The Russian Endgame Page 4

“Under our law, he can’t get that.”

  “Well then, life in prison and no chance of parole.”

  “I agree. I’ll make sure it happens.”

  “I still can’t believe he did it. I thought I knew the man. Well anyhow, Carlos, you said we have some unfinished business.”

  “Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. General Zhou has to be brought to justice for his role in this conspiracy.”

  “I agree. I’m not a lawyer, but when I read Alvarez’s testimony, it seems absolutely clear to me that General Zhou has criminal responsibility for the Spanish people who died in the invasion of Southern Spain and the march to the Alhambra. Am I correct?” Zahara was looking at the Justice Minister.

  “Yes, sir. You are,” Garcia replied in a subservient tone.

  “Good. Then we have to make Zhou pay for his crimes.”

  “First, we have to find General Zhou and seek his extradition,” Garcia said. “I doubt very much that he’s still in Spain.”

  Craig spoke up. “I know precisely where General Zhou is. Even the location of the house he’s occupying.”

  “Where?” Zahara asked eagerly.

  “He’s on the island of Bali in Indonesia.”

  “How do you know that?” Zahara said in a voice suggesting both admiration and disbelief.

  “Before I made the prisoner exchange between Elizabeth and Androshka in Gibraltar, I slipped a powerful tracking device into Androshka’s bag. Thanks to a friend in the CIA, I now have precise coordinates for where they’ve been the last three days.”

  Zahara smacked his right fist into his left palm. He turned back to the Justice Minster. “How long will it take you to draw up a petition for extradition?”

  Garcia was squirming in his chair, a frown on his face.

  Uh-oh, we have a problem, Craig thought.

  “Unfortunately,” Garcia said in a halting voice. “We do not have an extradition treaty with Indonesia.”

  Zahara reddened with anger. “You damn lawyers. Always telling me what I can’t do.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  “So we’re stymied. Stuck.” Zahara sounded outraged. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s the situation.”

  “Suppose we negotiate an extradition treaty with Indonesia right now. Let’s do that.”

  Garcia was shaking his head. “Won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Even if Indonesia would be amenable, which I doubt, it’ll take too long. Also, it couldn’t be applied retroactively.”

  Zahara turned away from Garcia, toward Craig and Elizabeth. “Have you ever noticed that lawyers always tell you what you

  can’t do?”

  Craig was in agony. His great plan for bringing Zhou back to Spain to stand trial never got off the ground. It was D.O.A. His successful interrogation of Alvarez was all for naught. He was right back where he started. Nowhere. But he couldn’t accept that. Zahara was willing to try Zhou. A Spanish court would convict him. Craig couldn’t let this opportunity disintegrate. He had to find a way to get Zhou back to Spain to stand trial.

  Then it hit him. There was a way. Risky to be sure, but Craig was willing to gamble everything, even his own life, to get revenge over Zhou. Life had no value for Craig unless Francesca’s murderer was made to pay for his crime.

  “Here’s what we should do,” Craig said. He coughed and cleared his throat. Through the corner of his eye, he saw trepidation on Elizabeth’s face. He could guess what she was thinking: you should discuss this with me first. But there was no time for that.

  All eyes were on Craig.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, I’d like to request you to authorize Carlos to assemble a strike force of four special ops troops. Carlos will remain here in Madrid. I’ll head up the unit. Our mission will be to go into Bali, under the cover of darkness, abduct General Zhou, and bring him back to Madrid to stand trial.”

  As Craig’s words sunk in, an eerie silence settled over the room.

  “You really think you can do that?” Zahara asked, the doubt evident.

  “I executed similar missions when I was with the CIA.”

  “But you had a great deal more technical support for those. Didn’t you?” Elizabeth interjected, disapproval in her voice.

  “Technology only goes so far,” Craig said.

  “But you’d be exposing yourself to great danger,” Carlos added.

  “I won’t deny that. In selecting your special ops men to join me,” Craig said, “you should seek volunteers. No one should be compelled to do this.”

  Carlos nodded.

  Craig turned back to Zahara. “It’s up to you, Mr. Prime Minister. Whether you wish to authorize it. I’m afraid the operation may provoke a major diplomatic incident for Spain with the government of Indonesia, the largest Muslim country in the world.”

  “I’m prepared to accept that,” Zahara said. “They’ve granted sanctuary to this criminal responsible for killing so many of our people.”

  “Are you certain?” the Justice Minister asked. “The fallout could be serious. Perhaps you should analyze our commercial dealings with Indonesia before you give this risky operation a green light.”

  “There comes a time,” Zahara said boldly, “for any leader when principles trump business. For me, this is one of them.”

  Craig’s high opinion of Zahara was raised a notch.

  Zahara turned back to Craig. “If your abduction gets into trouble, don’t hesitate to kill General Zhou.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I appreciate having that authority. Now I’ll go with Carlos to plan the operation.”

  Carlos, Elizabeth, and Craig left the Prime Minister’s office. None of them said a word until they hit the street. Then Elizabeth, eyes

  blazing, said, “Are you crazy? Out of your fucking mind.”

  Carlos backpedaled. “You two should talk about this by yourselves. I’ll be at the Defense Ministry.”

  “You don’t care what I think, do you?” Elizabeth cried out. “That’s the most insulting part.”

  People passing by were staring at them.

  “Can we at least go somewhere private to talk,” he said.

  “Whatever you want.”

  He led the way to a nearby park. They sat down next to each other on a bench.

  “Loving you is about the stupidest thing I ever did.” She was crying. She pounded her fist against his chest. “We’re not even married, and I feel like a widow already. That’s quite a trick.”

  “You don’t have to worry. I’ll come back alive,” he said displaying a bravado he didn’t feel. “This operation won’t be riskier than many I undertook with the CIA.”

  Of course, she was right in what she had said in the meeting. In his CIA operations, he’d always had lots of high tech support which made a difference. Also he knew that Carlos’s special ops troops wouldn’t have had much, if any, experience in the field. The odds of him coming back alive were long. The odds of abducting General Zhou even longer. But he couldn’t admit that to her.

  “What really upsets me,” she said, “is that I know I’ll be responsible for your death. If I hadn’t been taken prisoner in Paris, you would never have let General Zhou get away.”

  “Totally irrelevant. All that matters now is he’s eluded me twice. He was responsible for my daughter, Francesca’s, death. It’s time for my revenge.”

  “That’s absurd. It’s time for you to forget the past. Time for you to move on.”

  “I wish I could.”

  He reached for her hand. She pulled it away, then stood up and left the park.

  Watching her walk away, he had no second thoughts about what he planned to do. Yes, he loved Elizabeth, but he rejected her opinion on this issue. She never had a child. She couldn’t understand the pain of losing one. Perhaps he was a fanatic. And obsessive. Call it what you want, but all that mattered to him right now was getting Zhou for Francesca’s murder. This was the best chance he’d ever had. Perhaps he’d never
have another once Zhou was safely back in China. Either he’d bring Zhou back from Bali to stand trial or he’d kill him. Not with a gun. But with his bare hands, so he could watch Zhou die. Painfully and slowly.

  Bali

  In the balmy evening air, General Zhou sat on the verandah, rocked while smoking a Cuban cigar, and stared out at the sea. He viewed his stay in Bali as a pleasant interlude. The calm before the storm.

  His brother Zhou Yun in Beijing still didn’t know when President Li planned to have surgery for colon cancer. Once that occurred, General Zhou was confident he would be returning to China to assume the presidency. Though he didn’t have a precise date, he knew it was a matter of days or weeks. No longer.

  Meantime, thanks to his brother having promised a major investment in the Indonesian oil industry, General Zhou and Androshka were being treated as honored guests.

  They occupied a compound, encircled by a six-foot-high stone wall, located on a promontory at the top of a steep hill that ran down to the sea. He had a car and driver at his disposal. His aide, Captain Cheng, was living in the compound. Two servants maintained the house. Two others cooked incredible meals from local products. Androshka was insatiable in bed. It was an ideal existence.

  Still, after only a couple of days in Bali, his mind was racing ahead, formulating plans for changes he would make in China, its military and foreign policy, once he became president. He would challenge the U.S. directly on every issue. The days of Beijing being subservient to Washington would be over. China would take the premier place in the international order, consistent with its economic might.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Androshka, who came through the screen door shouting, “What the fuck is this?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was looking through my bag for a lip liner. When I couldn’t find it, I dumped everything out on the table… This fell out.” She reached out her hand and opened up her palm. She was holding a tiny round object, the size of a button, resembling a camera battery. She handed it to him.

  General Zhou walked across the verandah to a candle. He held up the object to the light and studied it. To paraphrase Androshka, he knew what the fuck this was: a tracking device that someone had planted in her bag; he had a good idea who that somebody was.

  “Tell me again about the prisoner exchange in Gibraltar,” he said to Androshka.

  “We’ve already been over that a hundred times.”

  He became furious when she didn’t immediately do what he wanted. That was the trouble with Russian women. They had no respect for their men. He felt himself losing his temper. “Listen, you dumb bitch. This is important. Just answer my question.”

  “Okay. What do you want to know?”

  “You rode in the back of the car with Craig Page. Correct?”

  “That’s right. Just the two of us. I told him what a great man you were. He treated me with contempt. Called me a whore.”

  “While you were worrying about what he called you, he slipped this little object into your bag. How could you have been such a stupid cunt?”

  She began crying. “I hate when you talk to me this way.”

  “How would you like me to talk now that you’ve messed up our lives?”

  “It’s a tracking device. Isn’t it?”

  He sighed. “At least, you’re not brain dead.”

  “Then Craig Page knows where we are.”

  “Probably.”

  She walked toward the door. “I’ll start packing. Maybe we can get out of here before he comes for us.”

  General Zhou shook his head. “We’re not leaving Bali. Go into the house and let me alone. I have to think.”

  When he had been a student in the Military Academy, General Zhou had read so many times that he practically had committed to memory, “The Art of War,” by Sun Tzu. Master Sun’s statements were indelibly stamped on his brain. He recalled some of them now. “Draw them in with the prospect of gain, take them by confusion… Take advantage of the ground… Stay on the heights… On steep terrain await the opponent.”

  General Zhou knew what he had to do.

  Early the next morning, General Zhou, accompanied by Captain Cheng, took his car and driver into Singaradji. There, he met with Ahmed, a stout, disagreeable man in his fifties, with a thick, bushy mustache and a long scar on his right cheek.

  General Zhou expected this to be a difficult conversation. In their two prior meetings, Ahmed had made it clear he didn’t like being directed by the Foreign Ministry in the Indonesian capital of Jakarta to provide hospitality to General Zhou. “I don’t even like you Chinese,” Ahmed had said. “You think you’re superior to us, and you’re always taking over.”

  General Zhou came right to the point with Ahmed. “I want you to provide me with armed guards, eight or ten, at the compound. Around the clock. I’ll pay for their salaries and any expenses.”

  Ahmed looked alarmed. “You’re bringing trouble to my peaceful island. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “I’m not expecting trouble. I just want to be prepared.”

  “I should contact the foreign office. Tell them to expel you.”

  General Zhou gripped the arms of the chair tightly. The discussion had taken an ominous turn. If he were forced out of Bali, where could he and Androshka go until President Li’s death? Almost everyplace had an extradition treaty with Spain.

  “I don’t think that’s justified,” Zhou said.

  Ahmed reached for the phone. Zhou didn’t know whether his brother’s clout was enough to carry the day. He wanted to kill Ahmed, but that wasn’t an option. Ahmed picked up the phone, but didn’t dial. Instead, he fiddled with his mustache and looked at Zhou. “Perhaps we could work this out between us,” he said.

  Then it struck Zhou. Of course, Ahmed wants money. Corruption was endemic in Indonesia.

  “Let me make this proposal to you, Ahmed. I estimate costs for your soldiers and their expenses to defend my compound might be as much as five hundred thousand euros a month. Suppose I were to pay that amount to you personally and I flew in Chinese troops for my defense. Would that be acceptable?”

  A slight smile appeared at the edges of Ahmed’s mouth.

  “In principle, that is fine. But I will also have some costs. For

  example, payments to immigration agents to get your troops and equipment into the country.”

  “I understand. Suppose we settle on seven hundred thousand euros.”

  Ahmed was nodding.

  “Good. Provide me with the number of a bank account. I’ll arrange an electronic transfer.”

  Ahmed was writing numbers on a piece of paper. As he did, he said, “Bring your men and materials in via Benpasar Airport. I’ll have everything arranged.”

  As soon as General Zhou left the building, he took the phone from his briefcase and called General Yang Gon, the head of the Chinese Air Force in Beijing. General Gon had been a firm ally of General Zhou. Before Zhou left China in exile, General Gon had told him, “I’ll do anything to help you. Any time.”

  Now General Zhou was ready to accept that offer. “Keep this extremely confidential,” General Zhou said.

  “For sure.”

  “How quickly can you send ten of your best commandos to Bali for an assignment that may take a month?”

  “For you, they’ll be on a plane in an hour.”

  “Excellent. Fully armed with automatic weapons. Grenade launchers. Surface to surface missiles. Surface to air missiles. And anything else to defend a fortress.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Call me when you have an ETA at Benpasar Airport. I’ll meet them there.”

  Once he was in the back of the car, returning to his compound, General Zhou exhaled deeply. Craig Page had outsmarted himself. General Zhou was confident the American would be in the invading party, and General Zhou would be waiting for him.

  This time you’re a dead man, Craig Page.

  Madrid and Skies over the Ocean />
  “Are you sure that four of my men are enough?” Carlos asked Craig in an anxiety-filled voice. “I can get more volunteers.”

  They were standing on the tarmac at a Spanish Air Force base outside of Madrid, waiting for the fueling of the unmarked plane that would take them to Broome, Australia.

  “Thanks, but I like to work lean and mean.”

  “Okay, it’s your call.”

  Carlos’s cell rang. Craig heard him say, “Good. Send the men out. Take off in fifteen minutes.”

  Craig thought about the six volunteers Carlos had sent him early this morning—all of whom had seen action in the recent battle for Southern Spain launched by Musa Ben Abdil. Craig had spent an hour alone with each of them, hearing about their experience before making his selection of four.

  Now, standing next to Carlos in the hot midday sun, Craig watched the four with their heavy equipment laden backpacks pass him on the way to the plane.

  What struck Craig was how young they were. All between twenty and twenty-five. They could easily have been the children of forty-six year old Craig. In fact, when Craig handed out the equipment an hour ago, Juan, now leading the way to the plane, had called Craig, “Papa.” At first, Craig had been irritated, but then he thought, what the hell, he’d take it as a sign of respect.

  Juan, at twenty, was the youngest. His baby face, with black curly hair, made him look even younger. As Craig spoke with Juan, Craig quickly realized he was a tough kid. Juan was the youngest of four, born in a Madrid slum to a mother who worked in a laundry and turned tricks at night to support herself and her children to get away from their father who constantly beat her and the children. Juan had learned to fight with older boys in the slum who called his mother names. With her encouragement, he lied about his age and joined the army at

  sixteen to escape from his domestic situation. Despite all this, Juan almost always had a smile. Miraculous, how some kids manage to avoid being scarred by their background.

  Next was Julio, the pilot, the oldest at twenty-five. Julio was a child of privilege from Barcelona. His father was a banker, but all Julio ever wanted to do was fly planes. His father, who had wanted Julio to be a banker, refused to pay for flying lessons. So as a teenager, he scrimped and saved and snuck out for flying lessons. Over the bitter opposition of his father, Julio joined the Spanish Air Force. In the attack on Southern Spain, Julio had flown a bomber which tried to stop the landing of Musa Ben Abdil’s troops.