by Mike Brogan
“Jean de Waha.”
“Yeah, him.”
“But I’m not up to speed on this Summit.”
“The enemy’s up to speed on you! Tried to shoot your ass dead in that taxi last night!”
Word travelled fast.
“But you already have qualified operatives in Brussels.”
“Yeah, but your boss, Director Breen, wants you. And I want you, Donovan. So does Jean de Waha. He says you’re the only guy he trusts to work with him on this.”
“I’m flattered, but – ”
Madigan’s phone rang. He picked up, listened a few moments, then nodded. “Be happy to.”
Madigan covered the phone with bratwurst-sized fingers. “White House Chief of Staff says the President wants to talk with you.”
The President?
Donovan realized he’d been Madiganned. The Director had arranged for the President to phone at this time. William Colasanti, first Italian-American president, was a highly-successful straight-talking former CEO who’d terrified Washington fat cats with his frightening new strategy: cut government fat. A day after his election, slimy bureaucrats and silk-suited lobbyists were seen slithering under the nearest rocks. Donovan liked the man and his no-nonsense policies.
Madigan punched the speaker button.
“Mr. Rourke, it’s a pleasure to talk with you,” President Colasanti said.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I’ve read your file. You’ve served our country with great distinction. And for that I’d like to thank you on behalf of our citizens. Let me also commend you for uncovering this G8 plot.”
“Actually, Mr. President, my friends uncovered the plot. And they were both killed because of it.”
“Yes, I just heard. Most unfortunate. Our country will honor them soon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The President cleared his throat. “Now, Director Madigan tells me that he and your boss, and the Belgian G8 security director all feel that you are right man to head up our security for the Summit.” The President paused a moment. “But I also learned that you lost your wife in Brussels a while back.”
Donovan was shocked that the President knew this detail. “Yes, sir….”
“Please accept my belated condolences.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And if you feel that returning to Brussels would prove too difficult for you, please feel free to decline this assignment.”
Donovan wanted to decline the assignment, but he sensed the President’s grave concern about the G8 plot. “Mr. President, this threat is serious. My two good friends just died because of it. I’d like to help make sure they didn’t die in vain.”
“I understand.”
“And I’m honored you’ve asked me. I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rourke. The President paused. “Gentlemen, this G8 Summit is critical. Our nations face serious problems: terrorism, trade wars, banking failures, global economic recessions, pandemic diseases, racial genocide, famine in Africa and more. This G8 is more than a photo op. We need to find solutions!”
“I understand, sir.”
“But, if you and your security colleagues feel the threat from this plot is simply too great, let us know. We might be able to curtail the itinerary, or change some venues, or possibly even postpone.”
“I’ll let you know, sir.”
“Thank you. And good luck, Mr. Rourke.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Madigan said, as they hung up.
Director Madigan walked over to a small bar, poured two tumblers of Glenfiddich and handed one to Donovan.
They clicked glasses and sipped some.
The single malt scotch tasted great and Donovan realized that if he were alone, he’d knock back another big scotch or maybe four. He knew he’d been drinking too much since Emma’s death. He also knew he had to get control of the situation.
The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Jean de Waha from Brussels is on the line,” Greta said.
“Interesting timing,” Donovan said with a smile.
Madigan smiled back and punched a speaker button.
“Director de Waha, this is Mike Madigan with Donovan Rourke. Donovan will be arriving in Brussels tomorrow.”
“That’s good to hear Director Madigan. Hello, Donovan?”
“Hey, Jean. And thanks for roping me into this thing.”
De Waha chuckled. “You’re welcome.”
Donovan paused. “This Katill, ever heard of him?”
De Waha went silent for several seconds, too long, like maybe he was stalling to frame his answer.
“Katill’s a codename,” de Waha said softly. “Katill means ‘assassin’ or ‘killer’ in Arabic. His birth name is Valek Stahl, but he uses several aliases, like Axel Braun and others.”
Donovan sensed that de Waha was still holding something back. “Jean… ?”
“Yeah?”
“What else?”
De Waha took a breath. “Donovan… I’m sorry to tell you, but we’ve just learned that Katill was identified as being in the Forêt de Soignes behind your apartment the night Emma… ” His voice grew faint. “We have video of him in a hardware buying the rope he used to climb to your balcony. Katill murdered Emma.”
Donovan felt like ice had been pumped into his veins.
He squeezed his whiskey glass hard enough to break it.
Director Madigan, clearly as surprised by the news as Donovan, turned and locked his eyes locked on Donovan. No one spoke for several seconds.
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
Donovan’s heart slammed against his chest. He stood and paced. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I just found out a few days ago, and I wanted to tell you we’d captured him. But we can’t locate him. No one can. Ari Levine of Mossad says Katill’s a ghost, and the most terrifying assassin Mossad’s ever faced. He might never be caught.”
“Jean….”
“Yeah?”
“They’re wrong.”
SIX
“Five minutes to Reagan National,” said Donovan’s driver, an attractive young brunette CIA agent, as she sped along the George Washington Memorial Parkway.
“No rush. My plane will wait for me.”
“And for me.”
“Why?”
“I’m your pilot.”
“Oh… ”
Donovan smiled as he thought about how the CIA had changed from the “good old boys” club where women were secretaries - to an agency where a growing number of women held key executive positions. Some women had even given their lives defending our country.
He also thought about what had just been dumped in his lap. The President and the Director of National Intelligence had just asked him to protect the world’s eight most powerful leaders in a city where he couldn’t even protect his wife. A city where every location would rekindle a warm memory of her - followed by the nauseating flashback to their blood-drenched bed where he found her body.
Donovan looked down at his two-day list of things to do. It was at least a six-day list. No way he could do everything. He’d need help from all Agency operatives in Brussels.
His cell phone rang.
“Hello….”
“Donovan… it’s Maccabee Singh.”
Guilt hit him like a barn door. “Hi, Maccabee.” He swallowed a dry throat. “How are you doing?”
A long pause. “About the same. It’s still so… unreal… so hard to accept.”
She sounded almost as anguished as when he’d spoken with her and her Aunt Helen earlier.
“For me too, Maccabee. If I can help in any way, please just ask.”
She paused. “Actually, you can help.”
“Just name it.”
“I’ve been thinking about my father’s translation.”
“Yes… ”
“You said there might be similar messages out there.”
“Well, yes.
”
Pause. “I’d like to continue dad’s work.”
Donovan closed his eyes and felt his chest tighten.
“So his death was not in vain,” she said.
Donovan squeezed the armrest hard, searching for a way to talk her out of this. He signaled his driver that he needed a private conversation. The young woman put on her MP3 earphones.
“But the killer took your father’s ancient Sumerian book.”
“No. I found it on dad’s bookshelf. And two years ago, I wrote a paper on Sumerian logograms. I compared their SOV order, you know, subject, object, verb structure to the SOV of Akkadian. I know most Sumerian logograms and pictographs and the sentence context should probably indicate those I don’t. So if you find more Sumerian messages, I think I can translate them.”
Donovan felt his gut constrict. If those behind this knew she could translate their messages, they’d come after her.
“Maccabee, please understand how risky this could be.”
She paused for several moments. “I do. But I’m willing to take that risk.”
He paused. “Please think more about this.” He couldn’t believe he was repeating the same warning he’d given her father.
“I have, Donovan, and continuing dad’s work means absolutely everything to me now.”
Donovan knew it did. He also knew that the NSA had just intercepted a short message written in what looked like Sumerian logograms. Translating them might provide an important clue.
But he was torn between her need to help and his need to keep her safe. She’d be safe for the next few hours, since the enemy wouldn’t know she was translating. But after that, they might find out and she’d need heavy security.
He tried to think what was best for everyone and everything concerned. He decided that saving the eight most powerful leaders in the world was worth the brief potential risk to one individual.
“Donovan… I really need to do this.”
He paused. “And we need you. We just intercepted what looks like a short message. Do you have a fax machine?”
“Yes.” She gave him the number.
Donovan put her on hold and called Director Madigan’s secretary who put him through to the Director. Madigan agreed to fax the message to her. Donovan clicked back to Maccabee.
“The fax should arrive any minute.”
“Thank you, Donovan.”
“You’re welcome. If you translate it, call Director Madigan immediately. Tell only him.” He gave her Madigan’s direct office line. “And Maccabee… ?”
“Yes… ?”
“Tell absolutely no one that you’re helping us. Not even your Aunt Helen.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
They hung up and Donovan slumped back in the seat as they pulled into Reagan National Airport. His gut was churning.
Had he done the right thing?
Or had he just signed her death warrant?
Like he’d signed her father’s…
SEVEN
Maccabee sat in his chair.
The mauve, tufted, executive chair in her father’s study where he’d worked, read, told stories, laughed, and wept the night her mother had died of cancer. Maccabee rubbed her hand over the supple leather… leather that still held the pleasant scent of his Dunhill pipe tobacco, his scent.
She looked down at the frayed pages of his ancient Sumerian book. It had helped her translate the brief message Director Madigan had just faxed over. She dialed Madigan’s office and got his secretary, who put her through to the Director.
“You’re fast, Miss Singh.”
“The message was only a few words, Director.”
“Really? What are they?”
“TO NORTH COUNTRY I TRAVEL.
ALL 8 HEADS WILL I DELIVER. 25
MILLION RECEIVED. 25 MORE UPON
COMPLETION.
KATILL”
She heard Madigan sigh with obvious concern.
“The ‘north country’ is Europe,” he said. “You’ve confirmed Katill is heading to Brussels, or is there and plans to assassinate the G8 leaders. Fifty million probably refers to dollars or euros. That much money proves this is a very serious threat. So Katill is backed by a very well financed group, perhaps even a rogue government. This is most helpful, Ms. Singh. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Director. And if you get another message, I’d like to help.”
“That’s very kind. I’ll let you know. But please tell absolutely no one you’re helping us.”
“I won’t.”
They hung up.
* * *
And so did Milan Slavitch, a barrel-chested man in the basement of a building four blocks from Maccabee’s apartment. He stood up and stretched his linebacker shoulders, and rolled his neck, straining his twenty-one-inch collar. Hours earlier, posing as a Verizon repairman, he’d installed a button-sized listening bug in her apartment phone. And now it had paid off. The woman was making the same mistake as her father. Translating the ancient language. Bad decision.
Behind him, Milan heard his sidekick, Nikko chuckling and slapping his knee.
“Hey Milan, look at this!” Nikko said, pointing to the television.
Slavitch turned to Nikko who was riveted to the Jerry Springer Show.
“Look at what?”
“This guy’s pecker stayed hard for six weeks!”
“Who cares! Singh’s daughter can translate that Sumeria shit!”
Nikko Nikolin spun around fast, his eyes bulging like frog eyes, which always made Milan suspect that Nikko’s mother had fallen into a pond and somehow swooped toad semen into her crotch… and Nikko was the result.
“What’d you say?”
“Maccabee, the daughter, can translate that Sumerian stuff. She just figured out another message. Then she told some guy in Washington! Guy named Matten… Maddingly, no Madigan.”
“Did you say Madigan?” Nikko said, jumping to his feet.
“Yeah, Madigan.”
“Shit! We gotta tell Bennett.”
“But he’s in Curacao.”
“So’s his cell phone, moron!” Nikko paced back and forth.
Milan Slavitch didn’t like being called moron. He’d warned Nikko about many times. One day, Nikko, you’re gonna go too far and I’ll snap your fucking neck like a toothpick.
Nikko dialed Bennett and hit the speakerphone.
Simon Bennett picked up. Nikko explained and Bennett ranted and cursed for a full minute. “There are other messages out there. She could expose everything!”
“Whaddya want we – ”
“Have Slavitch handle her and grab that goddammed Sumerian book!”
“Right!”
Nikko hung up and looked at Slavitch who nodded back.
Slavitch liked assignments from Simon Bennett. The guy paid top dollar. Slavitch spun a suppressor onto his 9mm Beretta and left.
Outside the building, he put on his wraparound sunglasses and walked toward Maccabee’s apartment just blocks away. A few steps later, the two crows, right on cue, swooped down toward his head and flew away. He hated the black bastards. They reminded him of the crows at the orphanage in Sarajevo.
Even though he was only ten when he was left there, he knew he’d been dumped in a pile of govno yedno! Horseshit, as the Americans call it! On the other hand, the orphanage taught him life’s big lesson early - from the day you’re born, scud missiles are honing in on you. You may not see them, but they’re coming, and you had to watch for them and then destroy them before they destroyed you.
His parents failed to see their scud – the Serbian sniper who assumed they were Muslims and shot them in the back. Sixteen years later, Milan found the bastard, a fat drunk named Branko, who also didn’t see his scud – Slavitch’s machete - that sent Branko’s head rolling down an alley like a bowling ball.
And today Maccabee Singh won’t see her scud.
Me.
He reached inside his c
oat and fingered the Beretta. He loved the power it gave him, how it leveled out life’s unfair stuff.
At her apartment building, he ducked into the alley and walked up to the rear service door. He looked at the new tumbler lock and chuckled. The same brand and type he and Nikko popped open when they greased her father. Some people never learn.
He put on his gloves, reached into his small satchel and pulled out his selection of skeleton keys. The sixth key popped the lock like a Dollar Store trinket.
He stepped inside the swanky apartment building and smiled.
The elevator was just ahead, its door open, waiting just for him.
EIGHT
Donovan sat in the lap of luxury. He was surrounded by thirteen, plush, empty Gulfstream II seats – all empty because he had to get to Brussels fast. The CIA didn’t sweat seats when sweating a major terrorist attack.
The Gulfstream, racing across the Atlantic at 40,000 feet, was branded MedPharms Inc. In fact, it was a Company aircraft, part of a CIA fleet that many around Washington referred to as Spook Air.
This same Gulfstream had flown rendition flights of terrorist prisoners to countries where interrogators were unencumbered by things like laws and the Geneva Convention.
In Brussels, Donovan and his friend, Jean de Waha, had to finalize the security details for each G8 event.
He sipped his second scotch as his agency safe phone rang.
“Rourke.”
“Madigan. You en route to Brussels?”
“Yes.”
“Maccabee Singh just gave me her translation.”
“Great. What’d it say?”
“It confirms that Katill is heading to Brussels or is already there, and is being paid fifty million dollars or euros to kill the G8 leaders. This is a credible, major threat.”
“Funded by big money. Rogue state money maybe.”
“Very possibly. Hang on, Donovan, I have an urgent call.”
As the director put him on hold, Donovan thought about how little they knew about Katill. The terrorist-assassin had left scores of bodies throughout Europe for years, but no trace of himself. No fingerprints, no voiceprints, no DNA, and only one grainy photo several years old.
Director Madigan came back on. “Bob in Munich just intercepted another message with what looks like Sumerian pictographs.”