THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series)

by Allan Topol

God, he sounds like hell. “What happened?”

  “Lila is dead.”

  Craig rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Dead. How?”

  Jacques described the condition of her body, the bruises on her face, the strangulation, the knife wounds, male sperm, and the note.

  Craig felt himself becoming enraged. “Ga dammit. What happened to the protection?”

  “Whoever killed her first disabled the security agent with a very effective stun gun in the toilet of a brasserie across from Lila’s apartment.”

  Craig felt sick to his stomach. A great wave of guilt passed through his body. He was responsible for Lila’s death. He felt as if he’d killed her.

  He noticed Elizabeth standing in the doorway putting on a robe and listening.

  “Tell me again what was on the note.”

  “’All Muslim women are whores.’ It was signed by the Christian Action Group.”

  Craig was now fully awake, his brain processing what Jacques had told him. “You never heard of this organization. Did you?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean anything. These right-wing Christian hate, vigilante groups are springing up all over France.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t believe what?”

  “That a Christian group killed Lila. That’s too much of a coincidence. They could have picked any Muslim woman in France. Why someone who has Interior protection with the added risk of disabling the Interior agent. It’s total bullshit. Musa’s responsible.”

  “I need more to believe it,” Jacques said stubbornly.

  “You know I’m right. You just don’t want accept it. To admit that we fucked up.”

  Jacques wasn’t stupid. He’d come around. And he did. First, a sigh of resignation. Then, “You’re right. Musa had someone kill Lila to eliminate her as a witness in the train bombing case.”

  “When this story and the note come out, all hell will break loose. Expect riots in Muslim communities throughout France and Europe. The spin will be that a beautiful young Muslim woman has been raped and murdered by a Christian group. You realize that. Don’t you?”

  “All too well. I tried to get the police to conceal the note.”

  “And?”

  “Pointless. The killer took photos with a disposable camera after he killed Lila and planted the note. He dropped off the camera in front of Marseilles largest paper. The police chief tried to persuade the publisher to sit on the photos. He refused. They’re running in the morning edition, along with a statement from the police chief that the murderer will be caught and brought to justice.”

  “That’ll help.”

  “What else could he do?”

  “How are they coming on apprehending the killer?”

  “So far they don’t have a clue. They’re going all out. Watching airports and train stations. They have a ring around the city.”

  “That won’t do a thing. He’s either long gone or is in hiding in Marseilles.”

  “They’re also searching right-wing Christian areas, which you’ve convinced me is a waste of time.”

  “It would make more sense to comb through the Muslim neighborhoods in the eastern part of town where Lila lived.”

  Jacques coughed and cleared his throat, “They’re afraid to do that.”

  “Great… Keep me posted.”

  Craig hung up and turned to Elizabeth, sitting in a chair across the room. He told her what Jacques had said.

  “Musa is incredibly smart,” she responded. “The camera was a great touch. He anticipated the police would try to conceal the note.”

  Craig was shaking his head. “The whole action was brilliant. He managed to eliminate Lila as a witness. At the same time spark Muslim riots against Christians. That furthers his long-term strategy of a Muslim-Christian war in Europe.”

  Elizabeth’s face lit up. She sprang to her feet. “Florinda.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Florinda was a beautiful Muslim woman raped by a Christian king in the Eighth Century. That spark united the Muslim army to defeat the Christians and cost the king his throne.”

  “Musa must have known that.”

  “He’s always one step ahead of us. We’re reacting. We have to go on the offensive.”

  “Agreed. But how?”

  They were both silent for a minute, thinking. Then Craig said, “I’ve got it. There has to be a leak among the Defense Ministers whom I told about Lila.”

  “Could be a staff member of one of them, who learned about the meeting.”

  “Possibly. But, let’s assume it’s a Minister, because Lila’s death followed so closely after the meeting.”

  “Makes sense. But who?”

  “Alvarez. He’s had it in for me since we tried to thwart the Spanish train bombing. He was negative at Sunday’s meeting.”

  “Worse than negative. Downright hostile. How do we nail the bastard?”

  “Remember his deputy Carlos, who sat in on the first meeting we had in Madrid?”

  “Sure. Good-looking young man.”

  “I got the impression he thinks his boss is an asshole.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  He laughed. “I’ll fly to Madrid and see if Carlos will help us.”

  “Do what?”

  “Spy on his boss.”

  “Good idea, but you can’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll draw too much attention. We might as well be posting it on the internet.”

  “You have a way of killing a good idea.”

  “Not the idea. Just the implementation. You need someone to go for you. Somebody younger. More like Carlos’s age.”

  “Ouch.”

  “A writer researching her book.”

  “How’s that coming, by the way?”

  “I’m making good progress on part two. Meantime, Ned has been consumed by another project. So he hasn’t forwarded his notes on part one yet. Don’t worry. I’m ahead of schedule. I can go to Madrid.”

  “OK. Suppose you meet with Carlos and persuade him to tell us if Alvarez does anything suspicious. If he can’t get you on the phone immediately, he should report to me.”

  “I like that.”

  “Alvarez may lead us to Musa and what he’s planning.”

  42

  PARIS

  At six in the morning, Omar was parked outside of Professor Etienne’s apartment on a narrow residential street on the Left Bank, two blocks from Boulevard St. Michel. The gray stone buildings looked as if they’d been built before the revolution. The lights were on in Etienne’s apartment, which occupied the entire third floor. In front of the building was a weather-beaten wooden door in need of painting, with a brass handle.

  Omar had his eyes riveted on that door. Eventually, the professor would come out. Though he hadn’t slept all night, there was not much chance of Omar dozing. He was fully alert, running on the adrenalin charge from what he’d done to Lila, supplemented by caffeine.

  Omar saw headlights behind him. It was a cop car with flashing lights on the roof. No way they could have found him. Still he fingered the Glock in his bag and held his breath. The cruiser sped up and passed.

  At precisely seven o’clock, the wooden door opened. Though he had never seen Etienne in person, Omar recognized from the pictures on the internet the balding, slight figure, five foot eight, wearing wire-framed glasses and a ridiculous-looking gray, flat cap. He was carrying a heavy briefcase.

  No one else was on the sidewalk. Omar watched Etienne turn right and walk in the direction of the history department of the University of Paris. When he turned the corner, Omar started the car. He followed for ten minutes, hanging back, making certain that Etienne was going to his office.

  Then he made a U-turn and drove away. Today, he wanted to understand Etienne’s routine. Musa had told him professors follow the same schedule most days. Now he’d be able to make plans for Etienne’s abduction. I’ll be back tomorrow, he thought. Meantime, Omar had so
mething else to do.

  He turned north and drove to Clichy. Listening to the news on the car radio, he knew that the police had withheld the name of the victim in the Marseilles murder. That was about to change.

  The morning was dark and dreary. At eight o’clock, Omar left his car on the outskirts of the banilieu and walked to a complex of six concrete twelve-story public housing buildings, inhabited primarily by Muslims. Garbage was strewn between buildings. Omar headed for one of them in the center, it’s wall covered by graffiti depicting prehistoric birds with long wingspans, done by a talented kid. Maybe he’ll break out of here one day, Omar hoped.

  The lobby was filthy. The elevator smelled of urine. He rode up to the eighth floor and pounded on the metal door of apartment 802.

  A burly man with a bushy, black, unkempt beard, in a white T-shirt and Jeans, opened the door. In the background, Omar heard a child crying and a woman screaming. “Don’t you throw your food.”

  Abdullah, Lila’s cousin, hadn’t changed in the two years since Omar had last seen him. They were the same age and had been in class together, until both dropped out in the tenth grade.

  Abdullah reached out and hugged Omar. “I hear you went off with the great man, Ahmed.” His tone was contemptuous. “Are you helping him remake the world?”

  “I spend some time with him. I also travel.”

  “No wife or kids. You can do what you want.” Abdullah sounded envious.

  “Yesterday I was in Marseilles.”

  “What’s down there?”

  “I was visiting a friend, and I heard about the killing of the Muslim girl. You know about that?”

  “I heard it on the television. Christian pigs.”

  “They didn’t disclose the girl’s name. Did they?”

  Abdullah shook his head. “Somebody you know?”

  “Lila Dahab.”

  Abdullah’s head snapped back. “No!” He cried out. “No! Are you sure?”

  “My friend in Marseilles has buddies in the police. As soon as I found out, I came here to tell you.”

  Abdullah’s face was a mask of anger and grief. “Lila wouldn’t hurt anybody. Why didn’t they disclose her name?”

  “They claim to be waiting until they notify her next of kin.”

  “That’s bullshit. The police always lie. They don’t want it to get out. Everybody here likes Lila. They know what will happen. Where’s Kemal?”

  “I don’t know. A while ago, he met some Turkish girl from Germany and took off with her.”

  “They could have notified me. I’m her kin.”

  Abdullah grabbed a navy shirt hanging over a chair.

  “What are you doing?” Omar asked.

  “Making sure everyone knows those Christian pigs killed Lila.”

  Abdullah was out of the door with Omar right behind.

  While Omar stood off to the side of the courtyard in the center of the housing complex, its grass chewed up from kids playing soccer, Abdullah stopped people to tell them the news. Like a man on fire, he charged into several buildings.

  Somebody handed him a bullhorn stolen from the police. Waving it, he climbed on to a wooden platform used by speakers and entertainers. “Listen to me everyone,” he called out. “I have important news.”

  In five minutes a crowd of close to a hundred poured out of the buildings and into the center courtyard.

  “The woman brutally raped and murdered in Marseilles,” he cried out in an angry surly voice, “was not some nameless Muslim woman. She was our own Lila Dahab, Kemal’s sister. And because she’s a poor Muslim woman, the police won’t do anything to find her killers.”

  From the crowd someone shouted in Arabic. “You speak the truth.”

  Someone else, “They won’t get away with this. We want justice.”

  A police car pulled up to the edge of the courtyard. Two white-skinned policemen got out, hands close to the guns holstered at their waists as they walked toward the crowd.

  “What’s going on here?” one of them called.

  Omar watched them anxiously keeping their eyes on the crowd directly ahead. What Omar also saw, but the policemen didn’t, was two teenagers, twelve or fourteen, entering the courtyard from behind the policemen, armed with bottles of gasoline. They lit the gasoline and flung them under the police car, which went up in flames, then exploded.

  As the policemen turned around to look, other teenagers pelted them with rocks.

  The two policemen raced out of the courtyard, barely escaping the surging crowd.

  The sparks were now lit for a full scale riot, Omar noted with satisfaction. Even larger than the riots of October 2005.

  Omar couldn’t wait to tell Musa: “Mission accomplished.” He would be very pleased. Omar had done exactly what he wanted.

  But he would have to wait. A cell phone was too risky. Besides, Musa would hear it on the news.

  Omar now had to concentrate on something else: Recruiting two men and a van for tomorrow morning’s operation. He had money to offer. With so many unemployed in Clichy, finding two men would be easy. They had to be men he could trust. And the van had to be in good shape. Marbella was a long ride.

  43

  MADRID

  Walking through the airplane terminal after her flight from Paris, Elizabeth gazed at the television screen above the bar. Police cars were burning. The CNN reporter, a perky-looking young blonde, hair cut short, was saying “Riots have broken out in Clichy-sous-Bois, a suburb of Paris, formerly the home of Lila Dahab, the innocent young Muslim woman viciously raped and murdered in Marseilles last evening by a right-wing Christian extremist group.”

  My God, Elizabeth thought. What a choice of words. As usual, the media were fanning the flames of the riot. She wasn’t surprised the name of the victim had gotten out. Trying to conceal it in the internet age was a stupid waste of time. Secrets and privacy have ceased to exist.

  Elizabeth watched in horror as a picture of Lila’s dead body from the waist up with the note attached appeared on the screen. Those television people are shameless.

  Elizabeth exited the terminal and got into a cab. She gave the driver an address two blocks from the Ministry of Defense.

  At the destination, she spotted a small café, the Toledo, across the street. At eleven in the morning the café was deserted. Too early for lunch.

  In the dimly lit Toledo, Elizabeth ordered an espresso at the bar and took it to a corner table. The café walls were lined with Spanish maritime scenes depicting battles with England.

  Elizabeth thought she’d have the best chance hitting Carlos cold. Getting through to him was a problem, but with information on the web, she knew the perfect way. Her Spanish was just good enough to pull it off.

  A woman answered the phone, “Senior Sanchez’s office.”

  “I would like to speak with Senior Sanchez, please.”

  “Who is calling?”

  “The principal from the school. About his son, Roberto.”

  “Yes. One minute please.”

  Seconds later, she heard Carlos’s anxious voice. “Carlos Sanchez here. What is the problem?”

  “This is Elizabeth Crowder. There’s nothing wrong with your son. Forgive me for misleading you, but I had to make sure I spoke with you. Very privately. Craig Page sent me to discuss an extremely sensitive and urgent matter. Please don’t mention my name aloud.”

  She hoped he wasn’t furious.

  “I see,” he said, playing along. “Where are you?”

  “A small café, the Toledo. About two blocks from …”

  “I know it,” he said softly. “Stay there. I’m on my way.”

  Ten minutes later, she saw him walk through the door, pick up an espresso at the bar, and make a beeline for her table.

  “Nobody knows I’m meeting you,” he said. “I assume this is about Alvarez.”

  She liked the question. Carlos was intelligent. She decided to level with him. He was the only option they had.

  “Alvarez atten
ded a meeting in Paris last Sunday,” she said, keeping her voice down.

  “I know. Monday morning, he told me that Craig tried to mobilize the EU countries for an attack on Musa, who carried out the Spanish train bombing and has a base in the mountains of Morocco. You were there as well. Craig’s proposal was rejected. The Ministers didn’t believe he had sufficient evidence to justify an attack.”

  “That’s a pretty good summary. Did Alvarez tell you that Craig’s evidence included a statement by a woman in Marseilles who recognized Musa’s voice on the tape he made after the attack?”

  “He didn’t say anything about a woman in Marseilles.” Carlos sat up with a start. “You’re planning to tell me that woman was Lila Dahab, the one who …”

  “Exactly.”

  “So she was killed by Musa’s people. Not a Christian extremist group.”

  “That’s what we believe.”

  “Which means someone at the meeting leaked her name to Musa.”

  She nodded.

  “And you think it’s Alvarez?”

  Rapidly, their conversation had reached the critical point. Elizabeth didn’t want to overplay her hand.

  “Craig and I believe he’s the most likely possibility, based upon his behavior at the Paris meeting and how he acted at the time of the train bombing.”

  Carlos was frowning. “I was appalled by his behavior in the meetings with Craig at the time of the bombing. I always knew he was arrogant and didn’t tolerate anyone playing on his turf. Refused to accept suggestions. Was unqualified for his job and was only in it because of wealthy political supporters. But he outdid himself.”

  She smiled. “Don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think.”

  “You disagree?”

  “I had exactly the same reaction.”

  “I will admit I’m a little prejudiced because one of my neighbors’ children died in that train bombing, but still …”

  Carlos paused to sip espresso. “What would Alvarez gain from working with Musa?”

  “At this point we don’t know. We thought you might help.”

  “How?”

  “Have you noticed anything unusual in his behavior lately?”

  Carlos shook his head.

  “Any clandestine meetings?”