G 8

by Mike Brogan

  Time to change vehicles.

  Ahead, he saw a forested rest area. He pulled in, looked around and saw the restroom light reflecting onto the fender of the only other vehicle in the area, a silver Opel Insignia. Its windows were steamed up. Someone inside.

  Stahl spun the suppressor onto his Glock. Slowly, he approached the Opel and peered into the back seat. A man was sleeping.

  Stahl knocked on the window and smiled. The man woke up, yawned, rolled down the window a few inches. “Yes… ?”

  Stahl raised his Glock. “Get out of the car!”

  The man, dressed like a middle-aged businessman, paused, then slowly crawled out.

  As Stahl glanced back at the highway, the man suddenly came at him with a switchblade. Stahl side-stepped him and pumped two silenced shots into the idiot’s forehead.

  The man slumped to the ground.

  Stahl removed his wallet and ID, dragged the body into the van and drove it deep in the forest and left it there.

  He walked back, took the big Opel and drove toward Brussels.

  * * *

  In her Amigo Hotel room, Maccabee checked her new dress in the mirror. She thought the crimson dress looked good, maybe a bit naughty. Maybe very naughty. It was low-cut and strapless with bare shoulders and back, but hopefully not too risqué for the royal dinner at the palace.

  Eliane and Carina Van Haver had both assured her it was palace-appropriate and looked fabulous on her.

  Will Donovan like it? she wondered.

  Will he finally look at me as a woman… not just as my dad’s daughter?

  She smiled as she remembered her high-school crush on Donovan. He’d never realized it, thank God. She also remembered the sensitive way he’d talked with her after her mother’s death a few years ago, and again after her father’s death. His eyes, always warm and caring, seemed to listen and speak to her at the same time. Those same eyes, she’d noticed a couple of times today, had dimmed with sadness, as he obviously recalled memories of his wife and her horrific murder here.

  Would he ever get over that loss? Could he? Did anyone ever get over the savage murder or unexpected death of a loved one? She doubted it. They probably just learned to live with it better. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get over the sudden death of her fiancé, David.

  Glancing at her watch, she realized it was time to leave. She grabbed the matching red-lacquered purse, checked herself in the mirror and whispered, “Let’s go boogie with world leaders and important potentates!”

  She stepped into the hall.

  Theo smiled at her. “Ooooh la la… Monsieur Charbonneau! You look very feminine, Monsieur!”

  Maccabee laughed. “Merci, Theo.”

  He escorted her down to the Amigo Hotel lobby.

  Minutes later, she and Donovan, De Waha and his wife, Florian, strolled through the ornate and elegant entrance of the Royal Palace.

  Maccabee was overwhelmed. The Grand Staircase, a majestic ascent of polished white marble steps, was lined with ten tall Palace Guards in white trousers, black coats and tall fur hats. They held long gleaming swords, unsheathed, and looked ready to skewer anyone trying to crash the event.

  “No White House party crashers here,” Maccabee whispered to Donovan.

  “They wouldn’t make it into the parking lot.”

  She looked around at the gilded décor. “Jean, the palace is… spectacular!”

  “Thank you. But the truth is part of it was built by those heathens to the north.”

  “The Dutch?”

  “Yes. But we kicked their butts out in 1830 when we won our independence. Today northern Belgium speaks Dutch or Flemish while the south, the Walloon area, speaks French. And we love to fight each other. But when we’re invaded by Germany, which happens now and then, we unite. When the Krauts get kicked out, we go back to normal.”

  “What’s normal?”

  “Fighting each other like bloody hell.”

  They stopped at a pair of enormous doors. Two guards opened the door and led them inside.

  “Voila! The Throne Room,” de Waha said.

  Maccabee caught her breath. The décor and grandeur were like nothing she’d ever seen. The room was larger than a professional basketball court. She saw mirrors everywhere and made the room seem even larger. The room reminded her of the Palace of Versailles. A small orchestra in the balcony played something by Beethoven.

  Dignitaries and guests stood on a floor made of several shades of gleaming woods. From the ceiling, hung the largest crystal chandeliers she’d ever seen.

  I just stepped into a Merchant Ivory film!

  A waiter offered them flutes of champagne. They each took one.

  Donovan lifted his glass. “May we have even more reason to celebrate tomorrow evening when the leaders, God willing, are flying home!”

  “I’ll drink to that!” de Waha said.

  “You’ll drink to a toilet cleaner sale!” his wife said.

  Everyone laughed, except Donovan, who Maccabee noticed was hurrying over toward a man who was placing a large potted plant next to the leaders’ table.

  Donovan started examining the potted plant closely.

  Maccabee recalled him telling her that a potted plant bomb was disarmed in the lobby of a Jerusalem hotel minutes before it was set to explode.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  The potted plant was only a potted plant. Maccabee was relieved by how thoroughly Donovan and the security officers had checked it and other décor items out.

  Security had also checked out each dinner guest’s hologram-ID card three separate times as they were admitted through increasingly tighter rings of security.

  If Valek Stahl was here, he had inside help from the innermost circle of Summit security.

  Suddenly a trumpet blared, and she, Donovan and over two hundred fifty dinner guests snapped to attention.

  The massive doors of the Throne Room opened and the G8 leaders and their spouses, followed by the King and Queen, looking very elegant, strolled in and walked toward their regal head table. Guests applauded as cameras panned every inch of the gilded grandeur.

  The orchestra eased into Debussy’s cheerful L’Apres-midi d’un faune as white-coated waiters swept into the room with trays of hors d’oeuvres.

  Maccabee hoped Donovan could relax enough to enjoy all the beauty and splendor around him. But he seemed to scrutinize every waiter and guest who approached within ten feet of the head table.

  She looked down at the food on their table: escargots in garlic butter, and petite slices of Ballotine de Faisan. She tried the pheasant and it dissolved in her mouth like cotton candy. She felt like purring.

  “Many say the best French food is in Brussels,” Donovan said to her.

  “They’re wrong.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my mouth.”

  Donovan smiled as de Waha tapped him on the shoulder and stared at him. Something was up.

  “My secretary just called. The informant who said he’d tell us where Stahl will attack just called back.”

  “And?”

  “Before he could tell her where, the line went dead.”

  Maccabee wondered if the line went dead because the informant did.

  “Did she call him back?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes, but no one answered.”

  “So, Stahl could strike here tonight.”

  De Waha nodded.

  Maccabee saw tension grip Donovan’s face once again as he scanned the two hundred fifty guests. Then he looked at the musicians in the small balcony loft, which she realized was a perfect perch for a sniper.

  Everyone seemed like they belonged.

  A waiter placed the main course in front of Maccabee. Saumon a la Genevoise cooked in Madeira wine and butter, and asperges flammandes drenched in more butter and sprinkled with egg, pepper and bacon. The food smelled wonderful.

  So did Donovan’s sandalwood cologne.

  * * *

  In the Knokke board house, Edw
in D’Hondt shouted “Bastards!” at the television announcer who said, “Today’s G8 Summit meetings have been frank and - ”

  “I’ll be frank!” D’Hondt shouted. “You’re interrupting my soccer game with only two minutes to go!” He had ten euros riding on Ostende who were tied with Anderlecht.

  “Assholes! Can’t you wait two minutes? ”

  “Edwin, your language!” Christine said

  D’Hondt gulped down the rest of his scotch. The television screen faded to a photo of a man.

  “And now this: Police are urgently looking

  for this man, Valek Stahl. He has contracted

  meningococcal meningitis. The deadly infection is

  contagious. He needs urgent medical attention…

  if you see him, do not approach him, and please

  call 911 or the police… ”

  Edwin D’Hondt studied the man’s face and eyes for a few seconds. His heart start pounding. He’d seen those eyes.

  Then he grabbed the phone.

  * * *

  Donovan heard the orchestra segue into Glenn Miller’s version of Tuxedo Junction. De Waha and his wife and several other couples got up and began dancing. “Maccabee, would you consider dancing with a federal government employee?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Why not?”

  “I only dance with Cabinet level or above!”

  Laughing, they wove their way through tables and began dancing to the up-tempo music. Donovan enjoyed the dancing and when she smiled up at him, something seemed to melt inside. He knew he’d been growing closer to her each day… make that each hour, feeling the warm shift in their relationship, from the daughter of a friend – to my friend, my very good friend.

  But was he ready for this? Would he ever get over the loss of Emma? And what about Maccabee? Would she ever get over the loss of her fiancé? And how does she feel about me?

  Where would it all end? And why was he feeling all this now, when he should be focused on the most important job in his life - protecting the G8 leaders from the world’s most terrifying assassin…

  Three very pleasant dances later, he watched the leaders stand and leave. He felt enormous relief, as though he’d just tucked a bunch of senior citizens in bed for the night.

  De Waha stood, “Mes amis, we have a very busy day tomorrow. We should retire to our bedchambers.”

  What about Maccabee’s bedchamber? Donovan wondered. How safe was it? How well screened were the hotel housekeepers and room service waiters and maintenance personnel? Had one called in sick and been replaced by a hitman? Had a maid placed something lethal in Maccabee’s room?

  No matter how much security was in place, there was always a chance someone could get through.

  They’d already tried to kill her twice!

  TWENTY NINE

  Jean de Waha walked into his Amigo Hotel room, collapsed in a big chair and let the tension drain from his body.

  He was feeling every minute of his sixty-four years, thanks to the eighteen-hour workdays he’d been chalking up for months preparing for the Summit. And thanks to the lousy four hours sleep per night for the last week.

  This morning, he woke up feeling like he’d run a marathon.

  After tomorrow, he’d relax, take time off, maybe just vegetate and watch old movies, or maybe take his wife Florian for a week in the Seychelles, or maybe ask his anesthesiologist cousin to put him in a restful coma.

  Beside him, his phone vibrated. So who’s about to ruin my night’s sleep?

  “De Waha.”

  “Wim Jacobs.”

  “What’s up, Wim?”

  “Valek Stahl.”

  “Where?”

  “At Christine’s Bed & Breakfast in Knokke. A resident, Mr. Edwin Dhond’t, a retired customs director, saw his picture on television. He’s positive it’s Stahl.”

  “Why?”

  “The eyes.”

  “And… ?”

  “And the man had a Danish passport, but a German accent. Plus, his beard was fake. He also wore sunglasses inside the house at night!”

  “And… ?”

  “Dhond’t found traces of black hair dye on the sink in the man’s room.”

  De Waha sat up, more interested. “And… ?”

  “And even though the guy paid in advance, he jumped from the window of his room and drove away without checking out. Dhond’t is positive it’s Stahl.”

  “Drove away in what?”

  “A gray Renault van.”

  “Bingo!”

  “What?”

  “That matches the gray Renault van that a man fitting Stahl’s description rented from a Eurocar agency here in Brussels.”

  “Gotta be him, Director.”

  “Good chance. How long ago did he disappear?”

  “Sometime in the last three hours. I just put out a bulletin for the van. We’re setting up roadblocks leading back to Brussels.”

  “Good. But he’s probably switched vehicles by now. Check all vehicles stolen within fifty kilometers of Knokke in the last three hours.”

  “Roger that. My gut says he’s heading back to Brussels.”

  “My gut says he’s here.”

  After hanging up, de Waha phoned Donovan who was escorting Maccabee to her room. No answer. De Waha tried his room. No answer. He’d call him later.

  De Waha leaned back in the chair, lit a Cuban Montecristo and exhaled a thick rope of smoke toward the ceiling. Just a week ago, everything was proceeding well. Security was rock solid for all G8 events. They’d reviewed all possible scenarios several times.

  Then everything changed.

  Donovan learned of a very serious, well-financed G8 plot by a man that many experts consider the world’s most lethal assassin. A man who’d killed hundreds of innocent people and avoided global police authorities for fifteen years, a man who left no trace. A man who did not fail.

  And now the bastard plans to destroy my country’s first, and maybe only, G8 Summit. If he succeeds, heads will roll. And mine will roll first. Not exactly how I planned to ride off into my sunset retirement.

  But if you succeed Stahl, I will find you, even in my retirement. I have contacts in your slimy underworld. They owe me favors and will help me find you. And I will bring you to justice, dead or alive.

  Although, I prefer dead.

  De Waha stared out the window. All he wanted was a safe and successful G8 Summit… and that people in other countries realized that Belgium and Brussels were terrific places to visit and vacation.

  He looked up and noticed the yellow halo of light hovering above the Grand Place square. The more he thought about it, the more he agreed with Donovan – the Grand Place was where Stahl would strike. The G8 leaders would soon be sitting on the grandstand. They would be out in the open for thirty minutes. They would be surrounded by thousands of people.

  And they would be surrounded by hundreds of windows.

  An assassin’s dream.

  THIRTY

  Donovan escorted Maccabee down the long carpeted hall toward her hotel room. After checking with Security, he learned a Hazmat team had inspected every inch of her room and found no hint of explosives, biological and chemical toxins and nothing suspicious in the air vents.

  He was even more relieved to see Theo, her guard, on duty.

  “Any evildoers, Theo?”

  “Bad ones.”

  “Who?”

  “Drunk Norwegian car dealers.”

  “That’s terrifying!”

  “Yeah… ”

  Maccabee and Donovan laughed as they walked on down to her door.

  She turned, looked at him and said, “I feel like Cinderella!”

  “Me too,” he said.

  She laughed. “All that palace pomp… ”

  “Don’t forget the circumstance….”

  “Like the circumstance last night?”

  “What circumstance last night?” he said, wondering.

  “Saying goodnight the Belgian way.�
��

  “Oh… ”

  “Tonight, let’s try the American way!” She leaned forward and kissed his lips softly.

  Her kiss surprised him, but not as much as it pleased him. Things quickly became more impassioned. He knew he should back away now, but he couldn’t. His lips seemed to have a mind of their own. And, so did the rest of him now that he noticed.

  “Maccabee, maybe we should ah… ”

  “Check my room for drunk Norwegian car dealers?”

  “Yep. They’re scary.”

  THIRTY ONE

  The soft rays of the sun warmed his face. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared out through the dew-covered windshield at the pink slice of dawn seeping through the pine trees. Last night he’d found the narrow forest road and driven in about a mile and hidden the Opel.

  Yawning, Stahl stepped outside, breathed in the cool, fresh air, then walked into the woods and relieved himself.

  He got back in the car, found some new Handi Wipes in the glove compartment and cleaned his face and hands. He felt refreshed, completely awake and excited. His big day had finally arrived.

  He opened his theatrical case, took out a cotton swab, dipped it in rubbing alcohol and swabbed his upper lip and cheekbones. He took two syringes of collagen and injected the clear substance into his upper lip and beneath each cheekbone. His skin puffed up noticeably. Next, he put on a black Van Dyke beard, wraparound sunglasses and a baseball cap.

  In the mirror, his new face bore no resemblance to his face on television.

  Satisfied, he drove off toward Brussels, taking back roads to avoid police checkpoints.

  Twenty minutes later, near the small town of Wolvertem, he pulled into a service plaza where several vans, trucks, cars and motorhomes were parked. Inside, he smelled bacon and strong coffee as he passed truckers and businessmen eating at small wooden tables. Two small boys played a game on an iPad.

  He was hungry and stacked his tray with scrambled eggs, sausages, fried potatoes, two chocolate-filled croissants and a large coffee. He paid an obese cashier with red beehive hair, and sat at a corner table.

  He ate quickly, checking from time to time whether anyone was paying particular attention to him. No one was. And why should they?