THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series)

by Allan Topol

  “You said history is change.”

  “Ah yes, gradually the uneducated Christians from the north swept into Spain, burnt the books, and destroyed our civilization. But we helped our own demise with internal dissention.”

  Musa knew much of what the Professor was saying, but he hoped by letting Khalid talk, he’d learn something he could use to assert legitimacy.

  Khalid continued. “Then the sophisticated Arab leaders in Spain brought in uncivilized Berbers from North Africa to fight the Christians. In a short time, the Berbers were challenging the Arabs for control. The situation reached a decisive point in 1468, when Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand married, uniting the houses of Castile and Aragon and taking control of the Spanish government. They launched a war to conquer all of Spain from the Muslims, working their way from north to south. Driving Islam from its last stronghold in Europe, the Iberian Peninsula, was their determined goal. The battles were increasingly bloody in central Spain, but the Christians kept liberating town after town. Finally, the Muslims controlled only the seemingly impregnable towns in the south like Cordoba, Malaga, and Granada. The site of the Alhambra, our jewel in the crown.”

  “At that point, did the Muslims become united?”

  “Not at all. They were arguing about leadership. Battle tactics. Even to fight or surrender. Meantime, Isabella and Ferdinand effectively led their Christian armies, systematically taking the southern Muslim towns one by one. Granada was last. Our glorious Alhambra.”

  “I know what happened to Musa Ben Abdil. But, after his courageous death was the battle intense?”

  The professor shook his head. “To induce the Muslims to surrender, on January 2, 1492, Isabella promised they’d be able to practice Islam in southern Spain.”

  Musa was on the edge of his chair. He hadn’t heard this before. “Did she keep her promise?”

  “It was all a lie and a trick.”

  The professor sounded emotional, his voice cracking. “Three months later, she issued an edict: Convert to Christianity or die. Many of the Muslims fled to North Africa. Some converted. The others were murdered by the Inquisition under the direction of Tomas de Torquemada, one of the cruelest men ever to justify his crimes by resorting to the name of God.”

  “So that’s the end of the story?”

  “I thought so, until I was at a seminar in Paris last year. I was speaking privately with Professor Etienne from the University of Paris. A well respected medieval scholar. He believes that, on her deathbed in 1504, Queen Isabella felt remorse for making this false promise of religious tolerance to the Muslims. Etienne claims that, as her final act, she wrote out on parchment an edict granting to Muslims in perpetuity a swath of land in Southern Spain.”

  A wave of excitement shot through Musa’s body. If he had that parchment, his attack to take Southern Spain would have legitimacy. “Has Etienne published his research about this parchment?”

  “Not yet. It’s so highly charged that he wants to make certain of his facts. He said he expects to publish next year.”

  “What happened to the parchment?”

  Khalid shrugged. “I asked Etienne.”

  “And?”

  “He said he has an idea, but he wasn’t willing to tell me.”

  I have to find out what happened to that parchment, Musa thought. And I have to get my hands on it.

  But if Etienne refused to tell Khalid, he’ll never tell me unless …

  Extreme measures are required. I need that parchment.

  35

  SOUTHERN FRANCE

  General Zhou was surprised how easy it was to arrange a meeting with General Jose Alvarez, the Spanish Defense Minister. He called Alvarez and introduced himself as “the former head of the Chinese military who retired then took a position in military procurement.”

  “I’ve heard about you, General Zhou,” Alvarez said with admiration. “I’m a military man myself. A former General in the Spanish Army. You were responsible for building the Chinese military into the most effective in the world.”

  “The Americans might dispute that,” General Zhou, said trying to sound modest and suppress his surge of pride.

  “Time will tell, and time is on the Chinese side. Anyhow, what can I do for you?”

  “I want to discuss a matter of mutual benefit. It will be best if we speak in person. Preferably outside of Spain.”

  He paused. Alvarez didn’t respond. That was a good sign.

  “I’d like to invite you to my house in the South of France in Cap d’Antibes. When can you come?”

  “How about tomorrow? I have to be in Paris on Sunday.”

  “Perfect,” General Zhou said.

  That call was yesterday. Friday morning.

  Now, Saturday at one in the afternoon on a warm, sunny day, Alvarez walked into the house.

  “Glad you could come,” General Zhou said. “How about drinks, then lunch on the patio?”

  “Sounds good. Scotch for me.”

  “We are definitely in agreement on that.”

  “A very nice house,” Alvarez said.

  “I prefer living this way to a military barracks. At some point those of us who serve our nations have to think about ourselves.”

  Alvarez raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that. Why did you leave the military?”

  General Zhou was pleased Alvarez didn’t know. That the story of his failure in Operation Dragon Oil had been kept secret. “Political differences with the civilian leadership,” he said calmly.

  “It happens all the time.”

  At that point, right on cue, Androshka walked through the front door, accompanied by Masha, one of her expat Russian friends, a strikingly beautiful model—tall, blonde, and busty, precisely what Freddy had said Alvarez liked. They were wearing shorts and tight tank tops. Matching bookends. Carrying shopping bags.

  “I see you two had a good time shopping,” General Zhou said.

  “We spent lots of your money,” Androshka said and kissed General Zhou on the cheek.

  He introduced the women to Alvarez. “My friend Androshka and her friend Masha.”

  General Zhou could tell that Alvarez was stunned by the women’s beauty.

  “We’re going down to the pool,” Androshka said.

  “We’ll join you later.”

  Alvarez was nodding with approval. When the women left, Alvarez said, “I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

  “We don’t wear them here.”

  General Zhou gave a short laugh. Male bonding laughter, promising Alvarez fun and games with Masha before the day was over. By the time General Zhou and Alvarez moved outside to the patio, where seafood salad was waiting, chilled Mersault in an ice bucket and a bowl of flowers in the center of the table, Androshka and Masha, both nude, were stretched out on their backs on chaise lounges. General Zhou thought Alvarez’s eyes would jump out of their sockets, and indeed they should. Though he hated Russia and most Russians, General Zhou was convinced that some Russian women were the most beautiful in the world.

  General Zhou nodded to the waiter, who poured wine then quickly went inside.

  “Let’s eat and talk,” General Zhou said. “The women will be there when we’re done.”

  Alvarez turned away from the pool and looked at General Zhou. “I am curious to know what you wanted to talk to me about.”

  General Zhou took a bite of salad, making Alvarez wait and then put down his fork. “I understand you are planning to modernize Spain’s fleet of military aircraft.”

  “That’s correct. We expect to order forty planes. The most sophisticated.”

  “Has the contract been awarded?”

  “Not yet. But I have to tell you that negotiations with Boeing for the F-15s are in the final stages.”

  General Zhou walked into the house and returned with the packet of materials Freddy had given him. He laid them down on the table and placed a hand on top. “The JF-17 Fighter Jet, which China manufactures with sophisticated avionics, exceeds the F-
15 in several critical respects. And I can arrange for you to purchase them for ten percent less than the American planes. Would you be willing to open negotiations with China to explore this alternative source of supply?”

  Alvarez’s forehead wrinkled. He twirled his mustache, a troubled expression on his face. “I don’t know We’ve always bought American planes.”

  “You’ve never had a good alternative.”

  “Many others in my government are involved.”

  “But you’re the Defense Minister. You’ll ultimately make the decision. Wouldn’t you like to stick it to the arrogant Americans and their President Dalton who hates Europe?”

  Alvarez was nodding. “Of course. Still, you’re asking a great deal from me to become involved at this stage.”

  Alvarez had given General Zhou the perfect opening. “I am asking a great deal from you, but I’m willing to compensate you for your trouble.”

  Alvarez raised his eyebrows. “Compensate me, how?”

  He was definitely interested.

  “I’d be willing to deposit ten million euros into a Singapore bank for you.”

  Alvarez raised his hand to his face and held it over his mouth, weighing the offer.

  “Why Singapore?” he finally said.

  “Greater assurance of secrecy than a Swiss bank since the United States has been beating up on Swiss banks to disclose their accounts. The Swiss, who are pretty smart at banking have opened up branches in Singapore in the names of subsidiaries. The Americans can’t touch them there.”

  “How will this work? I won’t have to go to Singapore. Will I?”

  General Zhou could barely control his excitement. Alvarez had taken the bait. General Zhou went into the house again. This time he returned with a cell phone and laptop. He used the cell phone to call Georg Wilhelm, a banker at UBZ, United Bank of Zurich, Singapore Limited.

  “A friend would like to open an account,” General Zhou said. “He’ll give you his information. I trust you will assure him that everything is confidential.”

  “Absolutely,” the banker said. General Zhou handed Alvarez the phone. He listened while Alvarez, in a halting voice, gave his name, address and selected a code … “big fish.”

  The irony of Alvarez’s selection amused General Zhou. That’s what he felt he had just landed—a big fish. The banker gave Alvarez a secret numerical code which he wrote down and which General Zhou didn’t hear.

  Alvarez handed General Zhou the phone. “He said the account is open.”

  “Good, I’ll wire ten million Euros.”

  General Zhou kept the banker on the line while he used the lap top to transfer the money.

  Then he said to the banker, “Please confirm to Mr. Alvarez that his account now has ten million Euros.”

  Wilhelm confirmed it.

  “And explain to him how he can access the account for electronic transfer to his account in a Spanish bank.”

  Wilhelm did that as well, and General Zhou powered off the phone.

  “OK, business is over,” General Zhou said. “Time for fun. Why don’t you head down to the pool. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m sure Masha would like to know you.”

  As soon as Alvarez walked down the stairs to the pool, General Zhou took the centerpiece bowl of flowers into his bedroom where he was alone. Carefully, he extracted the micro recorder from the bowl. He played back their conversation. Perfect. The voice clarity was excellent. He now owned Alvarez. Big fish indeed.

  The remainder of the afternoon went exactly as General Zhou figured. Alvarez and Masha ended up together in one of the bedrooms. By the time the Spaniard emerged an hour later, he was staggering, his clothes disheveled. His eyes had a glazed over look. General Zhou had told Masha, “I want you to fuck his brains out.” It looked as if she accomplished her mission.

  At six, Alvarez thanked Zhou for a great day. “I’m now prepared to deal with Paris,” he said as General Zhou walked him to Captain Cheng’s waiting car.

  “What’s happening in Paris?”

  “A waste of time. Do you know Craig Page, the EU Counterterrorism Director?”

  General Zhou’s face disclosed nothing. “I’ve read about him in the papers. What are you doing with him?”

  “He’s convened an emergency meeting of Defense Ministers. He wants us to take action against some Islamist terrorist holed up in Morocco.”

  “You aren’t going to do that. Are you?”

  “I sure hope not. But you never know what the French and Germans will decide.”

  “You’ll have to take a hard line. Craig Page is an American cowboy.”

  Alvarez laughed. “I like that expression. Page already pissed me off when we were discussing the train bombing last October.”

  I have to know what happens at tomorrow’s meeting.

  General Zhou said, “I also have an apartment in Paris. We’ll be back tomorrow and Masha will be staying overnight. Would you like to meet me there after your meeting? The four of us can have dinner.”

  “Give me the address.”

  36

  PARIS

  Craig and Elizabeth worked late into Saturday night preparing a power point presentation entitled “The Spanish Revenge and its Threat to Western Europe.” He had told her to summarize the information they learned from the time Craig received the call in the Bristol dining room. “These people will be skeptical. We have to overwhelm them with facts.”

  Elizabeth was fabulous. Preparing presentations had always been his weak point. Both organization and writing. It was a task he had loathed from the time he began at the CIA. “I’m not a bureaucrat. I’ll do anything in the field. Let others prepare the reports and make the presentation.” She also knew precisely how to express each thought. He didn’t know what he’d have done without her.

  At midnight, they made a dry run. He was talking; she was bringing up slides on the computer.

  Halfway through the presentation he stopped. “Something’s bothering me,” he told Elizabeth. “I have to discuss Lila. She’s the key witness. She recognized Ahmed’s Sadi’s voice on the tape played for CNN and identified him as Musa Ben Abdil. But I’ll be exposing her to risk merely by giving her name to the Defense Ministers.”

  “Are you worried one of them could be involved with Musa?”

  “Not that. But I don’t know whom they’ll report to about the meeting. I can’t control that. They give oral briefings. E-mails start flying. You know how that goes.”

  “Good point.”

  “I’ll call Jacques first thing in the morning and arrange French police protection for her in Marseilles.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.”

  “We must have it in place before the meeting.”

  He returned to the presentation. When he finished, she was smiling. “You are definitely good to go. Break a leg.”

  “In my business, we don’t use expression like that.”

  Craig waited until eight to call Jacques about security for Lila. The Frenchman was immediately on board. “I’ll have it in place before the meeting begins. An armed Interior Security agent in an unmarked car outside of the hotel where she works and her residence around the clock. They’ll follow her wherever she goes.”

  “I better call and tell her.”

  When Craig explained the situation to Lila, she was alarmed.

  “Elizabeth told me I wouldn’t be in any danger.” Fear was apparent in her voice.

  “I have no reason to believe you are. We’re doing this as an extra precaution.”

  “OK,” she said weakly.

  At noon, Craig watched them filing into the large conference room at the French Ministry of Defense: Pierre Moreau, the French Defense Minister, and his counterparts from Spain, Germany, England, and Italy, Jacques, Giuseppe, and Elizabeth. All men, except for her. Surly, glum faces. Angry about having surrendered a Sunday at home, but unwilling to reject his invitation for fear the next attack might be in their country and their political careers woul
d be wrecked.

  He knew he’d have a tough sell. He heard the German Defense Minister, with a beefy red face and an almost entirely bald head, grumbling to his British counterpart, “This had better be important. I had to cancel a day in the country with the family.” The Brit replied softly, but just loud enough for Craig to overhear. “Americans always like to yank people around like puppets.”

  Craig ignored them and looked at Elizabeth booting up the computer.

  Two petite young French women in short skirts served drinks. Craig asked one of them to lower the window shades and to dim the lights. Then Moreau pointed to Craig. “It’s your meeting, Mr. Terrorism Czar. Proceed.”

  Craig coughed twice, cleared his throat and began. “Europe is now facing a new and dangerous terrorist threat.”

  He nodded to Elizabeth who put up the first slide: “Musa and the Spanish Revenge.”

  Before he could open his mouth, the British Defense Minister interrupted. “I’m not sure I feel comfortable with a journalist in the room. What do the rest of you think?”

  Elizabeth stood up. “I’m prepared to leave. Craig can operate the power point himself.”

  He motioned her to sit down. “Elizabeth Crowder has been with me from the beginning. She has critical information. As you’ll hear, she almost gave her life for the EU in this cause. Most important, she sat in on sensitive discussions with the Spanish Prime Minister and Defense Minister at the time of the train bombing and never wrote an unauthorized word.” He looked at Alvarez. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” was the grudging response.

  “Will you agree,” the British Defense Minister asked, looking at Elizabeth, “not to publish anything about today’s proceedings unless specifically authorized?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Alright.”

  No one else said a word.

  Moreau told Craig, “Continue.”

  Thanks to Elizabeth’s brilliant work, walking through the first part of the power point, describing what he had learned about Musa and the Spanish Revenge, was a piece of cake. And she always knew when to give him the next slide.