G 8

by Mike Brogan

  “We will avenge the murder of Osama Bin Laden and our other Al Qaeda leaders!”

  Stahl paused, letting the suspense build.

  “We shall assassinate their leaders!”

  “Which leaders?”

  “The G8 leaders at the Summit in Brussels.”

  Their mouths fell open.

  “But a Saudi minister is attending,” Yusef said.

  “The man is a traitor to Islam!” Stahl said. “Has he not helped the great Satan – America?”

  The brothers nodded.

  “Has he not often refused to contribute funds to our sacred jihadist causes?”

  They nodded again.

  “Does he not deserve death?”

  “Yes!” the brothers said with anger.

  “Where shall we strike?” Ahmed asked.

  Stahl spread a map out and pointed to a spot. “Here.”

  Again, their eyes widened in shock.

  For the next twenty minutes Stahl explained his plan. He showed them how in the highly unlikely scenario that one attack was stopped, the backup plan, the second sword, would smite their archenemies.

  When he finished, they stared at him. He could feel their admiration, perhaps adoration.

  “It’s brilliant,” Yusef said. “But how did you learn about the – ”

  Stahl held up his hand. “Better if you don’t know.”

  Yusef nodded. “But how will we escape? There will be thousands of police.”

  “We will escape as police. I will bring your uniforms to your Brussels apartment. After our attack, we’ll drive to Montpellier, France. From there we’ll be flown to Iran.”

  Stahl handed Yusef a thick envelope. “This will more than cover your expenses for the next two days.”

  Yusef fanned the twenty thousand euros inside and smiled. “You are too kind, Valek. We thank you.”

  Stahl nodded and stood. “Here are the keys to your Brussels apartment. I will meet you there.”

  Stahl embraced them and left.

  Outside, he walked back toward his apartment, knowing he could rely on the brothers. They were religious fanatics, who more than once had confessed their willingness to fight and die as martyrs for the cause.

  As he walked down an alley, he heard scuffling behind him. Turning, he saw a building demolition site of partial walls and stacks of rubble.

  Behind one wall, a large German construction worker with a tool belt slung over a large beer gut was kicking something on the ground. Stahl heard a gasp.

  He walked closer and saw the worker was kicking a young, dark-skinned boy, maybe eleven. The boy was jackknifed in a defensive prenatal curl.

  “Arabische Scheiße! Verlassen Sie Deutschland! Arab shit… get out of Germany!” the big German shouted, kicking the young boy’s face.

  As the German prepared to kick the side of his head – Stahl moved with blinding speed, delivering a karate-kick to the back of the man’s neck, smashing vertebrae. The big man collapsed, writhing in pain and gasping for breath.

  Stahl lifted the bloody, stunned boy to his feet and told him to never return to the site. When Stahl saw his shabby clothes, he took out his wallet, and handed three hundred Euros to the young boy. The kid stared at the enormous amount of money, then weeping, kissed Stahl’s hand and limped away, saying, “Alhamdulillah! Praise Allah!”

  Stahl looked around and was satisfied that the rubble and walls had prevented anyone from seeing his attack.

  “You bastard!” the fat German wheezed from the ground, his face contorted in pain. “I can’t move my legs!”

  “You won’t need them.”

  Stahl reached down and snapped the man’s neck like a stalk of celery. The racist pig would die from asphyxia within three minutes.

  One less Arab hater, Stahl thought as he strolled away.

  He’d learned about Arab haters early in life. His mother taught him. Even though she told him that Arab-hating Israelis had killed her parents, Stahl learned later that her parents had actually abandoned her when she was two.

  She met Stahl’s father, a teenage deserter from Rommel’s Afrika Korps, in a Beirut brothel. She was looking for money. He was looking for sex. Soon, their mutual hatred of Israel and its supporters bound them together in ways love never could.

  Young Valek simply accepted their hatred until one day when he was nine. On that day, their hatred became his. And it brought new meaning to his life. Hatred became his reason to live.

  He’d been playing hide and seek with his young sister in the garden of their home in a southern Lebanese village. He’d walked up the hill in front of the house pretending to look for Bathshira, even though he knew she was hiding in the bushes near the house.

  Then he heard something.

  A deafening roar…

  He looked up – something was streaking across the sky toward his house.

  Bathshira, terrified, ran from the bushes toward him. One second later everything exploded in blinding white light. He was hurled backward, felt his body and head slam against the large boulders, felt warm blood trickle down his neck, felt his eyes close.

  Seconds later, they opened and he sat up, disoriented.

  Looking up, he saw two Israeli jets soaring south.

  “Why?” he shouted at them.

  He turned toward his house.

  Gone!

  Only parts of walls and stone remained. He ran toward the rubble, tripping over something.

  A small bloody leg. His sister’s. Just her leg.

  He found the rest of her several feet away, saturated in more blood. Her eyes stared vacantly into the blazing sun. He bent down and took her hand. He begged her to wake up, but she would not.

  He placed his ear on her bloody chest, but heard no heartbeat. Screaming for his parents, he ran toward the house.

  He squeezed between slabs of fallen walls and smoldering roof, looking for his mother.

  Tears streamed from his eyes, strange cries roared from his throat. Then he saw her – pinned under massive chunks of concrete. The concrete had crushed her chest and head. Blood gushed from her mouth.

  “Ummi, ehkee ya ummi… ” Speak, momma…

  She would not speak. She would not blink her eyes. She would not breathe. Flies crawled into her mouth. He hated the flies. He tried to lift the concrete off her but couldn’t. He hated being small and weak. He saw her bloody amber prayer beads and pried them from her burned hand.

  Who would take care of him?

  Baba would! Where was Papa? He could wake momma. He ran toward the workshop rooms where his father had been. He was not there.

  Papa escaped! He’d heard the planes and got away!

  Stahl stepped over a slab of concrete and saw a bloody hand. On the wrist, his father’s watch.

  “Vater!”

  The hand jerked.

  He’s alive!

  Stahl bent down and tried to lift the heavy concrete, but couldn’t. He scrambled to the other side of the slab and saw his father’s eyes staring back at him. And blinking!

  “Vater, vater!”

  His father wheezed in German. “Versprechen emir etwas, Valek.” Promise me, something.

  “Ja, vater!”

  “Töten Sie die, die dies gemacht haben!”

  “Yes, papa, yes I will kill those who did this.”

  “Promise me, Valek.”

  Valek nodded as blood spilled from his father’s mouth.

  “Ich verspreche Sie, vater! I promise, papa. Please don’t close your eyes like momma, please don’t! I promise you, papa… just don’t close…”

  His father’s eyes did not close… but they froze wide open… and then the light in them went away.

  SIXTEEN

  Maccabee settled into her plush, comfortable first class British Airways seat. She couldn’t believe how spacious, roomy and luxurious it felt. Her usual tourist seat felt like a highchair.

  The seat next to hers was empty, as were the seats across from her. Three rows ahead, a skinny m
iddle-aged man worked on his laptop.

  Then a large, muscular man with a heavy satchel walked on and sat down two rows behind her across the aisle. Earlier, in the departure lounge, she’d caught his dark eyes staring at her every few minutes. He’d made her feel uncomfortable.

  Now, as he buckled his seat belt, he shot another glance at her.

  Her suspicion cranked up a few notches.

  “Something to drink?” the young, blonde stewardess asked.

  “Sounds great,” Maccabee said, still shaken from the attack in the apartment. “Vodka, please.”

  “How would you like that?”

  “Enormous.”

  The stewardess smiled, and returned quickly with a large vodka. Maccabee thanked her, took a sip and leaned back. The alcohol tasted great. She took another sip.

  Minutes later, the 747 hurled itself down the runway and soared into the sky.

  No turning back now, she realized. She was in a cloak-and-dagger scenario, one she was ill prepared for. But Donovan had said she’d be safer in Brussels and she trusted his judgment. She hoped she wasn’t a burden for him and could help with new Sumerian translations there. He’d said her translations could give them vital information. Her father, she knew, would want her to help.

  She glanced back at the large man. Again, he was peering at her over his magazine. When she noticed the title of the magazine, she stopped breathing. Soldier of Fortune. An assassin’s bible. Mandatory reading for hitmen.

  She told herself to relax. Donovan had told her there was an armed air marshal on the flight. And each passenger had been frisked, Xrayed, semi-undressed and practically fondled by TSA Security personnel. Still, a Nigerian’s underpants almost blew up a Detroit flight. And some guy recently breezed through TSA airport screening with a concealed weapon.

  She looked back at the passenger. He was still reading. No way he could have brought a weapon aboard.

  Unless… he was the air marshal.

  But wait – what if he was a fake air marshal sent to kill her?

  She was slipping into Paranoidville and knew she had to stop. She gulped down more vodka and told herself to relax. She remembered her friend, Marilyn, had given her an Ambien to help with jet lag. She took it from her purse and washed it down with more Vodka. Probably a bad combination, but hey, she needed to chill out and sleep now.

  Moments later, she yawned and listened to the soft drone of the engines. Soon, her eyelids grew heavy, very heavy… and very closed.

  A loud thud jolted her awake!

  Bird strike? Terrorist?

  She looked around. Everyone seemed calm. Then she realized she’d heard the landing gear lock into place.

  Had she just slept over five hours?

  She had, she realized, as she looked out the window saw London, a city she loved. The emerald grass and Serpentine Lake of Hyde Park slid by, then Big Ben and Parliament. It amazed her how much of America’s values and culture emerged from this revered chunk of land.

  She remembered the assassin, Mr. Soldier of Fortune, a few rows behind her. She turned and looked.

  Sleeping, and drooling on his magazine.

  They landed at Heathrow Airport where Donovan’s friend, a British Intelligence agent named Nigel whisked her through VIP Customs and minutes later into the lobby of the airport Holiday Inn.

  As Nigel registered her under his name, a tall young man in a business suit walked past her. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She actually gasped out loud, leaned against the counter and whispered, “Andrew!”

  The man’s similarity was beyond shocking. The man was Andrew’s clone.

  Andrew Pierce. She flashed back to the graduate school party where they met. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he strummed folk songs on his scuffed-up Gibson guitar.

  She spent the next few hours chatting with him, laughing with him, dancing with him. By the end of the party she was wondering about spending her life with him. They began dating, grew serious, and six months later were planning to marry after graduation. Everything was perfect.

  Except the arterial walls in Andrew’s brain. Over the years, a congenitally thin wall had slowly ballooned into a small aneurysm, then into a larger one.

  Six months before their wedding, he was exercising in his apartment. Perhaps, he’d tried a few extra pushups, or lifted heavier weights. Whatever it was, the extra effort increased his blood pressure and sent blood pounding against the weakened arterial wall.

  Pounding too hard….

  The aneurysm exploded, destroying brain tissue.

  Late that night his roommate found him on the floor. Dead.

  She had never known such pain, almost dropped out of school, but didn’t because he wouldn’t want her to. For weeks, she visited his grave and spent hours talking to him, thanking him for their brief, but cherished, memories together.

  Over the next three years, she didn’t socialize much. A few dates. Nice guys. Not going anywhere. Not Andrew. Even today, she didn’t date much, still held back, afraid of committing to a serious relationship, knowing she couldn’t withstand that kind of pain and loss again.

  Sometimes she wondered if Andrew had been the one true love of her life.

  Her thoughts shifted to Donovan Rourke, awaiting her in Brussels. His courage, honesty and intelligence reminded her in some ways of Andrew.

  But Donovan also had an illness, a lingering sadness, a malaise that at times seem to drain all emotion from his eyes. And she knew why. The horrific murder of his wife had killed a part of him, and damaged him, perhaps forever.

  * * *

  The following morning at Brussels International Airport, Maccabee was met by an associate of Donovan’s, a tall handsome man with thick, brown hair named Marcel de Paepe.

  Twenty minutes later, Marcel escorted her into the luxurious lobby of the Amigo Hotel and over to the elevator. He explained that she was already checked in under a male alias, Mr. Antoine Charbonneau. The manager walked over, introduced himself and handed her a message.

  Maccabee,

  Welcome. Jean de Waha and I are out

  for a while. If you need anything just ask the

  hotel manager, or Marcel. A guard will be

  outside your room at all times. If you feel up

  to it, please join Jean and me in the Amigo

  bar at 7 this evening, and then for dinner. If

  not, just leave word at the desk.

  I’m relieved you are here.

  Donovan

  I’m relieved I’m here, too.

  Marcel escorted her upstairs to her room, where he introduced her to her security guard, a large, powerfully built man named Theo, sitting outside her door.

  “Nice to meet you, Mister Charbonneau,” Theo said to her.

  She laughed. “Nice to meet you, Theo.”

  She went inside, unpacked and began translating the new NSA intercept she’d received via email from Donovan’s colleague.

  This message was longer and the Sumerian logograms looked much more complicated.

  Something clicked loudly behind her. She turned, saw nothing, then continue working.

  Seconds later, she heard the clicking again.

  It came from the door connecting her room to the room next to hers.

  She noticed the locked dead bolt knob was slowly turning, unlocking the door. Concerned, she stood and prepared to run out into the hall and tell Theo.

  Slowly, the connecting door opened.

  “Oh… you in room already?” said a small woman housekeeper. “Guard ask me to double-lock door. Is okay?”

  “Yes,” Maccabee said, breathing out.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Fit for a King!” Jean de Waha said.

  But is it safe for the King… and his guests, the world’s most powerful leaders? Donovan wondered, as he gazed around the interior of the massive Palais Royale, the official palace of the King and Queen of Belgium. He’d always marveled at the massive neo-classical palace and considered it to be on
e of the most striking royal residences in Europe.

  Now, Jean and he had to make it the safest residence in Europe.

  “This is the Throne Room,” said Georges Lafleur, de Waha’s Deputy Director in the Security Intelligence Division. “We’ll host the G8 leaders’ state dinner here.”

  Donovan knew and liked Lafleur. The tall, muscular man with thick blond hair and blue eyes was an ex-soccer star who became a highly skilled anti-terrorist operative.

  The Throne Room was enormous. It measured 150 feet by 87 feet with gleaming shades of parquet woods on the floor, Rubens on the walls, red drapes on the windows, and lavish gold leaf trim everywhere else. But what riveted Donovan’s attention most hung from the ceiling – eleven crystal chandeliers the size of lunar landing modules.

  “In America we have a name for places like this,” Donovan said.

  “Motel 6?” Lafleur said.

  Donovan laughed. “Museums.”

  De Waha smiled. “Hey, like Mel Brooks said, ‘it’s good to be the King!’”

  “Mel’s right,” a deep voice said behind them.

  Donovan turned and was shocked to see Albert II, the ex-King of Belgium, smiling and walking toward them with an entourage.

  “Your Excellency,” de Waha said, “what a pleasant surprise. Permit me to introduce my American colleague, Donovan Rourke.”

  King Albert smiled. “I’ve met Mr. Rourke before. In Bruges, a few years ago. A boring diplomatic function, as I recall.”

  “That’s right, your Excellency. It’s nice to see you again.” He remembered him as a smart, friendly, respected and beloved monarch.

  “And it’s good to see you, Mr. Rourke.”

  They shook hands.

  “So tell me, Donovan, is our humble abode here safe?”

  “Safe as our Fort Knox, your Excellency.”

  King Albert smiled. “Minus the gold, of course.”

  “Well… yes.”

  “You know, the Nazis stole ours. Over $220 million worth of gold bars. Stamped little Swastikas on them. Used the gold to pay for their war.”

  “So I heard.”

  An aide whispered in the King’s ear.

  “I must go. Asparagus farmers are storming the palace gates! What’s a king to do? If you need anything, let me know.”