THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) (8 page)

14

MARSEILLES

During his CIA days, Craig had developed the three turn rule. When he was concerned about being followed, he’d begin walking and make three turns. If the same man—although occasionally a woman—was still behind him, he acted accordingly. This evening he was worried that Musa had somehow learned that Craig and Elizabeth were meeting with Lila. Musa might send someone to follow them to the meeting. Then kill Lila before she could talk.

To avoid this, Craig parked half a mile from the Brasserie Duquesne, south and west of the huge stone Fort St. Nicolas, built by Louis XIV to keep the residents under control. Craig and Elizabeth, both with their hands in their raincoat pockets clutching pistols, set off along the narrow roads, from the car park to the brasserie through an industrial area.

Glancing over his shoulder, Craig saw a gray Citreon park along
the side of the road. The driver wearing a black leather jacket, got out and was walking in their direction.

A strong breeze was blowing off the sea. Craig expected it to rain before long.

For now, heavy cloud cover kept the sky dark. Craig couldn’t see the man in the black leather jacket clearly enough to get a look at his face.

“We might have company,” he whispered to Elizabeth.

“You always draw a crowd.”

Craig and Elizabeth turned left at the corner. Black leather jacket followed, hanging back, keeping twenty yards between them and trying to conceal himself behind parked cars. Craig and Elizabeth made another left then a right. Black leather jacket was still there.

“Definitely being followed,” he told her.

“What do you want to do?”

“I’m thinking.”

He was looking around. Up ahead on the right, at the next corner, was a dilapidated warehouse that looked deserted. As they walked by, Craig studied the lock on the door. It would be easy to disable with a strong shoulder. Craig motioned Elizabeth to duck down next to him behind the front of a parked pick up truck.

Peeking out, Craig saw black leather jacket stop dead alongside the pick up. He was looking around, trying to find them. Swiftly, Craig made his move. He jumped up and smashed his fist hard into back leather jacket’s kidneys. Then his foot into the man’s groin, dropping him to his knees. He was screaming in agony. Craig moved behind him and looped his arm around the man’s neck to keep him quiet. He was olive-skinned. An Arab, Craig guessed.

While Craig dragged him toward the entrance to the warehouse, Elizabeth was slamming her shoulder against the warehouse door, which easily gave way. By the time Craig entered the dark room with his captive, Elizabeth had removed the flashlight from her pocket and was shining it around. She found a wooden chair and some old
rope on the floor. She dragged them to the center of the room and waited for Craig to bring over black leather jacket. Craig forced him down in the chair and held him tight. Elizabeth tied him to the back

He was screaming. Craig slapped him hard with the back of his hand.

“Shut up or I’ll break your jaw.”

The man was silent.

“What’s your name?”

“Mohammed.”

“Where’s Musa?” Craig said.

“I have no idea.”

“You’re lying.”

“I swear I’m not.”

Craig removed the gun from his coat and held it up. “First I’ll shoot your right knee. Then your left. I’ll keep going with other body parts until you tell me. Now where’s Musa?”

The man was terrified. Tears were running down his cheeks.

“No. No.”

“Where’s Musa?”

“Jacques sent me,” he stammered. “I’m with French intelligence.”

What the hell?

“Prove it.”

“I have ID in my pants pocket. If you untie me, I’ll get it.”

Craig nodded to Elizabeth to untie him while he kept the gun on the man.

“Stand up,” Craig said. “And don’t put your hands in your pocket.”

When he was on his feet, Craig told Elizabeth to fish around in the man’s jeans pants pocket for the ID. “Ah … Ah… You hurt me.”

Finally, Elizabeth fished out a black leather wallet from the side pocket. She looked at it and said, “His name is Mohammed, and he does work for French intelligence.”

Craig called Jacques. Furious, he said, “I told you not to send anyone to protect us.”

The Frenchman laughed. “I guess you met Mohammad.”

“He was so afraid of blowing his assignment that I damn near killed him.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s a good man, though inexperienced. I hope you didn’t hurt him.”

“He’ll survive. Now will you tell him to go home?”

“Let me talk to him.”

Craig handed Mohammad the phone. Sheepishly, the man said, “Sorry, he found out about me.”

“Yes …Yes …Yes …”

He handed the phone back to Craig, who asked Jacques, “Do you have any others in place?”

“Two near the brasserie. A man and a woman.”

“Dammit, Jacques. I told you …”

“It’s a rough part of town. I’ve gotten to like Elizabeth. Not you.”

“Call them off.”

“You sure you want to take a chance?”

“Damn sure. If Lila gets wind of them, she’ll cut and run.”

“OK, It’s your call, but if anything happens, I don’t want a lawsuit from your next of kin. You Americans always sue for everything.”

“You’re safe. I don’t have a next of kin. I’m all alone in the world.”

Since Francesca’s death, that was true.

“OK, I’ll call them off,” Jacques said reluctantly.

Mohammad was happy to limp away from Craig. He and Elizabeth resumed walking toward the port and the Brasserie Duquesne. When they were on the Quai du Port, the heavens opened with a powerful rain storm, drenching them. “Where is this damn place?” Craig asked.

Elizabeth pulled out a map, which immediately was soaked. She looked up and pointed to the red awning in the next block. Despite water running down his head and into his eyes, Craig saw the sign.

When they were both under the awning, Craig peered inside. The place looked like a thousand other brasseries in France, with a
cluster of men around the zinc bar and cigarette smoke heavy in the air. To hell with the smoking ban.

Off to one side, he spotted a beautiful olive-skinned woman around thirty, sitting alone at a table, her head covered with a black scarf. A bottle of water on the table. Beside her on the banquette, a Galleries Lafayette shopping bag. He surveyed the rest of the brasserie. Nothing suspicious.

“She’s here,” he said to Elizabeth, “but we can’t talk inside this joint.” He glanced around. Across the street was the Hotel Tonic, which looked decent. He pointed to it. “I’ll get a suite there under the name of Charles Winters. Bring her up with you.”

“What if she won’t come?”

“You’re persuasive. Tell her it’ll be safer for all of us.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“I’ll throw a smoke bomb into the brasserie.”

“You’re kidding? Right?”

“I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“That’s what I like. A good plan B.”

Elizabeth headed into the brasserie while Craig walked across the street to the hotel. He rented a seedy suite with frayed carpet and dirt stained beige walls on the second floor facing the brasserie.

A few minutes later, he saw Elizabeth leave with the woman, who pulled an umbrella from her bag and opened it over Elizabeth’s head as well as her own.

Inside the living room, Elizabeth said, “Craig, this is Lila Dahab. Lila meet my friend, Craig Page.”

“I recognize you from the CNN interview, Mr. Page.”

He flinched. “Not my best moment.”

Lila took off her coat but not her headscarf.

“Elizabeth said you can help us. Before we talk, can I offer you something to drink?”

Craig opened the mini bar.

“I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Soda then?”

She shook her head. “I just want to talk.” Her voice was cracking. “Then leave quickly.”

Her hands shaking, she sat down on a straight-backed chair. Craig glanced out of the window, saw nothing suspicious, and sat down next to Elizabeth across from Lila on an old battered sofa.

“I was born in Clichy-sous-Bois, a banlieue, a suburb of Paris,” she said speaking softly.

Craig leaned forward, straining to hear.

“There were two of us. Me and my brother Kamel, two years younger. Our parents are Berbers from Morocco who moved to Paris when they were first married. My father was a carpenter. He and my mother both died when we were teenagers. So I always felt an obligation toward my brother … He’s a good boy, but a follower. Not a leader. You know what I mean.”

She paused, looking at Craig. Once he nodded, she continued. “From the time he was five, he was good friends with another boy his age from the street. Ahmed Sadi. And there was a third boy, Omar Ramdane. They were inseparable.” She held up three fingers pressed close together. “But they weren’t equals. Ahmed was the leader. He told them what to do. The others always complied.

“Even when Ahmed went to a private school in the city for high school, they remained close friends. After high school, Ahmed went to Columbia University in the United States. My brother tried to find a job, but he couldn’t. For our people it’s difficult. He tried to be a carpenter like our father, but he wasn’t good at that, and he had no one to teach him. So he hung out. I had a job cleaning in a dress shop in Paris. My brother and I lived together, but I worried about him.

“When Ahmed came back from the United States after Columbia University, he started an organization to help people in banlieues like Clichy. He gave my brother and Omar jobs helping him. He raised money, and they were paid.

“Then the riots came to the banlieue.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “When the two boys died in October 2005 … Are you familiar with what I’m talking about?”

Craig had been in the Middle East at the time with the CIA. He never received detailed reports. “Tell us,” he said.

“One night in our town, in Clichy-sous-Bois, two teenage boys, Zyed and Bouna, were riding their bikes. They believed the police were chasing them. So to escape, they broke into a fenced-off area that held a power transformer. They were electrocuted. That was what led to rioting in Muslim communities throughout France and elsewhere in Europe. In the next two weeks, hundreds of buildings were smashed. Eight thousand cars were burned. Three thousand rioters were arrested. The police behaved brutally, beating people to break up protests. They would never say how many died or how. I saw them with my own eyes. The boys and girls being buried. The broken and bloody bodies.”

She shook her head sadly. “It was terrible. Violence every night. The rioters were young Muslims. They had no jobs. They don’t feel a part of society. They have drugs. So they made trouble. But the police reacted too forcefully. It all got out of control.”

Elizabeth asked, “Was your brother rioting?”

“Not at first.” She was sounding more confident and at ease. “Ahmed used my brother and Omar to try and keep our neighborhood quiet. Then the police shot and killed an eight-year-old boy and arrested many innocent people in a roundup. So the three of them joined the rioters, despite my pleas to my brother. He came home bloody and charred from fire, but he kept going. I was relieved when it ended. I thought he would go back to work with Ahmed. But the riots changed Ahmed.

“Before that, he had a lover. A blonde Catholic girl, Nicole. She worked with him and marched with him. The police beat her into a coma. She died.

“Afterwards, he lost interest in his organization to help our
people. He began filling my brother’s head with nonsense about how the Christians had taken over land in Europe from Muslims and we’re now suffering because of that. Then one day my brother said he was going away with Ahmed and Omar. He refused to tell me where they were going or what they planned to do. I knew it would all lead to no good and I tried to persuade my brother not to go.” She sighed again. “It was hopeless.”

Craig was hanging on each word. He guessed where this was heading. That Ahmed was Musa Ben Abdil. “When did they go away?”

“About a year ago. My brother and I stayed in touch. Our last call was two days ago.”

“Did he ever tell you where he was?”

She shook her head.

“When did you move to Marseilles?”

“About six months ago.” She looked away and continued speaking. “Monsieur Rene, the man who owned the shop where I worked in Paris began touching me and saying what he wanted to do to me. I don’t want to repeat it. He was a Christian man. Old, fat, and bald. With a bad smell. I told my brother. He said I’ll talk to Ahmed. He’ll know what to do.

“The next day, Monsieur Rene was found dead, shot in his apartment. The police called it a burglary, but I was convinced Ahmed arranged it. So I ran away to Marseilles. Here I have a job cleaning rooms at a hotel.”

“What happened in your phone call with Kamel two days ago?”

“He called me early in the morning. My brother asked if I had heard anything about a threatened Spanish train bombing. He sounded scared. I told him it was on the news. I asked him if this was some of Ahmed’s doing. He wouldn’t answer. I told him to run away from Ahmed and come to me in Marseilles. He said he would think about it.”

“Did he call you back?”

She shook her head. “After I heard about the train bombing, I tried calling him several times on his cell phone. I got a recording. ‘This number has been disconnected.’ Finally, I called Elizabeth.”

She reached into her purse, removed a picture, and handed it to Craig. “This is my brother, Kamel. Please keep the picture to help you find him.”

Craig showed her a photograph of the man who shot himself in the shed after the train bombing.

“Do you recognize him?”

“No.”

“Do you have pictures of the other two, Ahmed and Omar?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t.”

Elizabeth interjected, “Did you ever have a relationship with Ahmed?”

Lila turned away and looked at the ground. “You mean like … that way?”

“Yes, sexual.”

Lila looked back up and squarely at Elizabeth. “I have nothing to be ashamed of. After the death of Nicole, Ahmed wanted to and tried to persuade me several times. Not with force. With his fancy words and vague promises. I turned him down.”