G 8

by Mike Brogan

  Outside, an ambulance siren wound to a stop. Seconds later, paramedics rattled the gurney into the apartment and over to Singh’s body. Within seconds, they attached the defibrillator pads to his chest.

  Donovan backed away, searching their faces for hope, seeing the opposite.

  “Clear!” shouted a short muscular paramedic. “Hit it!”

  Singh’s body bolted up, then fell, but the monitor’s green line remained flat. They tried again. And again. The line didn’t budge. Donovan sensed it was too late.

  But was it too late for his translation?

  Donovan looked around for the ancient Sumerian language books Sohan had mentioned, but didn’t see them. He checked the numerous bookshelves, then looked for notes, a clue, any hint of the translation. Nothing. The assassin had probably taken it and his books.

  “Three sixty,” said the attendant. “Clear!”

  Singh’s body jerked up and down again. The green line stayed flat.

  Donovan walked behind the desk and looked at the computer.

  The screen showed Singh’s desktop page. He clicked on Recent Documents. The most recent was titled DR. My initials? He clicked on DR and a document flashed on the screen:

  Donovan, here’s the translation:

  “Medusa proceeds. Katill will deliver the

  heads of all eight serpents in the sixth moon

  (June) in the land of the Far Northwest.

  25 million received. 25 million more upon

  delivery.”

  P.S. Donovan, what the Sumerians called

  ‘the land of the Far Northwest’, we call Europe.

  The message had about thirty words. Just as Sohan said.

  ‘Medusa proceeds?’ Donovan’s mind raced with questions. Wasn’t Medusa a Greek monster? A female with snakes for hair? Yes. And wasn’t her head cut off? Yes. But who is Katill? And whose heads is he cutting off?

  Donovan reviewed the facts. Sohan Singh and Benny Ahrens were just killed by someone linked to someone named Katill… an assassin planning to kill eight people in Europe in June.

  This is June.

  What’s going on in Europe in June? He recalled concerts in London, some jazz festivals in Holland, the Spring Festival in Munich, the Tour de France. But these events involved thousands of people. Who were the eight serpents targeted to be killed? Europeans? Israelis? Americans?

  He started pacing. He racked his brain for what else was taking place this month in Europe? On the coffee table, he saw hardcover books. Paris, City of Light… Irish Castles… Amsterdam, the City and Her History… and Brussels, The New Heart of Europe.

  Eight people… ?

  He stopped and looked back at the Brussels book. He looked at the cover. A beautiful photo of the city’s famous square, the Grand Place. Something was happening on the Grand Place, he recalled. What was it?

  Then it hit him like a hockey puck in the throat. He slumped down into a chair.

  The G8 Summit! Eight heads of state!

  It was being held in Brussels in a few days, in the sixth month, June. Eight of the most powerful leaders in the world, would attend!

  And so it seemed would an assassin named Katill.

  Donovan checked the desk calendar and blinked. The G8 Summit started in three days!

  He told himself to calm down. G8 assassination threats happen each year. He’d worked security on two G8 Summits before. Security is massive, virtually impossible to breach. Nearly a billion dollars are spent to build sophisticated walls of physical, electronic and human security around the G8 leaders. The inner wall was virtually impenetrable.

  But was it?

  Today, assassins like Katill and groups like Al Qaeda could choose from a candy store of advanced weapons: explosives, biological, chemical, and radiological.

  The EMS paramedic walked over to him. “Sorry sir, there was nothing we could do.”

  Donovan nodded, then slumped into a chair as they put their defibrillator paddles back in the case. He felt nauseated as he looked at the ashen face of his good friend lying in a pool of blood.

  Blood, I spilled.

  Like I spilled the blood of Emma.

  FOUR

  Donovan stared down at his dead friend. I should have grabbed the damn note back from you, Sohan! The NSA could have probably translated it - hopefully in time!

  Donovan’s guilt grew faster than the pool of blood around his friend.

  Using a safe phone, Donovan had just called in Singh’s translation to Bob Rosiek, Director of the Counter Terrorism Center at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Rosiek was devastated to hear of Sohan’s death – and shocked to learn of the plot to assassinate the G8 world leaders in days.

  After briefing Rosiek, Donovan called in the NYPD and minutes later a Lieutenant Clark arrived. Donovan presented his credentials and explained that Singh was most likely murdered for helping the Agency on national security. Donovan did not mention the translation. The fewer who knew about the G8 plot, the better.

  The CSI team began working the crime scene. As they did, Donovan walked over to the fireplace mantle. He stared at a family photo of Sohan Singh, his deceased wife, Moira, and their daughter, Maccabee. They were standing outside Macy’s at Christmas time, smiling, their arms filled with shopping bags. Maccabee’s next Christmas would be difficult for her.

  Donovan suddenly remembered that Sohan said Maccabee was arriving here tonight.

  I can’t let her walk in here.

  Donovan hurried over to Singh’s desk, flipped open a directory and found Maccabee’s phone number. His hand trembling, he dialed. The phone clicked into voice mail and he hung up. This was not a subject for voice mail. He saw the number for Sohan’s sister, Helen Singh, and dialed it.

  She answered on the second ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Helen… this is Donovan Rourke.”

  “Donovan, what a nice surprise. It’s been far too long, young man. How are you?”

  Devastated. “Not good, Helen… ”

  As he told her what happened, Helen began to weep. He whispered how sorry he was and listened to her cry as his own eyes teared up. After regaining some composure, she said she’d let him know about funeral arrangements. Then, to his great relief, she said she would tell Maccabee, expected at her apartment any minute.

  He hung up and thought of Maccabee. The last time he’d seen her was at her mother’s funeral a few years ago. The tall, attractive young woman was twenty-four-years old and had just earned her doctorate from Princeton. Now, she was a full professor of Indo-European languages and her father could not have been prouder. A few months later, Donovan recalled, she’d been devastated when her fiancé died mysteriously. Now, she would be very much alone, except for her Aunt Helen.

  Donovan looked across Central Park at the skyscraper lights. Shimmering stalagmites poking up into the black sky. So many people behind the lights. Living people, some making plans, some making dinner, some making love…

  … and some making innocent people dead.

  Donovan looked back down at his friend’s body and made him a promise: Sohan, I will get the man who did this, and those behind the man.

  Outside, he got into a taxi. His Agency training made him check for anyone paying special attention to him. No one was.

  Five turns later, someone was. Two men in a dark Toyota van had made the same six turns as the taxi.

  “Turn left here,” Donovan said.

  “Sure thing.”

  The van turned left.

  “The dark Toyota van behind us is following me.”

  The driver checked the rearview mirror. “You wan’ I should lose ‘em?”

  “No, just act like we don’t know he’s following and head south toward Bryant Park.”

  Bryant Park was near Donovan’s office, the CIA anti-terrorism Manhattan bureau. He flipped open his secure phone and dialed his office.

  Special Agent Judy Kaufman answered. “Hi Donovan, what’s up?”

  �
��Judy, I’ve got a dark Toyota van following my taxi. We’re on Columbus Avenue heading south. I’m going to draw them down toward the bureau. Can you get someone on - ?”

  “Hang on - Bart just walked in. What color’s the van?”

  “Dark blue, I think. Two men in front.”

  “License?”

  “It’s doctored. Can’t read it.”

  All of a sudden, the Toyota van raced up close behind the Donovan’s taxi. The passenger stuck a gun out the window and fired. Two bullets ripped into the taxi’s trunk.

  “Son of a bitch!” the driver shouted, flooring the gas pedal.

  Donovan hated shooting in crowds, but he hand no choice. He pulled out his Glock, leaned out the window and fired back at the van’s passenger.

  The bullet shot off the van’s passenger-side mirror.

  The van slowed to a stop, paused a few seconds, then turned and raced down a side street.

  “Judy, the guy in the van just shot at us! I shot back, knocked off the passenger-side mirror. The van bolted west on 45th. Bart in his car yet?”

  “He’s just driving out of the garage!”

  Rourke pressed his badge and eight twenties on the taxi’s partition glass. “The money’s yours if you can track that van!”

  The driver looked at the money, nodded, then hung a fast u-turn and sped off after the van. They raced past two city busses and a Budweiser truck and shot down 45th.

  Donovan saw no blue Toyota vans.

  He glanced down side streets. No blue vans.

  They headed down another street, then another.

  No luck.

  “Turn right.”

  The taxi careened around the corner and he saw only cars, trucks and busses.

  They searched for three more minutes without success.

  “Bastard’s gone!” the taxi driver said. “Probably shot through the Lincoln Tunnel or pulled into a garage.”

  Donovan nodded, then stuffed the eight twenties into the pay slot. The driver earned it, considering he had risked his life and broken most city traffic violations at least twice.

  “Hey, thanks mister!”

  “Sure.” He picked up his phone. “Judy… ?”

  “Bart’s heading down 45th. He’s got two other cars searching. We’ll let you know.”

  “Okay.”

  As they drove back toward his apartment, Donovan realized he was now locked in the crosshairs of a major assassination plot.

  Washington would go nuts trying to find out who was behind it. A blur of briefings, meetings, committees, joint task forces from the National Intelligence Center, CIA, FBI, NSA, Homeland Security and Secret Service, each spinning their needs and perspectives as the priority. And in Brussels there would be the eight presidential secret service contingents adamant about the security of their leader, while the Belgian authorities would be adamant about maintaining overall G8 security responsibility.

  On top of that there was Interpol and God knows how many others to coordinate and placate - one major police pissing contest in which many egos would get damp.

  Thank God he was in the domestic division these days. The CIA and other agencies already had experienced operatives in Brussels assigned to the G8. And while he loved the city and its people, he had no desire to reignite painful memories of Emma’s murder there.

  That memory always reminded him that he hated certain consequences of his job. Consequences like death.

  He hated that Sohan was dead because of him. Hated that Emma was dead because of him. Hated that Tish was growing up without her mother because of him. Hated that the Agency’s strict secrecy requirements often destabilized marriages. Including his. Hated it enough that he was still considering whether to leave the Agency and join the normal world.

  He thought back to when he’d missed Tish’s second birthday party. When he hadn’t phoned home, Emma became hysterical over not knowing where he was. He hadn’t phoned her because he was chained to a pole in a garbage-strewn Teheran basement teeming with rats. When he’d escaped and returned home, she understood, but laid down the law. She said that with future assignments, he had to give her some idea of how to reach him or someone who could. He’d agreed.

  She also asked him to try avoiding those assignments that were very likely to make her a widow with a young daughter. He’d promised to try, and he did.

  But five months later, the job made him a widower with a young daughter.

  Donovan’s Company safe-phone buzzed and he answered.

  “Rosiek.”

  “You brief the brass?” Donovan asked.

  “Yeah. We’re gathering info on this guy, Katill. We need you here in Washington tomorrow morning.”

  “You already know everything I know.”

  “But Director Madigan himself wants you to brief him.”

  Donovan wondered why Charles Michael Madigan, the Director of National Intelligence, whom he’d known when Madigan headed the CIA, wanted him there?

  “I’ll phone Madigan.”

  “He wants you here in person.”

  Donovan breathed out slowly. One didn’t say no to Michael Madigan, unless one was brain damaged or independently wealthy.

  “Donovan… ?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

  FIVE

  Bob Rosiek hung up from Donovan Rourke. Rosiek was worried about his friend.

  Donovan Rourke was the most capable candidate he’d ever trained at The Farm, the CIA’s training facility in Virginia.

  And maybe the most eager to join the Agency. After graduating with a Masters in foreign languages from the University of Michigan, Rourke had applied at the CIA. When Rosiek asked him why he wanted to join the clandestine service, Donovan said, ‘To find the terrorists who killed my parents and eight other innocent people in a explosion near London’s Victoria Station. And to help protect our country against future terrorist acts.’

  Donovan’s parents died when he was a senior in college, and according to friends, their death sent him into a deep and prolonged depression. His depression soon turned to a kind of vengeful anger that he channeled into his CIA work. Soon his Agency work gave him new meaning, new purpose in life. He focused less on his pain and more on those who caused it.

  But today, Rosiek knew, Donovan carried a more recent pain. The loss of his wife, Emma. A deep, chronic malaise his colleagues said he couldn’t shake. He didn’t socialize much, didn’t date, didn’t form many close relationships outside the office.

  Which is why Rosiek always asked him about little Tish. It was the only time Donovan’s eyes lit up.

  But tomorrow, Rosiek knew, Donovan’s eyes would dim like a snuffed candle.

  ***

  Donovan’s driver dropped him at the entrance to the CIA Headquarters in the wooded hills of Langley, Virginia. Donovan had arrived to brief Director of National Intelligence, Michael Madigan.

  He stepped outside and watched the steamy summer air smooth the wrinkles from his grey suit.

  He walked under the arched entrance and into the reception area. As always, he paused a moment to pay homage to the black stars on the memorial wall, each star dedicated to an unnamed CIA officer who’d given his or her life for the country. He felt stars should be added for Benny Ahrens and Sohan Singh even though they weren’t official Company people.

  Donovan cleared the security guards and electronic gates, and strolled along the familiar, gleaming marble floor.

  One minute later, a young trainee escorted him toward the visiting office of Michael Madigan, Director of National Intelligence, a cabinet level post.

  Madigan’s main office was in the nearby NIC building, but he regularly visited all his intelligence fiefdoms: the CIA, NSA, Pentagon’s DIA, FBI and all his other groups. He liked to remind everyone to share information, and butt-kick when they didn’t. Normally, Donovan’s immediate boss, CIA Director Anthony Breen, would attend this meeting, but Breen was already in Brussels preparing for the G8.

  Madigan’s long-tim
e assistant, Greta, smiled at Donovan and gestured for him to enter the Director’s office. Donovan walked in and plowed his way though cumulus clouds of cigar smoke toward Madigan who’d justified his smoking by installing at his own cost a ceiling exhaust fan that managed to suck up maybe half of his cigar smoke.

  Madigan, on the phone, waved Donovan to a chair opposite him. The Director, an ex all-Big-Ten defensive linebacker, was fifty-eight, six-feet-four, two hundred-forty pounds and still looked like he could suit up for a game. A handsome man, his dark blue eyes were framed by ruddy skin and thick black-grey hair combed straight back.

  Madigan hung up and looked at him.

  “Sit back, Donovan. Relax! Lost a little weight?”

  Same old Madigan. Two directives and a question in one breath.

  “Lost a few pounds, sir.”

  Madigan nodded, then his eyes saddened. “Our good friend Sohan lost everything!”

  “Benny Ahrens, too,” Donovan said.

  “We are deeply indebted to both men. Jesus, I can’t believe they’re dead!”

  Donovan said nothing.

  Madigan puffed out another shaft of cigar smoke and watched most of it head up toward the ventilation fan. “NSA agrees with Sohan’s translation. This asshole, Katill, plans to wipe out the G8 leaders in Brussels in the next few days.”

  “Any background on this assassin, Katill?”

  “Not yet. But we’re coordinating with the Belgian Security people and the national security teams protecting each leader. Plus Interpol, MI6, DGSE, BND, all the national spook groups. Gonna be a real bitch-slappin’ hand-holding assignment with everyone claiming he’s suckin’ hind tit!”

  “A delicate balancing act.”

  “And that’s why we need you over there!”

  Donovan felt like he’d been punched in the chest. Over there meant… Brussels… and the most painful memory in his life.

  “I know it might be difficult for you, but you worked and lived there. Know how to get things done. You know the secret service security people from each country. You know the Belgian Security people. And you’re friends with the Belgian director of their Security Intelligence Division, the counter-terrorism group. What’s his name, Johnnie WaWa….”