by Allan Topol
Musa was right. The Italian Navy couldn’t keep pace.
20
PARIS
Craig looked into the mirror in the men’s room outside of his office. He didn’t like what he saw. A very old forty-eight. He had aged five years in the last six months. Deep lines were etched in his face and forehead. Spots of gray appearing in his formerly dark brown hair. He had heavy sacks under his gray eyes. He wasn’t eating well. He’d lost ten pounds, and his clothes hung loosely on his five ten frame. Sometimes he couldn’t perform at sex with Elizabeth.
He knew why. He was continually haunted by those bloody, maimed bodies in the Spanish train bound for Seville and on the ground alongside the tracks. A total of eighty-four dead. Scores more permanently injured. Despite Elizabeth repeatedly telling him, “You did everything humanly possible to prevent it. Don’t give yourself a beating,” he couldn’t stop himself.
Throughout his career, he’d always been able to compartmentalize, to bury deep in his mind the things that hadn’t gone well. To move on. Not this time.
Images of victims, like the eight-year-old girl, in shock, her right arm severed at the elbow, bleeding from the chest, her glasses smashed against her face, kept popping into his mind. He had visited her in the hospital and learned she’d lost her sight. There were others, too. He still saw their faces and broken bodies.
If only he had gotten to the bomber more quickly. If only …
In addition to the past, the future was haunting him. After six months, he was no closer to apprehending the man who called himself Musa Ben Abdil, the leader of the Spanish Revenge. Craig had French and Spanish police combing all parts of their countries. They’d come up empty. This must be how the CIA Director had felt in the hunt for Osama Bin Laden after 9/11. What agonized Craig was his conviction that Musa would strike again. It was only a question of time. Craig was also convinced that Musa’s next attack would be far more daring and potentially devastating than the Spanish train bombing.
After the murder of the Spanish policeman next to the school bus in the parking lot in October, Craig had expected that attack to occur at the Alhambra. The enhanced security Craig had arranged with Carlos had been all for naught. A month ago, Alvarez had cancelled it.
While Craig was washing his hands, the cell phone in his pocket rang. Craig checked caller ID: Giuseppe.
“We have to talk. I’m on my way to the airport in Rome. Be at your office ASAP.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s do it in person. Have Elizabeth there, if you can.”
“The Spanish Revenge?”
“You tell me.”
Craig hung up the phone and felt a surge of hope.
“I know this will be difficult for the two of you,” Giuseppe said to Craig and Elizabeth sitting across the table in Craig’s office, “but will you let me tell the whole story without interrupting?”
“Only this one time,” Craig said, smiling. “Now talk, for God’s sake!”
For the next twenty minutes, Craig and Elizabeth didn’t say a word while Giuseppe told the story of the theft of the plans from the Vatican and the chase of the Arab-looking man on the Vespa. At the end, Giuseppe said, “So we have one dead Roman policeman, the guy who tried to stop the Vespa outside the Vatican. Fortunately, we rescued the two carabinieri from their cruiser in the sea. Wet and humiliated.”
When he was finished, Craig pounced. “I don’t understand why the police in Rome or the Italian Navy didn’t call for helicopters. We’d now have these people in custody.”
“Agreed. I asked the same question.”
“And?”
“Machismo. ‘I can do it myself.’ Italian men get that attitude from their mother’s milk. It’s in the air we breathe.”
Craig sighed. “Which way was the boat heading?”
“On a line toward the border between Morocco and Algeria. Our people didn’t get an ID number. But they know it was of Chinese manufacture. Very fast.”
“Son of a bitch,” Craig said excitedly. “This has to be the Spanish Revenge. We’ve been looking for them in France and Spain while their base is in North Africa.”
“How can you be sure it’s the Spanish Revenge?” Giuseppe asked.
“The explosive device used on the Spanish train was state-of-the-art Chinese. Ditto for the boat. Also the guy who stole the plans is an Arab. Only one reason he would want them.”
Elizabeth completed Craig’s thought. “To launch a terrorist attack on the Vatican. That’s exactly what Musa Ben Abdil would do.”
“Precisely,” Craig said. “Hitting Christianity at its heart.”
“More than that,” she added. “Pope Innocent the VIII lent his support and prestige to Isabella and Ferdinand’s battle to drive Islam from Spain and Europe. When they succeeded with the fall of Granada, ending eight hundred years rule of Islam in Spain, the Pope celebrated their victory with a solemn procession from the Vatican to the Piazza Navona and the Church of Spain. There he hailed Isabella and Ferdinand as the Catholic Monarchs and declared them to be ‘the Athletes of Christ.’ So for the man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil, an attack on the Vatican is logical.”
“It’s a tough place to defend,” Giuseppe said. “They refuse to let Italian police or military inside the Vatican. Their Swiss guards have exclusive jurisdiction.”
“Can’t you get them to waive it under the circumstances?”
“Never. Not this Pope.”
“What do you know about the stolen drawings?” Elizabeth asked.
“They’re for the Vatican’s water supply.”
“Which means Musa wants to poison it.”
“Or introduce bombs into the pipes,” Craig said. “Tell us about the Arab-looking man who stole the plans.”
“We don’t have a name.”
Craig was flabbergasted. “Wait a minute. A contractor like Rossi and Rossi can hire guys without looking at papers or listing them?”
“It’s day labor. Under the table. They’re mostly illegals. If the contractor demands papers, the market will dry up.”
“And they’ll have to pay full wages and benefits to Italian citizens, which will drive up the cost of construction projects. I love Italy dearly, but the corruption is mind boggling.”
Giuseppe shrugged. “Don’t get sanctimonious. I’ve heard the US has a few illegals doing work from time to time. But this Arab killed a cop, so our prosecutors are going all out. They sent an artist to talk to Ernesto, the foreman. Once he makes a sketch of the Arab, the police will take it to every hotel in the city. To see if someone recognizes him. That way we may get an ID. Also, a copy of a passport. Under Italian law, all hotels have to copy passports and register guests with the police. Even the fleabags do it, or the police will shut them down. Very few places violate this law. I’ll work closely on this with the police and let the two of you know.”
“If we locate him,” Elizabeth said, “he could lead us back to Musa.”
Craig was on his feet, pacing, hands behind his back, not saying a word.
“What’s he doing?” Giuseppe asked Elizabeth.
“He has a great thought running around in his mind.”
“Will he share it with us?”
“Eventually.”
Craig stopped pacing and wheeled around. “Listen, you two. Satellite photos of North Africa. That’s what we need. The base of Musa’s Spanish Revenge must be in the Atlas Mountains in the border region between Morocco and Algeria. Just as Osama Bin Ladin’s base for Al Qaeda was in the mountains between Pakistan and Afghanistan.”
He turned to Giuseppe, “Do you know whether any of the European governments have good recent satellite photos of that area?”
Giuseppe shook his head. “Negative. Only the Americans. And since Dalton became President, they won’t share anything with us. At least not with the Italian government.”
“What about with the French? Do you think they would share with Paris?”
“I don’t know.”
“Only Washington has them.”
“Can you get them from Norris at the CIA?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Dalton won’t let the CIA give me a bottle of water. Even after we saved his life.”
Craig looked at Elizabeth. “Want to fly to Washington with me?”
“No, but I’ll fly to New York. I’d like to meet with Ned, my editor, about the book tomorrow morning. I gave him part one, the first two hundred pages last week. I’d like to get his reaction in person. I’ll come down to Washington in the afternoon.”
“Perfect.”
Her nose wrinkled, Elizabeth was looking at Craig. “Do you really think you can get cooperation in Washington? I mean the way President Dalton hates Europe.”
“I’ll give it a shot. I have some old friends in the CIA. And I can be persuasive.”
Craig called the travel agent.
“I’m on a four thirty Air France to Dulles. You’re on their five to JFK,” he told Elizabeth. “Time for lunch. Then we go to the airport.”
“You and Giuseppe do lunch. I have to finish up something at the Herald.”
Craig took Giuseppe to a small bistro a block away. When they had ordered, Giuseppe said, “Back in the office you told me you have Italian roots.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Page doesn’t sound like an Italian name to me.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m interested. Tell me. If you don’t finish your steak and frites, it won’t kill you. The airline will feed you.”
Craig groaned.
“Air France isn’t bad. C’mon, stop stalling. I want to hear this.”
“My dad’s parents had a farm between Milan and Verona. They grew grapes and some other fruit. He was the youngest of five children. Four years old at the time the American troops were fighting their way north in Italy and the Germans were retreating.
“The Jews had been able to survive in Italy as long as it was just Mussolini, but once the Germans moved into the country, they rounded up and deported the Jews. Although nobody in my family was Jewish, my grandfather hid in his barn and fed for months a Jewish family he had been friendly with. Two adults and two children. Then one day, the retreating Germans were so close my grandfather could hear them. He hid everybody, his wife and all five of his children. My grandfather put my father at the bottom of a pile of hay in the field. He faced the German soldiers himself, telling them he lived alone.
“The Germans found everyone except my father. The rest of his family. The four Jews. They killed them all with machine gun fire. My father waited hours before coming out. When he did, the Germans were gone. The dead were left behind. Can you imagine what it would be like to deal with that as a four year old?”
Giuseppe was too stunned to respond. Craig answered his own question.
“I can’t. I heard the story from my father. He told me that he laid down in his bed and cried. All alone. Not knowing where to go or what to do. Four years old.
“The next day the American troops arrived. When a captain by the name of Page was searching the farmhouse, he found my father, who could barely speak. Captain Page pieced the story together from what he saw. He couldn’t leave my father on the farm. So he took him with his unit. A couple of weeks later, Captain Page was hit with a bullet in the shoulder. When they shipped him back to the United States, he took my father home with him to Monessen, Pennsylvania.”
Giuseppe asked, “What was your mother like?”
“Blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Her family had been from Sweden. My dad met her when he was in college at Carnegie Tech, where he got an engineering degree. Then they went back to Monessen to live. He began as an engineer and eventually became part of the management team at the local steel mill. My Dad died about two years ago. When I was still with the CIA. My mother a year before that. I never had any siblings.”
Craig paused for a minute and swallowed hard. “Behaving honorably meant a great deal to my dad. And he loved the United States. He never stopped being grateful to Captain Page and the American Army. All the freedoms my friends assumed, he wouldn’t let me take for granted.”
“He must have been proud of what you were doing. I mean a top agent with the CIA.”
“He was. I wanted him to come to the White House when I received the Medal of Freedom. He was sick so I lined up a car and driver. But he lapsed into a coma two days before. He died a week later.”
Craig paused. Remembering was difficult. He still felt a strong bond with his dad.
“When I graduated from college, he gave me a plane ticket and told me to visit the old family farm, so I would never forget where I came from and if it weren’t for the US Army, I would never be alive.”
“What’d you see?”
“Not much. Developers had built housing on the spot, but that didn’t matter. I closed my eyes and imagined my dad lying in bed when Captain Page found him. That story’s been pivotal to my whole life. I had to do something to serve the United States. That’s why I joined the CIA. I’d still be there, if it weren’t for Director Kirby and his jealousy.”
“Kirby always was a miserable son of a bitch. We despised him here in Europe, if that’s any consolation.”
“Now I’m heading back to Washington. Kirby’s gone. Norris has the Director’s job. And I’ll still be walking into a hornet’s nest.”
21
MOROCCO
General Zhou was puzzled when he received the early morning call in Paris from Musa on the encrypted Chinese cell phone. “Can you come to the base to meet with me?” Musa said. He sounded so anxious and eager that General Zhou was on a plane to Marrakech later in the morning.
Now he closed his eyes as Musa’s car and driver climbed into the Atlas Mountains. It was dusk, and a blanket of fog was descending over the area. He didn’t want to look down, as the driver took one hairpin turn after another at breakneck speed. He was glad Androshka wasn’t with him. She’d be in a panic and screaming at the driver to slow down.
General Zhou had a fatalistic view of life’s risks. His mission in life was to extend Chinese hegemony against all odds. When forces beyond his control decided to end his life on earth, it would end.
General Zhou’s last visit to the base was a month ago, and he was pleased at how the size of Musa’s army had swelled with Berber recruits from North Africa. Musa then had an army of five thousand, which was still growing. Chinese officers had been conducting rigorous training exercises. Musa’s men had been unloading crates of sophisticated new Chinese equipment.
It was dark when they reached the base. Musa was waiting for General Zhou in his refurbished headquarters outfitted with lots of high-tech Chinese equipment. Computers and monitoring screens filled half the office.
“I have to show you something,” Musa said. He sounded exhilarated.
He led the way to a table in the corner where a dusty roll of architect’s drawings were stretched out.
Before General Zhou had a chance to inspect them, Musa said, “Schematics for the Vatican’s water supply. Omar stole them. My plan is to inject poison chemicals at several points. I need you to supply the chemicals.”
As General Zhou studied the plans, Musa continued, “Can you get me something odorless and colorless? It has to kill from dermal contact. The Pope and his Cardinals may drink bottled water, but they surely use the Vatican’s water to bathe.”
General Zhou was focused on a spot in the center of the drawing. “This is the central reservoir,” he said pointing. “Poison injected here will permeate the entire water supply in a matter of hours.”
“Then I should inject it at the end of the day to increase the likelihood the Pope will have contact with the water before the poison’s detected.”
Listening to Musa, General Zhou was getting an idea. “Is this your primary
objective. To assassinate the Pope?”
“Absolutely. He more than any other individual is the symbol of the Christian religion. But I’m not wedded to the idea of poisoning the water. If you have another way of achieving this objective, I’m willing to consider it.”
“OK. Let me suggest this. On Easter morning, Sunday, March 28, the Pope will go out onto the balcony overlooking St. Peter’s Square, as he does every Easter Sunday. There he talks to the huge assembled crowd. Thousands of people. Suppose at the time he was speaking, your men launched four missiles through open windows from different Rome apartments outside of the Vatican facing St. Peter’s Square. One aimed at the Pope and his entourage. Another at the Basilica of St. Peter’s. Two others at the crowds in the square. The damage would be tremendous. Death for the Pope and his advisors. Destruction to the Vatican. Death for thousands in the crowds from a direct hit and also from pieces of the structure falling on the square. Death will rain down. It will be far more devastating than 9/11. What do you think?”
“I like it,” Musa said, his voice pulsing with excitement, while pumping his fist into the air for emphasis. “It will cause much more damage and many more casualties, achieving greater publicity. And most important, it will increase the chances of assassinating the Pope. But how do we manage the logistics?”
General Zhou’s mind was racing ahead. “We’ll deliver the missile parts to a warehouse in Torino on Friday, March 26. Good Friday. There we’ll make the handoff to your people and provide them with instructions to assemble and operate the missiles. Your men can transport them in four separate vans to apartments in Rome. Omar stole the plans for the Vatican water system. He must know his way around the city. He can find the apartments.”
Musa was nodding. “With two weeks until Easter Sunday, we have plenty of time to do that.”
“Now let’s talk about the invasion of Southern Spain. Are you on schedule to launch this attack on March 28, Easter Sunday as well?”
“Absolutely,” Musa said. “Fortunately King Hassan has not recovered sufficiently from his stroke to know what’s happening. In return for the money I deposited in Prime Minister Farez’s Swiss bank account, he’s agreed to look the other way and let arms come into the country.”
