THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) (14 page)

24

PARIS

As soon as General Zhou returned to Paris, he called Freddy Wu.

Freddy answered his cell phone. General Zhou heard voices in the background. “Can you talk?” he asked.

“To you, of course. I’m in a meeting. I’ll move out in the corridor.”

A moment later, Freddy said, “What’s up?”

He sounds so western, General Zhou thought. “We have to talk. When can you meet me?”

“I was planning to have dinner this evening at Apicius with a French movie star, but I’ll reschedule her. Tell her a business emergency popped up. Can you meet me at the restaurant at nine?”

“I’ll be there.”

On the way to dinner in the back of his car, with Captain Cheng driving, General Zhou heard the “ping … ping … ping” signaling a call from his brother.

“I have good news,” his brother said. “President Li’s colon cancer has become more aggressive. The doctors are giving him six months at most, unless he undergoes surgery, which could save his life. So far, he refuses.”

“That is good. What about your efforts to have me become the next President?”

“I’m developing support. We’re gaining momentum. People realize what you tried to do with Operation Dragon Oil. I’m feeling confident.”

General Zhou arrived at Apicius promptly at nine and walked up the three steps into the glamorous temple of haute cuisine that resembled an ornate country home. The maître d’led him to a corner table in the prime first dining room, where Freddy was sipping a drink. General Zhou ordered a Macallan. For several minutes, he let Freddy gloat about his sexual exploits with French movie stars. Once they made their dinner choices, General Zhou said softly, “I just returned from Morocco.”

Freddy looked concerned. “Have all the goods been arriving?”

“Except for the pontoon boats. Our partner says they’re late. He’s upset.”

Freddy was squirming. “We had shipment delays, but they’re over now. He’ll have them in two, three days. A week at most.”

“Is that real time or salesman’s talk?”

Freddy’s eye was blinking. “Real time. I promise you.”

“Well keep on it. Without them, this is all for naught.”

“I understand.”

“Have you gotten any questions from Beijing about the arms shipments to Morocco?”

Freddy shook his head. “None at all. The customer designation is ‘AR’ which is our code for African rebel movements. We’re supporting several movements on the dark continent. The leadership in Beijing doesn’t want to know the details. That way they can feign outrage when the Americans accuse them of meddling at
international meetings. Some of those rebels have stolen so much that they’re even paying a good price. The arms business has never been better.”

A waiter came over with their crab appetizers. At the same time, the sommelier poured the 1986 Chateau Margaux, Freddy ordered. Freddy put some in his mouth, closed his eyes and rolled it around. Finally he said, “Divine … ethereal.”

He’s been totally corrupted, General Zhou thought.

When the waiter left, General Zhou said, “I need something else.”

“What’s that?” Freddy sounded wary.

“I want you to deliver into Italy four missiles. The objective will be to install them in four different locations and simultaneously fire them at a single target.”

Freddy straightened up and pulled his head back. “Is the target in Italy?”

“You don’t have to know that.”

Dots of perspiration appeared on Freddy’s forehead. He wiped them with his napkin. General Zhou was staring at him.

“This will be one helluva an attack. If it’s going to happen in Europe, perhaps I should get approval in Beijing.”

That would ruin everything, General Zhou thought. The issue would go to President Li. Once he found out General Zhou was involved, he’d turn it down. That would end General Zhou’s relationship with Musa. Time to get tough with Freddy.

“Now listen up,” General Zhou said sharply. “President Li has colon cancer. He only has weeks to live.”

“How do you know this?”

“My brother told me. You remember him. He was at your father’s New Year’s party a year ago.”

“Yeah, but…”

“I’m going to be the next President of China … and this is important to me.”

General Zhou paused to wave his hand at the dining room. “You like all this European high living. Don’t you?”

Freddy nodded.

“Answer me. Dammit.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Well if you want to keep living this way once I take over, you better come through for me with these missiles. Am I making myself clear, Mister?”

“Yes, sir, you are. Of course I’ll do what you want.” Freddy now sounded very deferential.

“Good. Then let’s talk about the details of delivery.”

“What’s the range?” Freddy asked.

“Twenty kilometers.”

“I can do that.”

“Are they difficult to assemble or operate?”

Freddy shook his head. “My ten year old son could do it.”

General Zhou was relieved.

“I’ll make sure directions are enclosed in Italian.”

“No. French.”

“Alright. All they will have to do is aim and push a button. When do you want them in Italy and what’s the delivery point?”

“I promised we’d deliver on Friday, March 26, to a warehouse in Torino. I assume that is doable.”

“Absolutely.”

“How will you get them there?”

Freddy rubbed a hand over his chin, thinking. “By air to Istanbul. From there, I’ll slip them into Greece. Over land after that. The EU is porous.”

“Turkey’s not a problem?”

“Ever since the EU spurned them, the Turks have become a center for black-market arms. The Iranians. The Syrians. Everybody’s using them in their desire to resurrect the Ottoman empire. They’ll look the other way, provided a little cash greases the skids.”

“The delivery can’t be late. Not even one day. Timing is critical.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll be unhappy if there is a problem.”

General Zhou locked eyes with Freddy, who met his gaze.

“Don’t worry. There won’t be.”

Freddy paused to eat. “The best crab dish in the world.”

General Zhou wasn’t interested in the food. He had something else to discuss with Freddy. “How well do you know the Spanish Defense Minister?”

“General Jose Alvarez. A military man before he became Defense Minister. He’s pompous, arrogant, and only has his job because wealthy friends wrote big checks to his party in the last election.”

“Is he a rich man himself?”

“No. All he has is his military pension and Defense Minister’s salary. But he tries to use his position to lure women into bed. Preferably tall and busty. Blonde is even better.”

“Have you sold much to Spain?”

Freddy shook his head. “The Americans have had a lock. I’ve heard that the Spanish are preparing to place a huge order for military aircraft. To upgrade their aging fleet. Forty planes. Everybody figures Boeing will get it with their F-15s, but I’ve been trying to compete. The deal is worth $30 billion.”

“Will Alvarez be involved in the decision?”

“He’ll have the ultimate say.”

General Zhou felt a surge of excitement. Everybody could be a winner here. “You’ve done lots for me, Freddy. Now I want to do something for you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll talk to Alvarez and persuade him to give you the order rather than Boeing.”

Freddy’s face lit up, and indeed it should. His personal commission on that transaction would be a hundred million euros. Enough to satisfy his lifestyle for many years.

“I would like that. I’ve never been able to develop a relationship with Alvarez. You can talk to him as one military man to another. That might work. By noon tomorrow, I’ll get you all the background.”

General Zhou required something else for his meeting with Alvarez. A small highly sensitive battery-powered tape recorder. He could easily obtain one in a Paris high-tech shop. He didn’t need Freddy for it. And he didn’t want Freddy to know.

25

PARIS

Craig found Giuseppe waiting at his office in Paris when he arrived from the airport. He had dropped Elizabeth at the newspaper.

“Did you get the satellite photos?” Giuseppe asked.

“Hopefully. Elizabeth sent them to her computer. We’ll know for sure when she gets here.”

“Was Norris helpful?”

“I had to find a way around that prick. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. We almost landed in a federal prison.”

“Has the CIA Director gone off the deep end?”

“He’s trying to mindlessly implement Dalton’s policy. An underling trying to get a gold star from the boss. I’m sure you’ve seen that.”

“All the time. I hate it. But while you were dealing with Mad Hatters, we had some success here.”

Craig perked up. “What happened?”

Before Giuseppe could respond, Elizabeth burst in the door, waving papers in her hand. “Yes,” she cried out. “Yes. The photos arrived and are perfectly clear.”

Craig was thrilled. “Hold them for a minute, Elizabeth. Giuseppe was just telling me what he learned while we were gone.”

“Sure. Go ahead,” she said.

“The clerk at a small hotel called the Manzoni, not far from the Vatican, ID’d the guy who stole the Vatican plans. He was registered under the name Jean Louis Renoir. We checked copies of his passport and hotel registration on file at the local police station.”

“And?” Craig asked impatiently.

“He gave a Paris address, which was a phony. Also his French passport was a forgery. Very well done. I hauled in and interrogated the best people in Rome who do passports. I’m convinced it wasn’t done there.”

“Probably in Paris. That ties in with the story the woman in Marseilles gave us. Ahmed’s core group is from Clichy-sous-Bois, a suburb.”

Giuseppe reached into his briefcase and pulled out a copy of the passport and other documents. He put them on the table. Studying the picture, Craig thought it looked familiar. Before he could place it, Elizabeth spoke up.

“He’s Omar. Musa’s friend. One of the three, whom Lila told us about in Marseilles.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. Pull up his photo.”

Craig displayed it on his computer screen. She was right. “So now we have positive confirmation that Musa’s planning to attack the Vatican.”

“Exactly,” Giuseppe said.

“I’ll give Jacques these materials. See if he can find out who did the passport. So far, he hasn’t been able to locate anyone who knows
where Omar is. This may give us a lead. Now, let’s look at the satellite photos.”

There were three of them. She spread them out on the table.

“This could be Musa’s base,” she said, running her finger around a built-up area deep in the mountains.

The resolution was incredible. American technology at its best.

Craig saw more than thirty buildings surrounding a short landing strip. Also, three buildings resembling aircraft hangars. There were people on the ground. And vehicles. Lots of them, including tanks and jeeps. The Spanish Revenge was well equipped.

“Where’s the border?” Giuseppe asked.

Elizabeth drew a line with her finger. “The entire camp is on the Moroccan side.”

“I thought King Hassan was a friend of the West,” Giuseppe said.

“He is,” Craig replied. “But he suffered a stroke about a year ago. It’s unclear what shape he’s in now.”

Giuseppe was becoming animated, waving his hands. “We have to persuade the Moroccans to roll up the Spanish Revenge and turn Musa over to us for the Spanish train bombing.”

“That’ll be a tall order,” Elizabeth said, “Given King Hassan’s condition and that his Prime Minister Farez has moved aggressively to take de facto control of the government. If he has his way, he’ll turn secular Morocco into another Islamic republic. My bet is that Farez knows what’s going on in the mountains. He’s either sympathetic to Musa or Musa’s paying him off… Or both.”

“You may be right,” Giuseppe said. “But I’m not convinced the Moroccan government wants to do battle with the EU for Musa’s sake. We have to find a way to get their help.”

Craig was studying the photographs. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. All these prove is there is some kind of military base in the mountains. We have nothing to link it to Musa. For all we know, it could be a Moroccan government installation.”

Elizabeth was smiling. “I know what’s coming next. Fortunately, I haven’t unpacked my suitcase from the Washington trip.”

“Ever been to Morocco?” Craig asked her.

“Half a dozen times, when I worked for the New York paper.”

“Great. I need a guide. How about going with me?”

“Why not? I’m just sorry now I didn’t end up in a Washington jail. I think that would have been far preferable to one in Morocco.”

26

RABAT, MOROCCO

Craig had always heard that Rabat, the capital of Morocco, despite its history and shifting rulers, was a boring city in comparison to Marrakech or Fez. The ride from the airport confirmed that. The French designed and constructed the new city in order to have an administrative center for their protectorate as well as a place for foreigners and civil servants to live.

Without calling first, he went with Elizabeth directly to the King’s palace. He hoped that would give him a better chance of seeing King Hassan.

They made it past two sets of guards and reached an ornate reception area, which held a score of high-backed, gold-embossed chairs. Paintings of Moorish buildings in Morocco lined one wall.

Sitting behind a gold desk, the King’s aide, a thin gaunt man, with sad-looking, sunken gray eyes guarded access to the inner sanctum. He told Craig, “I’ll have to see if King Hassan can meet with you.”

“I appreciate that. Please tell him I’m here as an official representative of the EU. On a matter of grave importance for Morocco and its relationship with the EU.”

The aide nodded, signaling he understood, his face giving away nothing. He stood up, turned, and headed through a heavy wooden door with gold decorations, which closed behind him, leaving Craig and Elizabeth alone with two armed guards in corners of the room.

Fearful the room was bugged, he and Elizabeth kept silent.

The wait seemed interminable.

Craig checked his watch. Only twenty minutes had passed. It felt like an hour.

Finally, the aide returned. Craig held his breath. “I’m sorry, but the King is not available. He suggested you meet with Prime Minister Farez. I’ll call to arrange it.”

As the aide reached for the phone, Craig said, “I would prefer to meet with King Hassan. If this is a bad time, we could return later or tomorrow.”

Still no visible reaction from the aide. Was King Hassan too ill to see them? Or was the aide working with Farez? The Prime Minister had probably been tipped off by immigration that an EU official traveling on a diplomatic passport had arrived. Farez could have vetoed Craig’s meeting with the King without Hassan even knowing he was here. Short of barging through the wooden door, which wasn’t an option with armed guards in the room, there was not a damn thing Craig could do about it.

Elizabeth bowed out of the meeting with Farez. “You’ll have a tough enough time without having a journalist along.”

He didn’t argue.

The Prime Minister, a former university president, was a handsome man, with a big smile and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He was dressed in a stylish dark western suit, no tie. White shirt open at the neck. Craig had never met Farez before.
From his reading, he concluded Farez fancied himself like Erdogan, the Turkish Prime Minister. He, too, was determined to move his pro-Western nation toward the East. Increased democracy was the Trojan horse leading toward an Islamic theocracy.

“We’re honored to have such a distinguished visitor from the EU,” Farez said, pointing to two chairs separated by a table. A secretary, her head covered, brought in cups of Turkish coffee.

“What brings you to our kingdom?”

“Do you recall the Spanish train bombing six months ago?”

Farez stiffened. “Of course. A real tragedy. I gather the perpetrators were never captured.”

“Correct. But we’ve now traced them to Morocco.”

Farez shook his head. “That’s impossible. Our government has strict control over what’s happening in the country.”

Craig decided to go on the offensive. Assert that the base in the mountains was Musa’s and see how Farez responded.

“Let me show you something.”

Craig took the satellite photographs out of his briefcase and placed them on the table.

While Farez studied them, Craig sipped coffee. At the end, it was both bitter and sweet.

Farez was frowning, but not saying a word. Craig decided to take control.

“The photos depict a military base in the Atlas Mountains on the Moroccan side of the border. The leader of the group operating the base is Ahmed Sadi, who was born and grew up in a suburb of Paris. He now calls himself Musa Ben Abdil. He was responsible for the Spanish train bombing. We believe he is planning other terrorist attacks in Europe. I came here to ask the Moroccan government to shut down Musa’s base and turn him over to the Spanish government for prosecution.”

Farez picked up one of the photos and held it close to his eyes.

“Who invaded our air space to take these?” He sounded hostile.

Craig paused for a minute. Norris would be upset if he found out Craig had gotten the photos, but to hell with him. Craig had more to worry about than Norris. “They are from routine United States satellite surveillance.”

Farez tossed the photo onto the table. “They’re a fabrication. You manipulated American photos to show a renegade base on our territory. That’s not difficult, technically. Photos are doctored all the time. One of the great benefits of the digital age. I’m confident of my conclusion. Would you like to know why?”

Craig realized he was about to find out.

“Because I was up there last week. I saw the area with my own eyes. It’s desolate. Berbers graze their goats.”

Farez sounded indignant. His response surprised Craig, who hadn’t expected such a bold-faced lie. However, his words confirmed for Craig this was Musa’s base.

“Let’s travel up to the area,” Craig said. “You and I. Today. We’ll see whether the photos are accurate.”

The Prime Minister shook his head. “I told you I was there last week. You’re calling me a liar.”

“I want to clarify an error. Perhaps you’re confusing the location.”

“There is no error. What happens on Moroccan territory is none of your business. It’s a matter of Moroccan sovereignty.”

“When I report back to the EU leadership, they’ll be unhappy. Some may want to take unilateral action against Musa and his base.”

Farez turned beet red. “Don’t try and intimidate me because I’m the head of a small country. You’re bluffing. You don’t have any evidence to back up your charges. These photos don’t prove a thing. The EU leaders will never attack Morocco based on this … stuff.”

Craig decided Farez had a point. He didn’t have enough evidence to justify an EU attack. He changed his approach. “Perhaps there is a misunderstanding.” He tried to sound conciliatory. “I apologize for that.”

Farez was on guard. “If you really mean that, then it’s accepted.
Now if we’re finished, I’ll arrange transportation for you and your journalist friend to the airport. We’ll get you on the first plane back to Paris.”

“I’d like to do something first.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve never been in your country before. I’ve always heard Marrakech is spectacular. I’d like to take a couple days of vacation there. Tour the area with Elizabeth.”

“It is an amazing place. Let me know what I can do to enhance your visit. You should have VIP treatment. I’ll put a car and driver at your disposal. A guide, too.”

I’ll bet you would. Make it easier to keep track of us.

“Thanks, but we’ll play the regular tourists. I always get a much better feel for a place that way.”

“As you wish.”

At the airport in Rabat, Craig led Elizabeth to an outside fountain. Pretending to admire Moorish stonework with a background of cascading water, he told her what he wanted to do. “Stop in Marrakech, then secretly go to Musa’s camp. I have to get evidence that this is his base.”

She whistled. “Wow. That’s a tall order. Going up there without a military escort will be dicey. If either Farez or Musa finds out…”

He clutched her arm. “Listen, Elizabeth, if you don’t want to go with me, I’ll …”

She pulled away. “You gave me the same crap back in Washington. You don’t have to worry. I’m plenty tough. I not only grew up in a rough neighborhood of Brooklyn, but I had four older brothers. As an investigative reporter, I faced plenty of danger. I was one of the embedded reporters to go with our troops into Iraq. And also into Afghanistan.”

“OK. OK.”

Her face was flushed. “I’m not finished. I know how to fire a gun.
Growing up, I was one of the boys. Went huntin’ and fishin’ with my dad and brothers. Bagged my first deer when I was twelve. I even killed a Taliban thug in Afghanistan who attacked me. So don’t give me any more of that male chauvinism. I find it annoying.”

“I care for you. I only meant…”

“Do it again, and I’ll whack you with a baseball bat.”

That was the Elizabeth he loved.