by Allan Topol
“The Dutch? What do they have to do with him?”
“Get me some coffee. I’m soaked, and I’m chilled to the bone. All that from walking from my car to your building.”
“You ever heard of an umbrella?”
“For wimps.”
Craig buzzed his secretary and asked for two cups of American coffee, which Jacques preferred, although he hated to admit it.
Once Jacques had coffee and gulped some down, Craig said, “OK now tell me about Ibrahami.”
“He was born in Somalia. In 2001, at the age of twenty, he managed to get to Holland by himself, where he was given asylum as a refugee of a war zone. Became a Dutch citizen two years later. Moved to Paris in 2004 to work in construction. He was living alone in a one-room apartment in Clichy-sous-Bois, a Paris suburb inhabited mostly by Muslims. He was arrested in the riots of October 2005 for fire-bombing a police car.”
“Obviously showing gratitude to Europe for its hospitality.”
“You said it. Not me. The French police drove him back to Amsterdam and turned him over to the Dutch, who promptly released him.”
“Makes sense. Wasn’t one of their police cars.”
“Then he seems to have fallen through the cracks in the system. The Dutch police have no record that he stayed in Holland. And the French have no record of him returning to Paris.”
“How about showing his picture in the neighborhood in Clichy?”
“While you were sleeping this morning, to rest up after your dazzling interview last evening on CNN …”
“Ouch. That hurt.”
“You did as well as you could. Jean Claude’s an asshole.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Anyhow, we showed the picture around and got the usual reaction. Lots of blank stares and slammed doors. Even if people in places like that know anything, they won’t talk to the police.”
Craig sighed. His hope that Ibrahami might lead him back to the man who called himself Musa was proving futile.
He called Carlos in Madrid. “Does Ibrahami show up in any Spanish database?”
“I was getting ready to call you. Unfortunately not. What about in France?”
“A dead end.”
“Sorry to hear that. Two more on the critical list died.”
Craig shook his head in sadness.
“For what it’s worth, I thought you did a good job on CNN.”
Craig decided not to share with Carlos his suspicion that Alvarez had passed info to the network. No sense putting Carlos in even more of an awkward position with his boss.
Craig turned back to Jacques. “What about the police investigation of the area around the pont de l’Alma where the call was made to CNN?”
“Nothing.”
As a heavy mood of gloom settled over the office, Elizabeth burst in. “I think we may have gotten a break,” she said, sounding excited.
“We need something.”
“I received a call from a woman in Marseilles. She told me that she had gotten my telephone number from the article in the International Herald in which I published Musa’s note. She said she’s worried her brother may be involved with the group responsible for the Spanish train bombing.”
“Involved how?” Craig asked.
“She wouldn’t say. She refused to talk to me on the phone. She wouldn’t even give me her name. She sounded terrified.”
“Will she come to Paris to meet with us?”
“I suggested that. She’ll only talk in Marseilles. She’ll meet with you and me at ten this evening at a brasserie along the port. Brasserie Duquesne. She said she’ll be carrying a bag from Galleries Lafayette.”
Jacques said, “You think she’s on the up and up?”
“You worried about a waste of time?” Craig replied.
“No. A trap. We can’t underestimate Musa Ben Abdil. The port in Marseilles is the perfect place to kill or abduct someone.”
Elizabeth wrinkled up her nose thinking about it. “I don’t know. That’s your business. I’m just a reporter.”
“If you decide to do this,” Jacques said. “I’d advise strong police backup in Marseilles. I can arrange it.”
Elizabeth shook her head, “The woman said no police. If she sees any, she’ll run and won’t talk to us.”
“I don’t like it,” Jacques said. “Smells bad.”
“Suppose Elizabeth and I are both armed?”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Come on. You told me a little while ago these people don’t like to talk to the police. She’s our only chance.”
“I can see I won’t be able to talk you out of it.”
“Don’t try and play big brother by sending some cops who just happen to be in the neighborhood.”
“I’d never do that.”
“Look Jacques, I’ve put my life on the line lots of time over the years in worse situations.”
Jacques pointed to Elizabeth. “What about her?”
“You won’t believe what she did in Iraq and Afghanistan. And I’ll bet she’s a better shot than you.”
Jacques sighed in resignation. “I’ll keep my cell on all night. Don’t be a stubborn lone cowboy. If you need help, ask for it.”
13
MARRAKECH, MOROCCO
Exotic Marrakech is Morocco’s main port of entry for tourists. A fantasy city, known as the Red City, because of its natural red stone walls. A city of immense beauty, with its huge medina of low, flat-roofed buildings, a mere six kilometers from the airport.
General Zhou asked Captain Cheng to arrange a car and driver to take them to the La Mamounla hotel. Riding in the back with Androshka while Captain Cheng rode up front, with a pistol concealed under his jacket, General Zhou kept thinking about the problem that had plagued him since he decided to make this trip: How to locate the man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil. He couldn’t go to the spot on the road east of Marrakech where the bombs had been delivered. He had to find another way to meet the perpetrator of the Spanish bombing, who would no doubt be hiding and wary of strangers, even Chinese ones.
General Zhou had a solution. Risky. It meant putting their lives on the line. Still, he had plenty to bargain with.
They checked into the hotel, an eighteenth-century palace, luxuriously redone in the classic Moroccan style. General Zhou and Androshka had a suite. Captain Cheng the room next door.
Zhou then arranged a guide to take them on a tour of the city. On foot, he led them through the open air Jemaa el Fna, the first sight for any tourist, an area full of vendors hawking a myriad of goods and street entertainers, including acrobats, musicians, and snake charmers. As they walked along a path passing between narrow stalls filled with fruits, vegetables, herbs, and spices, Androshka pulled in close to General Zhou and gripped his arm tightly. The area was mobbed. “Crowds make me nervous,” she whispered. He shared her anxiety. Perhaps it was the time of year, but there were very few tourists. And almost no Asians.
Strong foreign odors invaded his senses. He didn’t understand the lure of this place, which the guide extolled.
“How about if we stop for a coffee?” General Zhou asked the guide.
He led them to the terrace of the Café de France, with a view of the plaza below. After they were seated and ordered Turkish coffee, Androshka had to go to the ladies room. General Zhou motioned for Captain Chang to follow. Alone with the guide, who was puffing away on a cigarette, General Zhou said, “I want your help with something.”
“What’s that?”
“An introduction to Musa Ben Abdil.”
General Zhou watched the guide’s face tense up. But he didn’t say a word.
“I would make a considerable payment to you.”
Still no response.
General Zhou reached into his pocket and took out a roll of bills. “A thousand euro.”
“Sorry. I never heard of that man.”
General Zhou was convinced he was lying. “Five thousand.”
The mo
ney was tempting, General Zhou could tell. The guide was weighing the risks. Finally, he shook his head. “You’re a nice man. Stick to touring. Then go home. You understand?” The fear was evident in his voice.
General Zhou nodded.
They finished the coffee and toured for another two hours, looking at the Koutoubia Mosque, with its sixty-five-meter-high minaret and an eleventh century Almoravid building. Then the guide took them back to the hotel.
Paying him, General Zhou asked, “Have you changed your mind about that introduction?”
The guide shook his head vigorously.
General Zhou told Androshka to go to the room and rest. Meantime, he went to the hotel bar with Captain Cheng. The hour was still early, the bar nearly deserted. While sipping a scotch with ice at the bar, General Zhou took aside the bartender. Then placed his room key and a pile of Euros on the polished wood.
“You want a woman?” winking, the bartender asked. “Maybe two with that much.”
“No woman. I want to meet Musa Ben Abdil.”
The bartender eyed the money. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not an easy man.”
“I want to help him. Give him that message.”
The bartender glanced at the key, then pocketed the money. “I can’t promise. I’ll make inquiries.”
General Zhou wasn’t sure whether the bartender would do anything. Or whether he was happy to play along for the money.
Perhaps he’d receive a call from Musa this evening. If not, he’d try another approach tomorrow.
For today, he’d done all he could. He dismissed Captain Cheng for the evening. He and Androshka would have dinner in the hotel. That was safe.
General Zhou liked walking into a dining room with Androshka. She was so strikingly beautiful that men’s heads turned and they gaped, while their wives looked irritated. This evening was no exception, as the maître d’ led the two of them to a corner table on the patio of La Francois, the hotel’s posh restaurant.
While they sipped drinks, hers a vodka and his a scotch, she told him, “When you were out this afternoon, I read a guidebook. I have a great program of touring tomorrow.”
She sounded so excited that he didn’t want to rain on her parade by telling her he hoped she’d be touring alone while he went off to a meeting with Musa. That depended on the bartender setting up the introduction.
The chef came from Paris and the menu looked like lots of others General Zhou had seen in France. They both ordered duck confit followed by rack of lamb and a 2000 Cheval Blanc. General Zhou had come to appreciate French food and wine. He didn’t know what he’d do when he went back to China. Maybe bring along his own French chef.
Midway through the rack of lamb, between bites, she was giving him a lesson in Moroccan history—what she’d learned from her guide book—but he wasn’t paying attention. All he could think about was Musa Ben Abdil. He’d waited eighteen long months to gain revenge with Craig Page. Musa was the vehicle for doing that. But he had to get to the man.
Suddenly, without any warning, she laid down her fork. Her face was white as a sheet. She slipped down in her chair while holding the napkin in front of her face.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“I don’t feel well.”
Abruptly, she stood and made a beeline for the patio stairs, leading to the pool area, rather than going back to the dining room entrance where the bathrooms were located.
After she was out of sight, he turned and surveyed the room to see what frightened her. Entering the dining room and heading in their direction was a powerful looking man, walking arm in arm with a gorgeous blonde woman, a carbon copy of Androshka. They were followed by three beefy men talking Russian very loudly, who had to be bodyguards. The couple sat down at a table not far from General Zhou. The bodyguards at a nearby table.
These had to be Russians Androshka knew from her former life.
General Zhou got up and walked to the entrance to the restaurant. “My friend’s not feeling well,” he said softly to the maître d’. “Add a twenty five percent tip and charge the bill to my room.”
“I’ll do that. I hope she feels better.”
When he reached the suite, he found Androshka packing, her suitcase on the bed. “I have to get out of here.”
“Who is he?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mikail Ivanoff?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry. Captain Cheng’s in the next room. We can handle him.”
“Not with his three bodyguards. And you don’t understand. Nobody’s as cruel as Mikail. He used to beat me with his belt.”
General Zhou didn’t want to tell her how he treated his enemies.
“And I was one of the lucky ones. Before he became a businessman, he was a general in the Russian army. In the war in Chechnya, he was called the Butcher of Grozny. Known for his vicious attacks on Muslims in mosques during prayers on Friday. ‘You can kill more of them that way,’ I once heard him say.”
General Zhou had used a similar strategy against Muslims in Western China.
“And this is the worst,” she continued, a horrified look on her face, “If he wanted to find out where resistance fighters were hiding, he’d go into a house, line up the children, and shoot them one by one until the parents told them the hiding place.”
“How do you know all this?”
“When he got drunk, evenings with his old army buddies, he’d brag about it. He didn’t care that I was there.”
“Why’d he quit the army?”
“To get rich in the new Russia. And he was right. He has billions.”
“What’s his business?”
“Minerals, iron, zinc, phosphate. Stuff like that. He stole a lot of it from the Russian people in so-called privatization. Then sold it.”
“That could by why he’s in Morocco.”
“What do you mean?”
“To make a deal for their minerals.”
“Figures. He never had enough money. That’s why I know he’ll kill me. When I ran away from him, I took money from his desk. As much as I could pack. I felt I was entitled to it. If he saw me tonight or he does while we’re here, he’ll kill me. We have to leave Marrakech immediately.”
General Zhou closed up the suitcase and put it on the floor. “Get hold of yourself. It’s almost midnight. We can’t leave now.”
Besides, he had no intention of going. Meeting Musa was critical. He couldn’t pass up his chance to do that.
“Tomorrow at six a.m. we’ll get up. Captain Cheng and I will take you to the airport. We’ll put you on the first plane to Paris. I’ll return as soon as my business is finished. How’s that?”
“But he might come for me tonight.”
“He couldn’t possibly have seen you. Think about it. You left through the patio before he was in the room.”
“If I saw him, he could have seen me.”
“If he had, he’d already be here.”
“You don’t know him. He’s a patient man.”
“I’ll have Captain Cheng sleep in the living room of our suite.”
That seemed to satisfy her. He just hoped he wasn’t underestimating Mikhail’s hatred for her.
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.”
