THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series)

by Allan Topol

  From the men’s room, General Zhou went to Freddy’s table. Charlie sat down with Androshka.

  General Zhou glanced at his Rolex. After a minute, he called Cheng to pull up the black BMW to the front of the restaurant. Through the opening connecting the two dining rooms, General Zhou watched Androshka and Charlie leave and walk toward the front door and the waiting car.

  Meantime, Freddy strolled to the front of the restaurant and peeked out. He came back and reported, “The gray Citroën followed your black BMW. You’re free of the tail.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I have a car outside. Where do you want me to take you?”

  “Charles DeGaulle Airport.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  Freddy removed an envelope from his briefcase and handed it to General Zhou. “False passport, credit cards, and French driver’s license.”

  General Zhou was tempted to fly to Seville. No, that’s foolish. The safer course is to fly to Madrid. Then take a train to Seville and rent a car to go to Marbella.

  47

  MARBELLA, SPAIN

  Waiting for Omar to arrive with Etienne, Musa stood on the deck of the villa in the hills above Marbella and gazed at the beach below. The Mediterranean glistened in the late afternoon sun. Following the Spanish train bombing, a Saudi Prince had given Musa use of the house along with five million Euros to aid The Spanish Revenge.

  Surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall, the villa resembled a British country house, which had been the objective when a London hedge-fund manager built it a decade ago, ironically betting the price of oil would continue to soar. When the price spiked downward, the ruined hedge-fund manager put the villa on the market. The Saudi snapped it up.

  Musa watched a gray van pull up to the checkpoint at the black wrought-iron gate. He recognized Habib, Omar’s pal, behind the wheel. He called the guard to wave them through.

  Omar led handcuffed Etienne into the marble foyer. The professor looked exhausted and haggard. “You can remove the cuffs,” Musa said. “Let the professor shower upstairs. Clean clothes are on the bed. Then we’ll give him something to eat.”

  “Who are you?” Etienne said. “What do you want with me?”

  “Later we’ll have time to talk.”

  “I want to leave now.”

  “That’s not an option.”

  Etienne pointed to Omar. “He has my cell phone. I want it back. I want to call my wife.”

  “Not an option either.”

  “In other words, I’m a prisoner.”

  “I prefer to think of you as my guest. Now why don’t you go upstairs and clean up?”

  Resigned, Etienne trudged up the stairs. Though he doubted the professor would try to escape, Musa whispered to Omar, “Keep an eye on him at all times.” The professor was a pathetic little man. He’ll tell me or I’ll break him.

  Fifteen minutes later, Musa sat down at a table for dinner with Etienne. The Professor ate, then repeated his questions: “Who are you … What do you want with me?”

  “My name is Musa Ben Abdil.”

  “The Spanish train bomber? The terrorist?”

  Musa felt a surge of anger. “I’m no terrorist. I’m seeking justice for Muslims in Europe.”

  “Are you responsible for the riots occurring now?”

  “An innocent Muslim girl was brutally raped and murdered.”

  “Who are you really? I’m curious who would be so arrogant to take on the name of a famous medieval warrior.”

  If he didn’t need Etienne, Musa would shoot the Professor right now. Refusing to be baited, he said calmly. “Who I am isn’t the issue. You have information I want. That’s why you’re here.”

  “What information?”

  “Last year at a seminar in Paris you spoke with Professor Khalid from the University in Casablanca.”

  Etienne stiffened. “I don’t recall. I attend many seminars and talk to lots of people.”

  “You told Khalid you had discovered that, on her deathbed in 1504, Queen Isabella felt guilty for reneging on her promise to grant Muslims freedom of worship as a condition of their surrendering at the Alhambra. So she prepared a parchment containing an edict granting Muslims in perpetuity a swath of land in Southern Spain.”

  “I’m sorry. I have no recollection. You made a mistake abducting me. Truly you have.”

  Musa pounded his fist on the table. The dishes jumped. “Don’t play games. Tell me what happened to that parchment.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re lying. You told Khalid you expect to publish an article with this discovery sometime soon.”

  Etienne was shaking his head from side to side.

  Musa lowered his eyes and glared at Etienne. “Either you tell me, or I will submit you to tortures crueler than any you read about in the Inquisition, because now we have modern technology. Who says mankind hasn’t advanced? You’ll wish you were on the rack. If you still don’t tell me after you die from the torture, I will rape and kill your wife and daughter. And do it myself.”

  Etienne looked terrified but didn’t move.

  Musa thought about that red-faced policeman beating Nicole on the head over and over. He wouldn’t show Etienne any mercy.

  Musa called to Omar, seated in the corner, “Take Professor Etienne to the torture chamber in the basement. Start with electric shocks to his genitals. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  Omar roughly grabbed Etienne by the arm and led him to the stairs. When they had descended to the first landing, the Professor screamed, “No … No … No … I’ll tell you.”

  “Bring him back,” Musa called.

  With tears in his eyes, Etienne returned to his place at the table across from Musa.

  “Well, I’m waiting.”

  “I swear to God I do not know for sure. But I believe from research that the parchment …”

  He hesitated.

  “Well?”

  “I’ve never told this to anyone. I plan to present a paper in October in London at the Society of Medieval Historians.”

  “I don’t care about your stupid paper. Tell me now.”

  When Etienne didn’t respond, Musa said, “You’ll be the first scholar who ever underwent electric shock to protect his research.” He looked at Omar. “Take the fool downstairs and put his feet in water to increase the pain.”

  As Omar stepped forward, Etienne said, “I’ll tell you.”

  “Last chance.”

  “Are you familiar with Tomas de Torquemada?”

  “He was Queen Isabella’s Grand Inquisitor. The worst. The cruelest in searching out, torturing, and killing Muslims and Jews. He also stole their property. A real villain. And all supposedly in the name of God.”

  “That accurately describes him. He wasn’t present when she wrote out the parchment. Once he heard about it from the priest to whom Isabella handed the parchment, he went into a frenzy. He seized the parchment from the priest. Then he ordered the priest to be killed as well as Isabella’s two servants who had been present when she prepared it.”

  “What did he do with the parchment then?”

  “Hid it during his lifetime.”

  “And when he died?”

  “Arranged to have it buried with him. Not in his coffin, but in a metal box alongside. The parchment and some jewels he had seized from prisoners.”

  “What was the point of the jewels?”

  Etienne shrugged. “Who knows? At the end, his sins made him crazy. Maybe be planned to buy God’s forgiveness in the hereafter.”

  Musa was mulling over what Etienne had told him. “I don’t understand why Torquemada didn’t simply destroy the parchment once Isabella died. Rather than bury it in his grave.”

  Etienne shifted in his chair and looked down at his hands. “As I said, Torquemada became crazy. I don’t think we can judge him at that point by rational behavior. Anyone who buried jewels in his grave was, of course, insane.”

  �
��Where was Torquemada buried?”

  “In a graveyard outside a Franciscan monastery in Avila, Spain. I’ve been there several times. Most recently in January.”

  Musa picked up a pad of paper and a pen. He plunked them down in front of Etienne. “Draw me a map.”

  With a trembling hand, Etienne drew two maps. One of the monastery’s location. The other showing Torquemada’s grave in the cemetery behind the monastery. He slid it across the table.

  Musa studied the maps carefully. When he looked up, Etienne was staring at him. “Can I go now? I’ve given you what you want.”

  “It’s the parchment I want. I don’t have it yet.”

  “But you will with the maps.”

  “And if I don’t, may your God help you.” Musa’s words were delivered in a hard, cruel tone. “Meantime, I intend to lock you up downstairs as a precaution. When I have the parchment, I’ll release you.”

  Musa had heard from an aide to the Saudi Prince that his master ordered guards to pick up prostitutes on the streets of Marbella. They were locked up in those rooms and available for the Prince’s sexual perversions whenever he wanted. After he finished with them, he had them killed. Their bodies dumped at sea. That’s what he would do with Etienne.

  Once Etienne was locked up, Musa handed Omar the maps.

  “I want you to go with Habib in his van tonight to Avila, Spain. Take two shovels, a gun, a flashlight, and a knife. Also, anything else you might need. You should arrive there about midnight. Get into the monastery’s grounds, dig up Torquemada’s grave, and bring back the parchment. If any monks try to stop you, kill them.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do whatever it takes. I need that parchment. And I need it tonight.”

  Musa paused, then continued. “If we have that parchment, for sure we will succeed. Islam’s lawful place in Europe will be restored. Europe and the world will never be the same … Don’t fail me, Omar.”

  48

  MARBELLA

  At eleven thirty in the evening, General Zhou got off the train in Seville. Though he was accustomed to cars with drivers and rarely drove himself, he had to minimize the risk of being discovered. He used the phony ID Freddy had given to him to rent from Avis a Mercedes sedan with GPS. As he punched in the address of Musa’s villa in Marbella, he thought of an Avis ad he’d seen on French television. “Even an idiot can find his way with our GPS.” He hoped they were telling the truth. With his failing eyesight, reading maps of Spain at night would be next to impossible.

  Before pulling out of the lot, he called Musa on the encrypted phone. “I should be at your place in a couple of hours. Don’t say any more.”

  Three hours later, General Zhou, bone weary from hunching over the wheel trying to follow the road, trudged into Musa’s villa. Musa immediately led him into the study and closed the door.

  “What happened?” Musa asked. “So urgent you didn’t want to tell me on the phone.”

  General Zhou tossed Musa the keys to the rental car. “Before I do that, have someone hide the car in the garage.”

  Afterwards, General Zhou told Musa about the missiles and their delivery to Torino.

  “Perfect,” Musa said. “I’ll arrange to have my men meet the truck in the warehouse.”

  “What about locations in Rome for firing the missiles?”

  “We rented apartments in four buildings. All with clear shots of St. Peter’s Square. Different neighborhoods. The distances from St. Peter’s Square are five, eight, ten, and twelve kilometers. Each on a different radius. Random points for all practical purposes. Discovery of one won’t compromise any others.”

  “Good. What about the attack on Southern Spain?”

  “I have ten thousand troops armed and ready to go. The pontoon boats have arrived and are stored in a warehouse. But I’m still concerned we’ll face heavy ground fire from the Spanish side. That will give them time to bring in air support. You promised me, but…”

  “You don’t have to worry. I have a plan to minimize the Spanish opposition. Everything is in place. I want to wait a little longer for implementation.”

  Musa’s brow wrinkled. “But are you sure …”

  “Haven’t I delivered on everything I’ve promised?”

  “I don’t want my men to be slaughtered.”

  “They won’t be.”

  “Alright. Now let me tell you what I’m doing to give legitimacy to the takeover of Southern Spain.”

  Musa reported what had happened with Professor Khalid and Etienne. At the end, he said, “I have Etienne locked up downstairs.” Musa checked his watch. “I expect Omar and Habib to be back any minute with the parchment from the grave of Tomas de Torquemada.”

  General Zhou was skeptical that this parchment would be intact and readable after being in the grave of some religious fanatic who was buried five hundred years ago. Then he thought about the Dead Sea Scrolls. A drier climate. But still. Possible? Perhaps.

  Before General Zhou could say anything else, Omar, filthy, an anguished look on his face, staggered into the room and collapsed into a chair.

  “Do you have the parchment?” Musa demanded.

  “It wasn’t in the grave,” Omar replied in a halting voice. “We dug it up. I’m sorry.”

  “Perhaps the monks hid it.”

  “We searched the monastery. I killed them all one by one. I’m convinced it wasn’t there.”

  “Where’s Habib?”

  “I killed him too. He was trying to steal jewels from Torquemada’s grave.”

  “You picked him. He was your friend.”

  “Forgive me,” Omar sounded terrified.

  General Zhou hoped Musa wouldn’t kill Omar in an angry rage. The man was valuable to the operation. It sounded as if he’d done all he could to obtain the parchment. Habib’s treachery was immaterial.

  Musa reached for the gun in his holster and placed it on the table. “What a complete disaster,” Musa was raising his voice.

  “Professor Etienne deceived us,” Omar said. “He sent us on a fool’s errand. He’s the one who should pay for this.”

  Musa was red with rage. “I’ll make him tell me where the parchment is.”

  A look of relief appeared on Omar’s face.

  Musa turned to General Zhou. “Come downstairs with me. I’ll get the truth.”

  General Zhou followed Musa and two of his men to the basement. He watched as they pulled Professor Etienne from the cot and dragged him into a room that Musa called the torture chamber. There Musa ordered his men to strip off Etienne’s clothes. The Professor was screaming. “I told you everything I know. I swear it. Please.”

  Musa ignored his cries. He ordered his men to stand Etienne up against a metal wall. They tied his arms and legs to posts, put his feet into buckets of water, then hooked up electrodes to his genitals.

  “Where’s the parchment?” Musa demanded.

  “I told you everything.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not. I swear it.”

  “We’ll start with a small charge. Then get progressively stronger. I assure you that you will tell me.”

  Musa turned on the electricity. Etienne screamed. “No … No …” Tears were running down Etienne’s cheeks.

  He turned off the power. “Now tell me.”

  “There is no parchment.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I never heard about a parchment with an edict granting Muslims rights in Southern Spain. I never even heard about the edict. It never happened. I made up the whole story I told Khalid about Queen Isabella, the edict and the parchment to advance my career. I planned to prepare a fraudulent research paper and present it at the London conference in October. Everything I told you was false. I have no proof she issued the edict or prepared a parchment. I wanted to be famous.”

  “You’re lying. The next one will be stronger.” Musa adjusted the current and hit the red button.

  The scream was piercing. “No … D
on’t know … No.”

  Musa was unmoved. “You’ll either tell me, or I’ll keep raising it until you die.”

  Musa increased the charge.

  “No … No …” A blood curdling scream. Etienne’s face was flushed. The smell of burning flesh filled the room. Smoke was coming from his groin. Saliva dripping from his mouth. The professor was on the verge of passing out.

  General Zhou put a hand on Musa’s arm. “Stop for a minute. Let’s talk outside.”

  General Zhou led Musa into an adjoining room and closed the door. Musa looked like a wild man. This won’t be easy, General Zhou thought.

  “Let me tell you something,” General Zhou said softly. “I’ve observed the torture of lots of men and women in China. Etienne is not a professional intelligence agent, trained to endure torture and not talk. He’s an ordinary man. If he knew anymore about the parchment, he would have told you. I’m firmly convinced he made up the story about Queen Isabella’s edict and the parchment, just as he said. Professors cheat all the time to achieve fame in their fields. Mostly scientists, but lots of others as well.”

  “Then I have no legitimacy. For sure, I should kill the bastard. For lying to me.”

  “You have another choice. You don’t need a genuine parchment prepared by Queen Isabella. With a forger and Etienne’s help, you can create a phony parchment that says what he attributed to Queen Isabella. He’s an expert in the field. He’ll know how to word it. What the parchment, letters, and ink should look like to be consistent with the time and other documents Isabella prepared. Then you can roll it around in the dirt. Make it seem old.”

  Musa looked intrigued. “Then what?”

  “Give it to your friend Professor Khalid in Casablanca. Let him release it to the media.”

  “But once other experts in the field study it, they’ll conclude it’s not authentic.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Scholars work slowly. By the time they discover the parchment’s a fake, Easter will have come and gone. You will have used it to give legitimacy to your takeover of Southern Spain. You’ll be in control of a portion of Andalusia. They’ll never be able to dislodge you.”