”
Abdullah was out of the door with Omar right behind.
While Omar stood off to the side of the courtyard in the center of the housing complex, its grass chewed up from kids playing soccer,
Abdullah stopped people to tell them the news. Like a man on fire, he charged into several buildings.
Somebody handed him a bullhorn stolen from the police. Waving it, he climbed on to a wooden platform used by speakers and entertainers. “Listen to me everyone,” he called out. “I have important news.”
In five minutes a crowd of close to a hundred poured out of the buildings and into the center courtyard.
“The woman brutally raped and murdered in Marseilles,” he cried out in an angry surly voice, “was not some nameless Muslim woman. She was our own Lila Dahab, Kemal’s sister. And because she’s a poor Muslim woman, the police won’t do anything to find her killers.”
From the crowd someone shouted in Arabic. “You speak the truth.”
Someone else, “They won’t get away with this. We want justice.”
A police car pulled up to the edge of the courtyard. Two white-skinned policemen got out, hands close to the guns holstered at their waists as they walked toward the crowd.
“What’s going on here?” one of them called.
Omar watched them anxiously keeping their eyes on the crowd directly ahead. What Omar also saw, but the policemen didn’t, was two teenagers, twelve or fourteen, entering the courtyard from behind the policemen, armed with bottles of gasoline. They lit the gasoline and flung them under the police car, which went up in flames, then exploded.
As the policemen turned around to look, other teenagers pelted them with rocks.
The two policemen raced out of the courtyard, barely escaping the surging crowd.
The sparks were now lit for a full scale riot, Omar noted with satisfaction. Even larger than the riots of October 2005.
Omar couldn’t wait to tell Musa: “Mission accomplished.” He
would be very pleased. Omar had done exactly what he wanted.
But he would have to wait. A cell phone was too risky. Besides, Musa would hear it on the news.
Omar now had to concentrate on something else: Recruiting two men and a van for tomorrow morning’s operation. He had money to offer. With so many unemployed in Clichy, finding two men would be easy. They had to be men he could trust. And the van had to be in good shape. Marbella was a long ride.
Walking through the airplane terminal after her flight from Paris, Elizabeth gazed at the television screen above the bar. Police cars were burning. The CNN reporter, a perky-looking young blonde, hair cut short, was saying “Riots have broken out in Clichy-sous-Bois, a suburb of Paris, formerly the home of Lila Dahab, the innocent young Muslim woman viciously raped and murdered in Marseilles last evening by a right-wing Christian extremist group.”
My God, Elizabeth thought. What a choice of words. As usual, the media were fanning the flames of the riot. She wasn’t surprised the name of the victim had gotten out. Trying to conceal it in the internet age was a stupid waste of time. Secrets and privacy have ceased to exist.
Elizabeth watched in horror as a picture of Lila’s dead body from the waist up with the note attached appeared on the screen. Those television people are shameless.
Elizabeth exited the terminal and got into a cab. She gave the driver an address two blocks from the Ministry of Defense.
At the destination, she spotted a small café, the Toledo, across the street. At eleven in the morning the café was deserted. Too early for lunch.
In the dimly lit Toledo, Elizabeth ordered an espresso at the bar and took it to a corner table. The café walls were lined with Spanish maritime scenes depicting battles with England.
Elizabeth thought she’d have the best chance hitting Carlos cold. Getting through to him was a problem, but with information on the web, she knew the perfect way. Her Spanish was just good enough to pull it off.
A woman answered the phone, “Senior Sanchez’s office.”
“I would like to speak with Senior Sanchez, please.”
“Who is calling?”
“The principal from the school. About his son, Roberto.”
“Yes. One minute please.”
Seconds later, she heard Carlos’s anxious voice. “Carlos Sanchez here. What is the problem?”
“This is Elizabeth Crowder. There’s nothing wrong with your son. Forgive me for misleading you, but I had to make sure I spoke with you. Very privately. Craig Page sent me to discuss an extremely sensitive and urgent matter. Please don’t mention my name aloud.”
She hoped he wasn’t furious.
“I see,” he said, playing along. “Where are you?”
“A small café, the Toledo. About two blocks from …”
“I know it,” he said softly. “Stay there. I’m on my way.”
Ten minutes later, she saw him walk through the door, pick up an espresso at the bar, and make a beeline for her table.
“Nobody knows I’m meeting you,” he said. “I assume this is about Alvarez.”
She liked the question. Carlos was intelligent. She decided to level with him. He was the only option they had.
“Alvarez attended a meeting in Paris last Sunday,” she said, keeping her voice down.
“I know. Monday morning, he told me that Craig tried to mobilize the EU countries for an attack on Musa, who carried out the Spanish train bombing and has a base in the mountains of Morocco. You were there as well. Craig’s proposal was rejected. The Ministers didn’t believe he had sufficient evidence to justify an attack.”
“That’s a pretty good summary. Did Alvarez tell you that Craig’s evidence included a statement by a woman in Marseilles who recognized Musa’s voice on the tape he made after the attack?”
“He didn’t say anything about a woman in Marseilles.” Carlos sat up with a start. “You’re planning to tell me that woman was Lila Dahab, the one who …”
“Exactly.”
“So she was killed by Musa’s people. Not a Christian extremist group.”
“That’s what we believe.”
“Which means someone at the meeting leaked her name to Musa.”
She nodded.
“And you think it’s Alvarez?”
Rapidly, their conversation had reached the critical point. Elizabeth didn’t want to overplay her hand.
“Craig and I believe he’s the most likely possibility, based upon his behavior at the Paris meeting and how he acted at the time of the train bombing.”
Carlos was frowning. “I was appalled by his behavior in the meetings with Craig at the time of the bombing. I always knew he was arrogant and didn’t tolerate anyone playing on his turf. Refused to accept suggestions. Was unqualified for his job and was only in it because of wealthy political supporters. But he outdid himself.”
She smiled. “Don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think.”
“You disagree?”
“I had exactly the same reaction.”
“I will admit I’m a little prejudiced because one of my neighbors’ children died in that train bombing, but still …”
Carlos paused to sip espresso. “What would Alvarez gain from working with Musa?”
“At this point we don’t know. We thought you might help.”
“How?”
“Have you noticed anything unusual in his behavior lately?”
Carlos shook his head.
“Any clandestine meetings?”
“I’m not aware.”
“Efforts to conceal phone calls?”
Again, Carlos shook his head. “But his office is in a different wing of the Ministry.”
She took a deep breath and went for it. “What we’d like you to do is keep track of Alvarez as best you can. If you see anything suspicious, call me. If you can’t get me, immediately call Craig. I’ll give you all of our contact info.”
“You’re asking me to spy on him.”
That was the same word Craig had used. Of course it was apt. She swallowed hard. “Yes.”
He fiddled with his wedding ring. The last time she saw a man do that, he knew he was risking the safety and security of his family. They were in Iraq. She wanted him to take her to one of the Sunni tribal leaders
Carlos no doubt felt the same. Alvarez was a former General with rich friends. If they were powerful enough to make him Defense Minister, they’d be powerful enough to kill his deputy.
“This could get ugly,” she said. “If you don’t feel comfortable …”
“No. I’ll do it.”
At 6:30 in the morning, Omar had everything in place in front of Etienne’s apartment building. Based on yesterday, he expected Etienne to come out of the building and turn right. So Omar directed Habib to park the gray van ten yards away to the left of the entrance. That way the van would be behind Etienne when he began walking.
Habib was behind the wheel. Omar in the front passenger seat. And Attia in the back of the van.
Though the morning air was chilly, Omar had his window rolled down. The smell of burning rubber was in the air. All night Muslims had rioted in the poor suburbs of Paris, burning tires and police cars. The radio said it was possible that Charles DeGaulle Airport might be closed because the road leading to it passed near “those areas.”
Last evening, Omar had watched television in Habib’s apartment. Rioting was occurring in many other Western European cities with
large Muslim populations. Amsterdam, Marseilles, Seville, and several cities in Germany and England. The police were powerless to stop the rioting. Their objective was to contain it to Muslim areas.
Omar checked his watch. Two minutes to seven.
Then he saw Etienne. Clutching the same large briefcase as yesterday, the professor walked through the front door and turned right.
Omar sprang from the van. On the toes of his feet to avoid detection, he was following Etienne. When Omar was right behind his prey, he said, “Professor Etienne.” Startled, Etienne dropped the briefcase and turned around. Omar pulled the stun gun from his pocket and fired a shot into Etienne’s stomach.
He grabbed Etienne’s limp body before it hit the ground. The van was moving up quickly. In a flash, Attia was out of the van helping Omar lift Etienne. They flung him into the back like a sack of potatoes. Attia was in with him.
Omar was preparing to climb in the back and slam the door when he noticed Etienne’s briefcase in the middle of the sidewalk. Leaving it would be a mistake. He scrambled back out, grabbed it, and threw it inside. As he did, he looked around. Nobody in sight. They might have been seen from an upstairs window. But they’d be long gone before the police could begin a search. The cops had their hands full with the riots. Besides, the van had a license plate Habib had stolen at five this morning.
As Omar was slamming the van door from the inside, he shouted “Go” to Habib. His old friend hit the gas. He was driving fast, but not fast enough to be stopped.
Traffic was light. In minutes, they were on the periphery road that circled Paris. The van had recently been used to haul produce. The back smelled from onion and garlic.
Half way around, they picked up the main road heading south.
Forty five minutes later, they pulled into a Total gas station and parked in a deserted corner of the lot. Omar paid Attia five thousand
euros. He jumped out of the van, planning to hitch a ride back to Paris. In about five seconds, Omar changed the license plate. Taking off the stolen one and putting on the original.
Omar remained in the back of the van with Professor Etienne, who was beginning to stir. “Drive,” Omar shouted to Habib. They were on the road again, heading south.
Omar reached into the groaning Etienne’s pocket and pulled out his cell phone. With rope, he tied Etienne’s ankles together. He put on a set of handcuffs stolen from the police. As Habib drove, Omar waited for Etienne to wake up.
When he did, the Professor began screaming. “Help me. Help me.”
Omar pointed the stun gun at him. “If you keep hollering, I’ll put you out again.”
Etienne looked terrified. “What do you want? Money? I’ll give you everything I have.”
“We need your help.”
“With what?”
“I’ll tell you when we arrive.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you that, but I want you to do something right now.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll dial your home on your phone. Tell your wife that you had to make a quick trip to London for your work. You’ll be back in a couple of days. I’ll hold the phone while you talk.”
“No,” Etienne said stubbornly.
“No, what.”
“I won’t do it.”
Omar wanted to smack Etienne hard in the face with the handle of the gun, but Musa had said, “Bring him here uninjured.” So that wasn’t an option. Still, he had to get Etienne to make the call.
“If you don’t, I’ll have someone kill your wife, Jacqueline, and your twelve year old daughter, Mina. Now make the call.”
“Who are you people?”
“In time, you’ll find out. Now make the call.”
The van came to a sudden stop. Etienne lunged for the door handle. Omar smashed the gun barrel against his wrist.
The professor screamed, “Ah … Ah …”
Omar took out his own phone, “OK you made your decision. I’m calling two of my people to tell them to kill Jacqueline and Mina.”
“You won’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
With a determined look on his face, Omar dialed.
“No,” Etienne cried. “No … I’ll do it.”
Using the Professor’s phone, Omar dialed Etienne’s house and held up the phone to the Professor’s ear and mouth. Omar was prepared to yank the phone away if Etienne didn’t follow the script. That wasn’t necessary. Etienne told his wife he was off for London. She didn’t question him.
Omar wasn’t worried about crossing the border into Spain in the Pyrenees. All those border-guard stations had been removed as EU integration took hold. They had on open road to Marbella.
Say goodbye to France, Professor Etienne, Omar thought. You’ll never see this country again.