Read THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) Online
Authors: Allan Topol
“Dealing with the Vatican is the most frustrating experience,” Giuseppe said to Craig and Elizabeth. It was ten in the morning, and the three of them were in Craig’s office.
“Cardinal Donatello, their Director of Security, insists on total autonomy in matters affecting the Vatican. He has to take each decision to a Committee of Cardinals. Meantime, he rejects every proposal of mine.”
“What do you want to do?” Craig asked.
“I know a top firm of civil engineers in Milan. I want them to take control of the Vatican’s water supply and set up a procedure for constant monitoring. If Musa slips any poison into the system, we’ll detect it immediately. That way it won’t do any damage. We’ll establish a hookup for an alternative water supply from Rome and furnish huge quantities of bottled water.”
Craig was pacing and thinking.
“What’s bothering you?” Giuseppe asked.
“Musa does everything on such a grand scale. He set off riots throughout Europe. I can’t believe that, if he wants to attack the Vatican, he’d focus on their water supply.”
“Then what would he do?”
Craig stopped pacing and sat back down.
“I don’t know. But we have to find out, and I’m sure we don’t have much time.”
Elizabeth said, “Maybe Alvarez will lead us to what we need.”
“Giuseppe doesn’t know about Alvarez and Carlos. Will you tell him about your meeting with Carlos in Madrid?”
Once she was finished, Giuseppe’s eyes lit up. “That could give us a lead.”
Craig glanced at the calendar on the wall. Today was Thursday, March 25. Sunday, the 28th, was shown in bold red letters. Easter Sunday. He focused on it.
“If you were going to attack the Vatican, when would you do it?” he asked. Before the others had a chance to reply, he answered his own question: “Easter Sunday.”
“Wonderful,” Giuseppe said. “That means we have three days and not a single lead, except for the theft of the water plans, which you tell me is taking us down a rabbit hole. Add to that, Vatican security people are giving me fits.”
“Also, remember Musa is planning to use the army he’s assembled for an attack somewhere,” Craig said.
Elizabeth added, “Meantime, what can we do about the riots?”
“They’re not as bad in Italy,” Giuseppe said.
“You have a smaller Muslim population,” she retorted.
Craig responded, “I can’t very well go on television and say a Muslim, one of Musa’s people, killed Lila. I don’t have any evidence. That would only fuel the flames. We have no choice. We have to let them run their course.”
“What we really need is to find Lila’s killer,” Elizabeth said. “That’ll stop the riots.”
“So far Jacques and the French police haven’t made any progress.”
The three of them looked at each other glumly.
Craig’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. Jacques. Maybe he had something on Lila’s killer. “Yes Jacques.”
“Are you in your office?”
“Yeah. With Elizabeth and Giuseppe. I’ll put you on speaker.”
“Look at your computer. I want to send you something.”
Elizabeth and Giuseppe joined Craig behind his desk. In a few seconds, he saw General Zhou walking in a grassy area with another Chinese man.
“What are we looking at?” Craig asked.
“Real time feed from two of my men tracking General Zhou. They’re walking in the Tuileries. No doubt talking there because General Zhou knows we’ve got bugs in his apartment and taps on his phone.”
Craig didn’t recognize the man with General Zhou. “Who’s the other guy?”
“Freddy Wu. The Director of Military Sales for the Chinese government in Western Europe and North Africa. Based in Paris.”
“So General Zhou could be placing an order for more weapons for Musa,” Craig said, thinking aloud.
Giuseppe picked up. “Maybe arms to use against the Vatican.”
“Can you step up Italian border surveillance?” Craig asked Giuseppe.
“We can, but only on non EU entries. Sea ports, airports and the like. If they move the stuff by land, say from France, we no longer have checkpoints. Isn’t the EU wonderful?”
Craig returned to Jacques on the phone. “This is very helpful. Have the taps or bugs given us anything?”
“Not yet. Part of the time he uses an encrypted phone.”
“Probably for calls with Musa.”
“It’s Chinese technology. We haven’t been able to crack it. We’re still working on it.”
“Let me know.”
“OK. And something else. We checked airplane manifests since October. General Zhou has made six trips to Marrakech. The first a day after the Spanish train bombing with his Russian girlfriend, Androshka. The rest alone.”
Craig was weighing Jacques’s words. He could try to persuade Jacques to arrest both General Zhou and Freddy Wu, interrogate them separately, hoping to break Freddy. That might work, but Craig doubted Jacques would do it. Freddy was a Chinese government official. The French would never risk an incident with China.
Another choice was for Craig to inform President Li of Freddy’s activities with General Zhou. That would get Freddy fired. But what good would that do? Musa already had most of the arms he needed.
The best alternative, Craig decided, is simply maintain surveillance on General Zhou. At some point, Musa will leave his base and move to the place of action. Anyone who took the name of a war hero wouldn’t watch from the sidelines. But Musa had no battle experience. He’d need General Zhou, the military man, to advise on strategy. Following that reasoning, General Zhou would link up with Musa very soon. If they follow General Zhou, he would lead them to Musa’s headquarters for the operation. Somewhere in Europe. No longer under the protection of the Moroccan Prime Minister.
“Have your men stick close to General Zhou,” Craig told Jacques. “Let me know immediately if he leaves Paris, and follow him wherever he goes.”
General Zhou had met Freddy Wu in front of the Hotel Crillon. They walked across the majestic Place de La Concorde with the 107-foot gilded obelisk in the center, a gift from Egypt in 1833. Looking over his shoulder, General Zhou saw the gray Citroën following. Two men in the car with a black-haired guy driving; a blonde brute beside him. There might be others on foot. General Zhou wasn’t willing to chance it.
He figured they’d have privacy on the path cutting through the Tuilleries, the garden with grassy areas filled with statues, rows of trees, flowers, and fountains. At ten in the morning, commuters had already crossed on their way work; it was too early for tourists. General Zhou watched the blonde getting out of the Citroën, following on foot, hanging back twenty yards, making no effort to conceal himself. The Citroën, keeping pace, moved slowly along the Rue de Rivoli.
At the midpoint of the path, Freddy stopped to admire the yellow tulips. General Zhou was standing next to him.
“Everything is on schedule,” Freddy said. “We’ll be bringing the missiles in by truck from France at the Italian Riviera border point near San Remo. All four missiles in one truck, carrying Chinese computers. They will be in four of fifty sealed crates marked on the outside as computers. They can only be discovered if someone opens all fifty. Which will never happen.”
“Unless there’s a leak among your people.”
“We don’t have leaks.”
“Where do they go from San Remo?”
Freddy looked around to make sure no one was approaching. Then he said softly, “The truck will drive southeast to Torino. It will pull into a warehouse at number 20 Via Sardegna in an industrial part of town at ten in the evening on Friday, March 26. Four vans will be parked in the warehouse. I’ll have someone to give instructions on how to assemble and fire. Make sure your people are there for the handoff. An hour later, the computer truck and the instructors are gone. It’s all yours from that point.”
“I understand,” General Zhou said. “Perfect.”
They resumed walking. General Zhou realized he had to pass along to Musa the information Freddy had given him. But it was highly sensitive. He was afraid to use the encrypted phone. Only a matter of time until the French cracked it. For all he knew, they’d done so already.
He had to deliver the news in person to Musa in Marbella. That meant shaking his tail. He couldn’t risk leading Craig to Musa.
“You notice the guy following us?” he said to Freddy.
“One in a gray Citroën, a beefy blonde guy on foot behind us.”
“I have to shake them.”
“When?”
“Today?”
Freddy thought for a minute. “When you go to a restaurant with Androshka, do those guys go inside?”
“They always wait outside.”
“Here’s what I want you to do. Get Androshka and go to lunch at Apicius. The restaurant we ate at a couple of days ago on Rue L’Artois. I’ll make your reservation and take care of the rest.”
General Zhou always liked to be in control. “You better explain.”
“I’ll get to the restaurant at one o’clock with Charlie Ming from my office who looks like you. Or at least close enough. Caucasians always have trouble distinguishing Chinese men.”
“Why do you call him Charlie? And you’re Freddy?”
“Operating in France and Western Europe, I prefer American names. The Europeans have been buying from the United States for years. If they hear Chinese names, they get nervous. Anyhow, when I was in the office this morning, Charlie was wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt and blue tie. Dress like that. I promise you’ll lose your tail.”
General Zhou now understood. “Also, I’ll need a phony passport, credit cards and French driver’s license.”
“I’ll bring them to lunch.”
General Zhou and Androshka were finishing dessert, a caramel assortment. Lunch was winding down. Investment bankers, masters of the universe, and others rich and famous, as well as those who prized great food, were drifting out. General Zhou drained his espresso and paid the bill. He looked across the table at Androshka and said, “Remember how you promised to do anything for me?”
“Of course. After you took care of Mikail. And I meant it.”
“Good. I’m going to the men’s room. I won’t come back to the table. Instead, another Chinese man named Charlie will sit down and pretend to be me. A minute later, the two of you will leave the
restaurant and quickly get into my car with Captain Cheng driving. You’ll tell him to take the two of you to my apartment. Don’t talk to Charlie. Watch television. He’ll spend the night sleeping in a separate bedroom and leave at eight tomorrow morning. Do you understand?”
“Charlie won’t mess with me? Will he?”
“I’ll kill him if he does. Nobody but me gets into your honey pot.”
She giggled. Then turned serious. “When will I see you again?”
“I have to go away for a couple of days. Don’t try to call me unless you are arrested.”
“I understand.”
General Zhou felt a debt of gratitude to Mikail. He had taught Androshka well. She didn’t ask questions.
Freddy and Charlie were seated in the next room of the three in the restaurant. On the way to the men’s room, General Zhou signaled Freddy, who directed Charlie to follow him. In the men’s room, they changed ties. He does look like me, General Zhou thought.
From the men’s room, General Zhou went to Freddy’s table. Charlie sat down with Androshka.
General Zhou glanced at his Rolex. After a minute, he called Cheng to pull up the black BMW to the front of the restaurant. Through the opening connecting the two dining rooms, General Zhou watched Androshka and Charlie leave and walk toward the front door and the waiting car.
Meantime, Freddy strolled to the front of the restaurant and peeked out. He came back and reported, “The gray Citroën followed your black BMW. You’re free of the tail.”
“Excellent.”
“I have a car outside. Where do you want me to take you?”
“Charles DeGaulle Airport.”
“That’s what I figured.”
Freddy removed an envelope from his briefcase and handed it
to General Zhou. “False passport, credit cards, and French driver’s license.”
General Zhou was tempted to fly to Seville. No, that’s foolish. The safer course is to fly to Madrid. Then take a train to Seville and rent a car to go to Marbella.
Waiting for Omar to arrive with Etienne, Musa stood on the deck of the villa in the hills above Marbella and gazed at the beach below. The Mediterranean glistened in the late afternoon sun. Following the Spanish train bombing, a Saudi Prince had given Musa use of the house along with five million Euros to aid The Spanish Revenge.
Surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall, the villa resembled a British country house, which had been the objective when a London hedge-fund manager built it a decade ago, ironically betting the price of oil would continue to soar. When the price spiked downward, the ruined hedge-fund manager put the villa on the market. The Saudi snapped it up.
Musa watched a gray van pull up to the checkpoint at the black wrought-iron gate. He recognized Habib, Omar’s pal, behind the wheel. He called the guard to wave them through.
Omar led handcuffed Etienne into the marble foyer. The professor looked exhausted and haggard. “You can remove the cuffs,” Musa said. “Let the professor shower upstairs. Clean clothes are on the bed. Then we’ll give him something to eat.”
“Who are you?” Etienne said. “What do you want with me?”
“Later we’ll have time to talk.”
“I want to leave now.”
“That’s not an option.”
Etienne pointed to Omar. “He has my cell phone. I want it back. I want to call my wife.”
“Not an option either.”
“In other words, I’m a prisoner.”
“I prefer to think of you as my guest. Now why don’t you go upstairs and clean up?”
Resigned, Etienne trudged up the stairs. Though he doubted the professor would try to escape, Musa whispered to Omar, “Keep an eye on him at all times.” The professor was a pathetic little man. He’ll tell me or I’ll break him.
Fifteen minutes later, Musa sat down at a table for dinner with Etienne. The Professor ate, then repeated his questions: “Who are you … What do you want with me?”
“My name is Musa Ben Abdil.”
“The Spanish train bomber? The terrorist?”
Musa felt a surge of anger. “I’m no terrorist. I’m seeking justice for Muslims in Europe.”
“Are you responsible for the riots occurring now?”
“An innocent Muslim girl was brutally raped and murdered.”
“Who are you really? I’m curious who would be so arrogant to take on the name of a famous medieval warrior.”
If he didn’t need Etienne, Musa would shoot the Professor right now. Refusing to be baited, he said calmly. “Who I am isn’t the issue. You have information I want. That’s why you’re here.”
“What information?”
“Last year at a seminar in Paris you spoke with Professor Khalid from the University in Casablanca.”
Etienne stiffened. “I don’t recall. I attend many seminars and talk to lots of people.”
“You told Khalid you had discovered that, on her deathbed in 1504, Queen Isabella felt guilty for reneging on her promise to grant Muslims freedom of worship as a condition of their surrendering at the Alhambra. So she prepared a parchment containing an edict granting Muslims in perpetuity a swath of land in Southern Spain.”
“I’m sorry. I have no recollection. You made a mistake abducting me. Truly you have.”
Musa pounded his fist on the table. The dishes jumped. “Don’t play games. Tell me what happened to that parchment.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re lying. You told Khalid you expect to publish an article with this discovery sometime soon.”
Etienne was shaking his head from side to side.
Musa lowered his eyes and glared at Etienne. “Either you tell me, or I will submit you to tortures crueler than any you read about in the Inquisition, because now we have modern technology. Who says mankind hasn’t advanced? You’ll wish you were on the rack. If you still don’t tell me after you die from the torture, I will rape and kill your wife and daughter. And do it myself.”
Etienne looked terrified but didn’t move.
Musa thought about that red-faced policeman beating Nicole on the head over and over. He wouldn’t show Etienne any mercy.
Musa called to Omar, seated in the corner, “Take Professor Etienne to the torture chamber in the basement. Start with electric shocks to his genitals. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Omar roughly grabbed Etienne by the arm and led him to the stairs. When they had descended to the first landing, the Professor screamed, “No … No … No … I’ll tell you.”
“Bring him back,” Musa called.
With tears in his eyes, Etienne returned to his place at the table across from Musa.
“Well, I’m waiting.”
“I swear to God I do not know for sure. But I believe from research that the parchment …”
He hesitated.
“Well?”
“I’ve never told this to anyone. I plan to present a paper in October in London at the Society of Medieval Historians.”
“I don’t care about your stupid paper. Tell me now.”
When Etienne didn’t respond, Musa said, “You’ll be the first scholar who ever underwent electric shock to protect his research.” He looked at Omar. “Take the fool downstairs and put his feet in water to increase the pain.”
As Omar stepped forward, Etienne said, “I’ll tell you.”
“Last chance.”
“Are you familiar with Tomas de Torquemada?”
“He was Queen Isabella’s Grand Inquisitor. The worst. The cruelest in searching out, torturing, and killing Muslims and Jews. He also stole their property. A real villain. And all supposedly in the name of God.”
“That accurately describes him. He wasn’t present when she wrote out the parchment. Once he heard about it from the priest to whom Isabella handed the parchment, he went into a frenzy. He seized the parchment from the priest. Then he ordered the priest to be killed as well as Isabella’s two servants who had been present when she prepared it.”
“What did he do with the parchment then?”
“Hid it during his lifetime.”
“And when he died?”
“Arranged to have it buried with him. Not in his coffin, but in a metal box alongside. The parchment and some jewels he had seized from prisoners.”
“What was the point of the jewels?”
Etienne shrugged. “Who knows? At the end, his sins made him crazy. Maybe be planned to buy God’s forgiveness in the hereafter.”
Musa was mulling over what Etienne had told him. “I don’t understand why Torquemada didn’t simply destroy the parchment once Isabella died. Rather than bury it in his grave.”
Etienne shifted in his chair and looked down at his hands. “As I said, Torquemada became crazy. I don’t think we can judge him at that point by rational behavior. Anyone who buried jewels in his grave was, of course, insane.”
“Where was Torquemada buried?”
“In a graveyard outside a Franciscan monastery in Avila, Spain. I’ve been there several times. Most recently in January.”
Musa picked up a pad of paper and a pen. He plunked them down in front of Etienne. “Draw me a map.”
With a trembling hand, Etienne drew two maps. One of the monastery’s location. The other showing Torquemada’s grave in the cemetery behind the monastery. He slid it across the table.
Musa studied the maps carefully. When he looked up, Etienne was staring at him. “Can I go now? I’ve given you what you want.”
“It’s the parchment I want. I don’t have it yet.”
“But you will with the maps.”
“And if I don’t, may your God help you.” Musa’s words were delivered in a hard, cruel tone. “Meantime, I intend to lock you up downstairs as a precaution. When I have the parchment, I’ll release you.”
Musa had heard from an aide to the Saudi Prince that his master ordered guards to pick up prostitutes on the streets of Marbella. They were locked up in those rooms and available for the Prince’s sexual perversions whenever he wanted. After he finished with them, he had them killed. Their bodies dumped at sea. That’s what he would do with Etienne.
Once Etienne was locked up, Musa handed Omar the maps.
“I want you to go with Habib in his van tonight to Avila, Spain. Take two shovels, a gun, a flashlight, and a knife. Also, anything else you might need. You should arrive there about midnight. Get into the monastery’s grounds, dig up Torquemada’s grave, and bring back the parchment. If any monks try to stop you, kill them.”
“I understand.”
“Do whatever it takes. I need that parchment. And I need it tonight.”
Musa paused, then continued. “If we have that parchment, for sure we will succeed. Islam’s lawful place in Europe will be restored. Europe and the world will never be the same … Don’t fail me, Omar.”