THE SPANISH REVENGE (Craig Page series) (20 page)

40

MARSEILLES

Omar knew from her brother that Lila lived on Rue Daughin above the Deluxe Shoe Store, in a dilapidated area of Marseilles east of the port, inhabited mostly by Muslims, who comprised a large part of the population of the city. He also knew that she lived alone.

At six in the afternoon, he parked his car, rented with phony papers Musa had provided, at one end of Rue Daughin. Carrying a black leather bag, he walked along the street.

Three children were kicking a soccer ball. Two dark-skinned mothers were holding babies on their laps on a wooden bench with flaking paint. He looked as if he belonged. No one paid him attention.

The sky had turned gray. Soon it would rain. A typical March evening for Marseilles.

He passed the Deluxe Shoe Store and glanced at the windows above it. No lights. She must not be home from work yet.

He spotted a brasserie across from the shoe store. A spot was free at the end of the bar, closest to the door, providing a perfect vantage point to watch the building with the shoe store. The place was crowded with fishermen drinking hard, filling the air with smoke, and whining loudly about their dismal catch today.

He ordered a beer and picked up a copy of the Marseilles paper on the bar. He knew what places like this were like. He could stand here and nurse his beer for as long as he liked. No one would bother him.

He saw lightning. Heard a blast of thunder. The skies opened with a huge downpour. Good. That would clear the street.

Not wanting to appear obvious, he kept his eyes moving between the newspaper and the building across the street. Dusk fell. Then darkness. No sign of Lila.

He ordered a second beer and thought about what he was doing. From the time Ahmed had killed that bully, Omar had incredible admiration for Ahmed. That his friend had gone to an elite private school in Paris and Columbia University only enhanced his respect. For Omar, Ahmed was mythical. God-like. He could do anything. Omar was thrilled to be close to such a great man. To be thriving in his long shadow.

And thanks to Ahmed’s dreams and vision, the Spanish Revenge was on course to change the world. At least to change the face of Europe.

Omar never thought much about the status of Muslims in Europe or addressing the injustice they suffered. Those lofty ideas were spewed by Ahmed. Omar didn’t have to believe them. If Ahmed believed, that was enough for Omar.

He felt fortunate Ahmed had made him a confidant. If he wasn’t hooked up with Ahmed, what would he have? Nothing. When Ahmed was in the United States at Columbia, Omar had tried to find work in Paris. He was laughed at and ridiculed. Just another poor, uneducated Muslim kid. The only job he found was cleaning
the bathrooms at the train station, the Gare du Nord, but he declined that. So he lived with his parents. Hung out with his friends. Smoked pot. Took some drugs. Then Ahmed came back. Omar immediately joined when Ahmed started his community-action organization.

Like Ahmed, he never went to a mosque. That Allah stuff meant nothing to him. If Allah was great, then why were the Muslims the dregs of French life? No one he asked that question had given him a satisfactory answer. His father, a brute of a man who worked as a blacksmith, had slapped Omar hard in the face when he asked it of him.

He looked out at the street. The Deluxe Shoe Store was closing.

It was almost nine o’clock when he saw Lila at a distance of twenty yards, walking quickly in the heavy rain along the deserted street. She didn’t have an umbrella, or even a raincoat. Her black hair was soaked and hanging from her head like strings. Her hotel uniform was drenched. Through the clinging black material, he saw her breasts, round and full. The swaying of her hips. He felt himself becoming aroused. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. On that full ripe body.

Though he’d wanted her for years, he never really liked her. He and Kemal had spent a lot of time together. Often at Kemal’s house. He hated the way Lila was always trying to control Kemal. To rein him in. Because their mother had died, she assumed that role. Most of all, he had hated the way she protected what was between her legs like a prize. At least with him. With everybody else as well—he’d thought. Now he learned she was willing to spread her legs for Ahmed. That stoked his anger, working him up to a frenzy. He was on fire, the taste of bile in his mouth. She had humiliated him. Insulted his manhood. She would pay for it now.

Though he was itching to move, he had to be careful. Check for the protection Craig had probably arranged. He saw the car. A dark blue sedan, driving slowly behind Lila, following her.

He had spent enough time dodging Interior Security people to
sense immediately that the car was theirs. One look at the license plate confirmed it. Ahmed had taught him that the letters I and S appeared somewhere on their plates. No one else was issued plates containing them.

He watched Lila climb a staircase alongside the building leading to her apartment. The lights went on. He hoped the security car would move on because Lila had arrived home safe. But that didn’t happen. The car pulled up and parked in front of the Deluxe Shoe Store.

Omar moved into the brasserie doorway to size up the situation. He didn’t see any agents on the roof of her building. Only one man in the blue car. Somehow he had to deal with that man.

Trying to sneak up the stairs without being seen by the agent was too risky. He was willing to attack the agent in his car, but the chances of being spotted by someone in the brasserie or a passerby were too great. Think, he told himself. Then he had it. Sooner or later that agent would have to pee. Where would he go? The brasserie, of course.

Omar had made a quick trip to the toilet in the back of the brasserie an hour ago. He had noticed that the door had a lock on the inside and a window that opened to the alley in back. He had also seen on a shelf above the sink a sign that read. “
OUT OF ORDER. USE TOILETTE DOWNSTAIRS
.” Now he knew exactly what to do.

Fifteen minutes later, the agent, clad in a dark suit and black turtleneck, got out of the car. Quickly, he cut through the brasserie on his way to the toilet. Omar waited until he entered the small room to make his move. Bag in hand, he headed toward the toilet. In the crowded brasserie no one seemed to notice.

He reached for the door knob. If the door was locked, he’d wait until he heard the lock click open. But it wasn’t. Omar slipped inside. As he did, he reached into the bag, pulled out a stun gun and kicked the door closed.

The agent was facing the hole in the floor, his back to the door,
his cock in his hand, in the middle of relieving himself. He heard the door open and close. “Hey,” he said glancing over his shoulder. “Wait your …”

He never finished the sentence. Omar fired once, hitting the agent in the center of his back. He collapsed to the ground. He would be out cold for at least an hour.

Omar quickly put the “
OUT OF ORDER
” sign on the door.

One hour was all Omar needed. He slid open the window and looked around. The alley was deserted. Happy he was thin and wiry, he tossed his bag onto the ground then pushed himself through the window.

Swiftly, he crossed the deserted street. After climbing the side stairs, he knocked twice on Lila’s door.

“Who’s there?” she called from inside in a frightened voice.

“Omar, Kemal’s friend,” he responded through the door.

She opened it a crack. A chain was connecting the door and frame. He could easily break it off by kicking the door, but he didn’t want to risk her screaming. “I have news about your brother.”

“What news?” she said warily.

“Good news. Please let me in? I’m getting soaked in the rain.”

He watched her remove the chain. She was wearing a white hotel terrycloth bathrobe. Cleavage visible. She didn’t seem to be wearing anything underneath. She pulled the robe tight.

Water was running in another room.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll turn off the bath water.”

Walking softly, he followed her. As she leaned over the tub, he snuck up behind her.

She stood up with a start. “I told you …”

He raised his arm and swung it with all his might smacking her with the back of his hand and a large gold ring, stolen from a hapless pedestrian during the ’05 riots, on the side of her face. He felt bones break. Her nose. Maybe her cheek bone. Woozy, she fell backwards onto the toilet seat, blood running down her face. He held her in
place and slugged her on the other side of her face. She was barely conscious.

He turned her sideways and grabbed her from behind. Then he dragged her to the bedroom. He yanked off her robe. Then pushed her onto the bed, on her back. Her legs were spread. Her thick brown pubics and slit open and inviting.

“I’m going to finish something I started years ago.”

He dropped his pants. Flying to Marseilles, he wondered if he’d have trouble getting hard after he attacked her. But he didn’t have any problem. He gave two tugs on his prick and it sprang to life. Ahmed had said, “Use a condom. They have DNA tests.” He had no intention of doing that.

She was moaning in pain. He was glad she wasn’t knocked out. He wanted her to know what he was doing. He climbed on the bed and entered her. She was motionless, but he didn’t care. He moved back and forth feeling the sensation spread from his cock to every part of his body. He came in less than a minute.

He spun off the bed. From his bag, he extracted a pushbutton stiletto. He popped open the blade and stabbed her six times in the chest and stomach, jumping back each time to avoid the spurting blood. He wiped the knife blade on the sheets, reached into his bag again and pulled out a typed note that read, “A
LL
M
USLIM WOMEN ARE WHORES
.” It was signed: “Christian Action Group.”

Omar removed a rusty nail from his bag and stuck the note to her bloody chest. He took out a throwaway camera, which he had bought in a variety store in Marseilles. He took four pictures of Lila, making sure the note showed clearly.

From the window, he glanced outside. No sign of the agent.

The rain was letting up. In the drizzle, Omar walked casually to his car at the end of Rue Daughin. Behind the wheel, he put on gloves and wiped his prints from the camera, which he placed on the seat.

Still wearing the gloves, he drove half a mile to Marseilles’s
largest newspaper, housed in an old stone building on the left. As Omar passed by, he slowed the car and tossed the camera at the closed, wooden front door. It hit with a thud and fell to the ground. Omar roared away.

By the time they developed the pictures, he would be well on his way to Paris.

41

PARIS

Tonight, Craig wasn’t dreaming. The cell phone next to his bed woke him out of a sound sleep. He checked the red numerals on the digital clock. 2:05 a.m.

Hoping not to wake Elizabeth, he grabbed the phone quickly and carried it into the study.

Jacques said, “I have awful news.”

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.”