THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) Page 5

  That was all. The whole article. He re-read it and bristled. Why didn’t they publish his note? Why didn’t they include the name Musa Ben Abdil? And he wasn’t a terrorist. He had a cause. He was seeking justice for Muslims in Europe. He despised being called a terrorist.

  He went to another Madrid daily. Exactly the same article. Verbatim. And ditto for a third.

  The Spanish government was managing the news. Issuing their own story and requiring all the papers to publish it. Conspiring to deprive him of the attention he deserved for this daring attack. Well, they’ll suffer in a few short hours.

  There was another possibility. He went online with the International Herald. There, under Elizabeth Crowder’s byline was an article entitled: “Spanish Train Bombing Threatened.” He continued reading: “Spanish Authorities received a note this evening stating: ‘One of your trains leaving Madrid tomorrow morning will be bombed.’ It was signed by Musa Ben Abdil.”

  Now Musa was pleased. His name was in print. And Elizabeth Crowder had written the article. Musa knew from the internet, purveyor of intimate details of peoples’ lives, the greatest privacy invader in the history of the world, that Elizabeth was Craig Page’s lover. Her byline confirmed that Craig was involved. Not merely that fool Alvarez. They were taking him seriously.

  His eyes dropped down to the bottom of the article. Elizabeth provided her contact information.

  That made him smile. They were inviting him to call her and take credit for the bombing, so Craig could use his high-tech tracing equipment to locate Musa. Did Craig really think Musa was such a fool?

  No, he had his own plan for media manipulation to take credit for the bombing. Yasir was in Paris, ready to move as soon as Musa called him. He had the tape. By this time tomorrow, everyone in the world would know who Musa Ben Abdil was. Who the Spanish Revenge was. Their objective. And Craig Page, the great counterterrorism expert, would be tearing his hair out.

  He heard a knock on the door and looked up. “Yes?”

  “It’s Omar.”

  “Come in.”

  “We have a problem,” Omar said.

  “What happened?”

  “You asked me to watch Kemal.”

  “What’s that sniveling coward doing now?”

  “Planning to quit and leave the base. He’s in the barracks packing.”

  “When we came here, I told him quitting was not an option.”

  “I reminded him of that, but he says he doesn’t care. He told me that this morning he called his sister, Lila, in Marseilles on his cell phone. He wouldn’t tell me what he said to her.”

  Furious, Musa shot to his feet. “I gave an order. No cell phones. Unless used properly, they’ll permit our enemies to locate us. Bring Kemal over here. I’ll talk to him myself.”

  Musa’s tone was hard, and cold as ice. He watched Omar cringe, then look at the ground as he marched out. He knew Omar wouldn’t dare defy him and help Kemal escape. Omar had always feared him. Done what Musa told him.

  Ten minutes later, Omar returned with Kemal, who looked belligerent and defiant.

  “I hear you’re leaving,” Musa said.

  “Yeah. That’s right. We’re heading for a disaster, because you insisted on giving the Spanish advance notice of the train bombing.”

  “I’ve explained to you a couple of times why I’m doing that. It shows our strength to the world. We’ll gain respect. It’ll help us raise funds for further operations.”

  “That’s nonsense. It was a mistake. They’re on alert. They’ll arrest Ibrahami. He’ll tell them all about us. When the bombs start falling here, I don’t want to be looking up into the sky, then running for cover.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be.”

  “What do you mean?” Kemal said, anxiety in his voice.

  Musa picked up the gun on his desk and walked toward Kemal.

  Retreating, cowering, Kemal said, “If you feel that strongly, I won’t leave.”

  “What did you tell Lila on the phone this morning?”

  “I didn’t talk to her.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  Kemal glanced at Omar. “Bastard,” he hissed.

  Musa felt betrayed. “I told you no cell phone calls.”

  Kemal pulled the phone from his pocket and held it out.

  Musa ignored it. “What did you tell Lila?”

  “Nothing.”

  Musa grabbed the gun by the barrel and savagely smashed the handle against the side of Kemal’s face. Blood poured from his nose and mouth. He dropped to his knees, the cell phone falling from his hand.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I asked if she heard about a Spanish train bombing today. She said it was on the news.”

  “Did you tell her where you were?”

  “No. Not a word. As Allah is my judge.”

  Musa didn’t know whether Kemal was telling the truth. But he was convinced he’d never find out. He was also convinced that Kemal was now a huge liability, with the potential to destroy everything Musa had worked so hard to establish. He raised the gun and pointed it at Kemal.

  “Please, Ahmed. We grew up together. The three of us. We’ve been friends since we were five years old. We …”

  Musa pulled the trigger and fired a single shot to Kemal’s heart. As he collapsed, Kemal’s arms were flailing on the ground, his movements spasmatic. And then, in death, he was still.

  “Get his body out of here,” Musa said to Omar. “He disgusts me. And clean up the blood from my floor.”

  Watching Omar take away the body, Musa thought how completely he had severed his ties to the past. He refused to be distracted. Now was not the time for sentimentality.

  Once Omar cleaned the floor, Musa returned to his desk and thought again about the logistics for this morning’s train bombing. Everything was in place. Ibrahami knew what he had to do. And he couldn’t be taken alive. With Craig Page now involved, Ibrahami would never be able to hold out if captured. He’d disclose Musa and the location of their base. Operation Spanish Revenge would be wrecked before it ever swung into high gear. But he was confident that wouldn’t happen. Ibrahami wasn’t Kemal. Craig Page would be helpless to stop the bomb. It would kill scores of people.

  Musa Ben Abdil and the Spanish Revenge would be known around the world. And this is only the beginning of our struggle for justice and equality.

  7

  MADRID

  At ten minutes to ten in the morning, the central railroad station in Madrid was a beehive of activity. Craig was standing in the stationmaster’s cluttered and overheated office, with a view of the waiting area and tracks below. Notwithstanding disclosure of the threat, and extensive delays, only about twenty percent of the passengers canceled their trips. But so far, not a single train had left the station.

  Looking down, Craig saw thousands of people milling around, including lots of children, because of the school holiday, jamming the cafés, where supplies were exhausted. Fighting for sitting space, smoking cigarettes, and cursing the delay. Frayed nerves led to pushing and shoving. Patrols of armed soldiers kept order. One helluva mess.

  Despite all of that, Craig was pleased with the progress that had been made. By seven, the first morning trains had all been carefully searched. No bombs were found. Passengers and luggage were then passed through metal detectors. It was a long and arduous process, supervised by Spanish troops. Meantime, under Giuseppe’s direction, soldiers were checking train tracks leading out of Madrid. So far nothing. Craig’s hope had been to get trains rolling by ten. That looked doable.

  He called Alvarez on his cell to get approval.

  “You didn’t find a thing. Did you?” the Defense Minister said gleefully.

  “Not yet.”

  “So this whole effort which you instigated, organized, and directed has been a massive waste of resources and a huge burden for thousands of people. All in response to a prank.”

  Craig got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Alvarez mi
ght be right.

  “I did what I thought was reasonable to save lives.”

  “I hope you’ll at least go on television and let the people know you were responsible.”

  Craig felt anger welling up inside. “I’m sure you’ll let them know. But don’t start gloating over this publicly yet. It’s far from over.”

  “You’re a stubborn prick. Aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been called worse. Now can the trains start rolling?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, they could have all left on time this morning. But the Prime Minister wants the final approval. I’ll call him and get right back to you.”

  A minute later, the approval came.

  Craig gave the order to the stationmaster. The first trains left the station. Everything seemed normal.

  The next part of Craig’s plan called for him and Giuseppe to be in military helicopters, following train tracks and looking for suspicious activity.

  Craig decided initially that they should focus on high-visibility vacation destinations with many passengers. He told Giuseppe to fly over tracks leading to San Sebastian while he took the route to Barcelona.

  Julio, an air force pilot, was already in his Apache on the roof of the train station parking garage. Craig climbed in and buckled his seatbelt. They circled northeast of Madrid for an hour, up to Barcelona and back. Craig didn’t see a thing.

  He called Giuseppe, “I’m coming up empty,” his deputy said.

  Craig wondered if Musa had decided to call off the bombing once he learned of the government’s preparations.

  No, he decided. Fanatics like Musa think they’re invincible.

  Then it hit Craig. He was missing what should have been obvious. He tried to put himself into Musa’s mind, based on what Elizabeth had said, Musa was an Islamist focused on the fifteenth century, who wanted to make a statement. Where would he make it? In the South of Spain. Of course! Where the bitter final battle between Islamic and Christian forces had occurred. That meant Musa would hit a train en route to Andulusia. He told Giuseppe to head toward Granada. “And I’ll cover the tracks from Madrid to Seville.”

  Craig consulted his blackberry, which had the schedules of all the trains that left Madrid and their destinations. Train 123 pulled out at ten o’clock, heading to Cordoba. There it would turn west to Seville.

  “Let’s find train 123,” he said to Julio. “It should be about fifty kilometers north of Cordoba now. We’ll follow it for a while.”

  A few minutes later, they picked up the fast-moving train. It was barreling through fertile agricultural land devoted to crops and vineyards. Most had been harvested. The sun was shining brightly. No sign of trouble on the tracks. Craig told Julio to fly to Cordoba, then turn around and fly above the track toward train 123. As they got closer, Craig saw a number of tractors and other farm vehicles. Farmers were loading hay and digging trenches. One farmer took off his hat and waved to Craig. Suddenly, something caught his eye. A dark-skinned young man was standing next to a pickup truck holding an object in his hand and looking at the tracks in a northerly direction from which train 123 was coming.

  Craig grabbed the binoculars from the seat and held them tight against his face. The man didn’t look like the farmers.

  Craig shifted his gaze to the track. Holy shit! He saw a flat metallic object in the center of the tracks. Had to be a bomb. And the man standing next to the tracks must be planning to detonate it when the train passes over it in about two minutes. Craig had to get that train to stop before it reached the bomb.

  No time to work through military channels. Fortunately, he had asked for cell phone numbers for all the engineers this morning listed by train number. He pulled up train 123 on his Blackberry and dialed.

  One minute to go.

  Frantically, he yanked out his cell phone and called the engineer. “Stop your train now.” He shouted.

  “I can’t hear you. The connection’s bad.”

  “Stop your train. I said.” Craig was screaming. “Right now.”

  “Who is this?”

  Thirty seconds, please God.

  “Craig Page with the Spanish military. Just do it.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  Oh Christ, no!

  He was too late.

  In horror, Craig watched the train race over the metal object. Then heard a deafening blast ripping the train apart. It came to a sudden stop. Fragments of metal, people, and luggage flew through the air. Flames shot up. He called his Defense contact in Seville and told him what happened. “Get emergency medical people here immediately. I’m going after the bomber.”

  Craig now had one objective: To capture the man who detonated the bomb. He was climbing into a pickup truck.

  Craig pointed him out to Julio.

  “I could hit the truck with rockets,” Julio said.

  “No. No. I have to take him alive.”

  The bomber was Craig’s only way of getting back to the man who called himself Musa Ben Abdil.

  The pickup truck was driving fast over a dirt road that cut between vineyards, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. They were close enough that Craig saw the driver leaning out of the cab raising his eyes toward the chopper.

  When they were was overhead, Craig pulled out a microphone and shouted. “Stop now. Get out with your hands in the air.”

  The man kept driving.

  Craig picked up an Uzi and sprayed warning shots on both sides of the truck, making sure not to hit it. The driver kept going.

  “We have rockets,” Craig called out. “We’ll use them.”

  That got the driver’s attention. He slammed on the brakes, then jumped out and ran onto a narrow path between grapevines. Craig told Julio to land the chopper on a grassy area.

  Once they were down, Craig leapt out and raced toward the vineyard path in hot pursuit. The man had a fifty yard lead, but Craig was faster. He was gaining ground. Suddenly, the man stopped, raised a gun and aimed. Craig leapt into the vineyard, scratching his face and arms as he hit the ground. His cheek was flush against the dark brown soil. Bullets flew over his head.

  Craig clutched his own gun and fired back taking care not to hit the bomber who began running again.

  They were approaching a small wooden shed. The man ran inside, leaving the door open. He looked out through a window and opened fire. Craig kept low and ran in an “S” route until he reached a drainage ditch. He jumped into it. The bomber wouldn’t be able to hit him now.

  Craig removed a smoke grenade from his jacket pocket, pulled the pin and jumped up for an instant to toss it through the door. Craig saw the smoke. Then he heard a single blast of a gun, but he didn’t see the shooter. The shot wasn’t aimed at Craig.

  “No,” he cried out. “No.”

  Wildly, he tore across the ground toward the shed. Inside the smoke was heavy. Craig was choking and gagging. Even through the haze he knew he was too late. The dark, olive-skinned bomber had shot himself in the head.

  His eyes watering, Craig dragged the man outside, then checked for a pulse. He was dead.

  Craig searched his pockets. No ID. Not even a single piece of paper. No cell phone. All he found was the remote control device, about half the size of a television remote. Craig immediately recognized the technology. State of the art Chinese.

  Who the hell are you? Who sent you?

  Craig returned to the pick up truck and searched it carefully. Again, no identifying papers. No cell phone that would give Craig info on the bomber’s contacts. He made a mental note of the license plate, convinced it would be a dead end. Undoubtedly a stolen pickup. Musa was smart and organized. And he had persuaded the bomber that he couldn’t be taken alive.

  Still, Craig had one other possibility of using the dead bomber for information. He checked the man’s hands. Fingers looked normal, which meant he’d have prints. Craig called for a forensic police investigating team from Seville.

  “We already have teams en route to the train bombing site,” the
Director said. “We’ll divert one to your location.”

  “Once they arrive,” Craig said, “have them immediately take prints from the bomber. Circulate them throughout the EU. Then take the body away. Wherever you stash it, I want armed security around the clock. And let me know by e-mail if you get a match on the prints.”

  Despondent and angry at himself for not capturing the bomber, Craig climbed back into the Apache and asked Julio to return to the site of the train bombing. There, medivac choppers were on the ground next to the train. A score of ambulances were roaring toward the site. Craig directed Julio to land ten yards from the twisted mangled cars that had taken a direct hit.

  The carnage was the worst Craig had ever seen. Bodies and limbs had been thrown through the ragged glass of shattered windows. The dead or dying were scattered near the tracks. Cries of pain and muffled groans cut through Craig like knives.

  He joined workers struggling to bring out the wounded and dead from the three most heavily damaged cars. It was tough work in tight quarters, trying to extract the maimed and screaming from the twisted metal.

  He carried out an elderly man, the front of his shirt covered with blood. His whole face was bloody.

  Craig returned for a small girl, maybe eight, in shock, her right arm severed at the elbow, bleeding from the chest, her glasses smashed against her face. “What kind of people do something like this?” he asked himself.

  Surveying the site, his guess was there were at least thirty to forty dead or seriously wounded. Perhaps many more in the cars. He had never had a personal failure like this.

  Craig’s cell phone rang. Elizabeth. “I heard about the train bombing,” she said, sounding grim.

  “I screwed up. I got there too late.”

  “I’m sorry. You did what you could.”

  “Has Musa contacted you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “That’s too bad. I’m at a dead end here. The bomber killed himself before I could capture him.”

  He had another incoming call. Alvarez. “Gotto go, hon. Time to face the music.”

  He hooked into the Alvarez call. “You created a fucking mess,” the Defense Minister said.