G 8

by Mike Brogan

  But Ridder’s team was a precision unit, trained like Navy SEALs to perform in concert, to act and react as one… and to cover for each other with practiced, precise, team movements. A non-team member like him could risk their lives. And he’d probably risk his own life, since he hadn’t been on any “hot ops” actions in two years.

  Still, Donovan would be a nanosecond behind Ridder’s team, and with a little luck, he might get a chance to whisper Emma Rourke in Stahl’s ear as the bastard died and went off to try and justify his crimes to Allah.

  THIRTY FOUR

  Willi Ridder’s plan was simple: shock and awe Stahl and the others into a clear choice: surrender or die.

  He assumed they were wearing bulletproof vests – but maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were wearing suicide vests. If a bullet hit the explosives, everybody in the room, including his ESI team, would be identified by DNA.

  He and his team would have to try for headshots. Almost impossible when all hell broke loose, and Ridder anticipated all hell breaking loose.

  They climbed to the third floor, moved soundlessly down the hall and entered C3. Then, using the coordinated helicopter flyover noise and the roar of the crowd as cover, they inched the large armoire silently to the side.

  Ridder and the team saw the door to the secret alcove. They placed location-listening devices on the wall to determine where the terrorists were positioned.

  Suddenly Ridder’s earphone clicked on. The man in the Hôtel de Ville tower said, “The tall man is looking out the window. He seems puzzled about why the police are backing the crowds away from the grandstand.”

  “Are the other men still behind the rocket launchers?”

  “Yes, but… ”

  “But what?”

  “Oh shit….”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “People in the crowd are pointing up at Philippe’s team on the roof right above 3C window. The tall guy at the window realizes someone’s right above him. He’s very excited. Now he’s saying something to the men behind the rocket launchers. It looks like he wants them to fire the rockets now!”

  Ridder feared they would fire any second and kill thousands - because they feared a roof assault through their window.

  Ridder faced his team and mouthed, “One… two… three… GO!”

  Instantly, they yanked open the secret door, tossed in the flash-bang grenade, covered their ears and eyes for the blinding flash, then rushed into the room.

  The terrorists, disoriented, were ducking for cover.

  “Hands up!” Ridder shouted.

  At the window, the tall man wearing wraparound sunglasses started to put his hands up, then leaped for cover behind some wooden crates and fired off two rounds, missing Ridder’s head by inches.

  The other terrorists shot their handguns as they lunged behind the rocket launchers and prepared to fire them.

  But Ridder’s team unleashed a barrage of bullets that drilled them against the back wall. They slumped to the floor, firing wildly into the room.

  The tall man behind the wooden crates sprang from behind the crates and reached for the rocket launcher’s pull-tab, just inches away.

  His fingers grabbed the pull-tab.

  Ridder and a team member fired and bullets ripped into the man’s fingers, then up through his shoulder, neck, face.

  The tall man froze, then slumped beside the launcher, his mangled fingers still twitching on the pull-tab.

  Ridder kicked his hand away.

  * * *

  Running into the room, Donovan slipped on the wall-to-wall blood and had to steady himself on a large wood crate. He smelled gunpowder and sweat.

  De Waha rushed in. “Status?”

  “Bad guys dead or dying!” Ridder said. “Good guys, one grazed shoulder, couple of slugs in our vests.”

  The ESI team hunched over the bodies, checking for pulses, any sign of life, finding none.

  Donovan walked over and checked the crumpled, bloody bodies behind the rocket launchers. They seemed too short to be Stahl. He walked over to the tall man beside the launcher. Stahl’s height and weight, and his hair was black, the color Stahl had died it last night.

  Donovan looked at the man’s bloody, bullet-ravaged face. The man looked like Stahl, even though the bullets had ripped open his cheeks, mouth and forehead. Donovan studied the man’s bloodied eyes. Dead, dark, deep-set, stone-cold eyes. But too damaged to compare to the eyes in Stahl’s photo. He searched the pockets of the man’s police jacket for some ID. Nothing. As he pulled his hand out, his knuckles brushed against something stiff in the lining. He reached through a slit in the lining and pulled out a frayed Euro passport.

  His heart pounding, he opened the passport – Axel Braun. Stahl’s alias!

  Donovan looked at the passport picture, then at the bloody face on the floor. They matched, except where bullets had sliced and diced his face and eyebrows.

  De Waha walked up to Donovan, looked at the passport and breathed out.

  “Axel Braun,” de Waha said, “a.k.a. Valek Stahl!”

  “a.k.a. dead!”

  “Yeah… bastard got off easy!”

  Donovan agreed, feeling oddly cheated. He’d wanted to look at Stahl, remind him of his cowardly slaughter of Emma, see the recognition in his eyes. But that was not to be.

  At least Stahl was dead.

  Donovan walked over to the rocket launchers and looked out the window at the grandstand less than one hundred feet below.

  He saw the empty chairs where, in just three minutes, the eight most powerful leaders in the world were scheduled to sit.

  And die.

  Then Donovan felt himself tense up. He remembered something from the Mossad profile on Stahl.

  Stahl always had a backup plan.

  THIRTY FIVE

  “You got Stahl?” Maccabee said as Donovan and de Waha entered the control room to warm applause.

  “Willi Ridder’s team got Stahl,” Donovan said.

  “Were you hurt?”

  “Nope! Jean and I hid from the scary stuff.”

  “Scary stuff like that?” She pointed to blood on his shirt.

  “Valek Stahl’s blood.”

  Maccabee nodded, but seemed to check his body for any wounds or leakage.

  “Attention, people!” de Waha shouted. “The leaders are arriving. Let’s assume other assassins are out there. Find them and stop them! Everybody back to work!”

  Donovan studied the main screen. The caravan of limousines crawled into the Grand Place from a narrow side street. The secret service teams honed in on their big black cars like heat-seeking missiles. Limo doors opened. Distinguished leaders emerged. The huge crowd applauded. Everything appeared to be going well.

  But Mossad’s warning that Stahl always had a backup plan was digging away at Donovan.

  First out of his limousine was French President, Samuel de Batilly, who smiled at the loud applause. Next was the German Chancellor, Heinz Schuster, giving the crowd his best Bundesrepublik grin. The applause was subdued, since Belgians still detested the German occupation of their country in both World Wars. Next came American President John Colasanti and England’s Prime Minister, Mary Ryan Kearns, and the other leaders who were enthusiastically applauded.

  The crowds surged closer to the leaders, but the police forced them back behind a nine-foot transparent Plexiglas wall.

  Donovan’s gaze again moved up to the hundreds of Grand Place windows. Stahl’s main attack had been behind one and it almost worked. Was his backup plan behind another window? Would the man who’d warned them about Stahl and his assassins in the secret room, call again with another warning about which window? Or are we on our own?

  Donovan’s gut was churning.

  The leaders took their seats on the grandstand and began chatting with each other. The grandstand, he knew, had been guarded 24-7 from start to completion. It had also been swept hourly for explosives. Nothing was found.

  The grandstand was safe.


  Unless Herr Rutten’s explosive or weapon was somehow undetectable… maybe built into the construction materials and embedded with an ozone-masking coating. Experts said their new sniffers were effective even with ozone masking devices. Other experts weren’t so sure.

  Donovan wiped perspiration from his lip.

  As the President of the European Union, Luc DeVries, began speaking, the leaders seemed to relax. And why not? Their work was done. They’d adopted plans to fight famine and genocide. They’d also agreed to fight both political and corporate terrorism. There would be less dumping of low-wage-country products in high-wage countries. A corporation had to create jobs or revenue in a country commensurate in value with the revenue the corporation took out of the country. If not, there would be penalties.

  Donovan noticed that DeVries leaned on the podium as he spoke. Was the podium checked? He ran his finger down a grandstand checklist. No mention of the podium.

  “Jean, the podium?”

  De Waha pulled out another list and pointed at an item. “The podium’s been triple checked.”

  Donovan nodded, but something else began to gnaw at his memory. Something specific a Mossad agent had said about Stahl. A minor personal detail. But for some reason, the detail eluded him and now it felt very important. What the hell is it?

  Luc DeVries finished to enormous applause.

  Minutes later, the Grand Place ceremony ended. The leaders, flanked by their secret security personnel, left the grandstand, smiling and unscathed.

  Donovan’s lungs deflated like a balloon. He couldn’t believe it. Jean and he had survived their greatest fear: the vulnerability of the leaders sitting exposed on the grandstand on the Grand Place. Nothing had happened. They’d stopped Stahl. Killed him. And, they’d avoided any quick backup attack he might have planned outside on the Grand Place.

  Still, Donovan knew, his backup attack could take place inside a Grand Place building. Like the Hôtel de Ville, the seven hundred year old superstructure the leaders were walking into.

  THIRTY SIX

  Donovan watched the G8 leaders stroll through the dark, narrow hallways of the Hôtel de Ville. Armed guards stood in position. Security procedures were being followed. Privileged attendees smiling behind velvet ropes. Everything was working well.

  Except Donovan’s memory.

  He still couldn’t remember the one detail about Valek Stahl that he’d read in the Mossad briefing reports, a detail that his gut told him was crucial. It must be crucial, or it wouldn’t be gnawing at him now?.

  What the hell was it?

  He watched the leaders stroll through high-ceiling rooms lined with magnificent paintings and sprawling tapestries from the middle ages. In each room, stern-faced guards scrutinized anyone who even glanced at the leaders.

  The leaders wandered over and clustered around an enormous ancient tapestry.

  Donovan didn’t want them clustering. He wanted them spread out and them hurrying along. Instead, they stared at a famous tapestry depicting the Duke of Alba, a ruthless Spanish Duke who ruled the country in the 1560s and just to make sure citizens knew he ruled, slaughtered eighteen thousand of them.

  “Jean, have all tapestries and artwork been checked for explosives?”

  “Sniffed every hour, and fifteen minutes before the leaders walk by them.”

  “Still, I - ”

  “Still what… ?” de Waha said.

  “Stahl knew the leaders would be led right up to the tapestries and artwork.”

  “Right. You think Stahl’s backup attack is an explosive behind one?”

  “An undetectable explosive, maybe.”

  “Experts say no way,” de Waha said, but concern lingered in his eyes.

  Donovan watched the leaders move into the spectacular Hall of the City Council.

  For seven hundred years, local officials met in this same room and governed the country, surrounded by rich, exotic woods and paintings depicting the land’s rich history.

  Suddenly, a tall, broad-shouldered guard Donovan hadn’t seen before hurried in and stood behind the leaders. The guard scanned the room as though checking whether anyone was watching him. He seemed very anxious, nervous even, and his skin glowed with perspiration.

  He reached into his pocket.

  “Jean, who’s the guard with - ?”

  Jean was gone.

  Donovan looked back at the guard. For some reason, the guard reminded him of Stahl. Same height and build, same big physique, same jet black hair.

  Forget it – Stahl’s dead.

  The guard inched closer to the leaders, scanned the room again, then yanked a black device from his pocket. A detonator?

  Donovan started running down toward the room and bumped into de Waha.

  “What’s wrong?” de Waha said.

  Donovan pointed. “That guard holding that black – ”

  “ - two-way radio! That’s Henri. Calls ahead, tells the next chamber the leaders are on their way.”

  Donovan felt the air drain from his lungs.

  “A little mistaken identity, Donovan?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mistaken identity!

  The phrase started bouncing around his head. Is it possible they’d mistakenly identified the dead man in 3C as Valek Stahl? Donovan turned and stared outside at the building where Stahl had been shot and killed.

  De Waha was looking at him. “You’re acting kinda weird. What’s bugging you?”

  “I’m not sure… ” Donovan said, shaking his head.

  “About what?”

  “Stahl.”

  “Stahl’s dead!”

  “Yeah, but – ”

  “But what?”

  “Hear me out.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Stahl has never used rocket and grenade launchers before.”

  “Right.”

  “Stahl did not visit Herr Rutten to exchange fondue recipes.”

  “Right again.”

  “Herr Rutten’s expertise is explosives and custom made weapons.”

  “Right.”

  “Stahl has nearly always used explosives.”

  “So what - Stahl’s dead.”

  “Is he?”

  De Waha stared at Donovan like he was losing it. “His passport says Axel Braun, Stahl’s alias.”

  “Yes, but - ”

  “How much proof do you want? We get a phone call saying Valek Stahl is in that room and bingo – Valek Stahl was in the room! He’s the right height and weight. His hair was black, the color he dyed it. His face, even though it was partly destroyed by bullets, matches his passport picture, a passport using Stahl’s alias, Axel Braun. What do you want, ‘Stahl’ tattooed on his damn forehead?”

  Donovan spun around and looked at de Waha. “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?”

  “What I couldn’t remember – a tattoo!”

  De Waha frowned.

  “Didn’t a Mossad agent report say Stahl had a small tattoo?”

  De Waha closed his eyes, then slowly turned back and stared at Donovan. “I think so.”

  “A word tattoo.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which I dismissed,” Donovan said, “because Islam forbids tattoos.”

  “True, but Stahl is not your most observant disciple of Islam.”

  “He drinks alcohol, too.”

  “But you’re right, the report said he had one. A name tattoo, I think.”

  “On his shoulder! And now that I remember, I read somewhere that he has a small L-shape scar on his nose.”

  De Waha punched a number on his phone, waited, spoke briefly, got excited, then hung up.

  “Let’s hurry - they’re carrying the bodies out now!”

  Donovan and de Waha hurried through the thousands of people still leaving the Grand Place to the building where Stahl died. They caught up to the ambulance crews carrying the body bags down the back stairs.

  Donovan unzipped the first bag. A short man. He unzipped the ne
xt bag - the tall man with Stahl’s Axel Braun passport. He ripped open the dead man’s shirt and pulled it down over his shoulders and arms, blanketed with blood.

  Donovan realized there was too much blood to see skin well. Using the man’s shirt, he wiped the blood off his left shoulder and arm. No tattoo. No hint one had been removed.

  He wiped off the right shoulder, arm and bullet-riddled chest. Nothing.

  Then they checked his back. Again nothing.

  “No tattoos!” Donovan said.

  “Let’s check for the nose scar.”

  Donovan saw that a bullet had ripped into the lower part of his nose and left it hanging down on his upper lip. Donovan wiped blood off the nose, repositioned it and looked for a scar. He saw none.

  “No scar!” de Waha confirmed. “This is not Stahl!”

  They stared at each other.

  “Stahl set us up,” Donovan said, “wanted us to think this man was Stahl. Probably gave him the Axel Braun passport to carry for him.”

  “He set them up too!” De Waha pointed to the body bags.

  “So we’d think we had stopped him! And relax security!”

  “So he can strike at the Hôtel de - ”

  “Forget the Hôtel de Ville,” de Waha said, looking at his hand-held television. “The leaders are ready to leave it.”

  “Which means he’s going to strike at the Congo Museum.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the last time they’re together.”

  THIRTY SEVEN

  Valek Stahl turned off Avenue de Tervuren, drove a few blocks and parked next to a small, neighborhood restaurant, the St. Bernard, where he’d eaten several months ago. He parked and went inside.

  The Daily Special, Boeuf aux Champignons, steak and mushrooms, smelled delicious. And it was delicious. He’d eaten it last time he was here.

  But not today. He never ate before an assignment. Food sedated the brain, and he wanted to be razor sharp in the next few hours. He ordered black coffee.

  The restaurant looked the same. Regular customers sat at tables with red checkerboard tablecloths. The walls held pictures of St. Bernard rescue dogs. A juke box played Elvis singing Love Me Tender. In the corner, two older couples speaking Flemish, played cards, including a gray-haired woman who seemed to glance at him from time to time. Did she maybe recognize him from the last time he was here. He didn’t remember seeing her then.