by Allan Topol
“Once he has both under his control, he’ll deliver each of them to different locations. Neither side will know where the other is being taken.”
“Thank you for arranging this.”
“You should know it cost me dearly in terms for the London real estate deal.”
General Zhou ignored that. His brother could afford it. “What about my transportation?”
“I’ve arranged a high speed boat to pick you up off the cost of Gibraltar. Ferris will deliver Androshka to the boat. From there you can begin your trip to Bali.”
The encrypted cell phone he used with Musa was ringing. Musa must need something else. General Zhou turned off the phone. He had no intention of talking to Musa again. When he got on the boat, he’d throw it into the sea.
66
SOUTHERN SPAIN
Craig had flown into Malaga a few minutes ago and was in the back of a car, speeding to Granada and the Alhambra, when his cell phone rang. The caller ID was blocked.
“Yes,” he said
“This is General Zhou. I have something you want. And you have something of mine.”
Craig felt a surge of hope. If General Zhou was telling the truth, Elizabeth was alive. “I assume you’re speaking about Elizabeth and Androshka?”
“Correct. I want to arrange a swap, and I have the logistics worked out.”
Craig wanted to scream with joy. “Yes. Yes. Let’s do it,” but his professional training dictated caution. Prisoner exchanges were always risky. The potential for a trick. For a hostage dying. “First I need some assurance Elizabeth is alive and unharmed.”
“I appreciate that. Give me a minute to take the phone to her.”
Craig glanced at his watch. It took a full minute. Then he heard Elizabeth. “I’m OK, Craig. I haven’t been harmed.”
Her voice was clear and strong, though she sounded weary. He also knew Elizabeth. No way she would have uttered those words if they weren’t true.
“I’m working on your release,” Craig said.
“That would be wonderful.”
General Zhou got back on. “Satisfied?”
“Yes. How do you want to do this?”
“By six this afternoon, you deliver Androshka to the residence of James Ferris, the British Governor of Gibraltar. I’ll hand Elizabeth over to him. He’ll then transport Elizabeth to a location of your choice. And Androshka to a location I designate. Neither of us will know the other’s location.”
Craig played it back in his mind. Everything seemed right. It was better than he had hoped. Still, he couldn’t be lulled into dropping his guard.
“Terms are acceptable,” Craig said. “What happens to you?”
“I leave Europe for good.”
Craig desperately wanted to kill General Zhou or to prosecute him for his involvement with Musa. He realized that wasn’t an option. He had to swallow this bitter pill. If he turned down the deal, he was confident General Zhou would kill Elizabeth, leave Androshka to rot in jail, and escape from Europe. This way at least he would be saving Elizabeth. Freeing Androshka was of no consequence.
“Suppose I deliver Androshka to Ferris,” Craig said. “And you don’t deliver Elizabeth?”
“You haven’t lost a thing. Ferris is a British official. He’ll return Androshka to you to be sent back to prison. But that won’t happen.”
Craig couldn’t find any flaws in the deal General Zhou had put together. He just hoped it wasn’t a trick. That, as a result of his emotional attachment to Elizabeth, he wasn’t missing something.
“OK,” Craig said. “I’ll deliver Androshka.”
Craig and Androshka were in the back of the car from the airport. Craig was behind the driver. Her large, black Valentino bag between them.
“You didn’t think he cared about me, did you?” she said.
Craig wasn’t interested in talking with her. He was thinking about what would happen next. One possibility was General Zhou would try and seize Androshka before Craig turned her over to Ferris. General Zhou could have his men stop the car, shoot Craig, and pull her out. Craig touched his jacket making certain the gun in the shoulder holster was in place.
“Well you can answer,” she said sounding very pleased with herself.
“You’re right. I didn’t.”
“Because you think I’m just another whore.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. I know what you’re thinking. But in truth, my family was descended from the Czar.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Don’t underestimate General Zhou. He’s a great man. One day he’ll take you down.”
When Craig didn’t respond, she turned to the right, away from him, and stared out of the window. This was the moment Craig had been waiting for. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny round object, the size of a button, resembling a camera battery. Deftly, he slipped it into her bag.
Thank God they arrived. Five minutes more and he would have found it difficult to avoid strangling her. They were pulling up in front of the British Governor’s majestic stone house, evidence of the grandeur of the former British empire. Craig checked his watch. Five minutes to six.
Craig told the driver to remain behind the wheel. He got out on one side and walked around the car in the back, his eyes searching the area, looking for anything suspicious. Ready to go for his gun. All seemed normal. Tourists on the street in bright sunlight. Residents walking past the house. Ten yards away, two British soldiers with rifles stood at attention on either side of the black wrought-iron gate.
Craig opened the car door for Androshka. She got out and stood erect in the five inch stiletto heels she had worn when he and Jacques took her to jail.
OK, here we go. The last ten yards.
General Zhou was capable of grabbing her now. Craig reached inside his jacket, hand on the gun, eyes scanning the area like lasers. Nothing happened.
They reached the British soldiers.
Androshka turned to Craig and said, “An American friend once taught me one of your expressions. ‘It’s been swell.’”
He didn’t respond. The gate opened. Two more soldiers came out of the building and accompanied her inside.
Craig looked around. No sign of Elizabeth. He had spoken to Ferris before moving Androshka. Ferris had promised that Androshka would be returned if General Zhou didn’t bring Elizabeth. Following the agreed upon procedure, Craig walked four blocks to the Imperial Hotel and stood in the lobby. The point he had designated for Elizabeth’s delivery.
Craig paced on the red carpet, worn and in need of replacement, like the rest of the lobby of what had once been a four-star destination during the height of the British empire and had later fallen on hard times. A large picture window provided a breathtaking view of the Rock and the sea below. The lobby was crowded with tourists, mostly elderly Brits on Easter holiday.
Every minute Craig checked his watch.
At six twenty, with no sign of Elizabeth, he became worried.
I’ll kill that fucking General Zhou with my bare hands if he doesn’t bring her.
He pulled out his cell phone, preparing to call Ferris, when he saw her. Walking wobbly through the front door, her neck black and blue, accompanied by two British solders.
The instant their eyes met they raced toward each other. He hugged and kissed her.
“Oh my God. You’re free,” he said. “I was worried he’d pull a trick. Up to the end.”
“Me, too. And relieved. Like you, I couldn’t believe it until it was over. It was awful. Musa killed Professor Etienne.”
As he squeezed her tightly, she grimaced.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just bruised ribs from when they grabbed me. I tried to escape.”
“What else?”
“A sore shoulder and neck. That’s all. Now tell me what happened with Musa.”
“Not until a doctor examines you.
“Don’t be silly.”
He called
Ferris, thanked him for his help, and asked the governor to find a doctor who could see Elizabeth right now.
Ferris put him on hold. While he was waiting, Craig looked out through the window. He saw a boat racing away from the harbor. Craig grabbed binoculars on a table in front a gray-haired woman in Bermuda shorts having tea. He turned them up to the maximum magnification and pressed them tightly against his eyes. The crew was Chinese. He saw Androshka’s blond hair blowing in the wind. Standing next to her and waving, a gloating smile on his face, was General Zhou.
Trying to pursue him was pointless, Craig realized.
He felt a surge of overwhelming anger. The pill was even more bitter than he had anticipated. That bastard General Zhou was not only the mastermind of Musa’s vicious operation, which had killed thousands in Southern Spain. He was responsible for Francesca’s murder. Brilliant, beautiful Francesca. His only child. His only family. And now General Zhou was escaping.
The revenge which Craig so desperately wanted had eluded him again. Just as it had eluded him at the end of Operation Dragon Oil.
But maybe not for long this time, he hoped. With the tracking device he had placed in Androshka’s bag, it might be possible to locate General Zhou and gain that revenge.
Then he heard Ferris’s voice on the phone. “I located a doctor two blocks away.”
As Craig walked there with Elizabeth, he refused to bend. He wouldn’t tell her what had happened with Musa until the doctor examined her.
The verdict was, “Broken ribs but no internal damage. A severely bruised neck and shoulder.”
The doctor taped the ribs to help the healing. “Not much else we can do.”
He gave her pain pills which she buried deep in her bag.
“OK. Now tell me what’s with Musa and General Zhou?”
“We have a long ride to Granada. I’ll give you a full report on the way. And I want to know what happened to you.”
67
SOUTHERN SPAIN
It was almost eleven o’clock when Craig finished his report, interrupted by questions from her. A few minutes later, they reached the Spanish military command center in the living room of a farm house on a hill with a view of the Alhambra a mile away. General Bernardo and Carlos were poring over maps.
“Thank God, you’re safe,” Carlos said. He came over and kissed Elizabeth on each cheek. Then he introduced her to the General. “Because of Elizabeth and Craig, we exposed Alvarez as a traitor. The Justice Minister is already seeking his extradition from Argentina.”
“Where are you on strategy?” Craig asked.
“We were just discussing that,” Carlos said. “Musa and his men have to be short on food. We destroyed their food convey. The soldiers we captured had very little in their backpacks. They were more interested in speed. We have to decide whether to wait for Musa and his people to surrender rather than starve. Or to go in now with tear gas and kill them all or take prisoners. General Bernardo and I are divided on the issue.”
The General spoke up. “It’s night. They have to be tired. I say at three a.m. we mount a full attack under the cover of darkness. Lots of troops with tear gas and masks. We’ll try not to harm the building, but we’ll end this war of theirs.”
Carlos shook his head. “I don’t like that. It’ll result in damage to this priceless structure. Also casualties for our soldiers that are unnecessary. If we wait, all that will be avoided. Sooner or later they’ll all come out with their hands in the air.”
The General was scowling. “Waiting for days will make us look weak. We have to show strength, particularly since they blasted their way to the Alhambra without our being able to stop them. The world is already laughing at us.”
“I don’t agree.” Carlos replied firmly.
The General’s face was turning red.
He’s obviously unaccustomed, Craig thought, to opposition from a young civilian on a military matter.
“You don’t have to agree. You’re not the commanding officer. It’s my decision.”
“Correction,” Carlos fired back, waving his arms for emphasis. “It’s Prime Minster Zahara’s decision. I’ll call him and see what he says.”
“You better tell him that, if he sides with you and he’s willing to wait for days, then I’m resigning.”
To Craig, the argument was familiar. He’d heard numerous renditions between American generals and the civilian Pentagon leadership
Carlos reached for the phone on the table. “I’ll put the phone on speaker so you can present your own position.”
“Fine, do that.” Bernardo said, his voice dripping with venom.
Before Carlos placed the call, Elizabeth said. “Hold up. There’s an alternative. A better way.”
Carlos looked at her with a puzzled expression. Craig, too. He had no idea what she had in mind. General Bernardo was shaking his head. An expression of contempt on his face. Craig read his mind. Now I have to listen to a woman. This young punk Carlos was bad enough.
Tell us,” Carlos said.
“Ahmed, the ringleader of the group in the Alhambra, took on the name Musa Ben Abdil. His medieval hero. When the other Muslims wanted to surrender in 1491, that medieval warrior raced out of the safety of the Alhambra and attacked the Christian enemy surrounding it. He knew he faced a certain death. He preferred to die fighting on the attack. We have to assume this Musa will do the same. That he’ll emulate his hero to the end.”
She paused to take a deep breath. Craig could tell from her face that talking was painful.
Still she continued, “So, I believe very soon Musa, and perhaps some of his followers, will come racing out of the Alhambra firing in all directions, trying to kill as many Spanish troops as possible.”
“I think she’s right,” Craig said,
Carlos was nodding.
“When will this happen?” General Bernardo asked.
Elizabeth replied, “I believe very soon. I don’t know exactly. Musa’s intelligent. He has to understand the situation. He has to make his move fast. Every minute he delays, he becomes weaker physically. Also, he risks your troops rushing into the Alhambra and making him die in total defeat and humiliation. By storming out firing, he can persuade himself he is dying a courageous death as well as emulating his hero.”
General Bernardo ran his hand through his coarse gray hair. They all looked at him expectantly.
“I’ll give this Abdil or Musa or whoever the hell he is twelve hours. If he’s not out by noon tomorrow, Carlos, you’ll have to make your call to the Prime Minister. Meantime, I’ll tell my troops to be vigilant. Nobody sleeps. We have to be prepared for a frontal assault against hopeless odds … in case Elizabeth is right.”
“Exactly,” Elizabeth responded. “It could come at any time.”
68
GRANADA
From a sitting position on the cold, gray, stone ledge of a watchtower facing east, Musa saw the first rays of light appear in the sky. He hadn’t slept all night.
The resupply General Zhou had promised never came. Four times he had tried to call Zhou, but there was no answer on the encrypted phone. At the first sign of trouble, that coward had deserted him.
He had made calls to Muslim friends around Europe. All provided the same report: There would be no widespread insurrection, merely a number of solidarity rallies. Even the parchment didn’t help.
Walking around the Alhambra through the night, he heard the grumbling of his troops. They were hungry. Their ammunition was low. “Our situation is hopeless,” he overheard one of them say.
Musa was a pragmatist. He knew the man was right. The situation was hopeless. In a matter of hours, his troops would begin to surrender in groups, walking out of the Alhambra, hands raised, holding white cloths. He would be powerless to stop them.
As a student of history, the irony struck Musa. He was in precisely the same situation as Musa Ben Abdil in 1491.
He walked over to an adjoining tower where Omar stood looking out over the rolling co
untryside. “It’s a beautiful land,” Omar said. “I wish it could be ours again.”
“Unfortunately it cannot,” Musa said grimly. “You’ve been a wonderful friend and supporter. In truth, I’ve failed you. Under my leadership, we accomplished nothing.”
Omar shook his head. “Not so. You called attention to the plight of Islam in Europe. That’s significant. A hundred years from now Islam will be predominant in much of Europe. Then you will be viewed as a man of vision who dared to dream and had the courage to try and advance our inevitable victory with the Christian world.”
Musa was moved by Omar’s words. “Perhaps, but we have to deal with our situation today.”
He knew how his medieval hero, Musa Ben Abdil, would have responded to this situation. He was Musa Ben Abdil. There was only one possible action.
He asked Omar to assemble the troops in the Hall of Kings, the site of entertainment for the Sultan and his retinue. There Musa climbed up on a table. I have to be honest with them, he decided.
“You have been brave and loyal warriors,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Landing in Spain, fighting our way to Granada, and retaking the Alhambra. All are incredible accomplishments.
“However, without the Muslim uprising I had hoped for, we now have no chance of surviving here. The resupply I was promised is not coming. If we remain inside this palace, we will starve to death or the Spanish Army will come in with tear gas and kill those of us weary, hungry warriors who are still alive.”
He paused. The room was deathly still. “Another choice is surrender. For me that is not an alterative, but I will not judge harshly any man who selects it.
“For me, there is only one course of action. To rush out of the Alhambra with guns blazing. To kill as many Christians as I can. I am prepared to face my destiny. Those who wish to join me may do so. The others may surrender after I have died my hero’s death. Whoever wishes to fight at my side, please come forward.”
Only Omar stepped to the front.
Musa was sorely disappointed, but he didn’t show it.
“Come Omar,” he said. “We will pray. Then prepare our weapons.”
