THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) Page 3

  On the way out, Elizabeth chatted with Ned and told him he could expect the detailed outline in three weeks.

  Out on Park Avenue, she threw her arms around Harold. “Thank you so much. You’re the world’s best agent.” She was on the verge of crying with joy.

  A black Lincoln Town Car pulled up at the curb. “He’ll take you to JFK,” Harold said. “You can get the next plane back to Paris.”

  “Thanks. I have a stop to make first.”

  “He’s yours. Wherever you want to go.”

  She gave the driver an address on the North Shore of Long Island. Then she took out her cell phone and called Craig. “I’m coming back on the ten thirty this evening. For dinner tomorrow, book the best restaurant in Paris. I’m buying, and we’re celebrating.”

  “Fabulous.” He sounded elated. “How much did you get?”

  “I’ll tell you at dinner. Make it a surprise.”

  “I love surprises like that. I’m so happy for you.”

  The car exited the LIE and wound its way north, until it reached a middle class neighborhood of modest red brick two-story houses with small, but tidy, front lawns. Her parents had moved out here from Brooklyn six years ago, because her dad, then sixty-three, had recently retired from the New York Police Force and wanted to be close to the water to use his boat. Her mother died a year after the move.

  Two blocks from the Sound, the car slowed down.

  “That’s the one,” Elizabeth said pointing. An American flag hung from the roof.

  Before Elizabeth was out of the car, the front door of the house opened. Her dad limped down the stairs, the result of a bullet he took in the leg in on a drug bust a year before retirement, after he had been promoted to Senior Detective. A large smile lit up his craggy face. She met him half way up the stairs and hugged him.

  “What a nice surprise, you calling, Elizabeth.”

  He always insisted on using her full name. “I didn’t give my daughter a beautiful name so I could call her Liz, as if she were some reptile.”

  She followed him into the living room. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “How about if I join you for a Jack Daniels and soda? I have reason to celebrate.”

  While he fixed the drinks, she looked around the room. Nothing had changed since the day her parents moved from Brooklyn. Above the fireplace was a photograph of the mayor presenting the Distinguished Service Award to her father, Brian Crowder. She was twelve at the time. Her brothers, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen and twenty, were all in the picture, along with her mother.

  On an end table was a picture of Elizabeth in her high school baseball uniform on the mound, pitching to a boy at the plate. Beside it, one of her dad in a Marine uniform when he returned from Vietnam. Then a picture of the whole family at her Harvard graduation.

  He returned with the drinks. “Let me guess,” he said. “You and Craig are getting married.”

  “Not that. I just made a deal to write a book for a huge sum of money.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “A hundred thousand?”

  “Six hundred.”

  His face lit up with pride. “Alright! Good for you. I’ll drink to that.”

  He raised his glass, pointed it at her and sipped. “What’s your subject?”

  “The problem Europe is having with Muslims.”

  “Why Europe? We’re having problems here, too.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that next.”

  He put a steak on the grill in the back. While they ate and sipped beer, he gave her a report on her brothers, all of whom were policemen, also her nieces and nephews.

  “I like that Craig,” her dad said. “He appreciate you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you should marry him.”

  “We’re not quite there yet, Dad.”

  “But you’re thirty-seven, Elizabeth. Don’t let that biological clock stop ticking.”

  She loved her father for always saying what he was thinking.

  “I don’t mean to be nosey. I’d just like to see a little Elizabeth running around.”

  “Craig and I will come for Christmas.”

  “That’s great. We’re having it at Tommy’s. They’ll all love to see you. You like living over there in France?”

  “Mostly. Some of the time I miss the United States.”

  She offered to help him clean up. “Where are you going now?” he asked.

  “I’m on a ten thirty from JFK back to Paris.”

  “Then you better get going.”

  “I have time. How are you doing financially, Dad?”

  “Clear sailing. Another forty thou on the mortgage. That’s all the debt I have. Not many people can say that these days.”

  She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. Ready to skate on thin ice. She had to be careful. She was worried her father might get angry, but she had to try.

  “As soon as I get my first installment on the book deal, Dad, I’m sending you a check for your seventieth birthday. Enough to pay off the mortgage.”

  “Oh no you’re not.”

  “Please Dad. I want to very much. I can afford it. I’ve never forgotten how you sacrificed to help get me through Harvard.”

  “You had a scholarship.”

  “But that only covered part of it. You know that.”

  He shook his head. “You’re something, Elizabeth. God bless you.”

  He stood up and hugged her. She glanced at her watch. “I guess I should be going.”

  At the door, he put an arm around her. “Listen, honey, be careful. Lots of them are good. But some of them are dangerous people. Those Muslims. And they hate us.”

  3

  ATLAS MOUNTAINS, MOROCCO

  Musa was sitting behind the desk in the one-floor, thick-walled brownstone building he had constructed to be his headquarters. His eyes were glued to the large-screen television on a table across the room. Mesmerized, he watched as CNN replayed over and over analyses of yesterday’s assassination attempt on President Dalton and how Craig Page thwarted it.

  The CNN announcer was droning on. “Craig Page has enjoyed his greatest victory. There was some dissent when an American was picked for the position of director of the newly established EU Counterterrorism Agency. With yesterday evening’s action, those dissenters have been silenced.”

  Musa assumed that the media only knew about half of what had happened. Even then, Craig had done an incredible job, Musa had to admit. Though he had nothing to do with the Dalton attempt, Musa realized Craig would be Musa’s primary adversary for the Spanish Revenge.

  Once he came to that conclusion last evening, Musa had used the internet to develop an extensive bio on Craig. From his birth in Monessen Pennsylvania to his chemical engineering degree at Carnegie Mellon, two years in the oil business in Houston, followed by twenty years with the CIA, running some of its most successful actions, rising to become head of Middle Eastern Operations. And finally a sudden and unexplained dismissal from the agency a year and a half ago.

  Though Craig was experienced and good, Musa was confident that Craig would never stop Musa’s Spanish Revenge. “Craig Page, you’re about to suffer your most serious defeat,” Musa said aloud.

  Musa’s operation had been carefully and precisely planned. Nothing could go wrong. Still, with Craig likely to be involved, Musa wanted one final check.

  He picked up the phone on the battered wooden desk next to the Beretta and summoned Omar.

  His deputy appeared a minute later. “Yes, Ahmed.”

  “I told you not to call me that. There is no more Ahmed. Only Musa Ben Abdil.”

  “I’m sorry. Old habits die hard, my friend.”

  “I can understand that.” It was an old habit. He and Omar had grown up together as close boyhood friends in adjacent buildings in Chichy-sous Bois, a suburban slum outside of Paris, populated by Muslims whose families, like their parents, came from Algeria and Morocco.

  “I want to go over the details one more time,” Musa said.
“Before they leave tomorrow. Bring Kemal, Ibrahami, and Yasir over here.”

  “Right away.”

  Waiting for them to arrive, Musa, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, paced on the terracotta floor stained by the blood of a traitor whom he shot last week, going over the operation in his mind. He had brilliantly conceived it. Now the implementation had to be flawless.

  The three of them entered behind Omar. Kemal, who had grown up with Musa and Omar, a lifelong friend, though not as close as Omar, now looked hesitant and fearful. Not Ibrahami and Yasir. The Somali and the Algerian, both of whom Musa met in Clichy during the ’05 riots, stood tall, looking eager. Ready for what lay ahead in the next two days.

  Nobody sat. They all stood around Musa’s desk.

  “Yasir,” Musa said. “In the morning, you’ll fly to Paris. Stay with friends in Clichy whom you can trust and don’t tell them why you’re there. Then Friday morning, from eight a.m. on, you’ll be in the area of Paris near the pont de l’Alma. Walk around. Stop in brasseries until I call. You have the number of CNN?”

  “Committed to memory,” Yasir said.

  Musa reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a micro CD player and handed it to Yasir. “All you have to do is hold it up to the phone and press the play button.”

  “I understand.”

  Musa turned to Kemal and Ibrahami. “Tomorrow morning, the two of you will fly to Madrid. You’ll pick up the bomb and remote from the locker in the train station. Tomorrow evening at eight, deliver the note to the Spanish Defense Ministry. Then drive to Seville. I want you both in place early Friday morning when the Spanish school vacation begins. Then …”

  Kemal interrupted. “Is it wise to provide advance notice of the attack? Won’t that increase the chances of our being stopped?”

  Musa couldn’t believe Kemal was questioning him on an operational matter. The success of an organization like the Spanish Revenge depended on tight discipline and the chain of command.

  “I shouldn’t have to explain it,” Musa said slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. “Giving advance notice shows our strength to the world. We’re telling the Spanish government that they can’t stop us even if they know what we’ve planned. We’ll gain greater respect. And will be able to raise funds more easily for future operations.”

  Kemal persisted, “But…”

  Musa cut him off. “I said we’re doing it that way. Now let’s look at the map of Southern Spain. You can take it with you, but I want to focus on the spot for the attack. I selected it myself after visiting the area.”

  The five of them moved up close to Musa’s desk, their eyes on the map. Musa pointed to a red “X” along train tracks running from Madrid to Seville. “This is it.”

  He glanced at Ibrahami, who was nodding. Kemal had his lips pursed together. Mouth drawn tight.

  “I expect you to escape,” Musa continued. “But remember, under any circumstances you can’t let them take you prisoner. Craig Page is likely to be involved. He’ll interrogate you. Force you to divulge the location of our base and who else is involved. All will be lost.”

  Musa delivered his warning in a stern voice.

  “If necessary, I’m prepared to die for the cause,” Ibrahami said.

  “And you, Kemal?” Musa asked.

  “Why do you need two of us to do the job?”

  “We’ve been over that. One to set and detonate the bomb. The other to drive the get-away vehicle.”

  “Ibrahami could easily do it all himself.”

  Musa felt a surge of resentment against Kemal, the coward. Afraid and unwilling to die for the objective of the Spanish Revenge. Though Musa kept his anger in check, he realized he couldn’t risk sending someone like that on an important mission.

  Musa looked at Ibrahami. “Could you do it all?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  He reached into his pocket, took out a key and handed it to Ibrahami. “It has the number of the locker in the train station. Close to where tickets are sold.”

  As the meeting broke up, Musa asked Omar to remain behind. When they were alone, Musa said, “Watch Kemal. I don’t trust him.”

  Omar nodded and left. Alone, Musa paced again. He was worried that he had made a mistake letting Kemal live. Perhaps he was being too lenient because of their history.

  Once there were three boys in Clichy: Ahmed, Omar, and Kemal. Only twenty five years ago. It seems like eons.

  That was the only world Ahmed had ever known until Madam Cohen, his math teacher, discovered when he was twelve that he had a remarkable gift for mathematics. Despite his father’s opposition, Madam Cohen arranged a scholarship for Ahmed to attend an elite private school in Paris. Riding a train home in the evening meant enduring the taunts and fists of neighborhood boys. Omar and Kemal were his only friends. Each night he went home bloodied and bruised. Life was unbearable until a vicious sixteen-year-old bully came after with him with a baseball bat and the cry, “I’ll murder you, traitor.” In the twilight, Ahmed knew he meant it.

  A circle of neighborhood kids rapidly formed around the two of them. Ahmed realized only one would walk away alive. In front of the circle, he heard Omar shout: “Kill him, Ahmed.”

  The bully was bigger and stronger, but Ahmed was faster. Each time the bully swung, Ahmed ducked. He reached to the ground, grabbed a handful of pebbles and tossed them into the boy’s eyes. His adversary blinded, Ahmed grabbed the bat. Savagely, he smashed it against he bully’s ribs knocking him to the ground. Then he pounded away at the bully’s skull, again and again, unleashing the frustration of long weeks of misery, until the bully stopped moving. Horrified, other boys pulled Ahmed away, still holding the baseball bat.

  They left the bully’s dead body on the ground. An hour later, the police came and made only a perfunctory investigation. A code of silence of the neighborhood held. No one told the police what happened. From that day on, Ahmed carried the baseball bat with him to and from the train to school. No one ever bothered him again.

  Thinking about the private school, he immediately saw Nicole, so young, so beautiful, the blonde hair cascading alongside her strikingly beautiful white face. Between classes and the study, they slipped into the woods near the school and kissed. His first love. His only love. The gold cross around her neck. She was afraid to tell her parents about him.

  When he graduated from private school, Madam Cohen, who had followed his progress, arranged a scholarship to Columbia University. He traveled around the United States. Saw how Americans hated him and all Muslims because of 9/11. Their bigotry and hatred made him glad it happened.

  But not everyone despised him. In New York, those knee-jerk liberals saw him as the dark-skinned Muslim poster child from the Paris slums. They pretended to love him. It made them feel better.

  He abandoned engineering for world history and slept with the lightest and blondest women. He dabbled for a while with pro-Palestinians helping to organize a protest against the Israeli foreign minister, but he quickly realized he had no interest in their cause. His people didn’t care squat about Jerusalem or the West Bank. They were the despised Arabs and Berbers from North Africa living in poverty and subjugated by the Christians who had stolen their land five hundred years ago.

  After receiving a degree in history, cum laude, he returned to Paris, moved back to Clichy, and organized youth programs. Money was no problem. He raised over a million euros from French liberals who supported him to salve their conscience.

  The best was Nicole. She had waited for him. With a degree in psychology from the University of Paris, she worked with him. They moved in together, still concealing their relationship from her parents. Socially prominent Parisians. They would never understand.

  He was so happy. Then it all came crashing down in the riots in the Paris suburbs of October 2005.

  The police were brutal. Blood flowed on the streets. The blood of his people. And Nicole marched next to him. Always close by
, until that thug of a red-faced policeman fired tear gas right at him, then pulled Nicole away, the only white girl in the crowd.

  Eyes burning, restrained by two cops, Musa watched helplessly as the red-faced monster smashed his truncheon against her blonde head over and over, smiling sadistically the whole time.

  Musa arrived at the hospital after the ambulance. “She’s in a coma,” the doctor said. “The result of a brain hemorrhage.” He sat next to her bed, willing her to regain consciousness. Then her parents came. “Get your ugly black face out of here,” her father screamed. “You destroyed our daughter.”

  For the next week, he remained downstairs in the hospital, out of their sight, seeking reports from the nurses about Nicole while watching on television the police brutality aimed at defenseless Muslim youth.

  A week later, a nurse told him: “Nicole died.” He cried for an hour. Not being a believer, he couldn’t seek solace in prayer. Action was his only response to what had happened: Nicole’s death, the riots. It was his destiny, he decided, to begin his own movement, demanding justice and equality for Muslims in Europe. Seeking revenge for Nicole. Violence was the only way to obtain it.

  4

  PARIS

  Craig rushed through the briefing he and Jacques gave to Pierre Morreau, the Defense Minister, about the attempted assassination of Dalton. He didn’t want to be late for his eight thirty dinner with Elizabeth.

  His car was waiting in front of the Ministry. When Craig took one look at the Boulevard St. Germain, which resembled a parking lot, he said to his driver, “I’m taking the Metro. Please meet me in front of the Bristol Hotel in a couple of hours.”

  As the crowded train rumbled along, Craig, standing and clutching a pole, thought about Elizabeth. He was thrilled for her. She had sounded so excited when she called early in the afternoon to say she had arrived. Happily, the Bristol had had a cancellation.

  The train stopped. He exited the Metro station at Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. Walking swiftly in the chilly autumn air, he covered the four blocks to the Hotel Bristol, only a hundred yards from the spot on which the Iranian with the cell phone had intended to activate the bomb in the Hermes box.