by Allan Topol
After Craig put the phone back in his pocket, Giuseppe said, “Once Musa’s two guys with the missiles see the planes overhead, you think they’ll figure out what we’re planning and abort?”
Craig considered the question. “If Musa or General Zhou were here, I’d say that was a real possibility, but you saw Rachid, whom we interrogated with chemicals. He didn’t have military sophistication. And I doubt if they’ll be in cell phone contact with Musa. He must have told them no cell phone calls. Besides, he’s tied down in his battle in southern Spain.”
“Yeah. I guess they’re robots. They won’t be thinking.”
Giuseppe called to check on the search going on in Rome to locate the other two shooters. Craig heard him say, “Nothing … You don’t have a single lead … Keep going. We still have time.”
Craig wasn’t surprised. Rome was a large city. They had gotten lucky twice with Rachid and the guy who blew himself up. Four times was too many.
It all comes down to the two United States planes.
At nine o’clock, Craig called Carlos. “What’s happening?”
“I’m in Seville with General Bernardo at the command center. Our estimate is that Musa started with ten thousand men. He’s down to about five thousand.”
“That’s good.”
“Agreed. Not good is they’ve broken through our defense line northeast of Malaga. They’re headed in the direction of Granada, as you predicted.”
“Were you able to fortify the roads outside of Granada to cut them off?”
“We didn’t have time. They were moving too fast. We had some troops in the area, but not enough to stop Musa’s advance.”
Craig asked Carlos to put General Bernardo on a speaker phone. When he had both of them, Craig said, “Listen. I know Musa. I was his prisoner a few weeks ago. I understand his goal. He wants to take the Alhambra. Then use his conquest as a rallying cry to Muslims throughout Spain and all of Europe to begin an insurrection against their Christian rulers. He’ll use the media to do that. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Both men responded, “Yes.”
Craig continued. “I intend to alert law enforcement people throughout Europe of the threat. And urge them to keep the peace and avoid bloodshed.
“If the widespread insurrection doesn’t occur, we will be able to isolate and surround Musa and his troops in the Alhambra. That means we have to do two things. First, as they march toward the Alhambra, kill off as many of his men as possible with pinpoint bombing and artillery while minimizing your own casualties. Second, clear everybody out of the Alhambra and the immediate area. This is critical. We can let Musa take control of the Alhambra. We can’t let him take prisoners.”
General Bernardo spoke up, “You’re saying we should surrender the Alhambra to him.” He sounded incredulous.
“Yes. We can’t run the risk of damaging the building. Or permitting him to seize hostages.”
“But by surrendering the Alhambra, we’ll look weak and inept to the rest of the world,” General Bernardo said. “Also to our own people. The Spanish military will become the butt of jokes. Laughed at throughout Europe.”
“I’m not talking long-term surrender,” Craig said emphatically. “I’m talking short-term tactics. We want Musa to make exactly the same mistake the Muslim General Musa Ben Abdil made in 1492. Trapping himself and his troops in the Alhambra. The Muslims lost then, and Musa will lose now if we play it smart.”
“But,” Carlos said. “What if Muslims around Europe respond to his call for a uprising?”
“Then heaven help us.”
“We’ll follow your recommendation,” General Bernardo said reluctantly.
Craig next called Jacques in Paris. “Talk to each of your counterparts in the other EU countries,” Craig said. “Tell them Musa will be calling for a Muslim insurrection.”
“I’ll make sure they have troops near the Muslim areas.”
“Also, have them work with Muslim community representatives. There are millions of decent law abiding people in those communities. Enlist their help in avoiding bloodshed.”
64
ROME
For Craig, the time dragged, each minute seeming like an hour. He thought his plan to stop the missiles was foolproof, but what if Musa had a surprise in store? Also high tech military equipment wasn’t perfect. Malfunctions occur. Human error, always a possibility.
“Stop worrying,” Craig told himself. “You did everything you could. The US Air Force is damn good.”
Finally, nine fifty. Craig looked up. No planes. Where the fuck are they? He grabbed his cell to call General McCallister. Then he saw them. He picked up his binoculars. Two gorgeous F-35’s, sparkling in the bright sun. Circling over the city, manna in the sky. Thank you President Dalton.
Captain Goldini, from the carabinieri, Giuseppe’s liaison, joined them on the roof. Also binoculars in hand. “Everything’s set,” he said. “I have men scattered around the city. Once I get the location of the missile shooters, we’ll arrest them. We’ll get firefighters to the scene of falling debris. The President’s office has dozens of ambulances with supporting medical personnel close to St. Peter’s Square.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need them.” Giuseppe said grimly.
Craig recalled a recent dinner at Giuseppe’s house. When he arrived, Paolo, twelve, was in front of the television, totally engrossed in a video game trying to blast missiles from the sky with other missiles. And he was good at it. The boy had fabulous hand-eye coordination. He got most, but not all of them. Unlike Paolo, we have zero tolerance for error.
Craig lifted the binoculars and focused on St. Peter’s Square. Mobs of people, thousands, from around the world, were milling around, waiting for the Pope, for his words and blessing. They had no idea of the danger threatening them. Craig located the line of ambulances a block away.
He glanced up at the balcony above the square. The door opened. The Pope, looking frail, walked outside accompanied by an entourage. No sign of Cardinal Donatello. The Pope raised his arms and began speaking.
Craig scanned the city. Suddenly he saw it. From Trastevere, southeast of the Vatican, a missile streaking through the air on a trajectory for the balcony above St. Peter’s Square.
It was moving fast. “Now. Fire now,” Craig cried out.
As if the pilot heard him, one of the F-35s released a heat seeker. It raced toward the missile headed for the Vatican. A bullseye! Blasting it apart. The debris falling onto Janiculum Hill.
At that instant, a second missile was fired from the northeast, about twelve kilometers away. It was tearing through the air heading directly toward the Pope.
The second plane hadn’t released its heat seeker. What the hell was happening?
Oh, shit. Maybe the firing mechanism jammed. Technology failing us.
The missile was getting dangerously close.
Craig thought about the Spanish train bombing. He had failed to stop that.
Not again today.
I can’t fail today.
Damn it. Fire.
As if Craig had willed it, he saw a flash from the second plane. The heat seeker streaked through the air. Bam! Another direct hit. The debris dropped into the Tiber River, less than a mile from where the Pope was standing.
Craig breathed a sigh of relief.
Captain Goldoni was on his cell phone barking orders. “Move fast,” he said.
He put down the phone and turned to Craig and Giuseppe. “I’ve got a location on both of them. We’ll have the shooters in custody in minutes.”
One of them might have another missile. The two F-35s remained overhead, circling.
Craig looked at the square. Amazingly, the crowd was orderly. Many remaining in the square. Some left. But there was no panic. The Pope was still talking.
“Fortunately,” Goldoni said. “The first one fell into a sparsely populated area. The second into the Tiber.”
Moments later, the captain’s phone rang. “We found bo
th missile shooters. After firing, they killed themselves. Bullets to the head. We seized their equipment.”
Craig called General McCallister. “Your pilots did a great job.”
“Thanks. I got their report. I plan to leave them in the air until the ceremony is over.”
Craig knew that wasn’t necessary, but he didn’t argue.
Craig remained in place for another uneventful twenty minutes. Until the Pope was finished speaking and went back inside. Then he told Giuseppe, “I’m flying to Southern Spain.”
“I have an Italian Air Force plane waiting for you at Fiumicino.”
65
MARBELLA
General Zhou watched CNN on the large screen in Musa’s villa with increasing frustration and misery.
In Rome, it must have been Craig Page who foiled the attack on the Pope and the Vatican. General Zhou should have anticipated Craig would use airplanes with heat-seeking missiles and tried to counter them. That part of the attack was an absolute failure.
Damn that Craig Page.
From looking at battle scenes in Southern Spain, General Zhou had a clear picture of the situation: Musa’s troops had fought valiantly. The pinpoint bombing had decimated their ranks. They had now seized the deserted Alhambra with a force of about four thousand, CNN estimated. Down from the ten thousand Musa had brought from Morocco. Surprisingly, the Spanish army made no effort to engage in combat with Musa’s troops at the entrance to the palace. They backed away, letting Musa have it. Then moved into defensive positions surrounding the Alhambra.
For a moment General Zhou was puzzled. Why didn’t the Spaniards fight to the death to keep Musa from taking over the enormously significant Alhambra? Then he realized how brilliant the Spanish strategy was.
Musa’s trapped. His only hope is for a general uprising of Muslims in Europe.
General Zhou switched the channel to French television. If the insurrection had any chance, it was in the Paris suburbs like Clichy, where Musa had his strongest supporters.
In Paris, the French reporter announced, “The man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil has adroitly used the media by calling CNN with his message that, just as Muslims flocked to and rallied around Saladin during the Third Crusade, Muslims throughout Europe should now join him in his war against the Christians. To gain their support, Musa has relied upon the parchment allegedly prepared by Queen Isabella, but so far that hasn’t led Muslims to flock to his banner.
“CNN broadcast his words, but so far nothing has happened. Muslim areas in large cities are tense. Troops have surrounded them. Some rabble-rousers have issued a call to arms. However, community leaders have asked for calm. Bottom line, no general uprising has occurred.”
The television shifted to Clichy, where a reporter was interviewing people who knew Ahmed Sadi, the man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil.
General Zhou listened to them expressing sympathy for Ahmed, but the scene was generally peaceful. Only three police cars had been firebombed. No widespread rioting.
Musa’s finished, General Zhou decided.
Craig Page has defeated him.
Time to cut and run.
Fortunately, General Zhou had Elizabeth in a cell downstairs. His insurance policy.
General Zhou called his brother in Beijing on their encrypted phone. “A disaster,” he said. “A fucking disaster.”
“I know,” his brother replied. “I’ve been following it on television.”
“I can’t stay in Europe.”
“I figured that. You need a place to hide only for a month at most.”
“What happens then?”
“President Li has changed his mind and decided on surgery for the colon cancer. He’ll have it done sometime in the next month. My intention is to make certain Li does not survive that surgery.”
“How will you accomplish that?”
“I don’t know yet, but I have some ideas.”
General Zhou didn’t press his brother, who continued, “Meantime, I’ll solidify your support in the Central Committee. My objective is to have you return to China to take over the presidency the day after Li’s death.”
“Excellent. Where do I hide until then?”
“Bali. I’ve paid plenty to arrange comfortable living conditions. Most important, no extradition. Their laws don’t provide for it. And they’ve given me an ironclad guarantee.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“We’ve always stuck together and we always will.” His brother added, “Our bond is unbreakable. Until one of us dies.”
“Correction. We’ll go together.”
“Let’s not think about death. A wonderful opportunity awaits you in Beijing.”
“Both of us. We always operate together. I’ll make sure your wealth and power double. But now I need something else,” General Zhou said.
“What’s that?”
“I want to execute a prisoner swap with Craig Page. He arrested Androshka in Paris. I want her back in return for Elizabeth Crowder, who’s my prisoner in Southern Spain. How can I do that?”
“Why waste your time with that nonsense. Kill Elizabeth and forget about Androshka. She’s easily replaced. With your money, you’ll have no trouble finding another beautiful Russian whore. Or Chinese for that matter.”
No one else would dare talk to him this way.
“She’s become more than that to me. I’ve gotten used to her.”
“Like a pair of old shoes. Don’t become a sentimental fool. Kill Elizabeth. Ditch Androshka, and get on with your life.”
But he couldn’t. He didn’t know why. He wanted Androshka.
“Listen, I hear you but…”
“When you get stubborn, I can’t reason with you. Alright. I’ll help you make the exchange. You’ll need an intermediary. Someone Craig will trust.”
“But who?”
“Let me think.”
There was a pause. Then General Zhou’s brother continued, “I’m now involved with a British firm in a huge real-estate deal in London. The developer needs my money badly, and he’s well connected with the Prime Minister. Let me talk to him. I think we can work this out.”
Musa should have been delirious with joy. After more than five hundred years, the greatest prize in all of Europe, the Alhambra, across the river from the modern city of Granada, was again under the control of Islam.
He walked the corridors, stopping to touch the intricately carved plaster walls. He marveled at what the artisans had created. Feeling light headed, he bowed down on an elaborate mosaic tiled floor in which blues and greens predominated. He lowered his head and kissed the cold stone.
For Musa, illusion mixed with reality. Past and present were indistinguishable.
History reached out and grabbed him. He was catapulted more than five hundred years back in time. He was in the capital of Islam in Europe. Granada, the last Muslim city to fall in 1492. The Alhambra, the final surrender.
He was a man of destiny, some of whose ancestors built this structure, he imagined. While others died defending it. Now, after more than five hundred years, he had restored what was lost. The desecration and sacrilege ended at last.
With all of that, Musa was still rational and a pragmatist. The reality of his situation was painfully clear. The attack on the Pope and the Vatican had been a complete failure, undoubtedly because of Craig Page. All that brilliant planning for naught. An utter and total waste of time. He was furious at himself for not killing Page in Morocco when Page and that nosey reporter Elizabeth discovered his base. He had the two of them tied to stakes. He should have killed them both and taken the consequences with the Moroccan government.
Even more infuriating was that in Spain and throughout Europe, his call for an insurrection using Queen Isabella’s parchment as a linchpin, had so far not produced results. Muslim warriors weren’t rushing to him as they had to Saladin. Even in Clichy. He knew because of calls he made, Mohammad, Lila’s cousin, and others were calling for riots, but community lead
ers were angrily opposing them, arguing that the 2005 riots and the ones prompted by Lila’s rape and murder accomplished only “destruction in our neighborhood.”
Cowards. All of them. Too shortsighted to realize that he was providing them with an alternative to their second class-citizenship.
Musa was still hopeful this would change in the next couple of days, as he continued his pleas for support in the media. That the masses would rise up and disregard their leaders.
But now he had a pressing problem: How to hold on until that occurred. His troops were desperately in need of re-supply. They were low on ammunition. They needed grenade launchers and other sophisticated weapons. So much had been destroyed on the march to Granada. They would also be out of food in a couple of days.
Only General Zhou could arrange this re-supply. He could airlift in what Musa desperately needed. Frantically, he called Zhou on his encrypted phone.
“I was sorry to hear about Rome,” General Zhou said.
Musa tried to sound upbeat. “We’ve achieved a great victory. I’ve retaken the Alhambra. The capital of my nation of Islam in Europe. I expect the Muslim masses to join my call for an insurrection within the next day. I’m calling because I need re-supply of arms and food. And I need them tonight. Can you arrange to airlift them in?”
Musa expected General Zhou to resist. To his surprise, General Zhou said, “I anticipated that. I spoke to my brother in Beijing a few minutes ago and asked him to begin working on it. I expect him to call back any minute.”
“What about the logistical problems?”
“Don’t worry. Don’t underestimate Chinese ingenuity. We’ll take care of those.” General Zhou said with confidence.
Musa was very pleased. He still had a chance.
Fifteen minutes after he hung up with Musa, General Zhou sat in the study, smoking a cigar, when his brother called. “It’s all set. I personally spoke with James Ferris, the British Governor of Gibraltar. He agreed to be the intermediary. He called Craig Page to arrange the terms of the exchange. You and Page will each deliver your prisoner to Ferris. At his residence. At six this evening. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
