by Allan Topol
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.”
5
MADRID
Craig wasn’t surprised that the two a.m. meeting took place in the ornate residence of Prime Minister Zahara or that the Prime Minster was not only attending, but was seated at the head of the polished wooden table in the library. From their prior meetings, Craig concluded that the handsome sixty-year-old politician with coal black hair, slicked down and parted in the center, was very much of a hands-on leader, and the stakes were now high.
For the Spanish government, the Prime Minster was joined by General Alvarez and Carlos Sanchez, Alvarez’s Deputy Defense Minister, whom Craig knew from his resume to be forty-two, but who had a young man’s face, making him look like twenty-five.
When Craig, Elizabeth, and Giuseppe entered the room, Alvarez and Carlos were seated at one side of the table. Two walls with floor to ceiling shelves were filled with books, so neatly arranged that Craig doubted anyone ever took one off its shelf.
Craig made the introductions. “Giuseppe Maltoni, the Assistant Director of the EU Counterterrorism Agency based in Rome, and Elizabeth Crowder, a personal friend who has expertise which I believe will be valuable.”
Alvarez was twirling his mustache and glaring at Craig. “You omitted to say that Elizabeth is a reporter with the International Herald. We’re having a confidential meeting on a critical issue. Not a press conference.” He was raising his voice. “It’s outrageous of you to bring her.”
Craig refused to let Alvarez intimidate him. “As I said, she’s a personal friend.” Craig was speaking calmly. “She has something to contribute and her confidentiality is assured.”
Now Alvarez turned to the Prime Minster. “We can’t let her stay.”
Zahara looked at Elizabeth. “I know who you are. I read your articles and usually like them.”
“Usually,” she said.
“I didn’t appreciate the one a month ago about the weakness of some of our banks.”
“Actually, I thought I was being kind.”
“Perhaps. Back to this. I understand Jose Alvarez’s concern. On the other hand, Craig says you have something to contribute. Will you promise not to report anything about this situation unless I give you approval?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
Alvarez was fuming. “This entire meeting is ridiculous. All for a prank. The note was prepared by some kids or a nut. I can’t tell you how many threats I get every day that turn out to be nothing.”
“I don’t think so,” Craig said with confidence. “Not this time.”
“Why?” the Prime Minster asked.
“The name typed at the bottom of the note was Musa Ben Abdil.”
Craig’s words were met with blank stares by the three Spaniards.
“Tell them who Musa Bin Abdil was,” Craig said to Elizabeth.
Everyone was looking at her.
“In 1491, when the Muslims were surrounded in the Alhambra, the Islamic leadership wanted to surrender to Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand. Musa Ben Abdil, a famous Muslim general, insisted on fighting the Christians to the bitter end. On horseback, he stormed out of the Alhambra with his sword and killed as many Christians as he could, until they killed him.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing,” Alvarez said. “The prankster could have read a history book and picked up the name.”
Craig turned to Zahara, “My gut tells me we’re dealing with a viable threat made by an Islamic fanatic intent on declaring war on Christians in Spain.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Alvarez said.
“And this train bombing may be only his opening salvo. He has to be stopped early.”
Alvarez scoffed. “We’re dealing with kids playing a game.”
With his eyes, Alvarez was shooting poison darts at Carlos.
“How do you propose to stop this bombing?” Zahara asked Craig.
“That won’t be easy. A huge number of trains leave Madrid every morning.”
As if on cue, Carlos reached into his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. “The train schedule for tomorrow,” he said, and slid it across the table to Craig. “The beginning of a school holiday.”
Glancing at the schedule, Craig confirmed his instinct. Scores of trains were scheduled to leave Madrid tomorrow morning, heading in every direction. Craig was impressed with Carlos, who was conscientious and organized. What a contrast to his boss, that bag of hot wind.
“How do you propose to stop this terrorist who calls himself Musa?” the Prime Minister asked Craig.
“Thwart the train bombing and capture one of the perpetrators, who can lead us back to Musa.”
“That won’t be easy,” the Prime Minster said pointing to the schedule Carlos handed Craig.
Craig was ready with the plan he had developed with Elizabeth’s input on the plane ride from Paris. “Soldiers with bomb detectors will check each train in the Madrid station before we let passengers board. Other army units around the country will examine train tracks leading from Madrid. Finally, high tech body and baggage scanners will check passengers before they board.”
Alvarez groaned. “You know how long that will take? None of our morning trains will leave before noon.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think Prime Minster Zahara wants a disaster.”
The Prime Minster nodded.
“Nor does he want the political fallout from chasing pranksters,” Alvarez shot back.
Zahara was rubbing his hand over his chin, looking at Craig “You’re the expert. If you’re telling me I would be foolish to brush off this threat, then I have to follow your advice. Is that what you are telling me?”
Craig gulped hard. “Yes, Mr. Prime Minster.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“We’ll have a public relations nightmare,” Alvarez said. “We’ll never be able to conceal the reasons for the extra security from the people. Rumors will fly.”
“I don’t want to conceal it,” Craig said. “Quite the contrary. I think we should inform Madrid radio and televisions stations that a threat has been made to blow up a morning train and the government is trying to stop it. Let people planning to travel decide whether or not to chance a train.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Alvarez said.
“Having Prime Minster Zahara conceal the information would be a lot worse.”
“Agreed,” the Prime minister said with a ring of finality. “Carlos, you prepare a statement for Craig’s review. I want you, Carlos, to be a spokesman with the Spanish media.”
Craig glanced across the table. Carlos looked pleased, but a little embarrassed. Alvarez was scowling, twirling his mustache, definitely not having a good night.
“One other thing,” Craig said. “Elizabeth, can you still get a short piece in the International Herald’s morning edition?”
She glanced at her watch. “If I call in the next fifteen minutes. But regardless, it’ll be on our website.”
“I’d like you to publish the note from the man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil. Also, include your name and contact information at the bottom. Would you be willing to do that?”
“Sure, if it would help,” she said without hesitation.
“What do you hope to accomplish?” the Prime Minster asked.
“An alternative route to Mus
a. We’ll try to trace any call she gets. Route it into the Defense Department’s IT Center. Also, pick up the originator of an e-mail message. These people may want to make a statement. We’ll hang Elizabeth out there as the bait.”
“I thought he was your friend,” Zahara said to Elizabeth.
She smiled. “I thought so, too.”
If Elizabeth were reluctant to do it, Craig knew she would have said so. Nothing shy about her. And she was never intimidated by him.
She took the laptop from her bag and drafted the article.
Craig said to Carlos, “I’ll work with your IT people to set up the logistics to trace calls and incoming messages.”
“Meantime, I’ll assemble a military liaison for you,” Alvarez said, now wanting to be part of the team. “For the security checks.”
“I’ll be available to help at any point,” the Prime Minister said. “Nobody sleeps tonight. We have to stop that bomb.”
6
ATLAS MOUNTAINS, MOROCCO
With the sun rising in the eastern sky Friday morning, Musa sat down at the desk. He removed the Glock pistol from the holster strapped to his waist and placed it at his right hand. Then he booted up his computer. He was eager to get online. Why the hell did it take so long?
He had learned years ago that the Western media could be effectively manipulated to support any cause. Reporters—print and television—were like pigs at a trough in a constant feeding frenzy. Their sustenance was the stories or, even easier, the handouts anyone cared to give them to fill hours of airtime or the pages that separated advertisements.
He had carefully thought through his media plan for the Spanish train bombing. Now he had to see if he was receiving the attention he craved.
He stroked his neatly trimmed beard, waiting for that damn computer. Let’s go. At last he was online. He began with the Madrid Times. On the front page he saw a short item entitled “Possible Train Bombing.”
It’s more than possible, you fools, he thought. Then he read on: “An unidentified terrorist has threatened to bomb a train leaving Madrid this morning. Authorities have increased security at the station and on trains. Speculation has centered on Basque separatists groups.”
