by Allan Topol
Fredrico, who followed Julio to the plane, was raised on a farm near Granada. He joined the army looking for a different life than raising crops and livestock. Powerfully built, with a dark, almost olive skin, Craig saw in Fredrico, who must have had Moorish blood, the melting pot that was Southern Spain. Perhaps because he was fighting for his homeland, during the battle with Musa Ben Abdil Fredrico had distinguished himself for valor, rescuing one wounded comrade who had been pinned down by enemy fire and going back to rescue a second when Spanish troops tried to block the advance of Musa Ben Abdil’s army. Fredrico was also a crack marksman and had won many awards in training.
Taking up the rear was Manuel, the only one of the four who was married. He had a six-month-old son. Manuel was from the Basque country in the north, the son of a fisherman from a small town near San Sebastian. He was short and stocky with legs that looked like tree trunks. He had the toughness Craig had always associated with Basques. And he had scars from knife wounds that proved he liked to fight. One on his arm and the other on his neck. “Not a good place to catch a blade,” he had told Craig in the interview.
When Craig had asked him why he joined the Spanish Army, he had said, “I wanted to fight. It was a close question of whether to join the Spanish Army or the violent Basque separatist movement. I figured that the movement was about finished. They lost their will to fight. What was the point of hooking up with them.” Manuel was an expert on explosives. Craig suspected he had learned to make bombs as a kid, hanging out with Basque terrorists. In the battle for the Alhambra, Manuel had been sent in undercover to disable any bombs that had been planted.
Their plane to Broome, a port on the northwest corner of Australia, was being flown by two Air Force pilots who would drop them off and wait for their return… if they made it back.
Once they were in the air from Madrid to Broome, Craig gathered the four men in a circle and said, “Let’s go over the logistics. Feel free to interrupt with questions.”
The four were staring at Craig, listening intently as he continued. “An old buddy of mine from my CIA days, who used to be in Australian intelligence, has purchased a seaplane and flown it to Broome, where he’s waiting for us.” Craig turned to Julio. “You ever flown a seaplane?”
“Naw, but a plane is a plane. I’ll figure it out.”
“Well if you need any help, my Aussie buddy is supposed to be knowledgeable.”
“No big deal, Papa. Don’t worry.”
“Okay, assuming Julio gets us to Bali, here’s the plan. General Zhou’s house is at the top of a hill, on a promontory, on an isolated part of the island of Bali. We want the cover of darkness so we’ll land on the southern side of the island at two in the morning when hopefully everyone in the compound will be sleeping.
“Julio will remain in the seaplane. We’ll have a small rubber inflatable boat with a powerful but quiet motor. Manual will steer it into shore on a rocky beach just below Zhou’s compound. And that won’t be easy because there’s plenty of coral. Then Manuel stays in the boat while Fredrico and Juan go up to the compound with me.”
“Why can’t I go, too?” Manuel asked.
“We need you to protect the boat. It’s our only way out. And you’re the only one who knows about boats.”
What Craig didn’t add was that waiting with the boat was the least dangerous part of the operation. Manuel had a wife and child. Craig didn’t want him to be in the fighting.
“How many are you expecting to be in the compound?” Fredrico asked.
“The most recent satellite photos I have were taken two nights ago. According to those photos, in the main building, only General Zhou and Androshka, his mistress, sleeping in one bed. In a small house off to the left as we go up the hill is a building housing the
servants’ quarters. Captain Cheng, the General’s aide, and two servants
from Bali should be in there. At the front west entrance where a road runs into the compound, two uniform guards are in a glass booth.
By coming in from the sea, we’ll circumvent the guards. If we’re quiet and move quickly, they may never know we’re there.”
Juan asked, “What do we do with General Zhou and Androshka?”
“Fredrico and I will each have chloroform. We’ll knock them out. I’ll take General Zhou; Fredrico, Androshka. Then we’ll carry them down the hill and into the boat. Juan, you’ll be covering us the whole way. We have to take both of them. We can’t risk leaving Androshka behind to alert the authorities.”
“And if Captain Cheng or General Zhou wake up and start shooting?”
Craig recalled what Zahara had said. “Then we shoot to kill.”
Broome, Australia, and Bali
Craig sat in the first row of the seaplane and watched anxiously as Julio tried to start the two engines. They coughed and sputtered, then died.
In the cockpit, Julio emitted a string of curses. He turned around toward Craig and said, “We were close that time. I’m sure I’ll get them to kick over.”
All this was making Craig extremely nervous. Outside, it was pitch-dark. In the plane, Juan, Fredrico and Manuel, dressed in full black nylon outfits, nothing reflective, were belted in their seats and perspiring heavily because there wasn’t any air in the plane.
Craig had instructed them to wait to apply black paint on their faces until they were coming down. Then they’d have to strap on their backpacks.
I’m not getting a good feeling about this mission, Craig thought. If the plane won’t start here, how do I know it will start for the return flight with General Zhou and Androshka? Maybe I should abort and get another plane.
Then he heard Julio shout, “C’mon baby.” The engines sprang to life.
Seconds later, they were in the air.
Craig thought about his plan. So many things could go wrong. He had learned long ago what worked on paper often hit snags in the real world. Sure, the night was moonless, but what if another plane or boat happened to see them? What if a heavy rain storm erupted that woke General Zhou or Androshka in time to sound an alarm. What if General Zhou had beefed up his guards in the last two days since the most recent satellite photos? Or what if the damn plane’s engines didn’t start for the return trip? Once daylight came, they’d be sitting fully exposed in the Indian Ocean.
All of these and several more things might go wrong. That’s why the operation was so risky. But it was the only chance Craig had of abducting General Zhou.
Before Craig had left Madrid, he called Giuseppe, his Deputy Director of the EU Counterterrorism Agency, based in Rome, to review the plans for General Zhou’s abduction. Giuseppe was in complete agreement. That sanity check made Craig feel better. And then Giuseppe added, “If you get into trouble, go to the Italian Embassy in Jakarta and call me. I’ll alert the Ambassador.”
After initially encountering some stiff headwinds, the flight became smooth. And Julio had no difficulty flying without lights. He had his landing point carefully fed into the instruments. Craig looked down at the water. He didn’t see any lights. So far, so good.
“We’re landing in five minutes,” Julio announced. Craig told the others to put on the black paint. He wanted them to move as soon as they were on the ground.
By the time Julio was ready to touch down, the winds had died. His landing was smooth, the sea calm and dark.
Three minutes after landing, Manuel had the rubber boat in the water. Craig, Juan, and Fredrico had their backpacks with grenades and other supplies strapped on. Their faces were painted black. They were wearing night vision glasses. Each was gripping an MPSK automatic weapon.
As Manuel guided the boat, Craig studied Juan and Fredrico. They had grim looks of self-determination. If either felt fear, he didn’t show it.
Craig raised his eyes toward the compound on the hill. He saw the six-foot stone wall encircling the property. The second floor of the house was above that. No guards were visible. The distance from the shore to the wall was about a hundred yards, most of tha
t up a steep hill.
Manuel did a good job of navigating around coral. He pulled up the boat onto a rocky beach. “I’ll be right here, Papa,” he told Craig. “Ready to put back in the instant you return with the hostages.”
Following their prearranged plan, Craig, Juan, and Fredrico, fanned out on the beach. Craig didn’t want them to climb the hill in a line. If the guard left the booth and spotted them, he wouldn’t be able to hit them all easily.
Craig was in the center, Juan on his left; Fredrico on his right.
Loaded down by the backpacks, they each hit the ground and began crawling, clawing their way up the steep, rocky hill while maintaining control of their automatic weapons.
The rocks were jagged. Craig felt them scraping his knees and elbows. His sleeve was bloody. He shrugged that off and kept going. Perhaps it was their youth or superior conditioning, but Craig quickly fell behind Juan and Fredrico. On the plane, he had instructed them: “Once you get to the wall, hold. We’ll all go over together.”
Craig estimated he was halfway up the hill when he heard a commotion on the top. He raised his gaze and was horrified by what he saw. Standing on the wall were ten Chinese soldiers in full battle dress. Most were gripping automatic weapons. Two had grenade launchers.
“Holy shit!” he cried out. It was a trap. He had led his men right into it.
For a split second, Craig weighed his options. Retreating down the hill was a nonstarter. They’d never make it back to the boat. And if they did, the Chinese would blow them up in the water. Only one choice: stay and fight. To hell with the odds.
“Enemy troops on the wall!” Craig shouted to Juan and Fredrico. “Fire now!”
All three raised themselves to their knees and opened fire. Craig and his men fired first. Craig hit one of the Chinese; Fredrico another one. Both fell off the wall. Two down and eight to go.
Then the return fire came. Vicious and unrelenting. Round after round from automatic weapons. While shooting back, Craig watched Juan and Fredrico take multiple hits.
From a crouching position, Craig took out one more of the Chinese troops. He tried to stand to get more secure footing to fire.
Rising to his feet, he sensed a shot whizzing at him. Craig ducked. As he did, he tripped on a rock and rolled down the hill. Over and over. His downward movement was stopped by a huge boulder. Craig took cover behind it.
The Chinese kept firing in his direction, but the boulder deflected their shots. Craig peeked up at Juan and Fredrico. Neither was moving or making a sound. They had to be dead with the hits they’d taken. He glanced up at the wall. Six Chinese soldiers were still standing. The odds of abducting Zhou had gotten much worse.
Suddenly, Craig saw two grenades flying over his head. Keeping low, he turned around.
“Oh no,” Craig cried out.
He watched helplessly as a grenade tore into the rubber boat, blasting it and Manuel to ribbons. The other was on a line toward the seaplane.
With a sickening feeling in his stomach, Craig watched it score a direct hit. He no longer had a chance of abducting General Zhou. All four of his comrades were dead.
Stupidly, he had led them on a suicide mission. Elizabeth was right. His hatred for General Zhou had distorted his judgment. All he could do now was try to escape.
His arms and legs were bloody from the roll down the hill. He didn’t think any bones were broken, but every part of his body hurt like hell.
He figured he had a two-second head start while the Chinese watched the seaplane burn. Off to the left, about ten yards away, Craig saw some trees. He made a dash for them. Craig expected to be gunned down. But no one fired.
This had to mean General Zhou told his troops he wanted Craig alive. Craig didn’t want to try and imagine what brutal and sadistic games General Zhou would play with Craig as his prisoner.
Once he was in the trees, Craig reached into the bag, grabbed two grenades, and stuffed them into his pockets. He jettisoned the duffel.
Before he resumed running, Craig looked over his shoulder. Two Chinese soldiers were charging down the hill toward him.
Craig put his head down and ran deeper into the trees. He ignored the sharp branches cutting his hands and face. Birds were gawking. Insects swarming.
The trees turned into jungle, which he knew could happen very quickly in Indonesia. He figured he had an advantage. The Chinese soldiers didn’t have night vision glasses. A mistake on their part. He had to take advantage of it.
He kept running until the trees thinned out. He heard the Chinese pursuing relentlessly, firing from time to time, shots that flew over his head, convincing him that he was right. Their objective was to capture him.
Craig came into a clearing. He saw a small mound about four feet high and took cover behind it. Then he fired into the air. As he expected, the Chinese soldiers fired back, their shots giving away their location: right next to each other.
Craig pulled from his pocket a slow burning thermite grenade. It emitted a blinding brightness. Even brighter than a welder’s torch.
Craig tossed it in the direction of the Chinese troops, knowing it would blind them. But with his dark glasses, he could still see.
Then he ran in the direction of the bright light. Both Chinese soldiers were rubbing their eyes and standing helpless. He raised his MP5K and mowed them down one at a time. They never even fired back.
He didn’t think any other Chinese were pursing him, but General Zhou might call the authorities in Bali. Craig had to get the hell off this island. He had to get to Jakarta and the Italian Embassy. Giuseppe would know how to get him out of Indonesia.
That was easier said than done. Craig had committed the geography to memory. Jakarta was 250 miles away. He was only ten miles from Denpasar Airport. Even if he could make it there, that was too risky. It was the first place the authorities would look for him.
About three miles up the beach was a luxury resort. Chances were there would be powerboats for hire by wealthy resort guests. If the price was right, most of those skippers would take anybody anywhere. No questions asked. No reports filed.
Fortunately, Craig had stuffed wads of euros into his jacket pocket. He learned long ago always to travel with lots of cash.
Despite his pain and aches, Craig forced himself to move fast. He still had an hour or so before daylight.
Gasping, he arrived at the marina. The first rays of sunlight were starting to appear. A European looking man, mid-thirties, thick shock of blonde hair, was hosing down a slick, powerful-looking launch. Craig saw a large plastic trash bag. He grabbed it and stuffed his gun inside.
Craig knew he looked like hell. Nothing he could do about that. He approached the man with the hose.
“What happened to you?” the man said in English with a Dutch accent.
“I had a fight with my girlfriend.”
“That was pretty stupid.”
“How about taking me to Jakarta for two thousand euros cash.”
“Hans is my name. Five and you have a deal.”
Hans was a thief. But Craig didn’t have a choice.
“Only if you throw in a shower once we’re underway and a set of your clean clothes.”
“Let me see the money.”
Craig handed over half. “The rest when we reach Jakarta.”
A secretary was waiting for Craig in the reception area of the Italian embassy. She hustled him upstairs where a good looking nurse treated his wounds. The secretary provided him with clean clothes, a fake ID, and a first class plane ticket to Paris.
Everything he needed to get home. But nothing to alleviate the immense pain, grief, and guilt for the four men who had died.
Beijing
Mei Ling sat in the back of an Audi limousine taking her to a meeting with President Li. She was a petite figure, with short black hair, who no one would have guessed would be celebrating her sixtieth birthday in January.
Her face was virtually unlined as a result, she was convinced, of a herbal compound
she diligently applied each evening. What was most striking about Mei Ling was her eyes. They were coal black and when she stared at people, her eyes cut into them like lasers.
The Audi was stuck in gridlock traffic. Nothing Mei Ling could do about that, so she didn’t fret. Instead, she closed those coal black eyes and reflected on the long rollercoaster ride which had been her life.
Her father had for decades been a close confidant of Mao’s. That made her practically Chinese aristocracy with all the perks she wanted, one of which was two years at Stanford University in California following her Chairmanship of the Party Youth League. When Mao turned on her father, as he did most of his colleagues late in life, her father was sent to prison, tortured, and executed. She became an outcast. Reinstatement came at Mao’s death.
Her father’s friends engineered a meteoric rise for Mei Ling in the Chinese political leadership. Recognizing the importance of her years at Stanford in terms of understanding the United States, she was given a seat on the Foreign Policy Advisory Committee and was elevated to Chairman a year later. She became a member of the Politburo and the Central Advisory Commission.
With her influential connections, she arranged the appointment of her husband, Admiral Xu, to be Commander of the Chinese navy. She wanted to catapult him to Commander of all the Armed Forces. But General Zhou was too powerful in the military.
With her encouragement, her husband displayed enormous courage in defying General Zhou, the head of the Chinese Armed Forces, when he tried to implement Operation Dragon Oil—a plot with Iran to cut off the flow of foreign oil to the United States. Though she could never prove it, Mei Ling was convinced that General Zhou, every bit as evil as Mao, had her husband murdered and made it seem like a heart attack.
