by Allan Topol
“What about sentries?”
“I doubt if Musa will have much in the way of guards. He probably doesn’t think he needs them. Being so remote. If they do, I’ll kill one or two quietly, slip into the compound, and into Musa’s house. With the element of surprise, I’ll knock him out and bring him up here. We’ll drive over the mountains into Algeria.”
Her nose was wrinkling. “You really think you can do that?”
“It worked in Yemen. Musa’s men put in a tough day. They’ll be tired in the evening.”
“And what do we do until then?”
“We stay in the car to keep warm. We eat the food you took from the mini bar.”
“I don’t know, Craig.”
From her voice, he thought she was coming around.
“I have to try, Elizabeth. If I don’t return in an hour, I think you should drive to Marrakech. Call Giuseppe and tell him what happened.”
Craig heard a crunching noise on the rocks behind them. He sprang to his feet and reached for the gun in his jacket pocket.
In the flash of a second, he saw two bearded men in military uniforms, each carrying an AK-47. Before he had a chance to react, one of them turned the gun around in his hand, clutched the barrel and swung it against the side of Craig’s head. His whole world went black.
30
ATLAS MOUNTAINS
Craig was regaining consciousness. His mind, still a blur, was clearing. His head hurt like hell. He was lying on a dirt floor. His legs bound together at the ankles. He raised his right hand to the side of his head. Felt the dried blood.
“Craig … Craig,” he heard Elizabeth calling. “Are you okay?” He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and looked around. She was in a chair, a rope around her chest holding her in place, her wrist and ankles bound with rope.
They were in a prison cell. About twelve feet by twelve. Two windows had bars. They were at ground level. Outside it was dusk.
He was furious at himself. “Sorry, Elizabeth. I was stupid. Should have been watching our six o’clock.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. There were eight of them altogether. We didn’t stand a chance. Anyhow, it’s my fault. I kept us there too long filming stuff we didn’t need. We already had enough good footage.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“Just a little rough dragging me into the back of their pickup, but I brought that on by kicking and scratching. No big deal. How’s your head?”
“Starting to feel better.”
“Why do you suppose Musa didn’t have us killed up on the mountain?”
“My guess is he wants to find out whether we have information about his future terrorist attacks.”
He raised a finger to his lips, signaling there was probably a hidden recorder. They couldn’t disclose that they knew the Vatican was a target. If they didn’t make it out of here alive, at least Giuseppe could try to thwart that attack and capture Musa.
“But we don’t have a clue about his next attack.” Elizabeth said. “That’s why we’re here.”
She understood. He smiled. What continued to grate on Craig was the enigma of Musa’s Chinese support.
Without warning, the wooden door opened. Four burly, unshaven, armed men in military uniforms barged into the cell. Perfect timing. Minutes after he regained consciousness. Confirmation that Musa had been listening. So Musa heard Elizabeth say they didn’t know anything about the next attack.
They untied Elizabeth. Then cut the rope around his ankles and roughly pulled him to his feet. Led the two of them out of the prison courtyard and across a dusty road to the building Craig had decided was Musa’s headquarters.
Musa was waiting in his office in a corner of the building. Looking around, Craig was impressed by the high-tech communications and video equipment. All state of the art. All Chinese manufactured.
“Well, well,” Musa said. “The great Craig Page. It’s an honor to finally meet the world’s greatest counterterrorism expert. And Elizabeth Crowder. Journalist par excellence.”
Craig wanted to say, “Cut the crap,” but he wasn’t in a position to anger Musa, who pointed to two chairs in front of his desk.
They defiantly sat down while the four soldiers took positions along the walls.
“What brings you to my retreat?” Musa asked.
Craig decided Farez must have tipped off Musa. Better play it straight. Sort of. Apart from leaving Morocco alive, Craig wanted to avoid having Elizabeth tortured to get him to talk. The only chance of doing that was to persuade Musa that Craig wasn’t holding anything back.
“Since the Spanish train bombing six months ago, I’ve been searching for you. I figure you’re planning something else. I have no idea what it is. I wanted to capture you before you had a chance. Initially, I figured your base was in Spain or France. When that didn’t pan out, I got American satellite photos. This camp stood out. I didn’t think it was a nudist colony.”
Musa wasn’t smiling.
“Farez told me I was crazy. So Elizabeth and I decided to see for ourselves.”
“Who told you I was responsible for the Spanish train bombing?”
Craig closed his eyes. Lila Dihab’s face appeared in his mind. As she was in the hotel in Marseilles.
I won’t betray her. Musa will kill her.
He had to create an alternative story. “I captured the train bomber in a farmer’s field outside of Seville. Before he killed himself, he gave you up. He told me your real name is Ahmed Sadi and you are from Clichy-sous-Bois.”
Musa’s head snapped back. “You’re lying.”
“Why would I? He also told me his name was Ibrahami Shabelle. Formerly a Somali refugee to Holland who moved to Clichy.”
Musa seemed stunned. On a roll, Craig kept going, spinning out the story, “I had French intelligence run your bio. When I learned about Columbia University, I turned the recording you gave to CNN over to one of my old CIA buddies. They played it for people at Columbia who confirmed the voice was yours. I decided to come up here and see for myself. To make sure this was really your base. Not another terrorist group.”
Musa screwed his face up in anger. “Ibrahami didn’t kill himself. You tortured him to death.”
Craig thought Musa had accepted everything he said. “That’s not true. He had a cyanide pill in his pocket. When I called the Spanish Defense Ministry to relay the information, he pulled it out and put it in his mouth.”
“I don’t believe it. You tortured him to death. You’ll pay for it with your own life. Elizabeth, too.”
Musa turned to her. “You made a great video. Too bad I had to destroy the camera.”
She shrugged. “I prefer print journalism.”
“Then it’s a shame you won’t have a chance to write your story.”
Craig said, “If we don’t make it back safely, you’ll have the combined forces of the EU flying down here.”
Musa shook his head. “Those people couldn’t agree on anything, certainly not military action to save two Americans.” He laughed. “I’ll take my chances.”
“I know all about you, Ahmed.” Craig recited the story of Ahmed’s life.
Musa’s eyes were blazing. “So what? You did some research. Well, I did as well. Craig Page, the great American patriot. Sacked from the CIA for insubordination when he was trying to apprehend members of Al Qaeda on a suicide mission to blow up Madison Square Garden. Summoned back to service by President Brewster. Foiled a Chinese plot hatched by General Zhou to cut off the supply of foreign oil to the US. Not content with being the top super spy in the US, in a great demonstration of hubris and arrogance, decided to take his great terrorism-busting talents to Europe where he botched the Spanish train bombing.”
Inside Craig was seething. Outwardly, he kept his cool. Musa was taunting him.
Musa continued. “Elizabeth Crowder, daughter of a New York City cop with four brothers who are cops. Once a budding journalist and foreign editor of the New York Tribune. Decided to stop her career trajectory
and go back to being a reporter, based in Paris. And all for the man she loves. A touching story.”
Musa paused to take a deep breath. “So now the three of us understand each other.”
“Not so,” Craig said. “I don’t understand how someone as intelligent as you, Ahmed, with so much to offer his people and the world could become just another Islamic terrorist.”
Musa reached for the pistol on his desk. “How dare you.” He aimed the gun at Craig. The guards were tightening the grip on their automatic weapons.
Craig didn’t flinch. “I’m asking it as a serious question. I want to know.”
Musa put the pistol down.
“I’m not a terrorist. I’m hastening the flow of inexorable events. History is change. Remember what happened to Rome it the fifth century. Sophisticated Rome. The apex of civilization. Their economy fell apart under debt. Then the unwashed masses swooped down and made them slaves in their own land.”
“What’s your point?”
“In this century, the ascension of Islam over Christianity in Western Europe is inevitable. You took us in with your hospitality. With our higher birth rates, the demographics coupled with democracy, permitting the majority to rule, dictate the foregone conclusion. For example, by 2020 Muslims will be a majority in the largest Dutch cities. By the middle of the century, we’ll dominate Paris, Berlin, and Copenhagen. Birmingham, England will follow. I’m merely expediting the process. Making certain that mosques take over empty churches in Western Europe in my lifetime.”
“You’re a hypocrite. You’ve never been in a mosque in your life. You have nothing in common with the fundamentalists who recruit their young warriors for suicide bombers.”
“True, but when they hear about my success, those warriors will flock to my banner the way they did to Saladin.”
“You accuse me of hubris. At the same time, you compare yourself with Saladin, the bravest Arab warrior in the Crusades. Maybe of all time.”
“But there are differences between me and Saladin.”
“How modest of you to concede that.”
“When Richard the Lion Heart lost his horse in battle, in the Third Crusade, Saladin gave him another.”
He looked at Elizabeth. “You’re the student of medieval history. I’m right. Aren’t I?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“I would not be so generous to my enemies.”
A chill went up and down Craig’s spine. He understood the not too subtle message.
“Also Saladin fought his own battles. He didn’t rely on the Chinese,” Craig said determined to find out how Musa had formed his unholy alliance.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“And how did you make this friend in Beijing? Have you been there?”
“Sometimes the things closest are the things we don’t see.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“We’ve spoken enough. I want you both to rest this evening. Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn we’ll have a medieval sport.”
“What kind of sport?” Craig asked.
“Not your American baseball or football. Something more exciting.”
31
ATLAS MOUNTAINS
Craig and Elizabeth were placed in separate jail cells for the night. Craig tried to unfasten the bars from the window. Without tools, it was hopeless. The door was locked tight and didn’t budge.
He had no choice but to lay on the dusty mattress on the floor and to stare at the ceiling. The only light came from the moon outside.
He recalled other difficult situations he’d endured in his career. In Beirut. In Dubai. In Tehran. In Beijing. None as hopeless as this.
Musa had spoken about “medieval sport.” Craig understood. He and Elizabeth would be the sport.
He wasn’t terrified of death. He expected it to come at a relatively young age in the work he selected. No one had compelled him to spend his life thwarting terrorists.
What did cause him anguish, however, was Elizabeth. Not merely that he loved her, but he had brought her into all of this. If it weren’t for him, she would be in New York as the foreign editor of the New York Tribune.
He knew he should sleep. In the morning, he would try to find a way for them to escape. For that, he would need all his wits and strength.
Easier said done. He tossed and turned on the mattress. Sleep didn’t come.
Minutes after he saw the first rays of sunlight on the horizon, the door opened. Two burly men grabbed Craig, each by one arm. Two others had automatic weapons aimed at him.
They led him across a dusty road full of rocks. He didn’t see Elizabeth. Perhaps, he hoped, Musa had decided to spare her. The sun was rising fast, blinding him as he walked.
They arrived at the edge of an open field, moist in the early morning air. Then he saw Elizabeth sitting on a wooden bench. She stood as soon as she saw him, looking weary from lack of sleep. They locked eyes. Both knew what was coming.
From the side, Musa appeared on a magnificent gray horse, a spear in one hand. “Any final words?” he asked.
They both remained silent. Stoic.
“This is for Ibrahami,” Musa said as if he were pronouncing a death sentence.
Craig thought of an expression he had once heard. “There can be dignity in death.”
Craig looked out at the field. Two wooden posts stood in the center. By now he understood how the sport would be played. He thought of grabbing Elizabeth and making a run for it, but six armed guards had AK-47s pointed at them.
Musa signaled to two of his men. They led Craig and Elizabeth toward the posts. Both marched with their heads held high, grim expressions on their faces.
The six armed guards followed closely behind. Craig saw their fingers on the triggers, itching to fire if Craig made a wrong move.
In the searing sun, Craig watched Musa ride to the far end of the field where another horseman, also holding a spear, awaited him.
A guard wrapped a rope around Craig’s torso fastening his back tight against the post, facing him in the direction from which Musa would ride. Another guard fastened Elizabeth. Omar walked over and checked that the ropes were tight.
After Omar walked away, Craig reached behind, his hands grasping for the knot in the rope while trying not to seem obvious. Straining, he had hold of it. He recognized the knot. Damn near impossible to break.
Craig and Elizabeth locked eyes again. Then she closed hers. Not Craig. His were wide open, hoping, though he realized futilely, that he could stare down his executioner. Meantime, he kept trying to undo the knot.
32
ATLAS MOUNTAINS
Musa tightened his grip on the spear. He glanced over at Ali on his chestnut horse, ready to ride.
“I’ll lead and take the man,” Musa said.
“Yes, sir,” Ali replied.
“Let’s go.”
Musa was preparing to charge when the cell phone fastened to his belt rang. He glanced quickly at caller ID. Farez. He had to find out what the fool wanted.
He raised his hand, signaling Ali to hold his position.
“Yes,” Musa said curtly.
“You’re disobeying my orders. I told you not to harm Craig and Elizabeth. To return them to Marrakech, and I would send them home.”
“They never arrived. They must have had an accident in the mountains. Perhaps their car fell off the road. What a shame.”
“Don’t you lie to me.” Farez was shouting angrily. “I know you’re planning to kill them in a few minutes. The same way you killed that Russian oligarch and his bodyguards.”
Musa couldn’t believe it. Farez had a spy in Musa’s camp. He vowed to find the man and rip him apart limb by limb. Further lying was pointless.
“I won’t risk an EU attack on Morocco,” Farez said. “You have a choice. Either you release Craig and Elizabeth, or I’ll bomb your base. Destroy everything you’ve worked so hard to build. And don’t think I won’t. Our planes are loaded with bombs and
sitting on the runway. It’s your decision. You have five seconds to make it. Or I release the bombers.”
Musa had no choice. The latest Chinese surface to air missiles and anti aircraft batteries had recently arrived. But Musa hadn’t had a chance to make them operational. And he was convinced Farez wasn’t bluffing.
“You win,” he said reluctantly. “They will be released.”
“Good. I’m sending a plane to pick them up. We’ll land on your airfield. I want them placed on board. Only the two of them. The plane will fly them to Marrakech. There I will make certain they’re on the first commercial flight to Paris. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Musa replied with bile in his mouth.
Twenty minutes later, grim faced, he watched Craig and Elizabeth climb the stairs to a Moroccan Air Force plane. He would dearly love to hit it with a rocket, but that, unfortunately, wasn’t an option.
Once the plane took off, he went to his office and summoned Omar.
“We’ve suffered a terrible setback,” Musa said. “Craig and Elizabeth will now be a constant threat to our success. Even to our survival.”
“You did what you had to do,” Omar said softly. “We will succeed despite them.”
“But we have another problem. Farez managed to plant a spy in our organization. We have to find out who. Order polygraph machines from Paris. I want immediate shipment. Then we’ll interrogate each man.”
Omar sighed and took a deep breath. Musa knew he wanted to say something, but was holding back. “What is it? We’re close like brothers. You never have to be afraid to speak your mind with me.”
Omar remained silent.
“If you don’t tell me, I will be angry.”
“I think a witch hunt for the spy is a bad idea,” Omar’s voice was trembling. “It will destroy the morale of our organizations. People will leave us. We can’t risk that.”
“But how can we continue knowing that Farez has a spy?”
“Limit operational information, plans and strategy to the two of us. Give orders to the others on a need to know basis. At the last possible moment. What they don’t know they can’t tell Farez.”
