by Allan Topol
Craig turned to Giuseppe. “Elizabeth’s doing a book on the subject. Heads in the Sand—Europe Ignores Its Islamic Threat. Everything she told you is right.”
“But how’s it help us locate Musa?” Giuseppe asked.
“We know he’s a lot smarter than most,” Elizabeth said. “Thanks to benevolent teachers and scholarships, he has an educational background that very few in the banieues—the poor suburbs of Paris—ever obtain.”
“That may explain why he’s never taken up with the religious nuts,” Craig said. “According to the report Philippe prepared, and Lila confirmed this, Musa has no interest in going to a mosque or observing religious practices.”
“Clearly a belief in Allah isn’t motivating him,” Elizabeth said, “If indeed he believes at all.”
Craig said, “I think the riots of 2005 and police brutality turned him into a terrorist. A French psychiatrist, who read Philippe’s report, reached that conclusion.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “That’s only part of it. The key to understanding Musa is back at Columbia University, where he switched from engineering to history. He sees himself as a fifteenth-century warrior, confronting Isabella and Ferdinand.”
“You think he’s delusional?” Craig asked.
“I’m not a shrink. I imagine he views himself as a visionary.”
“All of this philosophical crap is interesting,” Giuseppe said, “but we still have to find Musa.”
Elizabeth looked at Craig and smiled. “Your friend keeps his eye on the ball.”
“Somebody has to,” Giuseppe replied.
“Alright,” Craig said. “I want to take stock of our dismal situation. Jacques’s people are pressing every source they have in the Paris banieues. So far, they haven’t gotten squat. No one has any idea where Ahmed and Omar are. It’s as if they vanished into thin air. I hate to admit it, but we’re stymied.”
Elizabeth said, “I’ll bet they’re holed up somewhere in the Spanish countryside. And Musa’s planning his next attack.”
Craig thought she was right, and he hated hearing it. Alvarez would never cooperate with Craig. Somehow he had to work around the mustache-twirling Spanish Defense Minister and get to Musa before he launched that attack.
18
SOUTHERN SPAIN AND PARIS
Musa flew to Seville, rented a car, and drove to Granada. He had been there twice before. Now, under the ambitious plan proposed by General Zhou, the Alhambra was key. He had to see it again. To Musa, seizing a portion of Southern Spain meant retaking the Alhambra.
As he approached the exquisite red palace, which had been the home of Moorish kings for centuries, he felt pride and bitterness. Pride that such an awe-inspiring structure was built by his Islamic ancestors. Bitterness as he thought about January 2, 1492, when Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand planted a cross on Alhambra Hill and occupied the building. The final conquest of the Catholic sovereigns. The final defeat of the Muslims in Europe.
It gnawed at him that they took over our palace and converted it to their own.
Musa parked in a public lot, purchased a ticket, and followed the crowd of tourists moving slowly inside.
He walked through the corridors, astounded by the beauty and opulence of the magnificent palace constructed by the Nasrid kings, the last Muslim dynasty in Southern Spain. They drew upon the finest architects and artisans of their beloved Al Andalus.
Musa walked from room to room, amazed by the incredible craftsmanship. Walls were adorned with carved plaster, lacy and delicate abstract patterns, and Arabic inscriptions. Floors covered with intricate mosaic tiles. Ceilings of carved wood and ornate plaster.
As he moved from chamber to chamber, he saw numerous ponds and fountains. Light from outside, filtering through the arches, danced on the shimmering water.
He thought about his medieval hero, Musa Ben Abdil. Tried to imagine what he felt like in the final days and hours before his death. How he must have beseeched his dispirited colleagues to keep fighting. To no avail. A man of courage, death became his only option.
This time it would end differently, Musa swore. With General Zhou’s support and his own genius for leadership and ability to mobilize an army of discontented Muslims, he would be victorious. The Alhambra his prize.
At one in the afternoon, he left the building and walked back toward his car. As he entered the parking lot, he noticed a policeman across the road looking at him. The policeman removed a piece of paper from his pocket, studied it, then stared at Musa. At that moment, a group of children around ten or twelve years old, passed between Musa and the policeman heading toward their yellow bus parked close to Musa’s car. Musa moved with them, trying to use them as a shield to block the policeman’s view.
As Musa reached the back of his car, the policeman, still holding the paper, sprinted across the road and approached Musa. “Show me your ID.”
Musa replied calmly, “Sure. It’s in the glove compartment. I’ll get it.”
The policeman was standing so close Musa could feel his breath. Musa unlocked the car on the passenger side and reached into the glove compartment. Without hesitation, Musa grabbed the Beretta and fired a shot into the policeman’s chest. As he fell to the ground, Musa yanked the paper from his hand. The children had not yet boarded their bus. Some of them screamed. Musa raised the gun and fired three shots into the windows of the empty school bus. Children shrieked in terror and raced away. Other drivers saw what was happening, cried out, and scattered in all directions, running into each other in the pandemonium.
Musa got into his car and drove away, heading down toward Granada. Minutes later, he heard the sirens of police cars coming up the hill passing him, the red lights flashing on their roofs as they raced toward the Alhambra.
To avoid arousing suspicion, Musa was careful to drive at the speed limit. Without stopping, he picked up the policeman’s crumpled paper from the car seat and glanced at it. What he saw stunned him: An Interpol alert with his name, Ahmed Sadi, and his picture. Underneath were the words: “Wanted for questioning. Armed and dangerous.”
Musa was perplexed. Someone, probably Craig Page, had figured out he was responsible for the train bombing. But how? Though that question bothered him, Musa was able to get it out of his mind. It didn’t matter what Craig knew. With General Zhou’s help, the Spanish Revenge was an unstoppable force.
He would be returning to the Alhambra. The next time would be to retake what rightfully belongs to Islam.
It was ten in the evening, and Craig was on his way to the Herald office to meet Elizabeth. She was working on her outline for the book, and they planned to have a late dinner.
As Craig approached the Herald building, his cell phone rang. It was Carlos in Madrid.
“A policeman was shot outside the Alhambra at one this afternoon,” Carlos said speaking rapidly in an agitated voice. “We believe the shooter was Ahmed Sadi. It appears as if the policeman identified him from the photograph you distributed to Spanish law-enforcement agencies.”
“What happened to Ahmed?”
“He got away.”
Craig groaned. “Now you tell me. Nine hours later.”
“Sorry. Our only witnesses were hysterical ten year olds. It took time to piece together a description and have a police artist produce a picture. We have road blocks up everywhere. We’re checking trains and planes.”
“You’re wasting your time. He’s long gone from the area. Probably from Spain.”
Craig thought about this development. “This could be useful. He might be planning something that involves the Alhambra. With this shooting, he may have tipped his hand.”
“Good point. What do you want me to do?”
“Move an army unit into the area to enhance security. Increase checks on all visitors. If the Alhambra is his next target, we’ll be waiting for him.”
PART TWO
MARCH, SIX MONTHS LATER
19
ROME
Omar awoke at four a.m., half an
hour before the alarm was set to ring, in the dingy Hotel Manzoni in Rome. He could barely suppress his excitement. Musa had given him an order: “Find out how I can poison the Vatican’s water supply.” But Musa didn’t provide any guidance.
Since his arrival in Rome a week ago, Omar had read a dozen books about the Vatican, taken public tours and made observations from hills outside of the Vatican.
From all this, Omar had learned a great deal. He now knew that Vatican City, or “the Vatican,” as it was popularly known, covering only 108.7 acres, was an independent state—the smallest in the world—fully enclosed within the state of Italy. High stone walls surrounded most of the irregularly shaped Vatican. It had its own armed forces, the most famous of which are the Swiss Guards, their yellow, orange, and blue uniforms said to have been designed by Michelangelo.
But most important for Omar, the Vatican had its own water supply. Somehow he had to locate a point of access to that system—a reservoir, a pump, a flange—any place at which a fast-acting poison could be injected.
After six days, Omar was becoming worried. Stating the problem was easy. But he didn’t have the faintest idea of the solution. And Musa didn’t tolerate failure. He couldn’t stay in Rome forever.
Yesterday morning, he decided to hang out in a caffe on Via Aurelia, close to the point where railroad tracks carrying freight in and out of the Vatican pass through the walls. There he had seen lots of laborers who worked inside the Vatican. He hoped to overhear some hint about how he might sneak into the Vatican. To his happy surprise, he heard one of them say that Rossi and Rossi, a Roman contractor, would be starting a project tomorrow to upgrade a portion of the underground piping for the Vatican’s water system. The foreman would be hiring about twenty day laborers at six tomorrow morning at the southwestern gate of the Vatican.
Omar figured the six o’clock hiring would be a madhouse. So yesterday afternoon he drove his Vespa to Rossi and Rossi’s office and found Ernesto, the foreman. “I have a sick baby and need the work,” Omar pleaded. That elicited the response, “Lots of people have sick babies.”
Omar took a different tack. He offered to pay up front to Ernesto twenty-five percent of each day’s wages. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash for tomorrow, which Ernesto was quick to pocket.
Omar still wanted to be early this morning. He didn’t trust Ernesto. After downing a double espresso in an open all-night caffe, he bought bread and cheese for lunch and jumped on his Vespa. Omar tore across the still, deserted streets of Rome.
He parked the Vespa in a corner of the courtyard outside the entrance. Six men were already in line in front of the metal gate. Before jumping off the bike, he made a quick call on his cell phone. “Rashid, have the boat in place from noon on. I’ll call you if I’m coming.”
Then he pulled up the collar on his jacket to brace against the biting cold wind and got into line.
By five-thirty, the line broke down. Day labor was tough to find in this economy. About a hundred men, a diverse polyglot of Arabs, Africans, and Asians, mixed in with Sicilians and Calabrianas, were pushing and shoving. At six, Ernesto, holding a police truncheon, accompanied by two armed guards, opened the metal gate. The sea of humanity surged forward. Ernesto began pointing with his baton, selecting men to come inside. Omar yelled, “Hey Ernesto.” The foreman spotted him and waved him in. He followed the others into the Vatican, along a narrow road, then down a steep flight of stone steps, badly in need of repair, to a grotto with rough stone walls.
The work was menial and brutal: blasting through stone and concrete with jackhammers. Then shoveling dirt to reach the buried water pipe, much of which was heavily corroded. Omar worked hard for two hours, all the while looking, listening, and committing to memory details about the water supply. Somebody blew a whistle. Time for a break.
As he trotted off to the toilet, Omar passed a small, windowless office that served as Ernesto’s command center. Peering inside, Omar could hardly believe what he saw. In the center of an old, battered wooden table, a roll of architect’s drawings was spread open with wrenches on each side keeping it flat. Ernesto was hunched over studying the dusty sheets. Omar knew exactly what he had to do.
He labored for two more hours while hearing increased grumbling from other workers who were tired and slowing down. Not Omar. Musa had put all his warriors, as he called them, including Musa and Omar, through rigorous physical conditioning. He could easily handle this work.
Another whistle blew.
“An hour for lunch,” Ernesto called.
The workers dropped their tools and moved into corners of the grotto to eat. Omar, munching on his bread and cheese, remained close to Ernesto’s office, where the foreman was examining the plans. Five minutes later, Ernesto walked out, heading for the toilet. Omar watched him disappear around a corner.
Now go for it.
Omar stood up. Casually, he strode into Ernesto’s deserted office. He moved the wrenches, rolled up the drawings, tucked them under his arm, and bolted toward the stairs. None of the workers made a move to stop him.
Halfway up, he heard Ernesto shout, “Hey you, stop right there.”
Ignoring the command, Omar kept climbing. He had to be careful. Chunks of stone were falling off the stairs.
“I’m coming after you,” Ernesto called.
Omar peeked over his shoulder. He saw Ernesto stumble as a step gave way. The foreman lost his balance, fell, and tumbled down the stairs. Omar saw him whip out his cell phone.
Oh, oh. This won’t be easy.
At the top of the stairs Omar raced through an open doorway. He was on the road leading to the gate he had entered this morning.
Twenty yards from the gate, he heard a shout, “Stop now, or I’ll shoot.” Omar wheeled around to face one of the Swiss guards. From his reading, he knew these guards might once have been an effective fighting force, but not for decades. And the World War II vintage pistol the guard was holding confirmed that.
“Give me the drawings,” the guard called.
Looking intimidated, Omar walked toward the guard. “There must be a mistake. Ernesto, the foreman, asked me to take these to the Rossi and Rossi office. Call the company. They’ll confirm that.”
While the confused guard reached for his cell phone, Omar raised the paper roll and swung it, whacking the guard on the side of the head and knocking him to the ground. The pistol fell out of his hand. Omar grabbed it and resumed running. He paused for an instant at the gate leading out of the Vatican, saw that the path was clear to the Vespa, and took out his cell phone. He punched in one number. As soon as he heard Rashid’s voice, he said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Rev the engines. They’ll be chasing me.”
He strapped the drawings to the back of the Vespa. Police sirens were approaching. As he started the engine, a municipal police car turned into the road and stopped, blocking Omar’s path. He saw only one policeman in the car, who was climbing out, gun in hand. “Stop, now,” he shouted.
Omar raised the Swiss guard’s revolver.
I hope this thing works.
Holding his breath, he fired, striking the policeman in the chest. The man collapsed to the ground.
Omar sped past the police car. He was now on a main street. He heard sirens converging on him from several different directions. Through the mirror, he saw a carabinieri car approaching fast from the rear.
Omar turned right onto a narrow road, jammed with heavy midday traffic. The carabinieri followed. In the auto gridlock, the police car, even with its wailing siren was no match for the Vespa. Omar sped between lanes of vehicles stopped for red lights. Now there were two carabinieri cruisers, both blasting their sirens, but they couldn’t get through the traffic.
Omar had spent long hours during the last week memorizing the map of that portion of Rome, leading to the sea and the dock near Fiumicino. He kept zigzagging from street to street, making it impossible for the police to fix a position on his Vespa. His fear was that the
y’d send up a helicopter armed with rockets, but that didn’t happen.
When he was a mile from the dock, he had exhausted the twists and turns. He had a stretch of straight road ahead. No other way to the boat. And behind, he heard a siren and saw two carabinieri cars in the mirror. The lead was twenty five yards and the gap was closing fast.
Omar watched the cop on the passenger side reach out his hand with a gun and fire. To avoid a hail of bullets, Omar drove in an “S” pattern. Ahead, he heard the boat’s engine idling. Head down, he kept going.
Rashid had lowered the back of the boat. Omar sped up the ramp and braked the Vespa. Rashid immediately gunned the engine and pulled away from the dock.
The lead car kept going, hoping to make it on board. It flew off the dock, its front tires landing on the boat, but it couldn’t gain traction. It fell into the sea with the driver cursing and his partner firing wildly into the air.
Meantime, the carabinieri from the second car were shooting at the boat. Omar, concealed behind a bulky chair, returned their fire.
When they were out of range, Omar raced over to Rashid at the wheel. “Good work,” Omar said.
“It’s not over yet.”
Rashid pointed to a screen that showed two fast moving objects approaching from the northeast. Rashid was heading in a west-south westerly direction.
“Italian Navy,” Rashid said grimly.
“Musa said this Chinese boat is faster than anything they have.”
“We’re about to find out.”
The Navy ships were closing in. They heard shouts on an amplifier. “Stop now.”
“Hold tight,” Rashid said.
He opened the boat up to full throttle.