THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) (5 page)

7

MADRID

At ten minutes to ten in the morning, the central railroad station in Madrid was a beehive of activity. Craig was standing in the stationmaster’s cluttered and overheated office, with a view of the waiting area and tracks below. Notwithstanding disclosure of the threat, and extensive delays, only about twenty percent of the passengers canceled their trips. But so far, not a single train had left the station.

Looking down, Craig saw thousands of people milling around, including lots of children, because of the school holiday, jamming the cafés, where supplies were exhausted. Fighting for sitting space, smoking cigarettes, and cursing the delay. Frayed nerves led to pushing and shoving. Patrols of armed soldiers kept order. One helluva mess.

Despite all of that, Craig was pleased with the progress that had been made. By seven, the first morning trains had all been
carefully searched. No bombs were found. Passengers and luggage were then passed through metal detectors. It was a long and arduous process, supervised by Spanish troops. Meantime, under Giuseppe’s direction, soldiers were checking train tracks leading out of Madrid. So far nothing. Craig’s hope had been to get trains rolling by ten. That looked doable.

He called Alvarez on his cell to get approval.

“You didn’t find a thing. Did you?” the Defense Minister said gleefully.

“Not yet.”

“So this whole effort which you instigated, organized, and directed has been a massive waste of resources and a huge burden for thousands of people. All in response to a prank.”

Craig got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Alvarez might be right.

“I did what I thought was reasonable to save lives.”

“I hope you’ll at least go on television and let the people know you were responsible.”

Craig felt anger welling up inside. “I’m sure you’ll let them know. But don’t start gloating over this publicly yet. It’s far from over.”

“You’re a stubborn prick. Aren’t you?”

“I’ve been called worse. Now can the trains start rolling?”

“As far as I’m concerned, they could have all left on time this morning. But the Prime Minister wants the final approval. I’ll call him and get right back to you.”

A minute later, the approval came.

Craig gave the order to the stationmaster. The first trains left the station. Everything seemed normal.

The next part of Craig’s plan called for him and Giuseppe to be in military helicopters, following train tracks and looking for suspicious activity.

Craig decided initially that they should focus on high-visibility vacation destinations with many passengers. He told Giuseppe to
fly over tracks leading to San Sebastian while he took the route to Barcelona.

Julio, an air force pilot, was already in his Apache on the roof of the train station parking garage. Craig climbed in and buckled his seatbelt. They circled northeast of Madrid for an hour, up to Barcelona and back. Craig didn’t see a thing.

He called Giuseppe, “I’m coming up empty,” his deputy said.

Craig wondered if Musa had decided to call off the bombing once he learned of the government’s preparations.

No, he decided. Fanatics like Musa think they’re invincible.

Then it hit Craig. He was missing what should have been obvious. He tried to put himself into Musa’s mind, based on what Elizabeth had said, Musa was an Islamist focused on the fifteenth century, who wanted to make a statement. Where would he make it? In the South of Spain. Of course! Where the bitter final battle between Islamic and Christian forces had occurred. That meant Musa would hit a train en route to Andulusia. He told Giuseppe to head toward Granada. “And I’ll cover the tracks from Madrid to Seville.”

Craig consulted his blackberry, which had the schedules of all the trains that left Madrid and their destinations. Train 123 pulled out at ten o’clock, heading to Cordoba. There it would turn west to Seville.

“Let’s find train 123,” he said to Julio. “It should be about fifty kilometers north of Cordoba now. We’ll follow it for a while.”

A few minutes later, they picked up the fast-moving train. It was barreling through fertile agricultural land devoted to crops and vineyards. Most had been harvested. The sun was shining brightly. No sign of trouble on the tracks. Craig told Julio to fly to Cordoba, then turn around and fly above the track toward train 123. As they got closer, Craig saw a number of tractors and other farm vehicles. Farmers were loading hay and digging trenches. One farmer took off his hat and waved to Craig. Suddenly, something caught his eye. A dark-skinned young man was standing next to a pickup truck
holding an object in his hand and looking at the tracks in a northerly direction from which train 123 was coming.

Craig grabbed the binoculars from the seat and held them tight against his face. The man didn’t look like the farmers.

Craig shifted his gaze to the track. Holy shit! He saw a flat metallic object in the center of the tracks. Had to be a bomb. And the man standing next to the tracks must be planning to detonate it when the train passes over it in about two minutes. Craig had to get that train to stop before it reached the bomb.

No time to work through military channels. Fortunately, he had asked for cell phone numbers for all the engineers this morning listed by train number. He pulled up train 123 on his Blackberry and dialed.

One minute to go.

Frantically, he yanked out his cell phone and called the engineer. “Stop your train now.” He shouted.

“I can’t hear you. The connection’s bad.”

“Stop your train. I said.” Craig was screaming. “Right now.”

“Who is this?”

Thirty seconds, please God.

“Craig Page with the Spanish military. Just do it.”

“I can’t hear you.”

Oh Christ, no!

He was too late.

In horror, Craig watched the train race over the metal object. Then heard a deafening blast ripping the train apart. It came to a sudden stop. Fragments of metal, people, and luggage flew through the air. Flames shot up. He called his Defense contact in Seville and told him what happened. “Get emergency medical people here immediately. I’m going after the bomber.”

Craig now had one objective: To capture the man who detonated the bomb. He was climbing into a pickup truck.

Craig pointed him out to Julio.

“I could hit the truck with rockets,” Julio said.

“No. No. I have to take him alive.”

The bomber was Craig’s only way of getting back to the man who called himself Musa Ben Abdil.

The pickup truck was driving fast over a dirt road that cut between vineyards, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. They were close enough that Craig saw the driver leaning out of the cab raising his eyes toward the chopper.

When they were was overhead, Craig pulled out a microphone and shouted. “Stop now. Get out with your hands in the air.”

The man kept driving.

Craig picked up an Uzi and sprayed warning shots on both sides of the truck, making sure not to hit it. The driver kept going.

“We have rockets,” Craig called out. “We’ll use them.”

That got the driver’s attention. He slammed on the brakes, then jumped out and ran onto a narrow path between grapevines. Craig told Julio to land the chopper on a grassy area.

Once they were down, Craig leapt out and raced toward the vineyard path in hot pursuit. The man had a fifty yard lead, but Craig was faster. He was gaining ground. Suddenly, the man stopped, raised a gun and aimed. Craig leapt into the vineyard, scratching his face and arms as he hit the ground. His cheek was flush against the dark brown soil. Bullets flew over his head.

Craig clutched his own gun and fired back taking care not to hit the bomber who began running again.

They were approaching a small wooden shed. The man ran inside, leaving the door open. He looked out through a window and opened fire. Craig kept low and ran in an “S” route until he reached a drainage ditch. He jumped into it. The bomber wouldn’t be able to hit him now.

Craig removed a smoke grenade from his jacket pocket, pulled the pin and jumped up for an instant to toss it through the door.
Craig saw the smoke. Then he heard a single blast of a gun, but he didn’t see the shooter. The shot wasn’t aimed at Craig.

“No,” he cried out. “No.”

Wildly, he tore across the ground toward the shed. Inside the smoke was heavy. Craig was choking and gagging. Even through the haze he knew he was too late. The dark, olive-skinned bomber had shot himself in the head.

His eyes watering, Craig dragged the man outside, then checked for a pulse. He was dead.

Craig searched his pockets. No ID. Not even a single piece of paper. No cell phone. All he found was the remote control device, about half the size of a television remote. Craig immediately recognized the technology. State of the art Chinese.

Who the hell are you? Who sent you?

Craig returned to the pick up truck and searched it carefully. Again, no identifying papers. No cell phone that would give Craig info on the bomber’s contacts. He made a mental note of the license plate, convinced it would be a dead end. Undoubtedly a stolen pickup. Musa was smart and organized. And he had persuaded the bomber that he couldn’t be taken alive.

Still, Craig had one other possibility of using the dead bomber for information. He checked the man’s hands. Fingers looked normal, which meant he’d have prints. Craig called for a forensic police investigating team from Seville.

“We already have teams en route to the train bombing site,” the Director said. “We’ll divert one to your location.”

“Once they arrive,” Craig said, “have them immediately take prints from the bomber. Circulate them throughout the EU. Then take the body away. Wherever you stash it, I want armed security around the clock. And let me know by e-mail if you get a match on the prints.”

Despondent and angry at himself for not capturing the bomber, Craig climbed back into the Apache and asked Julio to return to
the site of the train bombing. There, medivac choppers were on the ground next to the train. A score of ambulances were roaring toward the site. Craig directed Julio to land ten yards from the twisted mangled cars that had taken a direct hit.

The carnage was the worst Craig had ever seen. Bodies and limbs had been thrown through the ragged glass of shattered windows. The dead or dying were scattered near the tracks. Cries of pain and muffled groans cut through Craig like knives.

He joined workers struggling to bring out the wounded and dead from the three most heavily damaged cars. It was tough work in tight quarters, trying to extract the maimed and screaming from the twisted metal.

He carried out an elderly man, the front of his shirt covered with blood. His whole face was bloody.

Craig returned for a small girl, maybe eight, in shock, her right arm severed at the elbow, bleeding from the chest, her glasses smashed against her face. “What kind of people do something like this?” he asked himself.

Surveying the site, his guess was there were at least thirty to forty dead or seriously wounded. Perhaps many more in the cars. He had never had a personal failure like this.

Craig’s cell phone rang. Elizabeth. “I heard about the train bombing,” she said, sounding grim.

“I screwed up. I got there too late.”

“I’m sorry. You did what you could.”

“Has Musa contacted you?”

“Nobody.”

“That’s too bad. I’m at a dead end here. The bomber killed himself before I could capture him.”

He had another incoming call. Alvarez. “Gotto go, hon. Time to face the music.”

He hooked into the Alvarez call. “You created a fucking mess,” the Defense Minister said.

Craig shook his head. Alvarez was a piece of work.

“The Prime Minister wants to meet with the two of us in his office. How soon can you get there?”

“I’m at the bombing site helping with the rescue.”

“Others will do it. Have a chopper bring you back to Madrid.”

This time Craig didn’t argue with Alvarez.

8

ATLAS MOUNTAINS, MOROCCO

Musa had two large screen televisions on tables in his office, one tuned to CNN, the other to a Madrid station. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had hoped. The attack was a stunning success.

The CNN screen showed Craig, looking weary, trudging from the train debris to a military helicopter. The reporter said, “There’s Craig Page, the Director of the EU Counterterrorism office.” He raced up to Craig blocking his way to the Apache and shoved a microphone in front of him. “Mr. Page, what can you tell us about how the bomb was set off? Was there a bomber in the area?”

Musa leaned forward, straining to hear the answer, studying Craig’s face and trying to pick up the inflection. Ibrahami’s orders were to try and escape, then return to the base in Morocco. If not, to kill himself, but in no event to try and communicate with Musa. He wanted to learn something from Craig about Ibrahami’s fate. Craig
replied, “It’s an ongoing law enforcement investigation. I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

“But can you tell us …”

Craig pushed past the reporter nearly knocking him over and climbed into the chopper.

Musa breathed a sigh of relief. If Craig had captured Ibrahami, he would have said he had someone in custody and he wouldn’t be flying off himself.

Omar came into his office and pointed to the television. “What are they saying?”

“Forty four dead so far. Another fifty seriously wounded.”

“Any information about Ibrahami?”

“From what Craig Page said, I think he either escaped or killed himself rather than be captured.”

Musa refused to use the term martyred. He wasn’t an Islamic fundamentalist. Not a religious man. He was secular. He didn’t view himself as an agent of Allah. Rather, his course was worldly. Justice for Muslims in Europe.

“Who are the media attributing the attack to?”

“As we expected, speculation has focused on Al Qaeda and Basque separatists.” Musa checked his watch. Yasir should be standing in the center of the pont de l’Alma in Paris. “I’m about to end that.”

Musa picked up his cell phone and dialed Yasir’s cell. “Now,” he said. No need to say anything more. Yasir knew what to do. He would go to a public phone booth in the heart of fashionable Paris, another world from Clichy. There he would call CNN and play for them Musa’s prerecorded message hoping it would be taped. Musa’s voice was garbled to prevent him from being identified. But the words would be understood: “This is Musa Ben Abdil. Our Group, the Spanish Revenge, is responsible for the Spanish train bombing. Our objective is to resume the war between Muslims and Christians in Europe.”

Five minutes later, Yasir called back. “Done.”

Musa turned up the volume on the CNN screen. He didn’t want to miss the broadcast of his recorded message.

He heard, “The death toll from the Spanish train bombing has risen to fifty six, with many more in critical condition.” And nothing else. Must be too soon to get it on the air. He was confident CNN would never pass up a chance to broadcast something like that.

“Fifty six,” Omar said, pumping his fist into the air. “Time to crack open the champagne.”

“Absolutely. Get a bottle of Dom Perignon.”

While Musa popped the cork, he smiled. He was struck by the irony of celebrating with a wine supposedly created by a monk, which it wasn’t, of course.

As he and Omar raised their glasses and drank, Musa said, “To more successes.”

The cold liquid tasted wonderful.

“Did you ever have any doubt we’d succeed?” Omar asked.

“Not for an instant.”

“What’s next?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Has to be something even bigger.”

“Blowing up an airplane?”

“Not creative enough.”

“The Eiffel tower or the Louvre?”

“No real significance for the Christian world. We have to hit them at their heart. A target that has enormous symbolic and emotional value.”

“But what?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. We can’t be in a hurry. Deliberate and meticulous planning was the secret to our success today.”

They finished the bottle of Dom Perignon and opened a second. Midway through that, Omar said to Musa, “Lila, Kemal’s sister.”

“What about her?”

“If Kemal gave her information about our location here in
Morocco, she could be a real threat. Perhaps …” Omar was selecting his words carefully. “Perhaps we should eliminate Lila.”

“I don’t think Kemal told her anything.”

“But we can’t be sure.”

Musa laughed. “You never did like her, because she wouldn’t sleep with you. Now you want to get even with her.”

Omar looked embarrassed, “How do you know that?”

“She told me. Once when we were in bed together.”

Omar looked confused. “You had sex with her?”

“Several times, but in all honesty, you didn’t miss much. She wasn’t very good.”

“That’s not what this is about. I do think she could pose a threat and should be eliminated.”

Musa had always liked Lila from the time they were young children. He hoped that wasn’t clouding his judgment. “Perhaps you’re right. Let me think about it. If I decide to act, I know someone in Marseilles who could take care of her.”