by Allan Topol
The Spanish Revenge
Allan Topol
Copyright © 2013, Allan Topol
For Barbara, with appreciation
to my partner in this literary venture.
“All the same, confrontations between the
Eastern forces of Islam and the Western forces of
Christianity have never completely abated.”
–FROM MYSTERIES OF THE MIDDLE AGES
BY TOMAS CAHILL, P. 179, 2006
“This multicultural approach, saying that we
simply live side by side and live happily with
each other has failed. Utterly failed.”
–GERMAN CHANCELLOR ANGELA MERKEL,
OCTOBER 18, 2010.
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
PART ONE: OCTOBER, SIX MONTHS EARLIER
1 Paris
2 New York
3 Atlas Mountains, Morocco
4 Paris
5 Madrid
6 Atlas Mountains, Morocco
7 Madrid
8 Atlas Mountains, Morocco
9 Madrid
10 Paris
11 Cap D’ Antibes, France
12 Paris
13 Marrakech, Morocco
14 Marseilles
15 Atlas Mountains, Morocco
16 Atlas Mountains
17 Paris
18 Southern Spain And Paris
PART TWO: MARCH, SIX MONTHS LATER
19 Rome
20 Paris
21 Morocco
22 Langley
23 Washington
24 Paris
25 Paris
26 Rabat, Morocco
27 Marrakech
28 Atlas Mountains
29 Atlas Mountains
30 Atlas Mountains
31 Atlas Mountains
32 Atlas Mountains
33 Paris
34 Casablanca
35 Southern France
36 Paris
37
38 Morocco, Atlas Mountains
39 Paris
40 Marseilles
41 Paris
42 Paris
43 Madrid
44 Paris
45 Paris
46 Paris
47 Marbella, Spain
48 Marbella
49 Paris
50 Marbella
51 Paris
52 Paris
53 Marbella, Spain
54 Paris
PART THREE: EASTER
55 Paris
56 Madrid
57 Rome
58 Marbella
59 Madrid
60 Rome
61 Rome
62 Rome
63 Rome
64 Rome
65 Marbella
66 Southern Spain
67 Southern Spain
68 Granada
69 Paris
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
MARCH, AVILA, SPAIN
At five minutes to midnight the heater in the battered gray Renault van died. Omar, in the front passenger seat, was astounded that the vehicle had made it all the way from Clichy-sous-Bois, the suburb of Paris.
They were parked outside the gate of the Franciscan Monastery. Thirty minutes ago, the last light had gone out.
“Cut off the engine,” Omar said to Habib, seated behind the wheel, puffing on a foul-smelling Turkish cigarette. “Time to move.”
Omar got out of the van, stretched his legs, and checked the pockets of his black leather jacket. Gun and map Musa provided in one pocket; knife and flashlight in the other. He grabbed the two shovels from the back and tossed one to Habib.
The air was cold for this time of year. The moon full in a cloudless sky. The light would make their job easier, but increase the risk of someone spotting them. It could only be one of the monks. The monastery was surrounded by woods.
With Habib at his side, Omar walked swiftly along the dirt road toward the monastery entrance. The black wrought-iron gate was padlocked. He reached for his gun, then reconsidered. The monks inside the building might hear the noise. He pointed to the six-foot stone wall. Habib nodded.
Omar easily scaled it, then moved away while Habib tossed over the shovels, following behind. No need to consult Musa’s map. He had committed it to memory. That bastard Tomas de Torquemada’s grave should be fifty meters away at the end of the road leading from the entrance gate. He walked swiftly along a narrow path bisecting ancient weather-beaten stones.
Approaching the spot, he recognized from pictures the large stone cross.
“We dig here?” Habib asked.
“One thing first.”
Omar unzipped his pants, pulled out his prick and peed on the cross. “For all those Muslims you killed cruelly and without mercy,” he said softly.
Then he grabbed a shovel.
Fortunately, it had rained yesterday, and the ground was soft. Still it was tough work. On one side, they created an incline to get out. Once they were down three feet, Omar’s face and shirt were soaked with perspiration. Drops ran down his cheeks and into his eyes.
He drew strength from the importance of his mission. The cause he and Musa had labored so hard for over many months was now at a critical point. With the parchment, their success would be assured. Europe and the world would be irretrievably transformed.
“The dead man’s spirits are talking to me.” Habib was trembling. “Telling me it’s wrong to disturb a grave.”
Omar pulled out his Glock and aimed it at Habib. “You fool. No Christian spirits are talking to you. You dig or this will be your grave too.”
Reluctantly, Habib resumed.
Forty minutes later, Omar’s shovel struck a metal box about a meter from the coffin, as Musa had said. He could barely contain his excitement.
The parchment will be in the box.
Suddenly, he heard the rustling of leaves. Footsteps near the building. Now getting closer. It might be an animal. Or …
“Stay in the hole and keep quiet,” he whispered to Habib. Then he climbed out and slipped behind the cross. A black-clad monk was approaching, lit torch in hand, making a beeline for the open hole. He shined his light down and looked into the hole. As he did, Omar, shovel in hand, circled behind him. He watched the monk calling to Habib, who was cowering in a corner of the hole, “Who are you?” Omar raised the shovel and swung it like a baseball bat, with all his might, striking the monk on the side of the head. He crumpled to the ground away from the hole, blood pouring down the side of his face. “Help me,” he mumbled. “Help me.” Omar ignored his pleas, lifted his shovel, and smashed the metal against his face. The monk stopped moving.
Omar stepped over the body and climbed back into the hole. He had to work fast, or others might come looking for the dead monk. He dug around the box, being careful not to damage the old metal. When he got closer, he handed his shovel to Habib. With his fingers, he clawed furiously, grabbing the soil, pushing it aside until he freed the box.
Cradling it in his arms, he climbed out and placed it carefully on the ground. The box was sealed shut. Using his knife, he pried the top open. Habib was leaning over Omar. He felt Habib’s hot garlic breath on the back of his neck.
He pulled the top off, then grabbed his flashlight and shined it inside. For an instant the light blinded him, the reflection from jewels and gold coins. He reached in and moved the contents around, searching desperately for the parchment. He came up empty.
“No,” he wailed. “No!”
I have to get the parchment. I can’t face Musa without it.
Musa didn’t tolerate failure. He won’t
understand. There must be another way.
Eyes bulging, Habib was staring at the gold and jewels. “Let’s take what’s here and leave. Nobody will ever know.”
“We can’t do that, you imbecile. If we’re caught by the police with that stuff, we’ll be tortured. You’ll lead them to Musa, and all will be lost.”
“Then let’s just go.”
“No. Somebody inside must know where the parchment is. Musa said there are five monks altogether.”
Omar looked at the stone building. Dark inside. He raced toward the nearest door. Habib was right behind him. The door was ajar. He opened it carefully and shined his light inside. The room was deserted, its stone walls muting the reflection. They must all be asleep. He spotted a bell and rang it.
Minutes later, four monks stumbled out of the wing on the right, in night clothes. Omar held up his gun and herded them toward four wooden chairs in the reception area. One was praying. “Shut up and listen.” Omar called out.
“No comprendo,” one monk said in Spanish.
“Any of you speak French?” Omar asked.
A tall, thin, gray-haired monk said, “I do.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you. A parchment was buried in a box next to Tomas de Torquemada’s coffin. We dug up the box, but the parchment isn’t there. I want to know where it is.”
The tall, thin man was flabbergasted. “You disturbed his grave?”
“Someone already had. The parchment was gone. I want to know where it is?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then ask your colleagues in Spanish. One of them must know.”
The tall, thin monk said something to the others. All shook their heads in denial.
Omar didn’t believe them. He was becoming angry. “This monastery has been here since before his death in 1498. At some point one of your monks must have taken it and hidden it. This must be a secret passed down here through the ages.”
“How can you be sure it was buried with him?”
Omar raised the Glock and aimed it at one of the other monks. He fired at his head, blasting it apart. Two others wailed.
“Don’t you challenge me,” Omar said. “Tell me where it is.”
“You can kill us all,” the tall, thin monk said, “but you won’t get the information.”
“Because you don’t know—or because you won’t tell me?”
“That’s your riddle to solve,” he replied in a taunting voice.
Omar used his knife to gouge out the eyes of one of the other monks. Despite the man’s screams, nobody said a word.
Omar killed that one and the other, leaving only the tall, thin monk. “I’ll make you suffer more than you can imagine,” Omar said.
“I am a man of God. I have no fear of mere mortals.”
Omar knew it was hopeless. He shot and killed the man. Then he and Habib searched the building. Even the basement, beneath a concealed trap door. No sign of the parchment.
To extend the time before they were discovered and pursuit began, Omar decided to move the dead bodies down the stairs. “While I do that,” he told Habib, “Rebury the box. Toss the other dead monk in the hole and start to refill it. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes to help you.”
He searched one more time, then dragged the bodies across the floor, flung them down the wooden stairs, and closed the trap door.
After leaving the building, he crossed the grassy swale back to the graveyard. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Habib was stuffing gold and jewels into his pockets. Omar stood behind a tree and watched. Once his pockets were full, Habib ran toward the wall. As he began scaling it, Omar raised his gun and fired, dropping Habib with a single shot. Enraged, Omar raced over and pumped three more bullets into Habib’s dead body. Then he removed Habib’s ID, dragged him back to the hole, and kicked him in.
For the next two hours, he worked until he was so exhausted he could barely lift his arms. But it was all done. Habib, the monk, and the metal box all buried.
Walking back to the car, he had an overwhelming sense of gloom. With the parchment, they could change the map of Europe—even the world alignment between Muslims and Christians. But he had failed. They would have to find another way to get the parchment.
PART ONE
OCTOBER,
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
1
PARIS
When Craig Page agreed to become Director of the new European Counterterrorism Agency a year and a half ago, he persuaded the EU to put the agency’s headquarters in Paris. That choice was fortunate right now, he decided, as he waited for Jacques Dumas, the head of the French Intelligence Service to arrive at his office.
Craig got up from his desk and walked over to the double-glass wall with a view of the concrete courtyard, fifteen floors below. The building was part of the complex of modern commercial office buildings known as La Defense, at the end of the Avenue de la Grande Armée, shooting out like a spoke from the Arc de Triomphe. In the dim late afternoon light, he spotted heavyset Jacques, mid forties, with a shaved head, walking fast, almost racing from his limo toward the building. And indeed he should be. Craig had told him on the phone, “We have an urgent situation involving the American President.”
This won’t be easy, Craig realized. Jacques, reluctant to cede any authority, had been opposed to the creation of a European counterterrorism agency. And the idea of an American as director had made him nearly apoplectic with rage.
Immediately after Craig’s appointment, he had arranged a dinner with Jacques, just the two of them at L’Ami Louis, to break down Jacques opposition. At the beginning of the meal, Jacques told Craig he appreciated that Craig’s twenty years as a CIA field agent, fighting terrorists in the Middle East, dwarfed his own experience. He understood that Craig’s bitterness toward his scheming CIA masters and the American bureaucracy led him to resign from the CIA and open a private consulting firm in Italy, where he had roots. Despite all that, Jacques bluntly declared, “We don’t need a pan-European agency, and if our brilliant leaders insist on it, then the director’s job should have gone to one of us, not some American.”
But they kept talking, eating, and drinking in the noisy bistro, with gargantuan portions of outstanding food and rude waiters. By the second bottle of Bourgogne Rouge, and midway through their thick steaks, as they traded war stories, Craig believed he had Jacque’s grudging respect. One professional for another. That was as much as he hoped for.
Now Jacques pushed passed Craig’s secretary and barreled into the office. “What’s the great crisis?”
“I’ve learned from an informant that an Iranian group is planning to assassinate President Dalton when his motorcade goes from the American embassy to the Elysee Palace for dinner with the French President. I told Agent Bardolino, my liaison, who’s traveling with Dalton, and asked him to brief the American President, to find out whether Dalton wants to change his plans for this evening.”
“What’d he say?”
“The answer was a resounding ‘No.’ In Dalton’s words,’that’s why we pay you guys. To keep me safe.’”
“Nice.”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s the informant?”
“His name’s Hakim. An Iranian. A holdover from my CIA days.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He’s proven extremely reliable in the past.”
Still feeling prickly, despite their peace dinner and moderate cooperation ever since, Jacques said, “And I’m supposed to take your word in blind faith?”
“We’re on the same team. Aren’t we?”
“Humph,” the Frenchman snarled. “Everybody in Europe hates your President Dalton.”
Craig didn’t argue. Six months ago, when President Brewster died of a sudden heart attack and his Vice President, Owen Dalton, succeeded him, Craig had been appalled at his neo isolationist statements. Dalton’s much-heralded trip to Paris was to advise the French President that the old Atlantic alliance was over.
“He’s n
ot my President.”
“Well, you are an American.”
“I haven’t lived there for years. C’mon, Jacques. We have to act on what Hakim told me.”
Jacques waited a long minute before responding. “Let’s assume Hakim is right. What do you want me to do?”
Craig was ready for the question. His title sounded impressive, but, in a typical EU compromise, he had no troops of his own. He was dependent for fire power on the country in which a terrorist attack would occurr.
“We have an hour until the motorcade leaves the American embassy. I want you to station sharpshooters on the roofs of the buildings lining the route, set up video cameras to monitor the entire area, and send the feed into my IT center.”
The Frenchmen linked his fingers together, closed his eyes, and scrunched up his large, round face. “You’re asking quite a bit, based on one informant. If nothing happens, I’ll look like an idiot.”
“You can put the blame on me. But if you thwart an attack, you’ll be a hero.”
“I just don’t know.”
Craig thought it wise to remain silent. He had made his case. Finally, Jacques whipped out his cell phone. “OK. I’ll do it.”
Forty-five minutes later, Craig and Jacques were in the IT center of Craig’s counterterrorism agency. Eight thirty-inch screens lined one wall. A dozen computer geeks, whom Craig recruited from across the EU, manned workstations in cubicles. When they weren’t responding to a crisis, they were analyzing and digesting information forwarded from intelligence agents around the world.
Hans from Amsterdam was monitoring the video feed. “All the cameras are in place,” he said. Craig’s eyes ran from one screen to another, seeing French army sharpshooters on the roofs lining the fashionable Rue Saint-Honoré—home to some of the most expensive boutiques in the world.
Craig checked his watch. Then called Bardolino. “What’s your status?”
“We’re moving in ten minutes. You ready for us?”
“Good to go. We have the whole route covered. If the troops see a sniper, they have orders to shoot to kill.”
Craig had divided the route into eight segments, each with a separate camera and screen. Now he studied the screens one by one. Nothing out of the ordinary. Tourists, shoppers, business people walking along the sidewalk. The flow of traffic looked normal.
