by Allan Topol
“The Star Wars approach.” Giuseppe’s face was flushed with excitement. “I love it. But we have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I am concerned that we couldn’t get the Italian Air Force mobilized in time. The US Air Force has planes based at Magdalena off the coast of Sardinia with that capability. They are on alert around the clock. That would be a better alternative.”
Giuseppe was right. United States assistance was the only way.
Craig didn’t have a relationship with top officials in the Pentagon or in the US Air Force. The lines of communication for his agency with the United States ran to the CIA.
Craig recalled his last encounter with Norris. He hated having to go back to that asshole, but he didn’t have a choice.
“Norris?” Giuseppe said, reading Craig’s mind.
“Uh huh. Given how he behaved with the satellite photos, it’ll be a tough sell.”
“There is a difference. Now we have a definite and immediate threat.”
“If we were dealing with a rational person, that would carry the day.”
“Can you go around him?”
“I know how Washington operates. He has the point. If Brewster were still President, I could go over Norris. I never even met Dalton.”
Giuseppe pushed the phone across the desk. “Bite the bullet.”
Craig called Langley. Though, it was Saturday afternoon, the Director was in his office.
“We need your help, John,” Craig said to Norris in a polite tone. “You’re on the speaker with me and my deputy, Giuseppe.” Craig explained to Norris the serious immediate threat, confirmed by the capture of two of the four missiles. Also, the necessity for involving US planes. When he was finished, there was a long pause.
“Well,” Craig said. “Italy is an ally of the United States. I’m asking your assistance to stop an attack on Italian soil.”
“I’d like to help you,” Norris said. “I really would. But you’re aware of President Dalton’s strong views about disengaging from European matters.”
“Don’t you at least want to talk with the President?”
“I have a clear sense of his priorities.”
Craig was flabbergasted that Norris would do this on his own. He was becoming enraged. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot, John.”
Norris slammed down the phone.
“Well, that certainly worked,” Giuseppe said.
“I felt better saying it.”
“Happy to provide an outlet for your therapy.”
“It’s inconceivable he wouldn’t check with Dalton.”
“I guess we’re stuck. You said a minute ago that you don’t know Dalton.”
“Correct. I can’t call the President.”
Craig was thinking. He’d be damned if he’d let that twit Norris block him. There had to be a way around the CIA director. Then it hit him. Yes! That was the solution.
“But I do know somebody who can call Dalton,” Craig said.
“Who?”
“Your Italian President Cerconi.”
Giuseppe was looking at Craig wide-eyed. “And how are you planning to do that at eleven o’clock on Saturday evening, the night before Easter?”
“I’m not. You are.”
Giuseppe took a deep breath, sounding like a child pushed onto a high diving board, who now had to leap. “OK. Stay here.”
Left alone, Craig was thinking about Elizabeth. He had to find her and free her. But right now he didn’t have the faintest idea how to do that. My only choice, he concluded, is to stop Musa’s attack, then capture him or General Zhou. One of them has to know where she is, and by God, I’ll get the information out of him. He didn’t even want to contemplate the alternative: that they had killed her.
Giuseppe returned fifteen minutes later. “Cerconi is hosting a dinner at the Quirinale. I spoke to Fabrizio, his top aide, who’s there to field calls. I told him how extremely urgent this is. If we come now, he agreed to pull Cerconi out of the dinner. ‘Cerconi won’t be happy about this,’ he told me. ‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed during dinner.’ If Cerconi doesn’t think this merits dragging him out of dinner, Fabrizio threatened to cut off my nuts. Because that’s what Cerconi will do to him.”
“That’s a good way to run a government.”
“In Italy we play hardball politics. No pun intended. Let’s go.”
62
ROME
Craig had never before been in the Palazzo del Quirinale, the ornate residence of the Italian President.
Walking from Giuseppe’s car toward the pale-yellow-stone sprawling structure, Craig passed the fountain lit with floodlights in the piazza and the ancient Egyptian obelisk moved here from the mausoleum of Augustus. The Quirinale was on top of the highest of the seven hills of Rome. Spread out below in the clear night sky were the sparkling lights of the city, as far as the eye could see. A great metropolis that would be in mourning in less than twelve hours if we don’t stop the attack.
As Craig stepped into the richly furnished marble foyer, history smacked him in the face. This palace had once been the residence of the Pope. Ironic, in view of tonight’s mission.
Then, until World War II, the Quirinale was the home of the King of Italy. Nearly every famous Italian architect since the renaissance had worked on the structure.
For Craig, with roots in Italy, being in the palazzo had powerful emotional significance. He thought about his grandfather and his father. They would have been proud of him now, standing in the Quirinale.
Fabrizio, a tall, balding, taciturn man in his sixties came down the marble corridor to meet Craig and Giuseppe. He led them up a heavily polished, dark wooden, winding staircase to a second floor study containing a red leather-topped desk with a phone and four bulky, brown leather chairs.
“You two wait here,” he said. “They’re still at the dinner table. I’ll go get him.”
“We appreciate your help,” Giuseppe said.
A few minutes later, Cerconi entered the room followed by Fabrizio. He was a handsome man, with movie-star looks, who reminded Craig of Cary Grant at fifty. Dressed in a dark gray cashmere suit molded to his body. Swaying as he walked. Craig guessed he’d had a lot of wine. And why not? It was almost midnight on Saturday night.
When he opened his mouth during the introductions, he slurred his words, making Craig nervous. He’ll never be able to do this.
But the politician’s instincts and graciousness kicked in. “I’m sure the two of you wouldn’t be here unless you had information about an imminent terrorist attack. I appreciate your coming. I know it wasn’t easy.”
Giuseppe pointed to Craig who said, “That’s right, Mr. President. Let me quickly review what we know. We don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary.”
“Don’t worry about that. Francesca will entertain our guests without me.”
Craig winced at the name. It drove home for him the stakes.
In his summary Craig talked slowly, figuring that Cerconi’s mind was dulled with alcohol. He was astounded by the crisp, pointed questions the President asked. He clearly understood the gravity of the situation. He arrived at the action item before Craig. “So you want me to call President Dalton and ask him to put those planes in the air tomorrow morning?”
“Precisely.”
“Do I have any leverage?” Cerconi was thinking aloud. The politician’s proclivity for the deal. “I could threaten to terminate the base leases on Magdalena—but he might say—’Alright. We’re happy to pull out’—Definitely not an option—I’m as well to play it straight. Appeal to his sense of decency. I met him once. He’s not an ogre.” Cerconi smiled. “Well, maybe not totally.”
Craig always formed snap opinions of people. He liked Cerconi.
The President looked at Fabrizio. “Get Dalton on the phone and put him on speaker.”
Craig was pleased they’d passed the first hurdle: Cerconi agreed to call.
The next hurdle was getting past Dal
ton’s Chief of Staff. Fabrizio kept pushing until he succeeded.
Once Dalton was on the line, Craig’s hope rapidly dissipated. Dalton was cold, if not rude to the Italian President, who talked about their prior meeting when Cerconi visited the United States. Cerconi promptly got to the point and told Dalton, “Craig Page, EU Director of Counterterrorism, has solid evidence that a missile attack is planned for tomorrow morning at ten against the Vatican in an attempt to assassinate the Pope, destroy the Basilica of St. Peter’s and kill thousands of people. Craig tells me the only way we can prevent this attack is if the United States puts planes with heat-seeking missiles into the air over Rome. You have those planes based at Magdalena.”
Dalton snapped back, “Have you discussed this matter with John Norris?”
“I did, Mr. President,” Craig said. “He refused my request or even to take the issue to you.”
“So you decided to go over his head.”
Craig swallowed hard. “Yes sir. In view of the urgency of the situation and the threatened harm.”
“Well, John understands my position about this country not becoming entangled in European matters.”
“We’re not asking you to become entangled,” Cerconi interjected. “It’s simply a question of two airplanes for an hour or so.”
“These matters always begin small.”
“My government has no other way of thwarting this attack.”
“Craig, you were born in the United States and lived there much of your life. You know how much of our resources we’ve squandered in recent years in foreign engagements. We’ve lost thousands of our best people. Destroyed our financial stability. Vietnam. Iraq. Afghanistan. I don’t have to tell you about these. As a matter of principle, I feel strongly that we have to pull back.”
Craig felt his blood boiling at the stupidity of what he was hearing. “This issue is totally different. We’re not asking for American troops.”
“But it’s only a first step. Our planes could be shot down. Our pilots killed. Next you’ll want us to spearhead an attack against the terrorists.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. President. I can assure you.”
“The American people,” Dalton continued while ignoring Craig’s words, “agree with me on the need to scale back our foreign involvements.”
Time to play the only card I have.
“That may be true,” Craig said, “but as you pointed out a minute ago, I was born and lived in the United States for much of my life. I know a great deal about the country. You’ll be running for reelection in November. Less than eight months from now. One thing I know is that the United States has millions of Catholic voters. With all due respect, Mr. President, they’ll be very unhappy if they learn that you had a chance to stop the Pope from being assassinated, the Vatican blown up, thousands of pilgrims killed while you refused to lift a finger to help.”
“Nobody will find out about it,” Dalton quickly retorted.
“You’re aware that these anonymous leaks happen, Mr. President,” Craig said. “Somehow the press gets hold of the information. Nobody knows exactly how.”
Cerconi was smiling and nodding with approval.
Craig thought he heard Dalton mutter the word “bastard,” in a low growl.
Dalton was silent for thirty seconds. Finally, he said gruffly, “OK, two planes for an hour. Craig, coordinate logistics with Jim Perry, my National Security Adviser. I’ll tell him to expect a call from you. Is there anything else President Cerconi?”
“Nothing. I want to thank you for your assistance.”
“Alright then.”
The line went dead. Cerconi was laughing. Deep belly laughs. He took a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it. “You really nailed him with that Catholic voter point.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Cerconi blew smoke into the air. “I owe you two a great debt of gratitude. I can’t imagine how awful it would be if those bombs strike. I just hope you can stop them.”
“We’ll do our best, sir.”
Cerconi stood to leave. “Giuseppe,” he said. “Keep Fabrizio informed. He’ll arrange to have all our hospitals and medical resources on alert without creating a panic. And he’ll report to me.” He looked at his aide. “Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Craig was glad he’d be working with Perry, rather than Norris. When Craig had been in the CIA, Perry had been an Air Force General and Craig’s point man in calling for strikes against suspected terrorist bases in the Middle East. Perry was professional. He’d get the job done.
“Let’s go back to your office,” Craig said to Giuseppe. “By then hopefully Dalton will have called Perry. Jim’s a good guy. No bullshit. This will work.”
When Craig called, Jim Perry was in the loop. For the next hour, Craig and Giuseppe coordinated with Perry and General McCallister, the base commander at Magdalena. By three a.m. Rome time, all the details had been hammered out. Two US planes would be on the runway, fueled and armed, at six in the morning in case they were needed earlier. The Pope’s appearance was scheduled for ten. At nine thirty, the planes would take off for Rome. From nine fifty on, the planes would be circling over Rome, ready to take out the missiles as soon as they were launched.
Then Craig called Carlos in Madrid. “How are your preparations to resist Musa’s attack?”
“To be honest, confused and disoriented. Alvarez’s redeployment order made everything much more difficult.” He sounded weary and frustrated. “Army, Navy, and Air Force officers are squabbling. I’m sorry I didn’t speak up and urge Zahara to bring in military assistance from France, England, and Germany.”
“I doubt it would have made a difference.”
“Right now I feel as if I live in a country of lovers, not warriors.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
“Unfortunately not. I’m flying down to Seville to our command center. I’ll call when the attack starts and keep you posted.”
Craig and Giuseppe moved cots into Giuseppe’s office in the hope of getting a couple hours sleep.
Tomorrow would be a long and brutal day.
Elizabeth tried to sleep in order to maintain her strength, but it was futile. So she got up from the bed and paced back and forth across the windowless cell, totally disoriented, not knowing whether it was day or night.
She had no idea why Musa had shot Etienne, but not her. Food was brought to her periodically and trays taken away by a polite, bearded, young Arab man. Though she had no appetite, she forced herself to eat. At any minute she expected Musa to barge in the door and execute her. But until he did, she refused to lose hope.
She recalled her captivity with the Taliban, when she had been a reporter in Afghanistan. She had kept constantly alert and vigilant. When her guards became careless, arguing about Afghan politics while she was exercising, she ran into the forest. By the time they realized she was gone, she had a good start. She ran fast. Tearing past branches that scraped her while ignoring the shots from behind. Finally, she made it back to NATO-controlled territory. Here, too, she might get an opportunity to escape. Guards became board and sloppy. When that happened, she’d make a break for freedom.
63
ROME
At five thirty, Craig was lying on a cot, dozing when Carlos called. He sounded frantic. “The attack has started. They’re making land east of Malaga in fast boats. General Bernardo, our chief of staff, insisted they would come in close to Gibraltar. So our troops are out of position. We’re trying to catch up. Rushing more men to the East. The fighting is fierce. They’re advancing.”
“What about air support? Do they have planes?”
“No. We have complete control of the skies. The only good news. We were hitting them in their boats. But it’s dark. Once they’re on land, our air force will have a tougher job. Too many civilians in the area. Lots of places to hide. We’ll be limited to pinpoint bombing. The main battle has to be fought on the ground.”
“Casualtie
s?”
“Many killed on both sides. They’ve shot down a dozen planes. We’re astounded at how good their army is. And well equipped. We expected a ragtag motley crew.”
Craig wasn’t surprised. General Zhou was responsible for supplying and training Musa’s army. And General Zhou had built the Chinese military into a rival of the United States.
“Which way are their troops moving?”
“In his last report, General Bernardo wasn’t sure. Let me check with him.”
A few minutes later, Carlos was back on. “They’re heading in a Northeasterly direction.”
Craig recalled Musa’s killing of the Spanish policeman in the parking lot in October. Musa was obsessed with the magnificent Alhambra, the red palace finished in the fourteenth century after a hundred years of construction, with its thirteen towers and fortified walls.
“That’s what I figured,” Craig told Carlos. “Musa’s heading straight to Granada. He wants to retake the Alhambra.”
“That means if we shift troops to the Granada road, circle behind the fighting, we can cut them off before they reach the Alhambra and destroy their army.”
“Precisely.”
Maybe I should fly to Spain, Craig thought. No, not now. I have to remain in Rome until we resolve the attack on the Pope and the Vatican.
After Craig relayed Carlos’s depressing report to Giuseppe, his Deputy said, “The Spanish obviously underestimated Musa and General Zhou.”
“Yeah. I hope we’re not making the same mistake here.”
As the sun rose over Rome, Craig and Giuseppe climbed to the top of the six-story carabinieri building, each with binoculars in hand.
The sky was robin’s egg blue. Not a cloud for miles. Craig lifted the binoculars to his eyes. He had a clear view of the Vatican balcony above St. Peters Square, where the Pope would make his appearance at ten o’clock.
He called General McCallister. “What’s the status?”
“Both planes are on the runway. The pilots understand their mission.”
