G 8

by Mike Brogan

  Donovan thought back to when the leaders entered the building. He remembered seeing commercials for African charities that ran for about three minutes. During that time, obviously, the leaders were already touring the galleries. When the commercials ended, the coverage began with the leaders in the first gallery.

  The G8 leaders were alive.

  Stahl had failed.

  And when he finds out he’ll be enraged. What will he do to Maccabee?

  FORTY THREE

  Donovan smelled thick, suffocating smoke as he parked beside the Congo Museum. Fire trucks, policemen and counter-terrorism squads swarmed around the massive building. Yellow crime scene tape blocked all doors. Police had corralled the media in the parking lot. Television reporters spoke into cameras and pointed at the smoke and destruction behind them.

  He and de Waha stepped over fire hoses as firemen pumped stiff streams of water through the windows of the Elephant Gallery. Around the scorched window frames, large chunks of concrete had been blown out. Despite the enormous blast, the magnificent 114-year-old building stood rock solid.

  They walked into the control room.

  Donovan saw Frans Kramers. “Where are the leaders now, Frans?”

  “Just arriving at the airport.”

  “But I just saw their limos right outside.”

  “Yeah. We feared Stahl might have a backup plan to hit the limos. And, we didn’t want television showing the eight most powerful leaders in the world sprinting for their limos. So we snuck them out of here.”

  “How?”

  “In two armored police vans.”

  Donovan nodded. “Good move.”

  “They’ll be airborne in about fifteen minutes.”

  “What’s the media know?” de Waha asked.

  “Only that there was an explosion. They don’t know what caused it. But they’re demanding a press conference now!”

  “Off the record, tell them that one guard was killed by the blast, another guard is critical, another is injured, but those two are expected to recover. Tell them all leaders are fine. But ask them not to announce that fact for ten minutes. I want Stahl thinking he’s succeeded. If he hears they’re alive, the bastard may unleash an airport attack scenario.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’d you tell the media so far?”

  “That we weren’t sure what caused the explosion, but we suspected that the large number of media cables somehow overloaded their power transformers and caused a spark to ignite some nearby propane gas tanks.”

  “Did they buy that?”

  Kramers shrugged. “Probably not.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Donovan said. “The media will learn the truth at the airport if they haven’t already.”

  “Go tell them I’ll brief them in two minutes,” de Waha said.

  Kramers nodded and left.

  Donovan walked over to the window and stared over toward the Forêt de Soignes. Stahl had probably pulled in there and switched his Opel with one of the cars parked along the many walking paths, then escaped in the stolen car. But did he take Maccabee with him, or leave her body behind?

  “Jean, how many people do you have checking the forest?”

  “Six search teams. Plus military units. They’re combing every inch.”

  Donovan spun around and faced de Waha. “Damn! I forgot!”

  “What?”

  “Maccabee’s cell phone. Let’s ping it.”

  He handed the number to de Waha’s assistant who sprinted from the room. Donovan knew Maccabee carried her cell phone in her pocket and prayed she’d been able to hide it from Stahl.

  For the next fifteen minutes de Waha focused on setting up a European-wide police dragnet and finding the silver Opel and Stahl.

  Donovan focused on finding Maccabee.

  * * *

  Stahl kept the BMW at the speed limit as he drove onto the E19, heading north. Soon he’d abandon the BMW and leave the country in a way the police and G8 authorities would never suspect.

  Time to hear the good news, he thought. He reached over to turn on the radio and celebrate his glorious triumph. But instead of a radio knob, his fingers found air. The car’s portable radio unit had been removed.

  He shrugged. No big deal. He’d soon have a radio and television to hear the good news.

  And a lifetime to celebrate it.

  FORTY FOUR

  Donovan and de Waha stared out the Congo Museum window. Still, no word of Maccabee and Stahl. No sighting, no scrap of information, no wisp of hope. Each time the phone rang, Donovan stopped breathing and expected the worst.

  For good reason. Stahl knew that Maccabee’s description was now in the media and with every police officer in Europe. She was a neon albatross around his neck. He had to ditch her. The question was alive or dead.

  And dead was way smarter.

  The phone rang. De Waha answered.

  When Donovan saw de Waha’s face relax, Donovan relaxed.

  De Waha hung up.

  “Seven leaders are airborne. The eighth is taking off now.”

  Donovan nodded. The leaders were safe and no longer his responsibility. “Any news on Stahl’s Opel?”

  “Still searching.”

  “I think he switched to another car in the forest.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Donovan stared out the window and saw the wind pushing small whitecaps across the museum’s reflecting pool. Fat black clouds looking like slabs of lead had muscled in from the west. Rain was coming. So was night. Two big advantages for Stahl.

  The speakerphone crackled. “Sir, we’ve triangulated Maccabee’s cell phone to a vehicle that just turned off the E19 heading toward Nivelles. We’re minutes away from stopping he vehicle.”

  Donovan’s hope rebounded. Stahl had not found the phone or removed its battery. Somehow, she’d hidden the phone from Stahl.

  De Waha hung up and turned to Donovan. “You think Stahl will stick to his original escape plan?”

  “Probably.”

  “Let him try! Every border guard has his photo.”

  “Which he doesn’t resemble now.”

  “We also gave guards his latest description.”

  “Which changes by the hour. The man’s a chameleon.”

  De Waha nodded.

  “Your airports are ready?”

  “Yes. All airport personnel are checking passengers very closely. So are security officers in train and bus stations, the ferries, Hovercrafts and the Chunnel to England. We’ve tripled the officers in each departure lounge. Everyone has a description of Maccabee’s clothing. And her Palace Dinner ID photo is being e-mailed to everyone.”

  “Good.”

  “We’ve also started stopping vehicles and checking the passengers at our borders crossings to Holland, France and Germany.”

  “But Stahl will have a new fake passport, probably one we’ve never seen before. And a disguise that matches the new passport photo.”

  De Waha nodded. “At least Maccabee will have her passport.”

  “No, she won’t… ”

  “What?”

  “She told me she locked hers in the hotel room safe.”

  De Waha frowned. “Stahl may not be worried about a border crossing, since the borders are non-stop Schengen Border crossings. He assumes he will just drive through.

  “But if he sees a backup at the crossing, and sees customs officers demanding to see passports, he may decide to not risk crossing, especially if Maccabee doesn’t have her passport.”

  De Waha nodded.

  “I think they’ll walk into Germany… or France or Holland.”

  “But our military personnel and choppers will soon be patrolling the borders.”

  De Waha’s phone rang and he hit the speaker button.

  “Sir, we’ve just found Maccabee’s phone.”

  “Is she - ?” Donovan shouted.

  “She’s not here, sir. Stahl tossed her phone in the bed of a trash hauler.”

  D
onovan slumped back down. Back to nothing.

  De Waha looked equally frustrated. His brow lines seemed deeper, his eyes tighter, and a small tic fluttered his cheek. If Stahl escaped, Jean would be criticized heavily for the escape and the explosion, and probably forced into early retirement.

  Me too, Donovan thought, since the explosion happened on our watch. The fact that we tried to cancel the Congo Museum tour several times would be conveniently forgotten. Scapegoats were needed.

  “Think he’s heading to Germany?” de Waha said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “He seems to be based there. His car is registered there. The Sumerian messages came from Dusseldorf. And Herr Rutten lived in nearby Cologne.”

  De Waha nodded.

  “What about private aircraft?” Donovan asked.

  “Grounded until we check crew and passengers.”

  “Commercial trucks?”

  “Being checked at the border crossings.”

  “Trains?”

  “Being inspected, car-by-car, at the stations.”

  “Baggage cars, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Post office trains?”

  “Yes.”

  “Canal barges?”

  De Waha froze, turned and stared at Donovan. “Merde! I forgot! Our canals take you everywhere.”

  “To Germany?”

  “Yes. Or the Atlantic, or France or even down to the Mediterranean.”

  “But canal barges are slow… ”

  “Speed limit is only about four knots-per-hour. All the more reason he may think we would not check them.”

  “Can pleasure craft travel faster?”

  “Only in unrestricted areas.”

  “Stahl might have assumed we’d never consider a canal escape.”

  “And he’d be right!” De Waha grabbed his phone and ordered all canal boats checked.

  As soon as he hung up, the phone rang. He hit the speaker button.

  “Sir, we’ve found the Opel Insignia.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Forêt de Soignes off Avenue de Tervuren. On its front seat we found a hand-sized TV and a cell phone, the probable detonator.”

  “Anything else?”

  Pause. “Yes sir. Bodies.”

  Donovan’s heart stopped.

  “Woman and man shot in the head.”

  “Does the woman have dark hair?” Donovan asked.

  “Dark with blood. But she’s a blonde. Blue eyes. The man, about thirty-five, had a diabetic tag around his neck. His name is Phillipe Van Halle. Vehicle Records says Van Halle drives a new red BMW Series Berline. We just put out a BOLO for the car.”

  “Find that damn car fast!” De Waha said.

  Donovan’s hope grew. They had a car to search for, a car that Stahl didn’t know they knew about. Still, Stahl had gained valuable time, and Donovan knew there were a slew of BMWs in the country.

  “Sir… ”

  “Yes… ?”

  “Hang on a second… ”

  They waited.

  “We just found something else in the forest.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Just a moment, sir.”

  They waited some more.

  “Sir, it’s a woman’s scarf.”

  Donovan’s heart started pounding. “What color?”

  “Purple and red with white flowers.”

  “It’s Maccabee’s!”

  Long pause. “Sir…

  “Yes… ?”

  “There’s a lot of blood on it.”

  FORTY FIVE

  Driving north on the A1, Stahl smiled when he saw two cops spread-eagle a man over the hood of a silver Opel Insignia.

  By the time they finally connect me to this BMW, I’ll be out of the car… and out of the country.

  Minutes later, Stahl drove through the ancient city of Antwerp. From an overpass, he saw the port’s towering dock cranes poking into the gunmetal-gray sky. The cranes were unloading long shipping containers from vessels that had sailed sixty miles from the Atlantic Ocean down the natural waterway inlet to Antwerp. Also poking into the sky were the city’s historic church spires that had escaped Hitler’s V2 rockets. Unfortunately. Stahl hated churches.

  Fortunately though, the V2 rockets had killed thousands of citizens, and Hitler’s SS had rounded up thousands of Jews in Antwerp’s diamond district and shipped them to their deaths in the Holocaust, an event that Stahl considered der Fuehrer’s greatest success.

  He turned onto the E 313 that ran parallel with the Albert Canal, a ribbon of water that stretched one hundred thirty kilometers east to the Dutch and German borders, and served as a major and efficient means of transporting goods deeper to Europe.

  Forty minutes later, he drove past houseboats, yachts and sailboats and soon saw his destination: a vacation barge with a red albatross painted on the hull. He confirmed the barge number, then parked the BMW behind some nearby evergreens.

  The barge was a long, black-hulled vessel similar to hundreds of European canal barges. On the rear deck, a red-yellow-black Belgian flag snapped in the wind behind the pilothouse where an elderly captain sat hunched over the wheel, reading something.

  Stahl turned and checked the woman in the back seat. Still not moving. Perhaps she was dead. No big deal. Sooner or later, he’d have to dispose of her. He reached back and shook her shoulder. No response.

  Her driver’s license said her name was Maccabee Singh, probably the daughter of Professor Singh who translated the Sumerian message. Earlier, when Stahl searched her purse, he found a small book of Sumerian pictographs, which suggested she could also translate Sumerian. A serious problem, since there were other Sumerian messages out there… messages that could incriminate some very important people. Bottom line, she would have to die. But right now, she could serve as his insurance.

  But only if they believed she was alive.

  Stahl turned and looked back at her.

  She was staring at him.

  “I’m going to uncuff you. We’re going on a barge. You will say nothing, understand?”

  She nodded.

  Stahl walked around and opened the rear door, then cut off her flex-cuffs. She rubbed her wrists a moment.

  He grabbed his large Lowepro backpack and escorted her up to the dock. As they stepped aboard the barge, the old captain shuffled out to greet them. He was a short, wiry man in his mid-seventies, sporting a Belgian Navy jacket. White tufts of hair stuck out beneath his black beret. Coffee had stained his pale turtleneck and his smile had more folds than an accordion. But his cobalt blue eyes were bright and clear.

  “Welcome aboard, folks. Name’s Marcel. I was told there’d be just one passenger, a man.”

  “Change of plans. Need more money?”

  “Nope. Your people paid enough for a family of four. You folks ready to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your luggage?”

  “Just my backpack.””

  The captain nodded and led them toward the door to the living quarters below.

  Stahl glanced back to see if anyone was watching.

  He saw no one.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, as the barge chugged east toward Germany, Stahl felt the diesel engines rumbling beneath him. He liked the rumble. The vibrations were gentle, like the fingers of a masseuse. Everything felt good. As well it should.

  He’d just achieved the most profound political act in history. And despite last second challenges by the police and anti-terrorist teams, and their billion-dollar wall of security, and their thousands of soldiers and security personnel searching for him, he’d assassinated the world’s eight most powerful leaders.

  Once again, he’d achieved his goal. The most important goal of his life. He’d changed the course of history.

  Of course, every cop in the world would have a photo of his face. A good thing actually, since his face would not exist in three days. Dr. Joao Machado, the
renowned Portuguese plastic surgeon, would give him a new face and new ethnicity.

  While the police of the world searched for a Caucasian, I’ll look part Asian.

  After the surgery, he’d fly to his sprawling villa on Martinique. There, he’d enjoy its breezy rooms and spectacular views of his private lagoon, a cove of clear blue-green water, pure sand and palm trees. And as always, he’d enjoy the black-skinned girls on the white silk sheets of his bed.

  But first, why not enjoy a tawny-skinned girl? he thought, looking at Maccabee.

  She sat on a nearby chair. He liked how her exotic tan face worked with her trim, shapely body, her nice long legs… and nice everything else.

  But first it was time to celebrate his historic achievement. To savor the great news… word by word… from the world’s media. He couldn’t wait to see how the Al Qaeda blogs and Internet sites celebrated the news.

  Smiling, he walked over to a galley table set up with a small radio, a Keurig coffee maker, a wide array of liquors and wines. He poured himself a celebration drink, a tall tumbler of Jameson, his favorite whiskey, and took a healthy sip. It felt wonderful. He felt wonderful.

  “And now let’s hear some good news!” he said to her in Arabic.

  He saw that she understood Arabic. “Don’t you agree?”

  She said nothing.

  “DO YOU?”

  She nodded.

  He turned on the radio and solemn classical music flowed around the barge’s iron hull, which made the acoustics perfect.

  “My… what a sad, gloomy melody. Wonder why they’re playing it?”

  She said nothing.

  “Do you recognize it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Brahm’s Symphony #3. Guess where it’s often played?”

  She remained silent.

  “Funerals,” Stahl said, unable to keep the grin from his face. “Wonder who died?”

  Maccabee closed her eyes and lowered her head. Clearly, she knew for whom the dirge played.

  He dialed to an English-speaking station so she could also hear the good news.