Read THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) Online
Authors: Allan Topol
“Wrong. I’ll get pleasure from watching the bitch die.” Musa had wild look in his eyes. “She’s arrogant, and she’s been a thorn in our side. Almost as much as Craig Page. They’ve been in this together from day one.”
“Precisely my point. The two of them have a tight bond. They’re much more than lovers. Page’s wife died. His daughter was killed. He has no family. Without her, he might not be able to continue. He’d do anything to save Elizabeth.”
“Like what?”
“I’m confident we’ll prevail in battle. But there’s always
uncertainty. Suppose it all goes to hell. You’ll need something to trade with Page for your own life.”
“You really think he’d ever make a deal like that?”
“Of course. He’ll tell himself that he can come after you in the future. But meantime, he’ll be giving you a chance to begin anew. In an Islamic bastion in Europe.”
Musa didn’t respond. General Zhou pressed ahead. “You have no downside to doing it my way.”
“I lose the satisfaction of watching her die. Right now.”
“We’re talking about a short delay. A matter of days. Once we succeed, we’ll kill her immediately.”
“You think I should take her with me back to Morocco this afternoon? And in a pontoon boat when we move into Spain in the morning?”
General Zhou shook his head. “She’ll be in the way. Better to leave her with me locked in this cell. She won’t be able to harm us. I have a gun. When I hear that you’ve retaken the Alhambra, I’ll kill her.”
General Zhou could see that Musa still wasn’t convinced. “You have to believe me on this, based on my military background. Haven’t I successfully guided and supplied you to get to this point?”
“OK,” Musa said reluctantly. “I’ll follow your advice.”
“I appreciate your seeing me on short notice,” Craig said to Prime Minister Zahara, once he entered the huge wood-paneled office and Julianna had departed.
“Today is a bad day for me. As you may have heard, on Thursday our stock market fell like a rock in a pond. I was hoping that, with the Easter weekend, we could pull the financial markets together. Then this morning I learned that one of our largest banks is in trouble. But from the message you conveyed to Julianna, I knew I had to meet with you.”
Your day is about to get a lot worse, Craig thought.
“Have you received information about another terrorist attack in Spain? Like last year’s train bombing.”
“Worse than that. As you know, the man responsible for that bombing calls himself Musa Ben Abdil. He has assembled an army of thousands in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, equipped
with the latest Chinese weapons. I’ve been watching him for some time. Unsure of his objective. Today I put the pieces together. He’s planning to attack Southern Spain tomorrow and seize part of your country.”
The Prime Minister was on the edge of his chair, listening carefully, his eyes blazing with intensity. “I assume the business with the parchment is related to this attack.”
“Precisely. Musa arranged its fabrication.”
The Prime Minister reached for the phone. “I have to get General Alvarez in here. We have to prepare to defend our territory.”
“Alvarez is a traitor. He’s on the take from Musa.”
Craig felt as if he’d tossed a live grenade on the desk.
The Prime Minister’s head snapped back. “What are you telling me?”
Craig summarized the phone calls Carlos had made to Craig and Elizabeth, Craig’s bank investigation, the troop deployment order, and Alvarez’s trip to Argentina. “He’s probably on a plane to Buenos Aires right now.”
“I’ll have him extradited. He’ll face a firing squad.”
“I agree with that, but right now you have a more immediate problem. Defending your country.”
“When do you think Musa will attack?”
“Tomorrow morning. Easter Sunday.”
The Prime Minister reached for the phone again. “Then I better get Carlos in here. I’ll appoint him Acting Defense Minster. He’ll have to reverse the deployment order and mobilize our troops.”
Waiting for Carlos to come, the Prime Minster called his wife. “We have a problem. I don’t know when I’ll be home … Yes, I know about the dinner tonight … Start without me,” he said sharply. “I’ll be there when I can.”
He put down the phone and shook his head. “Even after all these years, she never understands … Are you married, Craig?”
“No, sir.”
“Oh that’s right. You’re in a relationship with that newspaper woman. Sorry. I’m terrible with names.”
“Elizabeth Crowder.” Even mentioning her name underscored Craig’s anxiety bordering on desperation about Elizabeth. Before entering Zahara’s office he called Jacques for about the thousandth time. They didn’t have a damn thing. The blood on the sidewalk wasn’t hers. The police couldn’t get any information in Clichy. Camera feed at Charles De Gaulle, Orly, and train stations hadn’t turned up a thing.
“Before you marry her,” Zahara said, “make sure you have an understanding about your work. Of course, I couldn’t do that. I needed Lina’s money and family connections. Ah. Well …”
The door opened. Briefcase in hand, Carlos bounded into the office, looked at Craig and nodded. Craig said, “Mr. Prime Minister, I want to tell you how valuable Carlos has been in uncovering Alvarez’s treachery.”
The Prime Minister turned to Carlos, “Craig thinks Musa’s army will be attacking Southern Spain tomorrow morning. I’m appointing you Acting Defense Minister. I want you to reverse the order deploying troops to the North. Also, convene a meeting of the top Generals of the Army, Navy, and Air Force in my office in one hour. I don’t care what they’re doing. They must be here or they’ll lose their rank. Together, we’ll develop a war strategy.”
“I’ve been doing some checking,” Carlos said. “It’ll take time to get the troops back into the South.”
“I understand. Let’s get moving.”
Craig said, “I don’t think you should fight this battle alone. You could get help from other EU countries. France, Germany, and England could send planes and troops. They could be here in a few hours.”
“No,” the Prime Minister retorted quickly, angrily, and firmly.
“Why not?”
“We are a sovereign nation,” Zahara said with lots of pride and
arrogance, Craig thought. “We defend our own nation.”
Craig glanced at Carlos, hoping for support. The young man met Craig’s gaze, then looked way, unwilling to challenge his leader. Machismo and obedience rules again.
Craig realized it was impossible to change the Prime Minister’s mind about accepting help. There was nothing else for him to do in Madrid. He just hoped the Spanish military was up to the task.
Meantime, he’d go back to Rome and help Giuseppe thwart the attack on the Vatican. Or, heaven forbid, deal with its consequences and the thousands of casualties.
Craig and Carlos left the Prime Minister’s office together. Out in the corridor, Carlos said, “I hope you understand why I couldn’t join in your suggestion of calling for foreign troops.”
“Of course. No need to apologize.”
“I also want you to know I have police, military, and intelligence forces searching for Elizabeth in Southern Spain. We’re dealing with a difficult terrain and lots of territory. So far we haven’t learned anything. I promise we’ll continue at an intensive level. I like that woman. I want to find her.”
On the way to the airport he called Jacques again. No news. A heavy, dark cloud enveloped him. He had heard nothing about Elizabeth, and he was no closer to gaining her release. With each passing hour, the chances of her being alive grew dimmer. But he didn’t know what else to do.
The sun was setting when Craig climbed the stairs of the
carabinieri
building and rode up to Giuseppe’s command center on the third floor.
“Good timing,” Giuseppe said. “A few minutes ago, I received a call from a policeman in the area of Piazza Navona. He was walking around questioning people. An elderly man said he’s in pain with arthritis; he can’t sleep. So he often looks out of the window. Last night, about three in the morning, he saw a van pull up to a building across the street. He said an Arab carried out a cardboard box. Looked like it had a picture of a computer on the side. He carried it into the building across the street, then drove the van away. He returned in a cab an hour later.”
“Our second shooter,” Craig said.
“It all fits.”
“They must be stashing the vans in a garage.”
“Probably planning to use them for their getaway.”
Giuseppe tossed Craig a Kevlar vest and put one on under his jacket.
“I have police watching the shooter’s building. I hope unobtrusively.”
“What floor’s he on?”
“Don’t know. It’s an old three-story building. One unit to a floor. We’ll start at one and work our way up.”
“Agreed. I’ll bet he’s on three. A better shot at the Vatican.”
“I’m figuring that, too.”
Giuseppe handed Craig a pistol. “Let’s go. I told the cops,’If this guy runs, grab him. We don’t want kill him. We want to talk to him.’”
“Based upon our interrogation of Rachid, chances are this guy won’t know the other locations.”
“We can always hope. People get sloppy. They talk. Others listen.”
Rush-hour traffic was dreadful. “Welcome to Rome.” Giuseppe said. “It’s like this every evening.”
He slapped a flashing light on the roof of his car and activated the siren. It didn’t do much. He couldn’t get around the cars in gridlock. A fifteen minute ride took thirty, with Giuseppe cursing all the way. Craig learned lots of new Italian words and phrases.
Thirty minutes later, they arrived at the Piazza Navona. Craig didn’t see a police car. Good. They were keeping out of sight. Two cops were inside the front door. One in the back. When Giuseppe went into the front with Craig, the cop said, “No movement. We talked to a woman on the first floor who was going out. She said her third floor neighbor moved out a month ago. Somebody rented it. She doesn’t know who.”
“Did you ask her about the second floor?”
“Elderly couple. Lived here forever.”
Giuseppe looked at Craig. “My city. I’m going first.”
Giuseppe told the cops to remain at the doors in case something went wrong.
The ancient wooden stairs creaked as they climbed, guns in hand.
Craig wondered whether Giuseppe would give any warning before they went in. He didn’t. He took a locksmith’s tool from his pocket and used it to quietly unlock the door. He twisted the knob softly, opening the door slowly. Craig, gripping his gun tightly, was standing behind Giuseppe. They didn’t hear a sound. Keeping still, they stepped into the apartment.
Guns in hand, Craig and Giuseppe tiptoed into the living room. They couldn’t see anyone. A pizza on the table looked as if it had been recently eaten. An empty bottle of water was next to it.
One bedroom was to the right; another to the left. Craig motioned that he’d take the one to the right. Stealthily, he moved down the hall. The bedroom door was ajar.
From the corridor, Craig saw a bearded Arab looking man sitting on a bed playing a portable video game, a gun resting next to him. At the window, a missile launcher was aimed at the Vatican.
Craig was preparing to shout, “Hands up,” when the man spotted him. He tossed the video game at Craig. As Craig ducked, the Arab grabbed his gun, jumped up, and held it to his own head.
“Wait,” Craig cried out. “You don’t have to do that. I can get you immunity. You’ll be free.”
The man had a crazed look on his face.
Craig thought about aiming for the Arab’s gun, but it was flush against the man’s temple.
Only one way to stop him.
Recalling his football days, Craig left his feet and hurled his body through the air going for a flying tackle. At the instant he made contact, the Arab pulled the trigger, splitting open his head, splattering brain and tissue against the wall.
For Craig, the noise of the Arab’s gun blast was deafening. Dazed, Craig fell to the floor, the Arab’s blood on his head and face, holding his ears. The sharp stinging pain in Craig’s ears was almost unbearable.
In a blur, he saw Giuseppe rush into the room. Giuseppe’s lips were moving. Craig couldn’t hear a word.
Giuseppe was using his cell phone. He helped Craig to his feet, placed an arm around his shoulders, and led him out of the building.
On the street, an ambulance was waiting. Medical personnel standing next to it. They put Craig on a stretcher and cleaned off his face. A doctor was taking his blood pressure; another was examining him.
They were talking to him. “Can’t hear you,” Craig said. “Can’t hear you.”
They loaded Craig into the back of the ambulance, with Giuseppe next to him. The ambulance roared away. The pain was still intense. Craig wondered if he’d ever hear again.
At the hospital, a doctor checked him and inserted ear drops. He went through an MRI. Then another exam. Three doctors in hospital blues were consulting.
The pain was starting to ease. He heard faint sounds.
Half an hour later, a doctor was talking to Giuseppe. “He’ll be OK,” the doctor said.
And Craig heard every word. Albeit faintly.
“Yes,” Craig shouted. “Yes.”
The doctor explained, “It will take a little while, but your hearing should return to normal.”
Craig was straining to hear the muted words. The doctor handed Craig a bottle of eardrops and a prescription.
“Let’s get out of here,” Craig said to Giuseppe.
“Don’t you want to rest?”
“No time for that. Tomorrow’s Easter.”
In the car, Giuseppe said, “Sorry, I couldn’t get there in time to help.”
Finally, Craig clearly heard every word.
“No way we could have done it better. Besides, chances are this guy wouldn’t have known any more than his own location. The good
news is that we’ve taken the second missile out. You saw his missile setup?”
Giuseppe nodded. “The guy had a clear shot at the Pope on his balcony.”
“The other two will have equally good shots.”
“We have to work all night to find them.”
Craig shook his head. “You’re always an optimist, Giuseppe. I love you for it, but the odds of finding the other two are between slim and none.”
“So what do we do? Give up and let them kill the Pope and lots of innocent people who happen to be in St. Peter’s Square tomorrow morning?”
“No. We have to convince the Pope to cancel his appearance and lock the gates to St. Peter’s Square.”
“I’m all for that. Cardinal Donatello is in charge of security for Vatican City. Let’s go talk to him.”
They decided Giuseppe should make the pitch to Donatello in the Cardinal’s Vatican City office. Better to use the home-town boy.
Donatello was distinguished looking. Tall and thin. In his seventies. He had intense, gray eyes behind wire-framed glasses. The room was small and crowded with bulky, wooden furniture that must have been created in the Renaissance. When he didn’t see a computer or any high-tech equipment, Craig wondered how Donatello could possibly manage security. A glass case in the corner held a magnificent gold cross studded with rubies.
As Giuseppe summarized the situation and its urgency, Craig studied Donatello for body language. There wasn’t any. Giuseppe was talking to a stone wall.
At the end, the Cardinal said, “Do you realize what you’re asking.”
“I do, sir,” Giuseppe said politely and deferentially.
“Are you a Christian?”
“I am.”
“Then you understand the sanctity of the day you’re asking me to profane.”
“I’m trying to save the life of his Holiness and many other innocents. Also, the Vatican’s priceless structure.”
“We have never done anything like this.”
“I realize that, sir. This is an unusual situation.”
“I understand that, but I can’t agree to your request.”
“Perhaps I didn’t make it clear.” Giuseppe continued, “The man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil is determined to renew actively the war between Christians and Muslims in Europe. If he succeeds tomorrow in killing the Pope and damaging the Vatican, he will achieve his goal. The Christian response against Muslim communities will be violent and severe. They will then respond in kind. Bloodshed and death among both religions will be horrendous. Surely, you don’t want that to occur?”
“Of course not,” the Cardinal said. “But canceling the Pope’s appearance would mean surrendering to a terrorist. For that’s what Ahmed Sadi is. To reward him with victory is unthinkable. The armies of the lord will not prostate themselves before this infidel.”
“I’m not asking you to do that. By calling off tomorrow, you will give us time to capture him. Time to avoid further bloodshed.”
“Today’s discussion,” the Cardinal said, “proves the great wisdom of the Vatican’s independence. We cannot be buffeted by temporal forces. I’m sorry, but I have made my decision.”
Craig admired Giuseppe’s polite perseverance. He wouldn’t have been as gracious. But Giuseppe wasn’t getting anywhere. Craig decided to speak up. “Since the Pope’s life is at stake, perhaps we can talk with him.”
The Cardinal seemed indignant.
“Security matters are under my control.”
“Will you at least consult with him? I doubt if you’ll be on that balcony tomorrow. Certainly not after what you just heard.”
Shaking his head in anger, Donatello stood up. “I’ll speak with his Holiness.” Then he stormed out.
Giuseppe turned to Craig. “One thing I’ve always admired about you Americans is your tact and finesse.” Then he smiled.
“I figured at this point it couldn’t hurt.”
“I agree. We were dead in the water. I like to kid you.”
Fifteen minutes later, Donatello returned, a smug look on his face. Craig knew the answer before he opened his mouth.
“I’ve consulted with his Holiness.”
“And?” Giuseppe asked anxiously.
“He refuses to change the plans for tomorrow. He asked me to thank you for your concern and to tell you that he is not worried. The matter is in the hands of God.”