by Allan Topol
“Good luck.”
Craig glanced at the clock on his desk. Only 4:15. Too early to call.
He tried, but couldn’t fall back asleep. At six, he called Jacques and woke him.
The Frenchman’s initial reaction was “Impossible.”
Craig couldn’t remember how many times he’d heard that word from French people since he’d been living in Paris. He’d learned to ignore it and push on. “Why not?”
“Because you don’t have any evidence that General Zhou is involved with Musa.”
“I saw a huge quantity of Chinese arms being unloaded at the base and Chinese instructors.” Craig was raising his voice.
“That could have all been orchestrated from Beijing.”
Same reaction as Elizabeth.
“In my gut, I know he’s involved.”
“We have laws in this country. You think anyone in law enforcement who has a feeling a French citizen is guilty can authorize following him around and tapping his phone?”
Craig remembered what Elizabeth had found. “He has no rights in France.” Craig had tried to remain calm, but he was raising his voice. “General Zhou’s not a French citizen. He’s overstayed his tourist visa.”
Jacques didn’t respond. Craig took that as a good sign.
“You sound emotional,” the Frenchman finally said. “I don’t want to be drawn into a vendetta from your CIA days.”
Craig decided to level with Jacques. “General Zhou and I do have some history, but I firmly believe he’s supporting Musa.”
“Aha. That’s what I figured. I have to know about it before I make a decision.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you.”
“Not over the phone. Since you woke me, you can come here for breakfast. My wife’s visiting her mother in Annecy. I think I can make coffee. Pick up some bread at the shop on the first floor of my building.”
“You better like espresso,” Jacques said. “Because I bought this fancy Italian coffee machine for my wife for Christmas and she hasn’t let me near it. Bottom line is, I have no idea how to foam milk for cappuccino.”
Craig smiled as he handed Jacques the baguette. “Espresso is what I always drink.”
“Good. That’s what you’re getting.”
When they sat down at the kitchen table, Jacques said, “OK. What’s the history with you and General Zhou?”
“Do you have any children, Jacques?”
“My fifteen-year-old son, Pierre. He’s off in Annecy with his mother.”
“I had a daughter, Francesca.”
Talking about her was painful. Even a year and a half later.
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“Once, to a wonderful woman, Caroline.”
Craig thought about their storybook romance. Childhood sweethearts in Monessen, Pennsylvania, married a week after they both graduated from Carnegie Mellon. Francesca was born a year later in a difficult birth, leaving Caroline unable to have other children. But that didn’t matter to Craig. The three of them were so close, thriving the two years they were in Houston where he worked with the oil company and then in Washington when he started with the CIA.
“What happened to Caroline?” Jacques asked.
“She insisted on moving to Dubai with me when the CIA stationed me there, nineteen years ago. Francesca was eight at the time. I pleaded with Caroline to stay in Washington, but she was too stubborn. So the three of us moved to Dubai.
“Caroline paid for it with her life.” He shook his head. “Six years later, she became ill. I couldn’t convince her to see a doctor. By the time I got her to a hospital in Dubai, it was too late. Bacterial Meningitis. She died a few days later.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Well, anyhow, from that point on it was just Francesca and me. We became very close, as you might imagine. In our shared grief.”
He recalled how he put his career on hold for two years, insisting that the CIA transfer him back to Langley until she finished high school in the United States and began college. Then he returned to the Middle East to become Chief of Operations.
“Francesca was a great kid. Smart. Athletic. Beautiful. I was so proud of her. She wanted to join the CIA, too, but I wouldn’t let her. So she went to Northwestern and majored in journalism. She got a job as a foreign reporter with the New York Tribune. Elizabeth was her boss.
“When she had been there a couple of years, she was working on a huge story. She had learned that General Zhou, then head of the Chinese armed forces, had entered into an agreement with Iran to cut off the flow of imported oil to the United States.”
“I never knew that.”
“After President Brewster convinced Chinese President Li to cancel the agreement, we kept it extremely secret. Francesca had been in Calgary, Canada interviewing General Zhou’s brother, an industrialist, who was in it up to his eyeballs. When he told General Zhou that Francesca was close to exposing the agreement, General Zhou planned her murder. Francesca was driving to Calgary airport to fly out with her story in a heavy snowstorm. General Zhou had arranged to have a big rig crash into her car and kill her.”
“Any chance it could have been an accident?”
Craig shook his head. “I talked to one of the members of the Chinese delegation who had been in Calgary. He confirmed that General Zhou was responsible. The Canadian police concluded it was a homicide. An intentional hit and run. They never located the driver.”
Craig felt tears in he eyes. “General Zhou killed my only child. My Francesca.”
Jacques didn’t say anything. He sat still and looked down at his hands while nodding his head.
“So you were right,” Craig finally said. “General Zhou and I do have some serious history. And I have to repay him for what he did … though it won’t bring Francesca back.”
“And that’s how you hooked up with Elizabeth. Through the New York Tribune connection?”
“Yeah. She was a close friend of Francesca, as well as her editor at the paper. Elizabeth helped me uncover General Zhou’s agreement with the Iranians and take it to Brewster.”
Jacques tore off a piece of bread and chewed it. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for you. Truly. I had no idea. I’m with you now. I want to nail General Zhou, too. But I’m trying to figure out how to justify the request for surveillance. When I complete the paperwork and it asks me the basis, I can’t write: ‘A hope and a prayer.’”
“C’mon Jacques. He might lead us to Musa. Or we might be able to obtain information about Musa’s next attack, which could be in France.”
“’Might’ is the operative word.”
“It’s a chance to hit pay dirt.”
“Or come up empty.”
“Look at it the other way. What do you lose if we’re wrong?”
“You think I enjoy getting hammered by the Minister?”
“You received lots of praise for thwarting the Dalton assassination in October. You owe me for that.”
Jacques sighed loudly. Craig figured he was coming around and remained silent.
“OK. I’ll do it. Hopefully, I won’t get skewered over this.”
“You won’t. I guarantee it.”
“That makes me feel better,” Jacques said glumly.
40
MARSEILLES
Omar knew from her brother that Lila lived on Rue Daughin above the Deluxe Shoe Store, in a dilapidated area of Marseilles east of the port, inhabited mostly by Muslims, who comprised a large part of the population of the city. He also knew that she lived alone.
At six in the afternoon, he parked his car, rented with phony papers Musa had provided, at one end of Rue Daughin. Carrying a black leather bag, he walked along the street.
Three children were kicking a soccer ball. Two dark-skinned mothers were holding babies on their laps on a wooden bench with flaking paint. He looked as if he belonged. No one paid him attention.
The sky had turned gray. Soon it would rain. A typical March evening for Marseil
les.
He passed the Deluxe Shoe Store and glanced at the windows above it. No lights. She must not be home from work yet.
He spotted a brasserie across from the shoe store. A spot was free at the end of the bar, closest to the door, providing a perfect vantage point to watch the building with the shoe store. The place was crowded with fishermen drinking hard, filling the air with smoke, and whining loudly about their dismal catch today.
He ordered a beer and picked up a copy of the Marseilles paper on the bar. He knew what places like this were like. He could stand here and nurse his beer for as long as he liked. No one would bother him.
He saw lightning. Heard a blast of thunder. The skies opened with a huge downpour. Good. That would clear the street.
Not wanting to appear obvious, he kept his eyes moving between the newspaper and the building across the street. Dusk fell. Then darkness. No sign of Lila.
He ordered a second beer and thought about what he was doing. From the time Ahmed had killed that bully, Omar had incredible admiration for Ahmed. That his friend had gone to an elite private school in Paris and Columbia University only enhanced his respect. For Omar, Ahmed was mythical. God-like. He could do anything. Omar was thrilled to be close to such a great man. To be thriving in his long shadow.
And thanks to Ahmed’s dreams and vision, the Spanish Revenge was on course to change the world. At least to change the face of Europe.
Omar never thought much about the status of Muslims in Europe or addressing the injustice they suffered. Those lofty ideas were spewed by Ahmed. Omar didn’t have to believe them. If Ahmed believed, that was enough for Omar.
He felt fortunate Ahmed had made him a confidant. If he wasn’t hooked up with Ahmed, what would he have? Nothing. When Ahmed was in the United States at Columbia, Omar had tried to find work in Paris. He was laughed at and ridiculed. Just another poor, uneducated Muslim kid. The only job he found was cleaning the bathrooms at the train station, the Gare du Nord, but he declined that. So he lived with his parents. Hung out with his friends. Smoked pot. Took some drugs. Then Ahmed came back. Omar immediately joined when Ahmed started his community-action organization.
Like Ahmed, he never went to a mosque. That Allah stuff meant nothing to him. If Allah was great, then why were the Muslims the dregs of French life? No one he asked that question had given him a satisfactory answer. His father, a brute of a man who worked as a blacksmith, had slapped Omar hard in the face when he asked it of him.
He looked out at the street. The Deluxe Shoe Store was closing.
It was almost nine o’clock when he saw Lila at a distance of twenty yards, walking quickly in the heavy rain along the deserted street. She didn’t have an umbrella, or even a raincoat. Her black hair was soaked and hanging from her head like strings. Her hotel uniform was drenched. Through the clinging black material, he saw her breasts, round and full. The swaying of her hips. He felt himself becoming aroused. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. On that full ripe body.
Though he’d wanted her for years, he never really liked her. He and Kemal had spent a lot of time together. Often at Kemal’s house. He hated the way Lila was always trying to control Kemal. To rein him in. Because their mother had died, she assumed that role. Most of all, he had hated the way she protected what was between her legs like a prize. At least with him. With everybody else as well—he’d thought. Now he learned she was willing to spread her legs for Ahmed. That stoked his anger, working him up to a frenzy. He was on fire, the taste of bile in his mouth. She had humiliated him. Insulted his manhood. She would pay for it now.
Though he was itching to move, he had to be careful. Check for the protection Craig had probably arranged. He saw the car. A dark blue sedan, driving slowly behind Lila, following her.
He had spent enough time dodging Interior Security people to sense immediately that the car was theirs. One look at the license plate confirmed it. Ahmed had taught him that the letters I and S appeared somewhere on their plates. No one else was issued plates containing them.
He watched Lila climb a staircase alongside the building leading to her apartment. The lights went on. He hoped the security car would move on because Lila had arrived home safe. But that didn’t happen. The car pulled up and parked in front of the Deluxe Shoe Store.
Omar moved into the brasserie doorway to size up the situation. He didn’t see any agents on the roof of her building. Only one man in the blue car. Somehow he had to deal with that man.
Trying to sneak up the stairs without being seen by the agent was too risky. He was willing to attack the agent in his car, but the chances of being spotted by someone in the brasserie or a passerby were too great. Think, he told himself. Then he had it. Sooner or later that agent would have to pee. Where would he go? The brasserie, of course.
Omar had made a quick trip to the toilet in the back of the brasserie an hour ago. He had noticed that the door had a lock on the inside and a window that opened to the alley in back. He had also seen on a shelf above the sink a sign that read. “OUT OF ORDER. USE TOILETTE DOWNSTAIRS.” Now he knew exactly what to do.
Fifteen minutes later, the agent, clad in a dark suit and black turtleneck, got out of the car. Quickly, he cut through the brasserie on his way to the toilet. Omar waited until he entered the small room to make his move. Bag in hand, he headed toward the toilet. In the crowded brasserie no one seemed to notice.
He reached for the door knob. If the door was locked, he’d wait until he heard the lock click open. But it wasn’t. Omar slipped inside. As he did, he reached into the bag, pulled out a stun gun and kicked the door closed.
The agent was facing the hole in the floor, his back to the door, his cock in his hand, in the middle of relieving himself. He heard the door open and close. “Hey,” he said glancing over his shoulder. “Wait your …”
He never finished the sentence. Omar fired once, hitting the agent in the center of his back. He collapsed to the ground. He would be out cold for at least an hour.
Omar quickly put the “OUT OF ORDER” sign on the door.
One hour was all Omar needed. He slid open the window and looked around. The alley was deserted. Happy he was thin and wiry, he tossed his bag onto the ground then pushed himself through the window.
Swiftly, he crossed the deserted street. After climbing the side stairs, he knocked twice on Lila’s door.
“Who’s there?” she called from inside in a frightened voice.
“Omar, Kemal’s friend,” he responded through the door.
She opened it a crack. A chain was connecting the door and frame. He could easily break it off by kicking the door, but he didn’t want to risk her screaming. “I have news about your brother.”
“What news?” she said warily.
“Good news. Please let me in? I’m getting soaked in the rain.”
He watched her remove the chain. She was wearing a white hotel terrycloth bathrobe. Cleavage visible. She didn’t seem to be wearing anything underneath. She pulled the robe tight.
Water was running in another room.
“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll turn off the bath water.”
Walking softly, he followed her. As she leaned over the tub, he snuck up behind her.
She stood up with a start. “I told you …”
He raised his arm and swung it with all his might smacking her with the back of his hand and a large gold ring, stolen from a hapless pedestrian during the ’05 riots, on the side of her face. He felt bones break. Her nose. Maybe her cheek bone. Woozy, she fell backwards onto the toilet seat, blood running down her face. He held her in place and slugged her on the other side of her face. She was barely conscious.
He turned her sideways and grabbed her from behind. Then he dragged her to the bedroom. He yanked off her robe. Then pushed her onto the bed, on her back. Her legs were spread. Her thick brown pubics and slit open and inviting.
“I’m going to finish something I started years ago.”
He dropped h
is pants. Flying to Marseilles, he wondered if he’d have trouble getting hard after he attacked her. But he didn’t have any problem. He gave two tugs on his prick and it sprang to life. Ahmed had said, “Use a condom. They have DNA tests.” He had no intention of doing that.
She was moaning in pain. He was glad she wasn’t knocked out. He wanted her to know what he was doing. He climbed on the bed and entered her. She was motionless, but he didn’t care. He moved back and forth feeling the sensation spread from his cock to every part of his body. He came in less than a minute.
He spun off the bed. From his bag, he extracted a pushbutton stiletto. He popped open the blade and stabbed her six times in the chest and stomach, jumping back each time to avoid the spurting blood. He wiped the knife blade on the sheets, reached into his bag again and pulled out a typed note that read, “ALL MUSLIM WOMEN ARE WHORES.” It was signed: “Christian Action Group.”
Omar removed a rusty nail from his bag and stuck the note to her bloody chest. He took out a throwaway camera, which he had bought in a variety store in Marseilles. He took four pictures of Lila, making sure the note showed clearly.
From the window, he glanced outside. No sign of the agent.
The rain was letting up. In the drizzle, Omar walked casually to his car at the end of Rue Daughin. Behind the wheel, he put on gloves and wiped his prints from the camera, which he placed on the seat.
Still wearing the gloves, he drove half a mile to Marseilles’s largest newspaper, housed in an old stone building on the left. As Omar passed by, he slowed the car and tossed the camera at the closed, wooden front door. It hit with a thud and fell to the ground. Omar roared away.
By the time they developed the pictures, he would be well on his way to Paris.
41
PARIS
Tonight, Craig wasn’t dreaming. The cell phone next to his bed woke him out of a sound sleep. He checked the red numerals on the digital clock. 2:05 a.m.
Hoping not to wake Elizabeth, he grabbed the phone quickly and carried it into the study.
Jacques said, “I have awful news.”
