G 8

by Mike Brogan

  “Did you talk to Rutten?” de Waha said.

  “No. He’s dead. Died around eleven or so last night.”

  De Waha shook his head. “Cause of death?”

  Vogler shrugged. “No signs of a struggle. He was eighty-seven and in bad health. Maybe heart attack or stroke.”

  “Maybe Stahl,” Donovan said, pointing to Maccabee’s translation. ‘Medusa maker will perish.’

  Werner Vogler nodded. “We found Rutten’s secret underground laboratory. Very sophisticated. He could make anything, explosives, biological and chemical weapons. In one part of the lab we actually got a reading for radioactive material!”

  Could this get any worse? Donovan wondered.

  “Jesus!” de Waha said, shaking his head.

  “Any evidence that links Rutten to Stahl or the G8?” Donovan asked.

  “Not yet. But we’re still looking. My gut says it’s only a matter of time before we find a link.”

  “Meanwhile,” de Waha said, “we’re distributing a computer-aged photo of Stahl to all police throughout Belgium.”

  “And all hotels, restaurants, and bars,” Donovan added.

  “We’re also trying to put his photo in our national papers, and on television.”

  “Trying… ?” Donovan said, surprised it wasn’t already in the works. “What’s the hold up?”

  De Waha’s face reddened and Donovan could see that his friend was frustrated.

  “Certain government officials are terrified a full-blown media and television blitz will unleash a twitter blitz or go viral in a way that will ruin the G8’s image, throw a blanket of panic over the entire Summit.”

  “Would they rather throw blankets over eight dead world leaders?”

  De Waha shrugged with obvious frustration.

  Everyone racked their brains for ways to alert the public about Stahl.

  Donovan noticed a band-aid on Vogler’s finger and had a thought. “Medical emergency.”

  Everyone turned toward him.

  “What emergency?” de Waha said.

  “We say Valek Stahl has been exposed to something highly serious and contagious… maybe Ebola or meningococcal meningitis. We say he needs urgent medical care.”

  “Ebola would cause total panic,” de Waha said. “But meningococcal meningitis will frighten people enough and keep them on the lookout for him. Let’s try it.”

  Donovan nodded. “We tell people, ‘if you see him, don’t get near him, but phone the police immediately.’”

  “I can sell that.”

  “If not, let’s call our friend.”

  “Our friend?”

  “The King.”

  “Good idea.” De Waha glanced at his watch and stood. “Okay everyone, let’s reconvene at breakfast.”

  They walked out of the bar and boarded the elevator. De Waha got off at his floor and the elevator headed on up.

  Donovan turned toward Maccabee. “Yet again I’ll deliver you to your trusty guard.”

  “Yet again I thank you.”

  The doors opened, and they walked slowly down the hall toward her room. He saw Theo, who looked up from his newspaper.

  “Any trouble?” Donovan asked.

  “Just a couple of axe-wielding ninjas.”

  Donovan and Maccabee smiled.

  He turned to her. “Thanks to your translation, we now know Stahl has a team here. And we may know his weapon maker. Knowing this helps a lot, Maccabee. And we’re reviewing videos of people picking up faxes at Bibliotheque Royale de Belgique and the Mid Manhattan Library. The fax time-stamps may help us identify who picked it up and then the sender in Dusseldorf.”

  “I’ll sleep better if it does.”

  “You’ve gotta be jet-lagged.”

  “I am.”

  “Sleep well. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

  When she nodded, he noticed her eyes, like liquid jade in the chandelier lights.

  “Maccabee, I must confess.”

  “Please do….”

  “You’re the only woman I’ve said goodnight to outside her hotel room twice on the same night.”

  She smiled. “How many inside their hotel rooms?”

  “Sixty-seven.”

  She laughed.

  “Good night, Ms. Singh.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

  “I feel deprived.”

  “Did I hear depraved?”

  “Deprived!”

  “But why?”

  “We’re in Belgium.”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant.

  “One kisses the cheeks three times.”

  “Ahhh… how culturally insensitive, especially of an urbane sophisticate like me.” He leaned forward and kissed her left cheek, then her right, then her left.

  “Well done. And Donovan, one more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Letting me help means more to me than you realize.”

  He nodded. And you mean more to me than I realized. “You’re welcome, Maccabee. See you at breakfast.”

  Donovan walked down the hallway concerned about what the hell was going on in his head, or was it his heart… which seemed to have a mind of its own.

  What am I getting myself into – and why now of all times – when I should be focused on stopping an assassin!

  Not starting a relationship.

  TWENTY TWO

  In the housekeeping room down the hall from Maccabee Singh’s hotel room, Benoit Broutafache sucked in his beer belly so he could button the room service jacket… a jacket he’d borrowed from a waiter now lying unconscious, gagged and tied up in a nearby closet. The waiter would wake up in about three hours.

  Earlier, Benoit had watched Singh walk through the lobby with Rourke and de Waha, then go up to a hotel conference room. Later, she returned to her room, but a short time after that, she came out again and the big guard escorted her downstairs to the Amigo Bar.

  Now, finally, she was back in her room.

  Just in time for room service.

  He grabbed the passkey he’d taken from the waiter, then straightened the silverware and food trays on the service trolley. He slid his suppressed Glock beneath the big linen napkins near the silver dome food cover. Beneath the cover was the cheeseburger and french fries the waiter had been delivering to another room.

  Benoit rolled the service trolley out into the hallway, turned the corner and saw her guard still reading a newspaper. If the guard gave him any trouble, he’d pump a quiet slug into the guy’s skull and drag him into her room.

  Benoit pushed the trolley down to her door and put on his happy face.

  “Some people sure eat late,” Benoit said, smiling at the guard.

  “This room ordered food?”

  “Yeah. Miss Singh ordered about fifteen minutes ago. Cheeseburger and french fries. Probably American. Here’s the order.”

  He showed the guard the waiter’s order sheet he’d written up for Singh’s room number, then lifted the chrome lid and showed him the cheeseburger and fries.

  The guard studied the order and food, still looking puzzled.

  “Okay,” the guard said, “But I have to frisk you first.”

  “No problem.”

  The guard frisked him, found nothing, then paused as though still concerned about something. Then he nodded for him to go ahead.

  Benoit rolled the trolley toward the door.

  “Oh… just one question,” the guard said.

  “Yeah?”

  “How’d you know the person in there was Ms. Singh?”

  Benoit scrambled for an answer. “Oh, the cook told me.”

  “But this room is booked to a Mr. Antoine Charbonneau.”

  “Who… ?”

  Benoit inched toward his Glock. “All I know is what the cook told me. Ms. Singh musta mentioned her name when she ordered.”

  The guard stared hard at him for a moment, then nodded.

  Benoit rolled the trolley to the door, picked up the passkey.

  “Wa
it….”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I need a closer look at your service cart.”

  “No problem.”

  Actually, it’s a big ass problem.

  Benoit turned and lifted the serving cover to show the cheeseburger again. His right hand eased beneath the napkins and gripped his Glock. Time to wax the Rent-A-Cop!

  Benoit spun around to shoot him - and felt cold steel jammed into his own cheek – the steel of a fucking Beretta! Benoit felt his cheek quiver.

  “Hand me your gun,” the guard said.

  Benoit paused.

  “The gun, asshole!”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay, man.” Benoit nodded, sweat beading on his forehead. “You win! You win!”

  Acting defeated, Benoit let his body go limp and started to hand over his gun, handle first.

  As the guard reached for it, Benoit spun the barrel toward the guard’s face and squeezed the trigger. But the guard had nudged the barrel upward, sending the silenced bullet into the ceiling.

  As they wrestled for control of Glock, the guard’s Beretta fell on the carpet.

  Got your ass now! Benoit thought.

  But when he tried to push him back, the big guard slammed him back against the wall.

  The guard was no rent-a-cop! He was scary strong. Who is this guy?

  Then somehow the guard managed to slide his finger behind Benoit’s trigger so he couldn’t even squeeze it.

  The powerful guard began to twist the barrel back toward Benoit.

  Benoit tried to turn the barrel back, but couldn’t. The guy was too strong.

  He tried to turn the barrel up, but only got as far as his own ear.

  He tried again… squeezing hard.

  Nothing.

  Then he squeezed with everything he had.

  A big fucking mistake!

  Because the guard had jerked his finger out from behind the trigger… and Benoit couldn’t stop himself from squeezing it!

  As his head snapped back, Benoit realized he’d just shot himself in the temple! He slumped to the floor and looked up at the large chandelier. It was very bright.

  And then, everything faded away.

  * * *

  Donovan and de Waha looked down at the corpse of Benoit Broutafache as Theo explained what happened.

  Donovan’s fears about Maccabee’s safety raced through him again. Whoever was behind the assassination plot would do anything to keep her from translating other Sumerian messages. And they knew she was in Brussels.

  And knew she was in this hotel.

  And they wanted her dead.

  Which meant there were other coded messages out there. Messages that might reveal how, when and where the assassination attempt would take place, and maybe who was bankrolling Katill and his team.

  “Did Maccabee come out into the hall?” Donovan asked.

  “No. She apparently slept through everything.”

  “You’re sure she’s okay?”

  Theo nodded. “This guy’s Beretta had a silencer. It happened very quickly and quietly. She also told me she was turning on her white-noise machine to drown out hallway and street sounds. Help her sleep.”

  Donovan nodded. “Let’s post additional guards on this floor.”

  “Done!” de Waha said, pointing to four guards he’d just ordered to both ends of the hall.

  De Waha and Donovan walked back to the elevators.

  “Go sleep,” de Waha said.

  Donovan nodded, but knew he’d sleep little. He’d promised Maccabee greater safety in Brussels, and all he’d done was nearly get her killed.

  They’d missed her this time.

  But they would come at her again.

  TWENTY THREE

  Stahl drove his Renault rental van to meet his team, Yusef and his brothers, near the Gare du Midi train station.

  It warmed his heart to see Allah’s chosen people walking the city streets. Muslim men, women and children, many dressed in traditional Middle-Eastern clothing. He saw two women wearing gossamer thin face veils, defying Belgium’s non-burka, no-face-veil law. Brave women. He was proud of them.

  The city’s Muslim population had grown to seventeen percent and was growing just as fast in most European cities. A fact that delighted Stahl… and, of course, terrified the historically indigenous Europeans.

  Stahl loved numbers. And numbers didn’t lie.

  For every non-Muslim baby born in Europe, there were eight Muslim babies born in Europe. And because of the eight-to-one birth rate advantage, estimates were that nearly half the boys born in certain European cities were named Mohammad.

  Muslims make lots of babies. Like Catholics in the old days.

  Stahl smiled at the thought. By 2030, we will control Europe… And, then, it’s only a matter of time. First Western Europe, then Eastern Europe and Russia.

  And finally we will conquer The Great Satan – America! In the USA, the Muslim birth rate is six percent versus the anemic two percent for all other Americans.

  “Wake up, America!” he whispered. “You’ve got a big Trojan Horse in your midst! Muslims! And we’re growing bigger every day.”

  Stahl parked in front of a gray brick apartment building and checked to see if anyone had followed him. No one had. He grabbed a large travel bag, got out and entered the building. He walked down a dark hallway that smelled like cat urine and beer and stuck to the soles of his shoes.

  Perhaps he should have rented a nicer apartment for the brothers, but he wanted them hidden in a low rent flat where they fit in and would not draw attention to themselves.

  He knocked on door A 2. The peephole slid open and a dark luminous eye peered out at him. The door clicked open and Yusef, smiling, ushered him inside.

  “Welcome, Valek.”

  Stahl nodded and unzipped the hanger travel bag. “These are your Brussels Police uniforms. The large one, the one with the shoulder bars is yours Yusef. The two shorter uniforms are for your brothers. My uniform is at my apartment.”

  “Excellent,” Yusef said, as he hung the navy blue uniforms in a hall closet. “Come, take coffee with us and we’ll update you.”

  Stahl followed Yusef into the living room. Ahmed and Iram hurried over and everyone sat around a small Formica table. Yusef poured cups of Arab coffee, its fragrant scent of cardamom reminding Stahl of the last morning his mother brewed her rich, delicious coffee… the morning the Israeli rockets killed her.

  Stahl sipped coffee and it tasted delicious. He nodded for Yusef to begin his report.

  “Everything is in place and ready.”

  Stahl nodded. “Problems?”

  “None.”

  For the next twenty minutes Yusef explained how they’d followed Stahl’s instructions to the letter. They’d taken their large cases to the Arab food shop two blocks from the Grand Place. The shop owner led them down to his basement crawl space that opened into the ancient walled-up sewer that hadn’t been used in decades. The shop owner removed a few loose concrete blocks from the sewer wall. The brothers stepped through the sewer wall opening and carried their cases down the bone dry sewer one hundred yards to a small door that opened onto a cellar of an ancient four-story building on the Grand Place.

  In the Grand Place building, they’d climbed up to the third floor and entered room 3C, where they moved a massive armoire aside. Behind the armoire was a door. They opened it and carried their cases inside the hidden alcove room. Then they’d walked to the alcove window and looked down at the Grand Place below. Specifically, they’d looked at the wooden grandstand directly beneath them.

  The grandstand where the leaders would soon sit.

  Yusef also explained how they’d rehearsed the attack until their movements were fluid.

  Exactly as I directed, Stahl thought, pleased with their work.

  “Excellent, Yusef. I will meet you in the room just before the Grand Place ceremony begins.”

  “Insha’Allah, we will change the world!” Yusef said.

  �
�Allah wills it!” Stahl said.

  The group all clasped hands.

  Stahl pointed to a spot on the map. “Afterward, wearing our police uniforms, we’ll walk to a dark blue Mercedes van at this location.” He pointed to a spot a few blocks north of the Grand Place. “The van will have three Daffy Duck decals on the corner of driver’s side windshield. We will be driven to Montpellier in southern France. There, a man will fly us to Teheran. Questions?”

  There were none.

  “Let’s synchronize,” Stahl said. On his signal, the brothers set the U.S. Special Ops titanium wristwatches he’d given them.

  Stahl finished his coffee, stood and they walked to the door.

  Again, he praised them for their work, left and drove back to his apartment.

  Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the apartment carrying the pine case containing the late Herr Rutten’s final masterpiece. Stahl was wearing a uniform he’d taken from the home of a local man eight months ago. The man’s body and suicide note were found a few days later when he washed up on the shore of the Scheldt River.

  Stahl placed the pine case in a rental van and drove off.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Stahl returned with the pine case empty. He took off the uniform, dressed in his regular clothes and flipped on the television. CNN International showed the G8 leaders at the Royal Palace, chatting as they walked through the gardens, smelling the red, yellow and blue flowers.

  Smell the flowers why you can…

  He walked to the bay window and looked outside. Thick gray rain clouds had pushed in. Gusty winds swayed the Dutch elms. He breathed in deep and let it out. The most important assignment of his life was at hand and everything was ready. Yet he felt oddly restless. Perhaps it was the magnitude of his task, or the excitement of his imminent revenge.

  Whatever it was, he needed to ease the tension creeping into his muscles. Perhaps a long walk would help. He put on his windbreaker and sunglasses, left the apartment and headed toward nearby Boulevard du Midi. Fat drops of rain began to splash onto the grey sidewalk, turning it into black slate.