THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) (6 page)
Read THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) Online
Authors: Allan Topol
Craig, with Giuseppe at his side, walked in to the Spanish Prime Minister’s cavernous office. Photos of Zahara with other world leaders lined one wall. On another, hung a portrait of the Prime Minister. Alvarez and Carlos were already there.
Looking pale, the Prime Minister remained seated behind his red leather-topped desk. “The death toll has risen to seventy fatalities,” he said grimly.
“I’m very sorry,” Craig said. “I don’t have words to express how sorry I am.”
“You should be,” Alvarez retorted. “I wanted to cancel all the trains this morning, but you insisted they were safe.”
Flabbergasted, Craig was framing his response to that blatant lie when the Prime Minister said to Alvarez, “Shut up. I don’t want to hear anymore from you.”
“Humph,” Alvarez snarled, his face beet red.
At that moment, Craig’s respect for the Prime Minister increased. He obviously knew his Defense Minister. Zahara turned to Craig. “I don’t blame you. I blame myself. I could have cancelled all the trains this morning. You told me everything. I knew the risks. It was my decision.”
“Thank you sir, but still …”
“Tell me what happened.”
Craig described in detail the bombing and the death of the bomber. He explained that the bomb was sophisticated, state of the art, produced in China, and activated by remote control.
“Judging from the bomber’s appearance, what do you think? Basque or Arab?”
“Ethnically, from North Africa. Arab or Berber. Perhaps Somali. Possibly Iranian.”
“But he could be a Spanish citizen?”
“For sure.”
“I assume he didn’t have any ID?”
“Correct. But I’ve had your forensic people from Seville lift fingerprints and circulate them throughout the EU. They’re supposed to notify me if they get any hits.”
Craig pulled the Blackberry from his pocket and looked at it. Nothing. He laid it down on the table. The Prime Minister asked, “Has any group claimed responsibility?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“It’s probably the Basques.”
“Al Qaeda would be my guess.”
Zahara ignored Craig’s words. “I’ve done everything to mollify the Basques, but I won’t dismember this country … even through there are many in Catalonia who would like that.”
“Perhaps someone will step forward and take credit,” Craig said.
The Prime Minister was walking around the office, deep in thought. “I guess we have to assume there will be other attacks.”
“Unfortunately, that’s correct.”
“We owe the people some explanation. I’ll have my press secretary prepare a statement which I can give on Spanish television. I’d like you to review it.”
“Be happy to.”
“Meantime, I want you to arrange a CNN interview for yourself. I want people around the world to know how aggressively we moved to try and stop this attack. And how vigilant we will be in the future. You’re better able to deal with an international audience.”
Giuseppe said, “Perhaps Craig should do the CNN interview back in Paris. Let people know that Spain is not alone in this. That the European Counterterrorism Agency is involved as well. And that the next attack could come anywhere in the EU.”
“Excellent points.” The Prime Minister said. “I’ll have my plane fly Craig back.”
As Craig stood to leave, he picked up his Blackberry. It began vibrating. A message from the Seville forensic people. “French police matched the bomber’s prints with those of Ibrahami Shabelle, arrested in Paris on October 30, 2005. This is a precise match.”
Craig read the message aloud. Carlos immediately grasped its significance. “If we could find out whom Ibrahami was involved with, we could get a lead on Musa.”
“Precisely.
Zahara pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. “So we might be able to find and capture these bastards!”
Though Alvarez was sulking while twirling his mustache, the others now seemed hopeful. Craig tried to temper his own enthusiasm. He had seen enough leads like this dry up over the years. He turned to Carlos, “Check with all Spanish agencies. See if they have Ibrahami in any of their databases.”
Then Craig called Jacques in Paris. After explaining what he just learned, Craig said, “I need your help.”
“You don’t have to ask. I’ll get right on it. I’ll let you know as soon as I have a bio on Ibrahami.”
As he flew north, Craig closed his weary eyes and held his head. His was a cruel job, with no margin for error. Failure was measured in numbers of lives lost. That made today a disaster.
Musa was dreadful, contemptible. A monster. What kind of person kills innocent children … women … men … so cruelly? Craig vowed to hunt and to kill the man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil, if it was the last thing he ever did.
Craig was dismayed. As soon as he entered the CNN studio on the elegant Avenue Montaigne in Paris in the early evening, the petite news director, Marie Laval, clipboard in hand, met him and said, “Jean Claude Moreau will be interviewing you.”
Craig didn’t like doing television interviews. He realized they went with the job, but they were among his least favorable activities. And he detested Jean Claude. The man was abrasive and self aggrandizing. His primary motivation was making a splash and maximizing his ratings. He wasn’t interested in obtaining facts. In his desire to make himself look good, the often bombastic Jean Claude was hypercritical of his interviewees, constantly denigrating them. Craig’s previous two interviews with Jean Claude had ended in shouting matches.
“Why Jean Claude?” Craig asked. “His program finishes at 8:00 p.m. It’s already 8:10.”
“He decided to stay late. Just to do your interview.”
“I guess it’s my lucky day.”
Marie wasn’t amused. “You asked for this interview. We’re accommodating you. We’ll start at 8:30.”
Jean Claude was tall, six-two, and handsome. At forty-nine, he had incredibly thick, wavy, brown hair, which Craig suspected was a toupee. He dressed in expensive suits and ties along with bright-colored, striped shirts. He had a wide smile, and Craig guessed he spent a lot time bleaching his teeth. Craig had never seen teeth so sparkling white.
“It’s an honor to have back the world’s greatest terrorist hunter,” Jean Claude said, while a technician hooked a microphone to Craig’s lapel.
“Very amusing.”
“Sounds like you’re having a bad day.”
Craig realized he had sounded irritable. And no wonder. He hadn’t slept last night. Then so much had happened today. Still, he had to pull together. He’d be talking to millions of people.
Craig and John Claude sat next to each other at a long wooden desk, permitting the cameras to capture both at the same time or to zoom in on either one. Behind the cameras were scores of wires and cables. Marie, with her ubiquitous clipboard, raised her hand. At exactly 8:30 she lowered it.
Jean Claude began his segment on the Spanish train bombing with a grisly film of the wreckage—inside the train and on the ground. “This is not for the squeamish,” he said, as the film depicted the maimed and the dead. Bleeding bodies. Severed limbs accompanied by screams of the victims.
When it was over, Jean Claude said, “We are fortunate to have with us this evening Craig Page, the EU Director of Counterterrorism who is responsible for thwarting attacks like this.”
Thanks, Jean Claude.
“Welcome to CNN, Craig. Would you like to make an opening statement?”
“I want to say that the Spanish government and all of the EU nations will be doing everything they can to find the perpetrators of this horrific attack and to bring them to justice. At the same time, we will be moving aggressively to prevent future attacks.”
“Do you know which group is responsible?”
Craig was ready for this question.
“I can’t share our confidential information with you. However, we are pursuing some very active leads.”
“Have you ever heard of an organization called The Spanish Revenge?”
Craig wondered what the hell Jean Claude was talking about. Better tread carefully, he thought.
“Again, I can’t share information with you.”
“Then let me share something with you and our viewers.”
Jean Claude raised his hand, signaling Marie, who was standing near a technician. They focused the camera on Craig while an audio tape began playing. “This is Musa Ben Abdil …” The voice was garbled, but understandable.
Craig looked calm, but inside he was seething.
“Our group, The Spanish Revenge, is responsible for the Spanish train bombing. Our objective is to resume the war between Muslims and Christians in Europe.”
Craig was furious at Marie and Jean Claude. How could they have blindsided him? They should have given him the opportunity to hear the tape before the interview. And they had withheld critical information from law enforcement officials.
Jean Claude was smirking. Craig wanted to strangle him.
Jean Claude asked, “What can you tell us about the group called The Spanish Revenge?”
“As I said, I’m not at liberty to discuss our ongoing investigation.”
“Do you believe that this Spanish train bombing is a prelude to a larger war between Muslims and Christians in Europe as the tape says?”
“I do not think so. The vast majority of Muslims living in Europe are peaceful law-abiding citizens.”
“But unlike other immigrant groups, they haven’t integrated into the mainstream society. Have they?”
“Your question is outside my area of expertise in combating terrorism.”
“That’s an easy answer, but isn’t there a blurred line between riots in an Islamic area of a European city and an act of terror?”
Of course, Jean Claude was right, but Craig didn’t want to admit it.
“Can we return to the train bombing?”
“Sure.” Jean Claude was smirking again. Craig was ready for another blast. “What can you tell us about Chinese involvement in the Spanish train bombing?”
Again Craig had to be careful. “I have no information to suggest Chinese government involvement.”
“Will you confirm that the bomb wasn’t an IED, an improvised explosive device, but instead a sophisticated state-of-the-art Chinese bomb activated by remote control?”
How the hell does he know that? Alvarez? Had to be. What’s Alvarez’s game? To make me look bad.
“It is true,” Craig said, “that the bomb was manufactured in China. That doesn’t establish Chinese government involvement. The bomb could have been obtained from a country with which China has a military supply agreement.”
“Was the individual who activated the bomb Chinese? Or an Arab?”
“We’re still trying to establish his identity.”
“But you have someone in custody.”
“He killed himself before he could be captured.”
Jean Claude didn’t seem surprised. Had Alvarez told him that as well?
“How did that happen?”
“He shot himself.”
“Well what did he look like?”
“As I said, we’re still trying to establish his identity.”
Craig had enough of this interview. He decided to end strong. “I wish to emphasize that my agency, in coordination with the Spanish and other EU governments, is making every conceivable effort to find and punish the perpetrators of this heinous crime. At the same time, we have stepped up our vigilance to prevent another attack. Now I must go back to work.”
Craig unhooked his microphone clarifying that he wouldn’t take any more questions.
As soon as the cameras cut away, he made a beeline for Marie and led her into a vacant office. He was glaring at her. “You should have let me hear the tape before the interview. That was outrageous. All you care about is your story. Whatever gets your ratings up. You have no moral compass.”
She was glaring right back. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“And you withheld critical evidence from law enforcement officials. I can have you prosecuted under French law.” He was raising his voice.
“We’re not withholding anything. We only received the tape a little while ago. I wanted to confirm with you that it was genuine.”
“Bullshit. You wanted to sandbag me.” He held out his hand. “I want the tape now or I’ll get a court order.”
“Give me a minute.”
She left him standing there and returned a few minutes later holding a CD which she handed to him. “This is the original we made. I prepared a copy which we’re keeping. This one has the best sound quality.”
Craig’s anger was tempered by one cold, clear fact. In his effort
to use the media to boast about his success, the man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil had given Craig his first clue at finding his identity and locating him. Sure the voice was garbled. But maybe it was his. If not, one of his confidantes. And if they could identify the voice, they had a real lead.
General Zhou stood on the balcony of his luxurious estate, blowing smoke into the air from a Cuban cigar and looking at the sparkling lights of the Mediterranean a mile below. He had a clear view between the tall pines that lined the two sides of his property and the red clay tennis court between them. Yachts were gently bobbing in the water. In October the movie stars and other celebrities were gone. The crowds, too.
This place is a bit of heaven, he thought. We have nothing like it in China. He should be grateful for being able to split his time between this house and the comfortable apartment in Paris. Not to mention having unlimited money forwarded by his brother, Zhou Yun, one of the most successful industrialists in China. And gorgeous, sensuous Androshka. Not much competition in tennis, but far more important, after a year and a half, she still drove him wild in bed. Men would give anything for a life like this.
But he was still miserable. He wanted to be back in China. More than that, he wanted to replace President Li as the head of the Chinese government. One day, before long, he would do that. His brother would tell him when to make his move and return with the support of military leaders with whom he regularly communicated. Meantime, he was painfully aware every day of his gilded life that he was in exile.
Ah, the bitterness of exile.
He never forgot who was responsible for his banishment: That bastard, Craig Page.
If it weren’t for Page, General Zhou’s ingenious plan for Operation Dragon Oil would have succeeded. He would now be in Beijing. Praised and revered by the entire Chinese nation. A hero without equal. A military genius embarking on conquests to exceed Caesar or Napoleon.
But Page had foiled Operation Dragon Oil. Exile was General Zhou’s punishment.
The passage of a year and a half had only intensified his hatred for Craig. Not a day went by without General Zhou dreaming about revenge. Getting even with Page—and then some. Sure, he could arrange Craig’s murder. But there would be no satisfaction in that. Rather, he imagined scenarios in which he succeeded in an operation and Craig suffered the humiliation of defeat. None of them seemed plausible, until this evening.
As he watched Craig squirming in front of the CNN camera, he realized how painful the Spanish train bombing was for Craig. General Zhou had no idea who Musa Ben Abdil was. Or the Spanish Revenge. But he knew what he had to do: Find Musa and join forces with him to wreak such devastating blows on Page with future attacks that his career would be ended. Page would be regarded as a pariah among governments. Never to be appointed to a position anywhere. That would be revenge. Sweet revenge.
The first step was getting to Musa. General Zhou was pleased he
had recorded Craig’s interview. He wanted to hear it again.
He returned to the living room, hit the play button, and listened intently.
As he did, he was struck with another idea. This Musa Ben Abdil could have value to General Zhou, apart from being an instrument for his revenge with Page. In his future plans, General Zhou not only wanted to be President of China, but he was determined to make China the preeminent power in the world. That meant surpassing both the United States and Western Europe. Musa had planned and executed the Spanish train bombing so brilliantly that General Zhou recognized in him the potential, if properly supported, to destabilize and weaken Europe, helping China to overtake it. His fertile imagination charged ahead. Europe and the United States, though rivals in some sense, were joined at the hip as the Western Christian forces in the world. While reluctant to admit it, both were at war with Islam. If he helped Musa build an army strong enough to weaken Europe, General Zhou could unleash him on the United States. Musa could be valuable to General Zhou in achieving Chinese world dominance.
All of that was good, but he still had to locate and to make contact with Musa. As Craig’s interview played on, General Zhou, puffing on a cigar, heard Jean Claude say, “Will you confirm that the bomb wasn’t an IED, an improvised explosive device, but instead a sophisticated state-of-the-art Chinese bomb activated by remote control?”
Excited by what he just heard, General Zhou hit the stop button, rewound, and played it again to make sure he had it right. Yes, he did. And then Craig conceded, “The bomb was manufactured in China.”
General Zhou now had the wedge he needed to get into the door with Musa.
Once he turned the power off, Androshka walked into his study wearing a pink lace bra, which covered about half of her gorgeous round breasts, a matching thong with lots of brown bush showing
on the sides, and five inch stiletto heels that raised her height to his at six two. He had once read that beautiful women were more erotic in lingerie than nude, and this evening Androshka was proving that. Just the sight of her aroused him.
He stood up, making no effort to tie his blue silk robe, letting his erection jut out.
“You have a problem,” she said.
“And I have a solution.”
She kissed him on the lips, then pulled away, “Not when we’re having dinner at the Eden Roc. It’ll keep. Besides, you made me wait for dinner until you watched the Craig Page interview. I’m starving. You should get dressed.”
“Five minutes. I have to make one call.”
Using his cell phone directory, he looked through the list of top officials in the Chinese military, most of whom were still loyal to him, until he found what he was looking for: Freddy Wu.
When he was still Chief of the Chinese Armed Forces, General Zhou had appointed Freddy the head of China’s Office of Military Supply-Western Europe and North Africa. Chang Wu, the Shanghai-born son of one of China’s rising wealthy industrialists, had been educated at Oxford, where he renamed himself Freddy. Flamboyant, described derogatorily as a dissolute playboy by hard-line old-timers, high-living Freddy had been spending his time mingling with the rich and famous in Western Europe as “a representative,” which meant glorified salesman, for his father’s industrial conglomerate. General Zhou concluded that, with training on Chinese military hardware, Freddy would be perfect for the job of cracking the American stranglehold on arms imported by Western European and North African countries.
General Zhou knew he made the right choice when Freddy said, “If you give me a large expense budget, I’ll succeed. The Americans are afraid to make payoffs to the key officials because of some stupid
foreign corrupt practices law of theirs. They’re competing with one hand tied behind their back.”
So General Zhou gave Freddy an unlimited budget. As he told people, “Freddy exceeded it, but the arms are flowing.” Freddy, based in Paris, kept his job after General Zhou’s forced retirement. “I’ll never forget what you did for me,” Freddy said when General Zhou moved to Paris. “You can always depend on me.” General Zhou had seen Freddy from time to time in the last year and a half.
He dialed Freddy on his cell.
“Oh, General Zhou, it’s good to hear from you.”
He loved it when people still called him General.
“I need some help.”
“It would be an honor. Please tell me what I can do.”
“There was a train bombing in Southern Spain today.”
“I heard about it. A terrorist act.”
“Correct. Please keep everything I’m about to tell you confidential.”
“Of course.”
“I’ve learned that a sophisticated Chinese bomb was used.”
“I had no idea.”
“I’m trying to find out who directed this terrorist attack. It would be helpful if I had a list of all customers and delivery points in the last six months for sophisticated bomb devices activated by remote control.”
“Just in Spain?”
General Zhou thought about the question. It might have been brought into the country. “No. Your entire sales territory. Western Europe or North Africa.”
General Zhou recalled Elizabeth Crowder’s article in this morning’s
International Herald.
She had written that the warning note was signed by “Musa Ben Abdil.” The reporter was Craig Page’s whore. General Zhou bitterly recalled how she helped Craig block
Operation Dragon Oil. So she must have gotten her information about the Spanish train bombing from Craig.
General Zhou told Freddy, “The customer’s name may be Musa Ben Abdil, but don’t limit the search to him.”
“I understand. How soon do you need the information?”
Before General Zhou had a chance to respond, Freddy answered his own question. “I’m sure as soon as possible.”
“Correct.”
“You’ll have it within twenty four hours.”
The next morning was a gorgeous, sunny day, perfect, blue sky, and unseasonably warm. Androshka was sunbathing nude next to the pool in back of the villa. Meantime, General Zhou sat at a table on the patio, poring through the pile of newspapers his aide, Captain Cheng, had brought from Nice early this morning. He was looking for any other tidbits about the Spanish bombing, while he sipped another double espresso, which he now enjoyed. He doubted if he’d ever drink tea again, even when he returned to China.
His cell phone rang. Freddy Wu.
“Yes,” General Zhou said anxiously.
“I have the information you wanted.”
“Tell me.”
“A month ago, four very powerful, sophisticated bombs, which we call the Rock Blasters, with remote control activators, were delivered to Musa Ben Abdil. Payment was in cash. Four hundred thousand euros.”
“Excellent. Where was delivery made?”
“In Morocco. On a road twenty kilometers east of Marrakech.”
“Do you have any contact information for the purchaser?”
“He refused to divulge it. I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. You’ve given me plenty.”
General Zhou hung up the phone. He climbed down the stone
stairs to the pool. Androshka was on her back reclining on a chaise, eyes covered with damp tissues to minimize the sun.
“Androshka,” he said, “I have to go to Morocco with Captain Cheng for a couple of days for business.”
She uncovered her eyes and sat up. “Can I come … Please. I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco. Mikhail would never take me. But you’re not like he is,” she said it in a sugary-sweet voice that made him smile.
He didn’t care what her former boyfriend, that Russian thug, once a barbarous general in the Soviet army, now a murderous oligarch, did or didn’t do. But as he thought about it, taking Androshka could be an advantage. Though he and Captain Cheng hadn’t worn military uniforms in the year and a half since they left China, even posing as Chinese businessmen might attract Moroccan government surveillance. But tourists. That was the best cover.
“OK, Androshka. Start packing.” She jumped up, threw her arms around him, and kissed him. “I’ll be good for you there,” she said.
He laughed. “You’re always good for me.”
He was waiting for Captain Cheng to bring the car around for the ride to Nice airport when he heard the distinctive “ping … ping … ping” of the encrypted cell phone he used only for calls with Zhou Yun, his brother in China.
“I heard the most incredible good news,” Zhou Yun said. “You won’t believe this.”
“Tell me.”
“President Li has been diagnosed with colon cancer. It’s being concealed from everyone in the country.”
“How did you find out?”
“I made his personal physician a very wealthy man by letting him invest in one of my real estate deals. In return, he keeps me informed of President’s Li’s health.”
His brother’s thoroughness always amazed General Zhou.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“The fool rejects surgery which his doctors are recommending. If he doesn’t have surgery, they’re giving him a year to live.”
General Zhou wanted to celebrate President Li’s impending death, but he was thinking more about the presidential succession.
As if reading his mind, his brother said, “Once the news gets out, the struggle will begin for the next President. Fortunately, we don’t have a democracy. The Central Committee will decide. I will immediately begin talking to each of the members of the Committee. Lining up their support for you ahead of time. I can persuade some by calling in personal obligations that must be repaid. Gifts will buy the support of others. I’ll do my best to secure your selection as the next President of China.”
“I have maintained good relationships with the military leaders.”
“That’ll help.”
“Will my exile be a factor?”
“Absolutely not. Enough people now dislike Li that being his enemy is an advantage. I’m feeling confident.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Of course. Meantime, do you have enough money? Or should I increase the deposit in your account each month?”
“I have plenty.”
General Zhou turned off the phone and thought about his close relationship with his brother. Their unbreakable bond had been forged in 1967, at ten and twelve, when Mao unleashed his Cultural Revolution. Their father, the National Economic Director, had been a rival of Mao for power. Mao, that monster and villain, responsible for the deaths of more Chinese than the total number killed by Hitler and Stalin, didn’t tolerate rivals. He sent the boys’ parents to the countryside in the north, near the Siberian border, for reeducation and indoctrination. General Zhou and his brother were forced to remain in Beijing.
“We can only trust each other,” Zhou Yun, the older had told General Zhou. And they supported themselves in the struggle to survive. Six years later, their father returned, a broken shell of the man who had gone. No longer a rival to Mao. He explained to the brothers that their mother had died of malnutrition.
The irony was that, when Mao had seized power, their father had relinquished a comfortable life in San Francisco to return home for the rebuilding of China, with a dream of it one day becoming the dominant power in the world.
Together, General Zhou and his brother dedicated their lives to realizing their father’s dream, General Zhou as the Commander of the Chinese Armed Forces, his brother as one of the wealthiest and most powerful industrialists in China, with tentacles reaching into construction, real estate, energy, and military supply.