by Allan Topol
“An exile living in France. Stripped of my military position, because of Craig Page.”
“But you still call yourself General Zhou.”
“Always. One day I will return to China and be President of that great country. Even now, key members of the Armed Forces are loyal to me. My brother, Zhou Yun, the CEO of Zhou Enterprises, is one of the leading industrialists, the most powerful and wealthy man in all of China. Between my brother and my military friends, we can give you everything you need.”
“What did Craig Page do to you?”
“As Commander of the Chinese Armed Forces, I negotiated a secret agreement with Iran. As you no doubt are aware, imported oil is the lifeblood of the United States economy.”
Musa nodded.
General Zhou continued, “Working together, China and Iran intended to cut off the supply of imported oil to the United States. I conceived this plan and named it Operation Dragon Oil. We would block shipping routes. Sabotage oil pipelines. Most important, we planned to attack the oil fields of Sunni suppliers in the Gulf, like Saudi Arabia. Also to corner the market from other, smaller oil-supplying nations.”
“Why were you doing this?”
“To leapfrog China over the United States economically. To make China the dominant military and economic power in the world. I had everything in place. I even paid off the CIA Director, Kirby, to help me. He concealed any intelligence the United States received about our agreement. So Washington would be caught totally off guard. They wouldn’t have a clue about what we were doing until it was too late. Their oil spigot would have been turned off. We were set to go. Then Craig Page got into the act.”
“When was this?”
“A year and a half ago.”
“Why didn’t I hear about it in the media?”
“Both Brewster and President Li put a tight lid on any publication.”
“But Craig was no longer with the CIA at the time.”
“Correct. He had been fired by Kirby and was operating a consulting business in Milan.”
“I don’t understand how he could have thwarted you.”
General Zhou scowled. “Bad karma. Craig’s daughter, Francesca, a newspaper reporter working for Elizabeth Crowder at the New York Tribune, had gotten wind of our plot. She was snooping around trying to uncover the story. She happened to die. Bad karma.
“After her death, Craig got hold of her notes. He investigated and uncovered my agreement with Iran. Craig then went to US President Brewster. Once Brewster threatened Chinese President Li, that gutless scum refused to support me. He canceled my agreement with Iran. If it weren’t for Craig Page, the agreement would have been implemented. Without imported oil, the US economy would be in shambles. China would be dominant. And I would be a hero for all of China and the rest of the world that hates the United States.”
“Then why were you exiled?”
“Because Brewster demanded that President Li punish me. And Li was terrified of the United States.”
General Zhou took a deep breath and continued. “Now you know why I hate Craig Page more than I’ve ever hated anyone, including Mao, who destroyed my parents. Your success will be his defeat and disgrace. I want to help you achieve that. You have an Arabic expression, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”
Musa looked dubious. “I don’t believe you came all this way at such great risk merely because I could help you settle your score with Craig Page. You have something else in mind. Don’t you?”
General Zhou was impressed with Musa’s acumen. He resolved never to underestimate the man.
“The answer is yes. But with what I have to offer you, I should not be subjected to this humiliating treatment. We must sit together and talk as equals.”
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Musa was nodding. “I’m persuaded.”
General Zhou exhaled with relief, overjoyed when Musa said to his colleagues with the AK-47s, “Untie them. Treat them as honored guests.”
He turned back to General Zhou. “I am sorry. Please forgive me.”
“I understand. You have to be careful.”
“In the custom of my people, we will eat. All of us together. Then you and I will go off and talk.”
Musa led them across a dusty field toward a one-story, stone building that served as a mess hall. Looking around, General Zhou concluded this was a community Musa had created for his group, The Spanish Revenge. He saw about twenty young men and women. No children. All dressed in civilian clothes. All olive-skinned. Arabs and Berbers. Women’s heads weren’t covered. A secular Islamic terrorist group.
Musa was regarded with great deference, General Zhou observed. They ate simple, but good, food. Fruits, vegetables, rice, and lamb.
Afterwards, Androshka and Captain Cheng remained behind in the community dining room while Musa led Captain Zhou to a gazebo on the crest of the mountain. An incredible view stretched out on all sides. It wouldn’t last. Fog was descending from the snow-covered mountain peaks. They sat on wooden chairs with thick cushions.
“Now tell me your other motive for wanting to help me,” Musa said.
General Zhou hesitated for a second choosing his words carefully. He couldn’t give Musa the impression that he wanted to use Musa to help achieve Chinese dominance, though that in fact was what he intended. Musa was a proud man. He’d balk at that. Instead, General Zhou had to approach the matter as if they would be partners.
“As this century unfolds,” General Zhou said, “it is clear there are three great power blocs in the world: China, Islam, and the West, which includes the United States and Europe. If China and Islam cooperate, they will destroy the West. That is my dream.”
“What about Russia?”
“They are nothing. Too corrupt. Crime ridden. Ineffectual army. Unable to control the Muslim nations of the former USSR. The worlds greatest underachiever. But let’s come back to the point. Based upon the Spanish train bombing, I see you having the potential with my assistance of coalescing the forces of Islam in Europe.”
“Specifically, what kind of help can you provide?”
“First, I must understand your objective.”
“Justice and equality for the Muslims in Europe. Part of Western Europe was under the control of Islam for hundreds of years. Southern France and Spain. And we treated Christians fairly. Then the Spanish Catholics, led by Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand, defeated and humiliated us in the fifteenth century. Since then, Christians have ridiculed Islam and treated our people harshly. Like second class citizens. The Spanish train bombing was the prelude to an attack at the heart of the Christian world so daring and devastating that they will have to change how they regard us.”
General Zhou was disappointed in what Musa had said. Terrorist attacks had only limited ability to destabilize Europe. Something more was required. An invasion to capture a portion of the continent. Now that would be something. He became excited thinking about it.
“How much manpower do you have?” General Zhou asked.
“I brought my core of supporters from Clichy, outside of Paris. But here I can recruit from Morocco and Algeria plenty of young Arabs and Berbers who hate Europe. As many as I want. You don’t understand how much they despise the West.”
“Could you create an army, not merely a terrorist cell?”
Musa looked wary. “Why do you ask?”
“I think you should expand your objective beyond terrorist attacks. Do something much larger.”
“Like what?”
“Retake a part of Southern Spain. A moment ago, you said that Islam once controlled it.”
Musa shook his head. “Trying would be suicidal. My men and weapons are no match for the Spanish army.”
“But if you had Chinese military experts to train your men. If I were to supply you with the most sophisticated weapons. And money to pay soldiers.”
Musa shot to his feet. “You could do that?”
“Of course. The Chinese government already trains and supplies rebel grou
ps in many places. In Africa—Nigeria, Darfur, Somalia, the Congo—and elsewhere in the world.”
“But you’re not with the Chinese government any longer.”
“My friends in the Chinese military could conceal our activities from the civilian leadership.”
General Zhou was confident that Freddy Wu would supply whatever Musa needed.
“You’re a military man, General Zhou. How long do you think it would take until we were ready to attack Southern Spain?”
“Six months.”
“But I’ve been planning a dramatic terrorist operation in Europe on Christmas Day. Two months from now.”
“What’s the target?”
Musa pressed his lips together and shook his head.
“Either we’re partners or we’re not.”
After a full minute, he opened his mouth. “The Vatican and the Pope,” he said hesitantly. Then added, boldly, “The spiritual heart of the Christian world. If I succeed with a daring operation there, the whole world will take notice of the Spanish Revenge. Islam will be on the rise.”
“What kind of operation are you planning?”
“I’m still developing that.”
“Do it in the Spring. Easter Sunday. At precisely the same time you launch the attack to retake a portion of Southern Spain.”
Musa’s face lit up. “Perfect. Once we establish a beachhead in Andalusia, I can encourage Muslim communities in major cities throughout Europe to rise up and join us.”
“And when you have control of Southern Spain, you can use your position and prestige to support Islamic terrorists in the United States. You’ll be more of a hero to your people than Osama Bin Laden.”
General Zhou’s mind was racing ahead to operational logistics. “I see only one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Will the government of Morocco block you from bringing in military equipment?”
“King Hassan is ill and ineffectual. I have been paying off Prime Minister Farez. We have reached an understanding. As long as I don’t launch any attacks here, he won’t bother me or my supporters. With the expanded activities you’re discussing, he’ll want more money. I don’t have it.”
“I can supply that to you. But I want something in return.”
“What’s that?”
“Also staying at our hotel in Marrakech is a Russian businessman, Mikail Ivanoff, three body guards and a young woman. My blonde friend Androshka is afraid Mikail will try to kill her. He is …”
Musa’s eyes were blazing. “General Ivanoff, formerly in the Russian army.”
General Zhou was alarmed. “You know him?”
“Only by his reputation. The butcher of Grozny. He ordered his men to attack mosques during prayers. He killed children in front of their parents to make them talk. Of all the despicable Russian pigs, he was the cruelest towards the Muslims in Chechnya. I would gladly give him the justice he deserves. Not as a favor to you, but on behalf all those he killed.”
Musa paused for a moment, then continued, “You’ll stay here tonight. Tomorrow you will see how I deal with Mikail Ivanoff. I promise you he will not be a threat to Androshka or anyone else.”
16
ATLAS MOUNTAINS
At sunrise, one of Musa’s men woke General Zhou, Androshka, and Captain Cheng. A woman handed each of them a cup of scalding, strong coffee, then led them to a flat, rocky field on which General Zhou had seen men playing soccer yesterday. The goals were gone. In the center of the field stood four wooden stakes, each about six feet high.
The morning air was chilly. General Zhou was shivering.
Standing next to a magnificent gray horse, Musa, robed in a multicolored vest, was waiting for General Zhou.
“My Berber ancestors knew how to deal with their enemies,” Musa said. He pointed to the three chairs along the side of the field. General Zhou sat in the center with Captain Cheng on one side and Androshka on the other.
Musa climbed onto his horse and raised his hand. That was the signal for Berber guards to bring Mikail and his three Russian bodyguards onto the field from an adjacent building. The four were bound at the ankles with rope. Their wrists were tied behind their backs. The guards dragged the Russians by heavy ropes wrapped around their chests, stopping in front of Androshka.
Mikail was glaring at her. He fired off a string of curses in Russian. She glared back and returned his diatribe. Then she got up and boldly moved forward. She spit in his face. “For all the beatings you gave me.”
Before he could spit back, she retreated.
“I’ll kill you, bitch,” Mikail cried out.
“You’re done killing people,” Musa shouted. “Now you’re getting justice for what you did in Chechnya.”
He signaled the guards, who pulled the four Russians to the stakes. The men were forced to their feet. Each was tied tightly with his back to a stake.
From across the field, three other Berbers were approaching Musa on roan horses, carrying spears. One of them had two spears. He handed one to Musa.
General Zhou had heard that a sport like this was practiced in Muslim mountain areas of China, but he had never seen it.
He watched in awe as the four horsemen rode to the far end of the field. Then, with Musa in front, each spurring his horse, one arm outstretched, a spear in his hand, the four galloped toward the Russians, their horses kicking dust in the air. At a distance of fifty yards, they split, with each of them heading toward a separate captive. Musa was on a beeline for Mikail, the terror on the Russian’s face visible to General Zhou.
In a swift motion, Musa plunged the spear into Mikail’s chest. He left it stuck there. The others did likewise with their prey. The four Russians were screaming in agony, blood pouring down their bodies.
Ignoring the screams, the horsemen turned and rode back to the far end of the field where they picked up new spears. Two more times they repeated the exercise. By then all the Russians were silent.
One of the Berbers walked from one to the other checking pulses. “All dead,” he announced.
Watching Musa dismount, it occurred to General Zhou that Musa was truly amazing. He was a man trying to span six centuries. One leg was in the twenty first—thoroughly modern using high tech resources—the other back in the fifteenth.
Musa walked over to General Zhou. “Your friend Androshka never has to worry about these Russian pigs.”
“I thank you for that.”
“I know how to treat my friends … and my enemies.”
The words hung in the air. General Zhou now understood that Musa had an additional objective with this morning’s show.
17
PARIS
Craig sipped espresso from a china cup and glanced at Elizabeth and Giuseppe across the conference room table. Both were completely absorbed, reading the report Philippe had compiled on Ahmed Sadi, now calling himself Musa Ben Abdil.
When they were finished, he asked, “Well, what do you think?”
Giuseppe responded, “She did a thorough job. We now know everything about Musa … let’s call him that … from the time he was born in 1978. From his Arab mother and Berber father, who moved to Paris from Morocco in 1970.”
“Until a year ago,” Craig replied. “When he disappeared.”
“Went underground,” Elizabeth corrected. Then thoughtfully she added, “But what do we really know? He was like millions of other poor Muslim kids growing up in the slums outside of Paris, London, Amsterdam, Rome, whatever. All of Western Europe has this incredible problem of Muslims, children of immigrants who can’t or won’t assimilate into mainstream society.”
She paused to take a breath. “You have to understand these people. How hopeless their plight is. They realize they’ve been marginalized by mainstream European society. The Paris riots in ’05 were kid stuff. The next one will be far more bloody. They’re now controlling expanding crime-ridden, poverty-infested areas within large cities, where the police are afraid to go.”
“I�
�ve seen it in Italy,” Giuseppe said. “But what’s the solution?”
“There isn’t one,” Elizabeth said. “It’s too late. We’re sowing the seeds of well meaning, but failed, policies. When the immigrants began arriving en masse, the Western European governments were unwilling to require assimilation as the price of entry, or even citizenship. That wouldn’t have been PC. Let them follow their customs, even if it meant circumcision of girls on the kitchen table and wife beating.” She was raising her voice.
“This is obviously a hot-button issue for you,” Giuseppe said.
“Damn right. How these supposedly enlightened governments let them treat their women is outrageous. Nor did the Christian leaders think about demographics. You don’t need a Ph.D. in math to realize that, over time, the Muslim immigrants who have many children, some with more than one wife, will multiply exponentially, while the children of the current majority, hell-bent on careers, upward mobility, and leisure, often decide to have no children, or one at most. We’re typical. Craig had one child. I never had any. Giuseppe, what about you?”
“One. Paolo is twelve.”
“My point exactly. In mostly Catholic France, Muslims are already more than ten percent of the population. Most of them are descendants of immigrants from Algeria, Morocco, or elsewhere in Africa. In the Paris suburbs and Marseilles they’re a much greater percentage. In Brussels, where a fourth of the residents are foreigners, sixty percent of the children born last year were born to Muslims. In Amsterdam and Rotterdam, Muslims will be a majority by 2020. In Berlin and Manchester, England, the governments have virtually ceded areas to Muslims.”
“But haven’t the European governments shut off the flow of new Muslim immigrants?” Giuseppe asked.
“They want to, but they can’t anymore than a seawall can stop the waters from a tsunami. Look at the facts. Millions of impoverished Muslims live, not only in North Africa, but in strife-torn Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran. For them, Western Europe, with its generous welfare states and the promise of jobs, is paradise. Those most determined will get there. Some by boat, risking their lives on the Mediterranean or Atlantic. Others over land, crossing the border between Turkey and Greece, some of which is being fortified with barbed wire and armed EU troops. It won’t succeed in blocking the flow. The Muslim Turks, furious at the EU for denying them membership, are facilitating the movement of these illegal immigrants across their border into EU Greece. From there, they can easily travel to Germany, France, or England.”