G 8

by Mike Brogan

  Something in this gallery made him uneasy. Very uneasy.

  He turned and looked back into the elephant’s eyes. Were they warning him? Or was he hallucinating?

  Outside, the motorcade sirens whined down to a stop.

  “The leaders are here,” de Waha said.

  They hurried back to the control room and Donovan watched the television screens fill up with leaders entering the museum. His pulse pounded against his temple. His throat and eyes were bone dry. He stared at the screen, afraid to blink and miss something.

  The moment of truth was at hand.

  Stahl and his weapon were here.

  And Donovan had no idea how to stop him!

  FORTY

  Donovan hated what he saw. The leaders clustering close together again… this time around a mahogany carving of an African woman’s face.

  He didn’t want them clustering. He wanted them hustling their distinguished VIP butts out of the Congo museum and racing to the airport to fly home.

  He was still frustrated and angry that he and Jean couldn’t persuade officials to cancel the Congo museum tour.

  A minute ago, he’d tried again. He’d phoned President Colasanti’s Chief of Staff, Nester Smale, and explained his concern. Smale argued that the Congo Museum tour was absolutely necessary to demonstrate the President’s concern for African famine and genocide, as well as people of color worldwide. Smale neglected to admit that the tour would also help win African American votes back home.

  Donovan looked over at the fire alarm. He was tempted to run over and pull the damn thing and get everyone outside, then claim an electrical malfunction triggered the alarm.

  Because Stahl was here, in control, ready to unleash his weapon any moment.

  But how did Stahl know which moment? And how did he know which galleries would be toured? And how could he know the sequence? The museum director had only decided on the gallery tour sequence thirty minutes ago.

  The answer was clear. Stahl knew because he was with or near the leaders!

  Or someone with or near the leaders was telling Stahl where they were.

  Or… Stahl saw the leaders!

  “Jean – is this tour being televised?”

  Jean checked his clipboard. “Yes. Only the Grand Place ceremony and this Congo Museum tour are televised.”

  “Stahl’s watching this on television.”

  “So?”

  “So he’s within a few hundred feet of this building. I don’t know how, but somehow he’s masked Rutten’s explosive. He has a detonator and when the leaders walk into the gallery with the explosive, he’ll – ”

  “But we’ve swept every gallery five times!”

  “Yeah, but - ”

  De Waha’s phone suddenly rang. He answered, listened and hung up.

  “A woman in a nearby restaurant saw Stahl drive in this direction.”

  “What was he driving?”

  “The stolen Opel Insignia we just learned about! The one stolen out near Knokke.”

  Donovan and de Waha ran to the window and looked out at the parked vehicles. No silver Opel Insignias. They ran to the next window facing the side lot. A blue Opel Senator. An old Opel Vectra. No Insignias.

  De Waha grabbed the security phone. “Search every silver Opel within five-hundred meters of the museum now!”

  * * *

  Stahl watched the leaders gather around a display of a large African yellow-billed stork. Such a beautiful bird. Even more beautiful was how the leaders clustered tightly together around the bird. The fools were contributing to their own imminent deaths.

  What more can I ask for?

  Only one more gallery…

  He visualized his glorious, triumphant moment. They walk into the Elephant Gallery…

  They’re drawn to the massive elephant - my beautiful five-ton avenging angel. They walk up to it. They marvel at its size, its long trunk and massive ivory tusks. They notice the sandy soil the elephant stands in, they see the large dark rocks in the soil. Maybe they notice Herr Rutten’s identical large dark rocks peeking up through the sandy soil.

  And even if they do, it will be too late.

  Because at that precise moment, I will push G 8 on the detonator phone – and those beautiful dark rocks of PETN will explode at 26,400 feet per second – shredding the infidels to confetti.

  He visualized the magnificent carnage… the American’s leg here… the German’s foot there… the English woman’s fingers landing on the Italian’s crotch as his head rolls down the hall like a bowling ball.

  ‘Nothing rolls like a head,’ Stahl’s father had often told him. Actually, Stahl recalled, heads wobbled more than they rolled straight.

  The leaders approached the door of the Elephant Gallery. The Canadian and German leaders smiled and walked toward the enormous beast… drawn like rats drawn to poison.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Stahl noticed policemen running toward a silver Opel Insignia near the entrance gate. Weapons drawn, they ordered the young male driver to get out.

  They know…

  Stahl’s pulse kicked up a bit. Checking the television, he saw more leaders enter the Elephant Gallery. By the time the cops spotted his car, all leaders would stand beside the elephant – he’d push G 8 and escape in the chaos.

  His righteous moment… the most glorious in his life… was at hand.

  Just seconds now…

  * * *

  Donovan turned to de Waha. “Jean, back the leaders out of the Elephant Gallery – back them through the rooms they just visited! Those rooms are safe! Phone your coordinator in the Elephant Room and tell him!”

  De Waha grabbed the phone, hit speed dial.

  “MERDE!”

  “What?”

  “Busy!”

  De Waha turned to Frans Kramers. “Frans, run up there. Back the leaders out of the room. Hurry!”

  Kramers sprinted off toward the Elephant Gallery at the opposite end of the massive building, several hundred feet away.

  Donovan focused his binoculars on the vehicles in the side lot. Vans and mini-buses blocked his view of many cars. He saw SUVs with families, busses with children, vans with seniors. He scanned the last row beside the wide steps leading down to the huge garden and froze. He blinked to be sure.

  “Got him!” Donovan said.

  “Where?”

  “Silver Opel Insignia, seven rows back. Next to the garden steps. He’s wearing sunglasses. Black hair. Beard. It’s him! Keeps checking something on the seat – gotta be a TV!”

  Donovan and de Waha raced down to the door that opened onto the side parking lot and stepped outside. Donovan felt Maccabee grab his arm from behind.

  “Be safe,” she said.

  He nodded, then realized the building could explode and collapse any second. “It might be safer to wait outside this door away from the concrete and glass.”

  “Okay.”

  Weapons drawn, Donovan and Jean ran toward Stahl’s car, less than two hundred feet away.

  Donovan saw Stahl’s eyes lock on him.

  FORTY ONE

  Stahl watched Rourke and de Waha run toward him, weaving between cars, their guns raised and zeroing in on him. He started the car and grabbed his Glock.

  Glancing at the mini-TV, he saw the rest of the leaders walking into the Elephant Gallery… just fifty feet from his avenging beast.

  Move closer!

  Rourke and de Waha raised their guns, but held fire when a group of grade school girls walked in front.

  Just a few more seconds… a few more feet… when all leaders are beside the elephant!

  He spun the big Opel out of his parking spot and drove down the wide steps into the massive gardens. He sped alongside the long reflecting pool, forcing people to jump out of the way and some to jump in. He looked back and saw Rourke and de Waha commandeer a small police Renault and race after him.

  Stahl checked his mini TV. The leaders, just thirty feet from the elephant, strolled toward it.
>
  “Closer! Faster!”

  From the right, Stahl saw a large police van race toward him. He turned and headed straight toward the main entrance gates to the street.

  The leaders stepped closer to the elephant

  Twenty feet… fifteen… ten…

  Then the American president stopped at an antelope.

  Stahl wanted to kill him most.

  “Closer, you bastard!”

  A bullet ripped through Stahl’s roof. He swerved around a mini-bus, then, dodging spectators, sped on toward the gates and road in front of the museum.

  Two more bullets pierced his rear window.

  The American President walked toward the elephant… ten feet… five… he reached it!

  All leaders stood beside the elephant!

  “Allahu Akbar!” Stahl shouted.

  He punched in G 8!

  The explosion shook the ground so much it rocked the big Opel. He saw smoke, fire and glass, blast out of the Elephant Gallery windows.

  Then he saw chunks of elephant… and a bloody human leg with its foot blown off… then another leg… and a mangled arm.

  Magnificent! Stahl thought, racing ahead.

  People screamed and ran away from the fiery smoke and slabs of concrete blasting out of the Elephant Room windows. Long tongues of fire licked up the side of the museum.

  All police vehicles stopped, their drivers gawking at the fiery devastation. Stahl looked at his TV screen: Nothing but snow. He checked the rearview mirror. Rourke and de Waha still chased him in the small Renault, two hundred yards back.

  Then, Stahl had some luck.

  A long BBC WORLD NEWS truck backed away from the explosion and blocked Rourke’s car. Rourke pounded on the horn, but the truck didn’t budge.

  Stahl sped ahead.

  Then he couldn’t believe his eyes! More good luck!

  Rourke’s friend, the tall attractive woman, stood fifty feet ahead beside the museum door.

  Stahl stopped beside her, pushed open the passenger door, stuck his gun inches from her face. “Get in or die here!”

  She looked back toward Donovan. Stahl leaned over, yanked her into the car and sped off. He raced through the gates onto the main street.

  Stahl checked the mirror. Donovan’s car was still blocked behind the BBC WORLD NEWS truck.

  * * *

  “Jesus! He took Maccabee!” Donovan shouted, as he found some room to squeeze around the BBC truck and race ahead.

  De Waha seemed to be in shock. His eyes locked open and stared at the snowy screen of his small television.

  “What… ?”

  “Stahl pulled Maccabee into his car!”

  De Waha snapped out of it. “She’s his insurance. He knows we won’t shoot.”

  Donovan’s heart was pounding so hard he couldn’t speak.

  Enraged and nauseated by his pathetic failure to protect the lives of the G8 leaders, and now Maccabee, Donovan sped toward the open gate, barely missing two teenagers.

  His siren blaring, he careened wildly onto the street, weaving between cars, and raced after Stahl. De Waha was on the phone, directing all police cars to pursue the silver Opel.

  But the big Opel had pulled away, accelerating to at least one hundred forty kilometers per hour.

  Donovan’s small Renault lost ground fast.

  * * *

  Stahl turned onto the long forest straightaway and raced ahead.

  In the mirror, he no longer saw Rourke’s police car. But he had to ditch the Opel fast. Fortunately, he knew this forest well and remembered a forest clearing a mile ahead where hikers parked their vehicles and bikes.

  He turned in at the clearing and hid the Opel behind some bushes. He looked back toward the road and thirty seconds later saw Rourke’s police car race past.

  Stahl scanned the area. Through the branches of some evergreens, he saw the trunk of what looked like a red BMW parked ahead. There were no other cars in the area.

  “Get out!” he said to Maccabee.

  She turned to open the door. As she did, he karate-chopped the back of her neck. She slumped unconscious. He bound her wrists with flex-cuffs and left her on the car seat.

  Soundlessly, he walked toward the rear of the red BMW. He saw a young couple in the front seat.

  Stahl spun the silencer on his Glock.

  FORTY TWO

  Gripping his suppressed Glock, Stahl stepped soundlessly on the spongy pine needles toward the red BMW. He paused near its trunk and saw a young man and woman embracing in the front seat.

  He stepped up to the open driver’s window. The surprised couple looked out at him.

  “Out of the car! Now!”

  They stared back.

  “Now!” He placed the silencer near the man’s head.

  They stepped from the car.

  “Turn around and walk down that path.”

  They turned and walked.

  Stahl raised the silenced gun and shot them both in the back of the head.

  He dragged their bodies behind some bushes, removed their IDs and destroyed their cell phones. He walked back to the Opel and lifted the American woman out and placed her on the ground. Her driver’s license read: Maccabee Singh.

  She was not moving. Perhaps he’d hit her too hard. He’d done that a few times. In Caracas, he barely hit a guy who died within minutes. He looked down at the woman. Should he keep her as a hostage? Or would she slow him down?

  He should probably just finish her off here.

  * * *

  “We’ve lost him!” Donovan said, slamming his fist on the dashboard as he drove through the forest.

  “We’re blocking off Avenue de Tervuren!” de Waha said. “He’s trapped!”

  “Not if he turned into the forest.”

  Donovan knew the Forêt de Soignes sprawled over sixteen thousand acres of thick woods and numerous pathways. Perfect for hiding the Opel.

  And Maccabee’s body.

  As they drove out of the forest, Donovan raced past Avenue Isidor Gerard, then the small lakes in Audergham. He skidded to a stop at the roadblock where an ESI anti-terrorist team stood armed and ready.

  De Waha asked the team if they’d seen the Opel. They shook their heads.

  Donovan squeezed the steering wheel. “Stahl turned into a side street or the forest. She’s dead weight to him now.”

  “No. She’s protection against our assault! He needs her as a hostage!”

  “He needs to dump her body and get out of the country!”

  De Waha shook his head. “The only way that bastard’ll get out of my country is in a coffin!”

  “Like the G8 leaders… ” Donovan whispered, swallowing bile in his throat.

  He felt nauseated by his horrific failure to stop the assassinations of the world leaders. He saw the explosion, saw bloody human legs and an arm, saw the elephant tusks, all blasting out of the gallery windows.

  His life was over. He’d live forever as the agent who’d failed to protect the president of the United States… and the seven other most powerful leaders in the world. Forget that he and de Waha had tried repeatedly to cancel the tour. Forget that the authorities had insisted on touring the Congo Museum for political reasons. Scapegoats were needed. Heads would roll. And his head and de Waha’s were first in line for the chopping block.

  Donovan was angry with himself for not following his instincts. He should have pulled the damn fire alarm and hustled the leaders out of the museum.

  And because he didn’t, their lives ended.

  So had his career, not that it mattered now.

  De Waha grabbed the police car phone and dialed the Congo Museum.

  Donovan felt the blood drain from his face.

  “Nothing but static… ” de Waha said.

  “They’re dead… ” Donovan whispered.

  De Waha adjusted the channel frequency several times and still got static, then the line went dead. “The explosion wiped out our phones.”

  “Try the museum phone
.”

  He punched in the number and waited. “Dead!”

  Dead… Donovan felt nauseated, tried to swallow, couldn’t.

  “I’ll call Frans Kramer’s cell,” De Waha dialed and pushed the speaker button. A loud buzz filled the car, then the phone rang once and started hissing.

  “Kramers here.”

  More hissing…

  “Frans… how many?”

  Again the phone crackled and hissed.

  “Frans?

  The line beeped.

  “Frans, how many?”

  More hissing… “All of them… ”

  Donovan’s heart stopped.

  More hissing… buzzing… beeping.

  “All G8 leaders?”

  “Yes. All of them!”

  More buzzing.

  Donovan started to pull off the road to vomit.

  “Jesus,” de Waha said, “all eight world leaders dead.”

  More hissing and buzzing.

  “I said… alive! All leaders are alive!”

  “What - ?”

  “Not a scratch!”

  “But I saw them on my small TV,” de Waha said. “They were standing at the elephant. I saw the Elephant Gallery explode. I saw a human leg fly out the damn window!”

  “A guard’s leg!”

  “But the leaders… ?”

  “They’re okay, Jean! They’re all fine!”

  Stunned, Donovan looked at de Waha who crossed himself, shot his fist in the air and shouted, “Thank God!”

  “Thank commercial television, too,” Kramers said.

  “What?”

  “Commercial television. Stahl was watching the leaders on TV. He watched them walk up to the elephant, right?”

  “Right,” de Waha said.

  “Then he detonated, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One small problem.”

  “What?”

  “The leaders were not at the elephant.”

  Donovan got it. “Time-delay TV!”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I saw the word LIVE on my TV screen!” de Waha said.

  “LIVE ain’t what it use to be. The networks use that word loosely these days.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The leaders weren’t in the elephant gallery. They were in another room several hundred feet away, separated by six walls of very thick concrete went the bomb went off. What Stahl saw on television happened three minutes earlier. The network tape-delayed so they could fit in commercials for people to donate to African charities.”