G 8

by Mike Brogan

  Just ahead, he saw a neon sign for Albert & Lucienne’s, a small bar. He entered the busy tavern and smelled fried food and cigars. At the long mahogany bar, several men watched a soccer game on a large television. In the corner, young men threw darts. Stahl sat on a barstool.

  The redheaded, mustached bartender walked up and Stahl ordered a beer and a croque monsieur: melted cheese with chicken instead of ham. Not eating swine was one of the few Muslim restrictions he still followed. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps his mother’s mandate that he never eat pork.

  Three stools down, a skinny guy attacked a huge pile of boeuf americain, raw ground beef with onions. Oddly, he’d never seen an American eat boeuf americain, probably because Americans were afraid to try things they didn’t understand… which, of course, was most things in life.

  The bartender served his beer, a De Koninck amber. Stahl sipped some and realized how much he liked Belgian beer. He also liked the country. Of course, the G8 assassinations would damage its image forever. Damage well deserved, he felt, since Belgium had sided with America and its puppet democracies too many times over the decades.

  Perfume suddenly filled his nostrils. In the mirror, he watched a young woman walk behind him, then sit on the stool beside him. She smiled and leaned close.

  “You are a visitor here, no?” she asked in good English, somehow guessing, probably by his clothes, that he wasn’t Belgian.

  “Yes.”

  She brushed her fingers along his bicep as he sipped his beer. “Your muscle is huge,” she said, rubbing her arm against his. She fingered some foam from his beer and licked it off.

  He gestured for her to take the beer. She did and thanked him. He ordered another De Koninck and she scooted her stool closer, resting her thigh against his.

  “So where are you from?” she asked.

  Her hand brushed his knee.

  “Denmark.”

  “You have business in Brussels?”

  He nodded.

  “What kind of business?”

  He paused. “People business.”

  “You mean like… personnel work?”

  Stahl liked the analogy. “Yeah. You could say we’re making some personnel changes.”

  He studied her. Very attractive face and figure. Alluring blue eyes, nicely applied makeup that didn’t quite hide the two-inch scar on her chin. Plump, red lips. Big gold banana earrings that drew attention away from her natural beauty.

  “I’m kinda in the personnel business, too.” She pressed her breast against his arm.

  Stahl noticed her glass was nearly empty. “Another beer?”

  “I’d like that. And anything else you might suggest.” Another naughty girl smile.

  Stahl ordered two more beers, and the bartender served them. She drank some, brushed his thigh again and left her hand there.

  “So, are you staying near here?” she asked.

  “Around the corner.”

  He looked at her for a few moments. Why not have a little fun, relieve his tension? Everything was set. All he had to do was lie low until it was time. Why not lie low with her? She might even provide him with an alibi should he need one.

  They drank beer for a while.

  “Maybe we could go there now,” she said, “Your body is so, ah… masculine! But you seem a little tense Perhaps you need a little comfort?”

  Perhaps you’re right.

  Her hand brushed against his crotch

  “What’s your name?”

  “Camille. What’s yours?”

  “Thomas.”

  Stahl paid and they left.

  Outside, they stepped into a heavy mist. The wet sidewalk glistened now and looked as slick as polished black marble. Raindrops had pooled in the sunken stones.

  * * *

  As Camille and the stranger left Albert & Lucienne’s Bar, the bartender, Albert Hellings, walked down the bar to pour another Glenfiddich for old Henri.

  As Hellings reached for the bottle, the TV sportscaster said they were interrupting the soccer game for a news bulletin.

  Hellings poured the whiskey, but missed seeing something one foot above his head, a news bulletin that showed the face of the man… a man he’d served beer to minutes ago.

  TWENTY FOUR

  One block over from Albert & Lucienne’s Bar, Stahl led Camille through his apartment door, making sure no one saw them enter. He shut the door and locked it.

  He walked to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two tumblers. He filled them and handed her one. They sipped a healthy sip some and relaxed on the sofa. The overhead lights accented her natural blonde hair and innate beauty.

  “Your French is Parisian,” he said.

  “Pigalliane.”

  Stahl knew the Pigalle, a touristy section of Paris known for its trendy cafes, restaurants, Moulin Rouge type nightclubs, sex clubs and prostitutes who catered to every conceivable sexual orientation and perversion.

  “I left two years ago.”

  “Why?”

  She pointed to the scar on her chin.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Pimp. He enjoys hitting girls.”

  Stahl did not like men who beat women. More than once, he’d beaten men unconscious when he saw them hitting women. On one occasion, he’d beaten the man to death.

  “Where’d you work?”

  “Around the Palais des Congrès.”

  “The hotels?”

  “Yeah. Businessmen. Mostly nice guys. But sometimes, you know, I was sick, or didn’t feel like working. So he beats me! My nose, see – it bends left! The bastard hit it with a wine bottle. The beatings got worse, so I left. Came to Brussels. Work independent now. It’s much better.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Remy DeRachet.”

  Stahl committed the name to memory. “Maybe I’ll chat with Remy next time I’m in Paris.”

  “Be very careful. He’s crazy. Dangerous.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t tell Remy I’m here. I’m afraid he might come up for me.”

  Stahl turned and looked into her eyes. “Remy will never bother you again.”

  She stared back surprised, apparently wondering how he could make such a promise. Then she shrugged.

  “Your parents still in France?”

  Camille looked down a moment, seemed hesitant to answer. “Most guys just want to know what’s between my legs.”

  Stahl shrugged.

  “Never knew my birth father. Mother died when I was nine. Lived with my aunt and uncle. When she died, he took me to his bed. I was eleven. Sale con! I ran away at thirteen. I’m nineteen now. Never been back.”

  Stahl realized that she, like him, had been robbed of a normal childhood.

  He felt a rare emotion, something like sympathy for her, maybe even something more, because the longer he looked at her, the more she reminded him of Zafina, the only woman in his life that he’d felt close to besides his mother. Zafina had natural beauty too, and like Camille had lost both parents early. Growing up in a Palestinian camp taught Zafina to hate the West, but failed to teach her to stay off streets when Israeli rockets were expected, like the one that killed her.

  He looked at Camille. Perhaps after this assignment, he should take her away from all this, maybe to his Caribbean villa. Or maybe give her enough money to get off the streets, live a more normal life.

  She sipped more whiskey. “How long will you stay in Brussels?”

  “Couple days,” he said.

  “Stay longer.” She put her drink down, leaned over and kissed his lips.

  “Can’t.”

  They moved toward the bed, peeling off their clothes. She quickly excited him and he enjoyed exploring her voluptuous young body, even though he saw scars on her back and arms presumably caused by her soon-to-be-dead former pimp, Remy DeRachet.


  Camille and Stahl made love and her responses were strong and seemed genuine. But then, he reminded himself, prostitutes could win Oscars. Still, she seemed genuinely pleased by the intensity of their lovemaking. And he seemed genuinely relaxed.

  After, they lay in silence, listening to the wind and rain rattle the windows.

  “You’re different,” she said.

  “How?

  “I don’t know. But with you, I feel something.”

  He said nothing.

  “Can I see you again soon? No money please.”

  “I’ll be traveling.”

  “Take my phone number for when you’re here again”

  He took her card.

  “Please call me,” she said seriously. “We can be friends, yes?”

  He realized she meant it and nodded, thinking perhaps he’d call her in the future. Perhaps take her to the Caribbean, or set her up with enough money.

  She bounced up from the bed, smiling. He marveled at her exquisite body as she walked over and lit a cigarette. Fate blessed her with beauty – then cursed her with environment.

  Stahl took a thousand Euros from his wallet, placed the money beside her purse, then went into the bathroom.

  * * *

  Camille turned on the television. The screen flickered to a Paris fashion show. She watched the beautiful, long-legged models strut down the runway. Friends often told her she had a model’s body. Do a photo book, they said, show it around, you’ll get hired, make big money. She’d been thinking about doing that. Last week, a photographer had asked her to stop by for a photo session. Maybe she would. She was still young. Many of Europe’s hottest new fashion designers were in Brussels. If it didn’t work out, she could always fall back on her present line of work.

  A news flash interrupted the fashion show. Seconds later, her eyes fixed on the screen.

  On a man’s face.

  Her eyes widened as the announcer said, “Anyone knowing the whereabouts of this man should contact the police immediately. He needs urgent medical attention….”

  The face seemed familiar, she thought, but the eyes, well yes, very familiar, definitely the same eyes. Eyes like no one else.

  I know where the man is!

  She continued staring at the man’s face.

  * * *

  And the man was staring at her.

  From the bathroom, Stahl saw his computer-aged face, but still his face on the television screen.

  He looked at Camille as she looked at the screen. He could tell by her stiff-back posture that she recognized him. But even if she didn’t, she soon would. A most unfortunate turn of events for him.

  And for her….

  He inched silently toward her back, staring at her thin neck… so beautiful.

  I’m very sorry, Camille.

  TWENTY FIVE

  Hans Hellings blinked his eyes again and again. No question about it – the face on television was the same face he looked at across the bar thirty minutes ago. Same black olive pit eyes that burned right through him. Eyes that hurt to look at.

  The announcer said the man was suffering from very serious meningococcal meningitis – the deadly, contagious kind – and needed immediate treatment.

  Did I touch the guy? Do I need immediate treatment?

  No. I didn’t touch him.

  But I touched his money. And his empty beer glass!

  Sweet Jesus - his disease mighta rubbed off on me!

  Hellings rushed to the sink, sprinkled Borax soap powder on his hands, arms and face, scrubbed them pink and rinsed them off. Then, he dumped on more Borax and scrubbed his arms and hands and face again, even harder.

  Nearby, Lucienne, his wife, stared at him like he’d crawled from a latrine.

  “I’ll explain later,” Hellings said as he dialed 911.

  * * *

  Donovan watched the cars ahead pull over, as he, de Waha and Maccabee raced past them in the Mercedes police car. Red lights flashing, the big car bounced over tram tracks and careened around a tight corner, tilting Maccabee into Donovan.

  A most pleasing tilt, he noted.

  Minutes later, the driver stopped in front of Albert & Lucienne’s bar.

  Donovan hoped the bartender had some idea where Stahl went, or maybe saw the car he got into.

  They stepped inside the busy bistro, and Donovan smelled fried food and cigars. Posters of Eddie Merckx, Belgium’s five-time Tour de France winner, Edith Piaf and Humphrey Bogart crammed the walls. The Wurlitzer thumped out Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues.

  “Monsieur Hellings?” de Waha said to the bartender, a large, beer-bellied man with red cheeks and thick auburn-red eyebrows that looked like they were reaching for each other. He seemed nervous.

  “Oui, c’est moi,” Hellings said.

  “Je vous present Mademoiselle Maccabee Singh, et Monsieur Donovan Rourke, mes amis Americains….”

  “Ah, Americans. Let’s speak English,” said Hellings, a Flemish-speaking Belgian, clearly comfortable with English.

  Donovan handed Hellings the age-enhanced photo of Stahl.

  “Is this the man you saw?”

  The bartender’s brow narrowed as he studied the face for several seconds, then pointed to the stool beside Maccabee.

  “On that stool he sits!”

  “You’re certain?” de Waha asked.

  “Yes! Did I catch his meninga… kaka?”

  “No. You’re safe.”

  “But I touched his beer glass and money.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

  “Did he talk to anyone else here?” Donovan asked.

  “Just me… and Camille.”

  “Who’s Camille?”

  He paused. “She comes in sometimes, you know to give conversation and perhaps… ah… companionship to the men. Nice girl. They leave together.” Hellings whispered, “Perhaps they have, you know… a rendezvous. Will Camille catch his meningaka - ?”

  “No, she’s okay. Does Camille live near here?” de Waha asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What was he wearing?” Donovan asked.

  Hellings closed his eyes. “Dark blue shirt, grey pants, and a black jacket that, how you say in English… breaks wind.”

  Maccabee smiled. “A windbreaker.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about his hair?” de Waha asked.

  “Blond-brown. Pushed straight back like this.” Hellings ran his hand back through his springy red hair.

  “Anything about him that stands out?” Donovan asked.

  “Huge arms and shoulders. Big! Big!” The bartender held his hand three inches above his bicep. “Weightlifter muscles. But it’s the eyes – the eyes of de haai - a requin! How you say requin in English?”

  “Shark!” Maccabee said.

  “Yes, yes, shark eyes!”

  “Did you see him get into a car?” Donovan asked.

  “No, but maybe Gio did.” He pointed to a tall handsome man with jet-black hair seated at a window table.

  They walked over and Hellings introduced him as Gio Tartini. A thick cloud of smoke wafted up from the Gauloise drooping from Tartini’s lower lip. He put down the Le Soir sports page.

  “Gio, that man who left with Camille… ”

  “The big guy with a black jacket?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see them get into a car?” de Waha asked.

  “They walked.”

  “Which way?”

  “That way.”

  “Past all those empty parking spots?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Does Camille live in that direction?”

  “No.”

  “I just remembered something,” Hellings said. “I heard the man tell Camille he lives nearby.”

  “So Stahl probably walked to the bar,” Donovan said. “Remember anything else?”

  Tartini shook his head.

  De Waha phoned his Deputy Director, Maurice Sendrowicz, and gave him orders to sta
rt dragneting the surrounding area. Then he hung up and faced Donovan.

  “Police will search from rue de Fleuristes down to rue Haute, and over to Boulevard du Midi. House to house. Hotel to hotel. Fast and quiet. No sirens!”

  Three minutes later two police vans stopped silently in front of the bar. Anti-terrorist teams exited the vans and formed into two groups: Alpha Team and Bravo Team.

  Their quiet arrival was destroyed by two ambulances roaring past the bar, sirens blaring.

  Donovan cursed the sirens, fearing Stahl might mistake them for police sirens.

  * * *

  In his apartment, Stahl was thinking about the large-screen television in the bar. It was on when he and Camille walked toward the door to leave. He remembered the announcer interrupting the soccer match for an important news bulletin. Obviously the bulletin was about him. Many customers were watching the game. One of them or the bartender would have likely seen his picture, possibly recognized him, maybe remembered he’d left with Camille and phoned the police.

  Time to leave. He packed a small bag, then walked over to the large bay window.

  He pulled back the lace curtain an inch and looked out.

  Cops!

  Both sides of the street. Knocking on doors. Working their way toward him. Two minutes from his door.

  * * *

  This is it! Officer Willi De Rycke thought. My big chance!

  He would help collar Valek Stahl and in doing so would earn the promotion that Inspector Mertens planned to give to Alphonse, his thumb-sucking idiot nephew.

  Grabbing Stahl might even earn him a date with Delphine, the cute new red haired dispatcher.

  But Stahl, De Rycke knew, had undoubtedly left the area by now.

  Still, I’ll do my job, check every damn house on this side of the street.

  He walked up to #962 and pounded on the door. Seconds later, an elderly, very heavy-set woman with scraggly gray hair hanging over bloodshot eyes, opened the door. She wore a purple bow in her hair, purple housedress the size of a pup tent. On her feet were purple bunny slippers.

  “I ain’t deaf!” she announced, not the least intimidated by his police uniform.