G 8

by Mike Brogan

  “No. But I want a failsafe backup system.”

  “I’ll include two.”

  Stahl nodded. “One hundred thousand euros is acceptable?”

  The huge fee caused Rutten to hack more phlegm into his handkerchief.

  “Most satisfactory, Herr Braun.”

  “Fifty thousand tonight, and fifty thousand when it performs.”

  Rutten’s eyebrows shot up. “Most satisfactory indeed.”

  “One last point.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need this tomorrow at this time.” Stahl wanted a fast turnaround to diminish any chance of discovery.

  Rutten looked back at the contents and photos a moment. “No problem, Herr Stahl. As you may know, almost everything I need is in my lab.”

  Stahl handed Rutten a large grey envelope stuffed with fifty thousand euros. The old man’s rheumy eyes moistened as he fanned the bills.

  “Until tomorrow evening, Herr Braun.”

  Stahl nodded, stepped outside the shop and looked around. He saw two old women chatting in front of the Kolner Dom Cathedral. The taller one glanced at him and continued to stare. Something about the way she looked at him gave him concern. He turned quickly, walked to his car, got in and drove off.

  Herr Rutten would deliver, Stahl knew. The old man’s handiwork -some would call them body parts – were imbedded into the crumbled walls of Europe’s train stations, offices, and cafés. Rutten was a master…

  … a master making his final masterpiece.

  ELEVEN

  Somewhere over the Atlantic, Donovan crawled inside Valek Stahl’s head. You know the detailed itinerary for all G8 events, don’t you, Stahl? You know our security procedures for each event.

  You know we’ve spent nearly one billion dollars to protect the G8 leaders. You know that thousands of police, military and security personnel will be watching for you and other terrorists. But especially for you. You know that the walls of protection surrounding the leaders will be virtually impenetrable and that you’ll need special IDs to get past each wall. And finally, you know that access to the leaders’ innermost circle will be virtually impossible to acquire.

  Unless you get inside help.

  The problem, Donovan knew, was that Stahl could get inside help. All it took was money and the right contacts. Stahl had money, enough to produce the right contacts.

  The CIA Gulfstream II hit some turbulence at 30,000 feet near the British Isles. Donovan tightened his seatbelt. He didn’t like turbulence. His life had enough.

  A minute later, the flight smoothed out.

  Donovan was on his laptop, reading through the top secret G8 Security Plan. He’d read the strengths and weaknesses of each G8 event, and studied the photos and bios of all attendees and all security personnel, many of whom he knew from his years as a CIA senior operations officer stationed in Brussels.

  He noticed the photo of a young Canadian security agent, an attractive woman with black silken hair. She reminded him of Maccabee.

  His thoughts turned to Maccabee. After Agent Carvell killed the assassin in her apartment, Carvell had a CIA agent drive her to her friend’s home and remain on guard. But the more Donovan thought about it, the more concerned he became that those behind this plot could find out where she was. Once they knew, they’d come after her again, perhaps send a hit team to overwhelm the guard and eliminate her.

  She’d be much safer in Brussels, surrounded by the virtually impenetrable walls of G8 security.

  He phoned Maccabee’s friend, a young woman named Marilyn Gardner, who picked up. He introduced himself.

  “Is Maccabee nearby?”

  “She’s right here, Donovan. Hang on….”

  “Hi, Donovan. I’m glad you called. We’re just making a list of dad’s things for charity. Is there anything of his you’d like?”

  Donovan smiled. “His racquetball paddle. It possesses demonic powers. Your father pummeled me with that thing for years.”

  “It’s yours!”

  He felt relieved to hear a smile in her voice.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Five miles above the Atlantic.”

  “Heading toward Brussels?”

  “Yes, and… well… I’m thinking you should too.”

  “Me?”

  He paused. “You’ll be safer there, Maccabee. We’ve got massive security in place. Can you spare a couple of days?”

  “I can spare a week. I’m on leave. But are you sure it’s necessary?”

  “I’m sure it’s safer.”

  “Because they know I can translate Sumerian?”

  “Yes.”

  She paused a moment. “Well, all right.”

  “We’ll handle your hotel and flight. You’ll stay with us at the Amigo Hotel in Brussels. But don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

  “I won’t. Which flight?”

  Donovan looked at his watch. “There’s a JFK United flight to London in three hours.”

  “London?”

  “Yeah. It’s a precaution. They’ll be watching US-to-Brussels direct flights.”

  “The people who attacked me?”

  “Yes.”

  She paused. “I can make that London flight.”

  “Good. Our people will handle your tickets, drive you to the JFK, and escort you in London and Brussels.”

  “Oh, wait. My passport is back at Princeton.”

  Donovan paused. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll issue a special temporary passport. It’ll be waiting for you at the airport.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I’ll see you at the Amigo hotel. And, again, Maccabee, thanks for your help.”

  “Donovan… ?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to help.”

  He paused. “I understand.”

  “Dad despised terrorists. Especially those who kill innocent men, women and children. He called them… ‘gutless chickenshit asshole bastards!”

  “He had a way with words!” Donovan said, laughing.

  He heard her laugh and felt good that she did.

  Then something occurred to him. “Maccabee, it might be a good idea if your friend Marilyn stayed with someone for a couple of days. Just in case they come looking for you there.”

  “She’s flying to Miami tonight.”

  “That works.”

  Moments later, they hung up.

  The Gulfstream II banked hard right. He looked out and saw the emerald west coast of Ireland.

  His thoughts turned back to the task ahead. He had to stop Katill, or Valek Stahl, or whatever the hell his name was, from killing the G8 leaders – or I’ll live in infamy as the inept agent who failed to stop the assassination attempt I knew was coming.

  Should he, as the President suggested, recommend postponing the Summit if the chances of an assassination appeared too great? Or should he, as the DNI Director Madigan suggested, avoid caving into the terrorists unless absolutely convinced the assassination would succeed?

  He weighed the pros and cons of both positions for several minutes, finally deciding he would recommend postponement only if he, Jean de Waha and a majority of other national security chiefs felt circumstances absolutely warranted it. Postponed leaders are better than dead leaders.

  As the steward served Donovan coffee and rolls, he looked out at the white cliffs of Dover and the English Channel. He would be landing in Brussels very soon. Once there, he and de Waha had to work fast. Diplomatic protocols would need to take a back seat.

  So would some personal memories. While he loved Brussels, a spectacular, beautiful, fun city where he’d enjoyed many terrific times with smart, friendly, interesting people, the city was also where Emma was brutally ripped from his life.

  He could not let that memory cloud his judgment during this assignment.

  On his laptop, he pulled up Le Soir, a leading Belgian French-language newspaper. G8 headlines dominated the front page, but an article about the Forêt de Soignes, a sprawli
ng forest, south of Brussels caught his attention.

  The forêt was 27,000 acres of towering oak and beech trees, spectacular vistas, old chateaus and abbeys and meandering footpaths down which the armies of Caesar, Napoleon and Hitler had walked.

  And so had Valek Stahl the night he killed Emma. The forest abutted the home where Emma and he had lived.

  Donovan’s mind swept back to that night, the most horrific in his life. He’d been in nearby Antwerp, getting critical information from a contact about a secret Iranian uranium enrichment plant. He’d arrived home about 3 a.m. and the moment he saw Tish’s Mickey Mouse nightlight in pieces on the hall floor, he knew something was wrong.

  Quickly, he looked into his daughter’s bedroom and saw she was sleeping. He ran to the master bedroom, grabbed the doorknob and felt something sticky. And then he smelled the coppery scent of blood. He hurried inside, flicked on the light and saw Emma’s face, sheet-white, her nightgown drenched with blood, her eyes locked open.

  He ran over, felt for her pulse, got none. Her cold fingers already stiffening.

  Crazed, he slammed his fist down hard on the bed table, shattering its glass cover and cutting his palm wide open. Blood poured from the wound. Well-deserved blood… in the room where Emma had bled to death.

  Because of him!

  That night and every night since, he reminded himself that he’ d caused her death, because he’d been the target – payback, he knew, for killing three terrorists about to bomb a girls’ grade school in Kandahar. One dead terrorist it turned out was the son of a wealthy Syrian arms dealer who immediately swore a personal jihad against Donovan and hired Valek Stahl as his jihadist.

  Every day since, Donovan had blamed himself for not taking the jihad against him more seriously. He should have insisted on more protection for Emma and Tish when he was traveling. Insisted on moving them to a safe house. But he hadn’t.

  And he knew why. His arrogance. Foolishly, he’d believed he could protect them. And his arrogance, his failure, took Emma’s life… and with it a huge part of his.

  Even today, nearly two years later, her death still haunted him, still gnawed at his core, still made him question whether he’d ever be able to muster the courage to risk loving someone again.

  Deep down, he knew he probably wouldn’t. And probably shouldn’t. His job was simply too unpredictable and secretive and dangerous for normal family life, too unfair for a wife and family.

  But it was the only job he knew.

  TWELVE

  CURACAO

  The black Mercedes limousine hugged the narrow mountain cliff road like a stripe of paint as it drove along North Point on the Caribbean island of Curacao. A thousand feet below, the turquoise sea crashed against the rocky cliff, leaving a frothy white carpet in its wake.

  In the back seat, Simon Bennett, a thin, hawk-faced man with dark eyes, flicked lint from the sleeve of his black Savile Row suit. He added up a column of numbers in his leather folder and smiled. He took his gold Mont Blanc and underlined the bottom line: sixty-eight million dollars. All his… very soon.

  But peanuts compared to what he was about to show the boss.

  The chauffeur turned onto a private road, drove up through a tropical forest and soon stopped at a tall, wrought iron gate. He whispered the day’s password into his cell phone and the gate screeched open. Two minutes later, the limo drove onto a circular drive in front of a massive, white, 1880s Dutch mansion basking in the tropic sun. In front, shirtless men, glistening like ebony statues, bent over gardens of white roses and orchids.

  The limousine crunched to a stop on the pea-gravel driveway. Simon Bennett stepped out into and felt a humid breeze sweep off the ocean. The salt air smelled fresh and clean. The mansion door opened and the ancient butler, Karl, as always, nodded at him. Bennett nodded back and followed him inside to the icy foyer.

  As they walked down a long hallway, Bennett passed several Picassos and Chagalls, and two Rodin sculptures. The artwork’s owner, the person Bennett came to meet, could afford a warehouse of Picassos. After all, only three people in the world had more money.

  Bennett entered the familiar anteroom and nodded at young Fritz, the stern-faced secretary with twitchy eyebrows, diamond stud earrings and dagger tattoos jutting from beneath his white cuffs.

  “Good afternoon, Fritz.”

  Fritz nodded, as usual, with all the warmth of a pit bull, mostly because he’d never learned the reason for Bennett’s numerous visits. Only two people knew: Bennett and the person in the adjoining office.

  Fritz ushered him into the massive office.

  “Your visitor has arrived,” Fritz whispered, twitching his way back out and closing the door.

  Bennett walked in, his feet gently sinking into the supple floor tiles made from soft Nigerian alligator leather. He sat opposite the massive desk, whose occupant remained hidden behind the salmon-hued pages of the Financial Times. The office was ice cold and dark except where the desk lamp cast pale yellow light on the newspaper. The usual sour musty odor hung in the air.

  The person behind the newspaper continued reading, despite knowing Bennett had just traveled two thousand miles. Moments later, as the newspaper was lowered a bit, Bennett stared into the jaundiced eyes of Karlottah Z. Wickstrom.

  Now in her late-seventies, Wickstrom’s face was even grayer than two months ago. Her eyes seemed to have been sucked further back into her skull. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead despite the wall thermostat that Bennett noticed was set at fifty-nine.

  A drop of blood had dried on her cracked, grey lips. As always, she wore a black pinstriped suit, diamond earrings, a gold necklace with dozens of carat-sized diamonds, and a custom-made Rolex, also diamond-studded. People could retire on the jewelry she was wearing.

  Wickstrom was number three among the five richest people in the world, thanks to family money, global real estate, oil tanker fleets and decades of massive profits from insider trading information given to her by a now disgraced, disbarred and deceased U.S. Senator. Conservative estimates put her wealth at fifty-eight billion dollars. Fortune magazine said sixty-four billion. In reality, she had billions more she kept hidden from the IRS.

  She had everything she ever wanted in life, except one. She wanted to be the wealthiest person in the world.

  And now that Carlos Slim of Mexico has split his seventy plus billion among his family members, Wickstrom had a chance to pass Bill Gates and others and become the richest in the world.

  But she needed a few billion more. And she needed it fast.

  Karlottah Wickstrom had seven months to live. Incurable amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, Lou Gehrig’s disease, was chewing away at her muscles and nerve endings every second. And two months ago, she’d been diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer.

  Couldn’t happen to a more deserving person, Bennett thought.

  Finally, she put down the paper and stared at him. “Well… ?” Her eyelids drooped as though she was drugged.

  “Medusa goes well,” Bennett said, deciding not to tell her about Milan Slovitch’s failure to eliminate Maccabee Singh in the apartment.

  “And our Medusa network?”

  “They’ve completed all financial arrangements, all futures contracts, options, both calls and puts, derivatives, all margin buying, everything’s functioning.”

  “And the shell corporations?”

  “Working perfectly.”

  “For all buying groups in all countries?”

  He nodded.

  “The SEC?”

  “Clueless.”

  “Says who?”

  “My people on the inside.”

  “You trust them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I pay them much more than the SEC.”

  She blinked real slow, like a lizard.

  “Besides,” Bennett continued, “our global process is far too dispersed and fragmented to be detected. Too many buyers from too many countries over too
many months. SEC computers haven’t red-flagged anything! And if they do, our IT insiders will quickly de-flag it!”

  She coughed, dabbed her lips with a handkerchief stained with phlegm. “Anticipated profits… ?”

  “Very good news! Much higher than I anticipated.” He handed her a piece of paper with the terrific profit picture.

  Bennett watched her eyes scan down the long column of numbers to the bottom line, a figure much higher than she was expecting. She stared at the number, lizard-blinked again, then bent her lips in a rare smile. But the smile split her cracked lip and spilled a fresh drop of blood onto the paper. She looked down at the blood as though Bennett had somehow caused it and shoved the paper back to him.

  What a bitch! No ‘job well done, Simon.’ Just take your bloody paper back!

  “Everything depends on Brussels,” she whispered, holding her handkerchief to her lip.

  “I understand.”

  “And this man, Katill?”

  “The best in the world. He’s eluded the police for fifteen years. They have no idea where he is, who he is, or what he looks like. He’s never failed.”

  “He better not for what I’m paying him.”

  Bennett nodded.

  Karlottah Wickstrom turned and stared out the window at the blue Caribbean. “So, I won’t hear from you until after Brussels.”

  “No. Not unless something — ”

  “Nothing will go wrong, will it, Mr. Bennett?” she said, her voice surprisingly hard.

  “No.”

  “My investments with your financial institutions amount to over twelve billion, do they not?”

  He nodded, sensing her usual threat coming.

  “If Medusa fails,” Wickstrom continued, “I will remove the entire amount. Do you understand, Mr. Bennett?”

  “Yes.” He hated groveling to the old bitch. But for his sixty-eight million dollar payday he could grovel like a politician on Election Day.

  “One last thing,” Wickstrom whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “When this Katill completes his Brussels assignment – terminate him!”

  “I’m not sure anyone can find - ”

  “Terminate him!”