Read THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) Online
Authors: Allan Topol
Musa was sitting behind the desk in the one-floor, thick-walled brownstone building he had constructed to be his headquarters. His eyes were glued to the large-screen television on a table across the room. Mesmerized, he watched as CNN replayed over and over analyses of yesterday’s assassination attempt on President Dalton and how Craig Page thwarted it.
The CNN announcer was droning on. “Craig Page has enjoyed his greatest victory. There was some dissent when an American was picked for the position of director of the newly established EU Counterterrorism Agency. With yesterday evening’s action, those dissenters have been silenced.”
Musa assumed that the media only knew about half of what had happened. Even then, Craig had done an incredible job, Musa had to admit. Though he had nothing to do with the Dalton attempt, Musa
realized Craig would be Musa’s primary adversary for the Spanish Revenge.
Once he came to that conclusion last evening, Musa had used the internet to develop an extensive bio on Craig. From his birth in Monessen Pennsylvania to his chemical engineering degree at Carnegie Mellon, two years in the oil business in Houston, followed by twenty years with the CIA, running some of its most successful actions, rising to become head of Middle Eastern Operations. And finally a sudden and unexplained dismissal from the agency a year and a half ago.
Though Craig was experienced and good, Musa was confident that Craig would never stop Musa’s Spanish Revenge. “Craig Page, you’re about to suffer your most serious defeat,” Musa said aloud.
Musa’s operation had been carefully and precisely planned. Nothing could go wrong. Still, with Craig likely to be involved, Musa wanted one final check.
He picked up the phone on the battered wooden desk next to the Beretta and summoned Omar.
His deputy appeared a minute later. “Yes, Ahmed.”
“I told you not to call me that. There is no more Ahmed. Only Musa Ben Abdil.”
“I’m sorry. Old habits die hard, my friend.”
“I can understand that.” It was an old habit. He and Omar had grown up together as close boyhood friends in adjacent buildings in Chichy-sous Bois, a suburban slum outside of Paris, populated by Muslims whose families, like their parents, came from Algeria and Morocco.
“I want to go over the details one more time,” Musa said. “Before they leave tomorrow. Bring Kemal, Ibrahami, and Yasir over here.”
“Right away.”
Waiting for them to arrive, Musa, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, paced on the terracotta floor stained by the blood of a traitor
whom he shot last week, going over the operation in his mind. He had brilliantly conceived it. Now the implementation had to be flawless.
The three of them entered behind Omar. Kemal, who had grown up with Musa and Omar, a lifelong friend, though not as close as Omar, now looked hesitant and fearful. Not Ibrahami and Yasir. The Somali and the Algerian, both of whom Musa met in Clichy during the ’05 riots, stood tall, looking eager. Ready for what lay ahead in the next two days.
Nobody sat. They all stood around Musa’s desk.
“Yasir,” Musa said. “In the morning, you’ll fly to Paris. Stay with friends in Clichy whom you can trust and don’t tell them why you’re there. Then Friday morning, from eight a.m. on, you’ll be in the area of Paris near the pont de l’Alma. Walk around. Stop in brasseries until I call. You have the number of CNN?”
“Committed to memory,” Yasir said.
Musa reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a micro CD player and handed it to Yasir. “All you have to do is hold it up to the phone and press the play button.”
“I understand.”
Musa turned to Kemal and Ibrahami. “Tomorrow morning, the two of you will fly to Madrid. You’ll pick up the bomb and remote from the locker in the train station. Tomorrow evening at eight, deliver the note to the Spanish Defense Ministry. Then drive to Seville. I want you both in place early Friday morning when the Spanish school vacation begins. Then …”
Kemal interrupted. “Is it wise to provide advance notice of the attack? Won’t that increase the chances of our being stopped?”
Musa couldn’t believe Kemal was questioning him on an operational matter. The success of an organization like the Spanish Revenge depended on tight discipline and the chain of command.
“I shouldn’t have to explain it,” Musa said slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. “Giving advance notice shows our strength to the world. We’re telling the Spanish government that they can’t stop
us even if they know what we’ve planned. We’ll gain greater respect. And will be able to raise funds more easily for future operations.”
Kemal persisted, “But…”
Musa cut him off. “I said we’re doing it that way. Now let’s look at the map of Southern Spain. You can take it with you, but I want to focus on the spot for the attack. I selected it myself after visiting the area.”
The five of them moved up close to Musa’s desk, their eyes on the map. Musa pointed to a red “X” along train tracks running from Madrid to Seville. “This is it.”
He glanced at Ibrahami, who was nodding. Kemal had his lips pursed together. Mouth drawn tight.
“I expect you to escape,” Musa continued. “But remember, under any circumstances you can’t let them take you prisoner. Craig Page is likely to be involved. He’ll interrogate you. Force you to divulge the location of our base and who else is involved. All will be lost.”
Musa delivered his warning in a stern voice.
“If necessary, I’m prepared to die for the cause,” Ibrahami said.
“And you, Kemal?” Musa asked.
“Why do you need two of us to do the job?”
“We’ve been over that. One to set and detonate the bomb. The other to drive the get-away vehicle.”
“Ibrahami could easily do it all himself.”
Musa felt a surge of resentment against Kemal, the coward. Afraid and unwilling to die for the objective of the Spanish Revenge. Though Musa kept his anger in check, he realized he couldn’t risk sending someone like that on an important mission.
Musa looked at Ibrahami. “Could you do it all?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
He reached into his pocket, took out a key and handed it to Ibrahami. “It has the number of the locker in the train station. Close to where tickets are sold.”
As the meeting broke up, Musa asked Omar to remain behind. When they were alone, Musa said, “Watch Kemal. I don’t trust him.”
Omar nodded and left. Alone, Musa paced again. He was worried that he had made a mistake letting Kemal live. Perhaps he was being too lenient because of their history.
Once there were three boys in Clichy: Ahmed, Omar, and Kemal. Only twenty five years ago. It seems like eons.
That was the only world Ahmed had ever known until Madam Cohen, his math teacher, discovered when he was twelve that he had a remarkable gift for mathematics. Despite his father’s opposition, Madam Cohen arranged a scholarship for Ahmed to attend an elite private school in Paris. Riding a train home in the evening meant enduring the taunts and fists of neighborhood boys. Omar and Kemal were his only friends. Each night he went home bloodied and bruised. Life was unbearable until a vicious sixteen-year-old bully came after with him with a baseball bat and the cry, “I’ll murder you, traitor.” In the twilight, Ahmed knew he meant it.
A circle of neighborhood kids rapidly formed around the two of them. Ahmed realized only one would walk away alive. In front of the circle, he heard Omar shout: “Kill him, Ahmed.”
The bully was bigger and stronger, but Ahmed was faster. Each time the bully swung, Ahmed ducked. He reached to the ground, grabbed a handful of pebbles and tossed them into the boy’s eyes. His adversary blinded, Ahmed grabbed the bat. Savagely, he smashed it against he bully’s ribs knocking him to the ground. Then he pounded away at the bully’s skull, again and again, unleashing the frustration of long weeks of misery, until the bully stopped moving. Horrified, other boys pulled Ahmed away, still holding the baseball bat.
They left the bully’s dead body on the ground. An hour later, the police came and made only a perfunctory investigation. A code of silence of the neighborhood held. No one told the police what happened. From that day on, Ahmed carried the baseball bat with him to and from the train to school. No one ever bothered him again.
Thinking about the private school, he immediately saw Nicole, so young, so beautiful, the blonde hair cascading alongside her strikingly beautiful white face. Between classes and the study, they slipped into the woods near the school and kissed. His first love. His only love. The gold cross around her neck. She was afraid to tell her parents about him.
When he graduated from private school, Madam Cohen, who had followed his progress, arranged a scholarship to Columbia University. He traveled around the United States. Saw how Americans hated him and all Muslims because of 9/11. Their bigotry and hatred made him glad it happened.
But not everyone despised him. In New York, those knee-jerk liberals saw him as the dark-skinned Muslim poster child from the Paris slums. They pretended to love him. It made them feel better.
He abandoned engineering for world history and slept with the lightest and blondest women. He dabbled for a while with pro-Palestinians helping to organize a protest against the Israeli foreign minister, but he quickly realized he had no interest in their cause. His people didn’t care squat about Jerusalem or the West Bank. They were the despised Arabs and Berbers from North Africa living in poverty and subjugated by the Christians who had stolen their land five hundred years ago.
After receiving a degree in history, cum laude, he returned to Paris, moved back to Clichy, and organized youth programs. Money was no problem. He raised over a million euros from French liberals who supported him to salve their conscience.
The best was Nicole. She had waited for him. With a degree in psychology from the University of Paris, she worked with him. They moved in together, still concealing their relationship from her parents. Socially prominent Parisians. They would never understand.
He was so happy. Then it all came crashing down in the riots in the Paris suburbs of October 2005.
The police were brutal. Blood flowed on the streets. The blood of
his people. And Nicole marched next to him. Always close by, until that thug of a red-faced policeman fired tear gas right at him, then pulled Nicole away, the only white girl in the crowd.
Eyes burning, restrained by two cops, Musa watched helplessly as the red-faced monster smashed his truncheon against her blonde head over and over, smiling sadistically the whole time.
Musa arrived at the hospital after the ambulance. “She’s in a coma,” the doctor said. “The result of a brain hemorrhage.” He sat next to her bed, willing her to regain consciousness. Then her parents came. “Get your ugly black face out of here,” her father screamed. “You destroyed our daughter.”
For the next week, he remained downstairs in the hospital, out of their sight, seeking reports from the nurses about Nicole while watching on television the police brutality aimed at defenseless Muslim youth.
A week later, a nurse told him: “Nicole died.” He cried for an hour. Not being a believer, he couldn’t seek solace in prayer. Action was his only response to what had happened: Nicole’s death, the riots. It was his destiny, he decided, to begin his own movement, demanding justice and equality for Muslims in Europe. Seeking revenge for Nicole. Violence was the only way to obtain it.
Craig rushed through the briefing he and Jacques gave to Pierre Morreau, the Defense Minister, about the attempted assassination of Dalton. He didn’t want to be late for his eight thirty dinner with Elizabeth.
His car was waiting in front of the Ministry. When Craig took one look at the Boulevard St. Germain, which resembled a parking lot, he said to his driver, “I’m taking the Metro. Please meet me in front of the Bristol Hotel in a couple of hours.”
As the crowded train rumbled along, Craig, standing and clutching a pole, thought about Elizabeth. He was thrilled for her. She had sounded so excited when she called early in the afternoon to say she had arrived. Happily, the Bristol had had a cancellation.
The train stopped. He exited the Metro station at Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. Walking swiftly in the chilly autumn air, he covered the four blocks to the Hotel Bristol, only a hundred yards from the spot
on which the Iranian with the cell phone had intended to activate the bomb in the Hermes box.
A hotel doorman nodded to Craig and turned the revolving door, catapulting Craig from the busy Rue Saint Honore to the quite elegance of Paris’s most luxurious hotel. Craig glanced at the clock above the concierge’s desk. Eight thirty-five. He cut across the marble-floored lobby to the circular, richly wood-paneled dining room—the height of opulence and sophistication. The incredible food and meticulous attention to detail made it Craig’s favorite restaurant in Paris.
The maître d’greeted Craig and said, “Madame is already here.”
Craig spotted Elizabeth across the room, seated at a round table adjacent to the side wall. A glass of champagne in front of her, she seemed preoccupied, deep in thought, looking radiant, her honey brown hair pulled back, the magenta suit snug enough to reveal her good figure.
“Mind if I join you?” he said.
She snapped back to reality. He kissed her on the lips, then sat down.
The tuxedo-clad sommelier wheeled over a cart with half a dozen bottles of champagne on ice. “I’ll have what she’s drinking.”
When Craig had a glass, he raised it, “Congratulations. Now tell me about the book deal.”
“I will in a minute. First, I want to know what happened with Dalton. Did they try again?”
He shook his head. “Nothing else. As I just told Pierre Moreau, it’s over.”
“Do you know who was responsible?”
“I understand why you’re such a good reporter.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
“According to my source, the Iranian government. If they try again, it won’t be on my turf. Since Dalton hates Europe, I doubt if he’ll be back.”
“Did Dalton thank you for saving his life?”
“Yeah, right.” Smiling, he pulled the cell phone from his pocket. “Maybe I missed the call when I was in the Metro.” He glanced at it. “Nope. No call.”
“Dalton’s a jerk.”
“So you and Jacques are in agreement about something.”
A waiter came over with menus. They ordered. He selected an ’05 Chambolle Musigny from Dujac.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t wait a second longer. What’s the deal?”
“Harold got Virginia to agree to an advance of six hundred K.” She was flushed with excitement.
“Yes!” he cried out. Too loud for the dignified dining room. People stared at them. He didn’t care. He ignored them. She had put a lot of work into the book proposal.
“That is fabulous,” he said.
“So I’m buying dinner this evening.”
“You won’t get an argument from me. What’s your deadline?”
“You always ask the practical questions.”
The wine arrived. He tasted it. Perfect for their seared fois gras with caramelized apples, which came right behind. They paused to eat.
“This is spectacular,” she said. “I’m glad you picked this place.”
While he sipped wine, she said, “They want a detailed outline in thirty days. A draft in twelve months.”
“Can you do that while working at the paper?”
“I talked to Rob, who’s now running the foreign news department. He said they’ll lighten my reporting load. Even give me a little time off to do research and write, if I need it.”
“Very generous.”
“He said he’s not being altruistic. They want me to have the expertise. The topic will become even more important over time.”
“I agree. Rob’s being smart.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to turn the study in the apartment into my writing center.”
“Sure. Whatever works. I’ll do anything to help.”
They were midway through the fois gras when Craig felt the cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Sometimes, he hated that phone. As he yanked it out of his pocket, she said, “Dalton, calling to thank you.”
“I doubt it.” He checked caller ID. General Jose Alvarez, the Spanish Defense Minister.
“Sorry,” he said to Elizabeth. “I have to take this. I’ll keep it short.”
“Don’t worry. I understand. If you take too long, I’ll drink all the wine.”
“Hold on a minute,” he said to Alvarez. Then with the phone plastered to his ear, he headed out of the dining room and into a quiet corner of the lobby.
“We have a situation,” Alvarez said. “And Prime Minister Zahara insisted that I call you.”
Alvarez sounded hostile. Craig got the drift. Regardless of the threat to Spain, Alvarez would never have called for Craig’s help. But Prime Minster Zahara was a different matter. On the two occasions they had met, Craig and Zahara hit it off.
“Tell me about it,” Craig said.
“About two hours ago, a messenger dropped off a typed note at the Defense Ministry, warning that one of the trains from Madrid will be bombed tomorrow morning. The note was signed ‘Musa Ben Abdil.’ We haven’t been able to locate the messenger. I think it’s a prank and nothing will happen, but Zahara doesn’t want to take a chance. He wants your ideas of how we should deal with this situation.”
Craig hated cutting short his dinner, but Zahara wanted his involvement. “Send a plane to Paris for me. I’ll drop everything and come to Madrid.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Alvarez said. “It’s late. We’ll hook you in by phone as needed. I’ll tell Zahara you’re busy in Paris.”
I’m sure you will.
“Listen Jose, Madrid is an hour away. This sounds like a major terrorist attack. If Prime Minster Zahara wants my involvement, it will be more effective in person.”
“But…”
“You know I’m right.”
A deep sigh. “I guess so. I’ll send the Prime minister’s plane to Orly. Be there in an hour.”
Craig checked his watch. He had twenty minutes before leaving. Time to explain to Elizabeth. First, he had one more call to make. To Giuseppe, his deputy in Rome. After describing the Madrid situation, he told Giuseppe, “Use one of the Italian government planes to fly to Madrid. I’ll meet you there.”
Back at the table, Craig whispered to Elizabeth what he had heard from Alvarez. At the mention of Musa Ben Abdil, she gave a start. “The man was an historical figure,” she said.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Let me give you the background. The short version … from the tenth through the fifteenth century, Muslims ruled Southern Spain and much of the Iberian peninsula. During this period, science, arts, and learning prospered. Generally, a spirit of religious tolerance prevailed with Muslims, Christians and Jews living in harmony, then internal dissention in the Islamic leadership and disputes among Arabs and Berbers weakened the governing structure. At the same time, Christian armies were moving south from France and conquering Northern Spain.”
Elizabeth paused to take a breath. “In the Fifteenth Century, Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand solidified their rule over Christian Spain and formed a close alliance with Pope Innocent VIII. Armed with the Pope’s blessing, they vowed to drive Islam out of Spain. Muslims would have a choice: Expulsion, conversion, or death.
“Methodically, Isabella and Ferdinand moved their army south,
conquering the countryside town by town. In 1491, much of the remaining Muslim population was gathered in the Alhambra, their magnificent palace of Islam near Granada. The Muslim leadership wanted to surrender, but one famous general, Musa Ben Abdil, argued for fighting to the death, despite the odds. When he was overruled by the leadership, Musa refused to accept their decision.
“He grabbed his sword and mounted his horse. Accompanied by only a few supporters, he stormed out of the Alhambra. He fought valiantly, killing as many Christians as he could, until they finally killed him.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“I majored in medieval history at Harvard … Remember?”
“Oh yeah. So you’re telling me that the terrorist who sent this note has a keen knowledge of Spanish medieval history.”
She was on the edge of her chair. She liked to play baseball. Right now she reminded him of a batter getting ready to hit the ball out of the park.
“More than that,” she said. “You’re not dealing with an ordinary terrorist. You’re facing an Islamic fanatic who’s declaring war on Christians in Spain.”
“And if that’s the case, whoever we’re dealing with won’t limit himself to a single train bombing.”
“Correct.”
“Can you fly with me to Madrid this evening? Your knowledge of Spanish medieval history will be valuable.”
“Sure. All I was doing was having a celebration at the best restaurant in Paris. Maybe they’ll pack the rest of our meal to go.”