G 8

by Mike Brogan

“This normal?”

  “Way worse.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Inspectors lookin’ for something.”

  “What?”

  “Hard to say. Drugs maybe. Big money in drugs.”

  “True.”

  “Maybe terrorists. Bastards is everywheres! Like down in Brussels today.”

  “Also true.”

  Stahl checked the barges ahead. “How long before we reach the border customs inspectors?”

  “At this pace, I reckon thirty minutes. Sorry about the delay.” “Not a problem.”

  But it was a problem. The backup was for him. By now the police would have found the Opel and the two bodies in the Brussels forest, and maybe even found something that linked the bodies to the red BMW. Later, the cops would find the BMW along the canal bank and assume he’d escaped on a boat. Perhaps they already had.

  There was even a slight chance someone saw him board the barge.

  It was time to leave the barge.

  * * *

  Donovan kept his eyes riveted ahead, as he, de Waha and three police officers drove slowly along the canal in an unmarked lights-off police vehicle, heading toward Stahl’s barge.

  They parked a hundred yards in back of Stahl’s barge, got out and eased the doors shut. Foghorns groaned up and down the canal.

  The mist was so thick, Donovan realized Stahl and Maccabee could have left the barge without being seen.

  An officer opened the car trunk and lifted out a Zodiac Minuteman raft, military version. The raft hissed to full inflation within sixty seconds. They slid it into the water, boarded and paddled off toward the Albatross.

  Donovan shoved a full magazine into his 9mm Smith & Wesson. As the raft moved closer, a chilly gust of wind hit him. Visibility was down to fifty feet. Breathing was down to diesel fumes. He knew the chances of finding Maccabee aboard were maybe fifty-fifty. Like the chances of finding her alive.

  De Waha pointed to the screen of his cell phone.

  Donovan looked and saw the Albatross Vacation Website. The barge’s floor plan revealed a living room, master bedroom, two smaller bedrooms, baths, galley and storage room.

  Where would Stahl keep Maccabee?

  Was she still on the barge?

  Ahead, Donovan saw the elderly captain jackknifed over the wheel in the cabin. The yellow overhead light made him look jaundiced. The fact he wasn’t moving a muscle made him look dead.

  De Waha pointed to a rope ladder hung over the barge’s side. “We climb the ladder silently.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “I’ll show my badge to the captain, then we’ll enter the cabin below.”

  “What if Stahl holds a gun on her?” an officer asked.

  “Do nothing,” Donovan said. “If we surprise him, he may not have time to threaten her.”

  They paddled the raft closer to the long black barge. Behind it, seven more barges had backed up.

  Donovan was thankful the thick fog made their approach invisible.

  * * *

  But not to Valek Stahl.

  After hearing the unmistakable sound of a raft hissing to life, he looked out the rear porthole and saw the cops at the bank of the canal. He watched them board the raft and paddle toward the barge. Now, they were about four minutes away.

  He gagged Maccabee and placed his Glock against her temple.

  “One sound, you die.”

  He led her upstairs and looked through the small window at the captain’s back. The old man’s head was drooping, suggesting he was nodding off.

  Stahl watched a helicopter fly overhead. Using the chopper roar, foghorns and barge engine noise as cover, Stahl opened the door and led Maccabee onto the deck opposite the approaching police raft. The old captain didn’t move.

  Stahl tied her wrist to his and led her to a ladder draped over the other side of the barge. They climbed down, eased into the cold water, swam to the rear hull and paused. He peered around the hull, saw Donovan’s raft approach and then disappear around the other side, probably heading toward the rope ladder he’d seen earlier.

  Stahl waited until he heard men climb the ladder and go up on deck. When they began talking to the captain, he pulled Maccabee around to the police raft: a Minuteman, like one he’d used in the Persian Gulf. He reached up and released the seal lid on the inflation tube. Air began to seep out. To speed things along, he took out his suppressed Glock and thumped an insurance bullet into the polyester belly of the raft. Air bubbles raced to the surface.

  Then he pushed Maccabee’s head under water and watched her air bubbles race to the surface.

  * * *

  De Waha flashed his badge at the surprised captain and handed him Stahl’s photo. “Is this man on your barge?”

  The old captain squinted at the photo a few seconds. “Don’t think so, but if he is, he looks real different. My passenger’s got black hair. Plus, he’s got hisself a beard. But them eyes… well now… maybe.”

  “Is an attractive dark-haired woman with him?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes indeed!”

  “Where are they?”

  “Where else… down below.” He pointed to the door.

  Weapons drawn, Donovan and the others positioned themselves at the door to the living quarters.

  On a three count, they burst inside. Donovan and de Waha cleared the main rooms as the others checked the smaller rooms.

  Within seconds, Donovan realized Stahl and Maccabee were gone.

  He and de Waha ran back up to the captain.

  “They’re not on board!” de Waha said.

  The captain’s eyes shot wide open. “But I just seen him go down there ten minutes ago!”

  “Did you see her then?”

  “No.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  The captain paused. “Couple hours ago.”

  Donovan’s stomach tightened.

  Then he heard something on shore. The click of a car door. He turned and saw a tall man getting into the driver’s side of the police car.

  “That’s STAHL!” he said, pointing at the car as it sped away. Where was Maccabee?

  “Bastard!” de Waha shouted.

  Panicked, they ran back over and looked down at their raft.

  It was a foot underwater.

  FORTY NINE

  As Donovan started to swim to shore, the old captain grabbed his arm and pointed. Donovan spun around and saw a rowboat on the deck.

  Quickly, they dropped the rowboat in the canal, jumped in and paddled like Olympic rowers for shore.

  Donovan’s heart pounded. He’d only seen a man Stahl’s height get in the car. Had to be Stahl! But the captain hadn’t seen Maccabee in over two hours. And she wasn’t on the barge. Had Stahl disposed of her earlier?

  Donovan searched the dark water, afraid of what he might see.

  On shore, Donovan and the others hurried along the canal bank, searching for her shoeprints. He checked the grassy area around a concrete dock, then along some hedges. No prints. He ran down the canal bank a few yards. Still nothing. Much of the bank was covered with thick grass and pea gravel that made footprints nearly impossible to see, especially in the dark.

  “Over here!” an officer shouted.

  Donovan raced over to a patch of dirt. He looked down at a woman’s heel-and-toe prints. Fresh prints. Next to them, Stahl’s large prints.

  She’s with him! Donovan realized, as every muscle in his body melted.

  “He’s using her as a hostage,” de Waha said.

  “For now… ”

  The footprints led them over to where the police car had been parked.

  Seconds later, another police car pulled up and they got in. De Waha grabbed its phone.

  “This is de Waha. I repeat – Stahl is driving a stolen police car – license BE8-789. Track its GPS before Stahl disables it! He’ll switch cars soon. Check out all stolen cars in the area. And remember - he holds Maccabee Singh hostage. Do not try to arrest
him alone, unless her life is threatened. Call when you have anything.” He hung up.

  Donovan stared at the police radio, begging it to blast on immediately with good news, even though he didn’t expect it. Part of him feared terrible news. After all, there was blood on Maccabee’s scarf in the forest. She was injured. Perhaps badly!

  Guilt suddenly overwhelmed him, the guilt of Sohan Singh’s death, the guilt of bringing his daughter Maccabee to Europe… the guilt of bringing her to the Congo Museum. He knew the museum was Stahl’s last chance, knew it would be dangerous, knew an explosion was possible, even likely. Yet, instead of asking a security team to take her back to the Amigo Hotel, he’d brought her to the museum. And then, like an idiot, he asked her to wait outside the door - where Stahl grabbed her. One huge mistake after another…

  Donovan’s rage was red hot. He wanted Stahl now! Wanted the bastard dead! And frankly, he wanted the honor of making him dead. But he couldn’t budge until they had some idea of where Stahl drove.

  “Stahl needs her,” de Waha said, gnawing nervously on his pipe stem.

  “He needs to ditch her.”

  “We’ll find the police car first!”

  “You’ll find it ditched too!”

  The car phone rang and de Waha punched the speaker button. “Director… ?”

  “Yes?”

  “Bad news, sir. Stahl disabled the police car’s GPS.”

  “What about the computer and radio-phone?”

  “Those too.”

  De Waha’s face went crimson. “Find that goddammed car anyway!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Donovan looked down at the canal water, black as Stahl’s eyes, and made a promise.

  If she dies Stahl, you die.

  * * *

  Maccabee shivered even though the car heater blasted hot air onto her cold wet clothes.

  Stahl drove the police car north at the speed limit. For the last few miles, he seemed to be searching for something alongside the road. He’d slowed a couple of times, looked into the forest, then sped up again.

  Now, he seemed to find what he was looking for. He braked and turned into a small rest area surrounded by a thick evergreen forest.

  Why here?

  Then she knew. The perfect kill zone!

  But if she ran into the forest, he’d shoot her. Still, running might be her only chance.

  The car headlight beams slid across the fender of an SUV, the only other vehicle in the rest area. Stahl parked and spun a suppressor onto his gun.

  She put her fingers on the door handle and got ready to bolt from the car.

  “The gun is not for you.”

  Not yet, maybe.

  “Relax!”

  She did not relax.

  Stahl opened the glove compartment, took out some flex-cuffs, fixed them around her wrists, then bound her to the steering wheel. He grabbed the keys and got out.

  She watched him walk over to the SUV, a Volvo. He looked inside, then stuck the gun through the open driver’s window at the middle-aged man and woman inside.

  “Get out!”

  They stared at him.

  “OUT!”

  Slowly, they stepped from the car.

  “Walk over to those restrooms.”

  They turned to walk. One step later, Stahl raised his gun and shot them both in the back of the head. They slumped against each other as they fell to the ground, their blood splattering onto the driver’s side door.

  Maccabee couldn’t believe what she’d seen. He’d killed the couple in cold blood. Tears spilled down her cheeks as Stahl removed the couples’ IDs, then dragged their bodies like bags of trash into the forest. He came back and wiped most blood off the Volvo door. His face remained dead calm, his eyes like black ice, revealing no emotion.

  He un-cuffed Maccabee, led her over to the Volvo, placed her in the driver’s seat, then got in the passenger seat. He placed the key in the ignition and aimed his gun at her.

  “Drive!”

  Why does he want me to drive? she wondered.

  Trembling, she drove out of the rest area. Traffic was light, a few cars, trucks, some campers, a police car going the other way, flasher off.

  Minutes later, she saw a sign indicating the Dutch border was a kilometer ahead. She assumed it would be a drive-through, non-stop border crossing, like crossing from state to state in America. But maybe tonight, she hoped, border guards will be stopping cars, searching for Stahl.

  “Slow down, turn in there and park under those trees.”

  She turned onto the street and parked under the trees.

  Stahl reached into his backpack and pulled out a large cosmetic kit. He opened it and took out a blonde wig.

  “Put this on.”

  She placed the wig on her head. In the mirror, she saw the long blonde hair completely hid her short dark hair.

  “We’re going to cross this border. I’ll be right behind you, beneath all these clothing bags and suitcases. But you will feel my gun stuck in your left side. If you signal the inspector in any way, I will know, and I will shoot you. You will die or be paralyzed for life. I will also shoot the inspector. Do you believe me?”

  She swallowed a chalk-dry throat.

  “DO YOU?”

  “Yes.”

  “If he asks why you’re entering Holland, just say you’re touring Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg.”

  “But my passport is at the hotel.”

  “Just tell him the hotel concierge said you could you could drive into Holland without stopping. A Schengen crossing. Your passport would not be required. So you didn’t bring it.”

  “What if he asks my name?”

  “Tell him your name is… Ann Smith.”

  “But if he asks for my driver’s license - ”

  “Say you forgot your wallet with your passport at the hotel.”

  She paused. “He might ask me to get out of the car.”

  “If he does… those will be the last words he ever speaks.”

  Stahl crawled over the seat, and hid beneath the large hanger bags of clothes and suitcases. She couldn’t see him - but felt his gun’s suppressor digging into her left side.

  She drove to the border crossing and pulled into line behind two cars. The other lines also had a few cars backed up. On the right side of the road, she saw armed soldiers checking only those vehicles with men.

  One soldier looked over at her, but quickly turned to the car behind her with a man driver and a woman passenger.

  One car ahead now. A grey-haired couple. The inspector, a short man, who seemed swollen with authority, questioned the old couple. He walked to their trunk and peered into the rear window, then walked back and waved them into Holland.

  Then he signaled Maccabee forward.

  She looked at him, hoping he saw the fear in her eyes. He didn’t seem to.

  “Nationality?”

  “American.”

  “Passport, please.”

  “It’s at my hotel back in Liege. The concierge told me I could just drive into Holland without stopping.”

  He stared at her for several moments. “Normally, that is the case. But tonight is different. What is the purpose of your visit to Holland?”

  “I’m touring Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg.” Does he hear the quiver in my voice? Again, he didn’t seem to.

  The officer looked at her, then looked in back at the large clothing bags and suitcases and raised his eyebrows. He walked alongside the SUV, peering inside for several seconds, shading his eyes with his hand.

  He walked back to her. “Lot of suitcases and clothing bags for one person.”

  She nodded.

  “All clothes?”

  She had no idea what was in the suitcases and bags. “Well, yes, mostly clothes.”

  The guard walked back and looked in again for several seconds. He strolled around the other side of the vehicle, peered in, then came back, stared at her for a moment and shook his head.

  “If I were to open
all those suitcases, are you sure I would find mostly clothes?”

  She panicked, paused, then shrugged. “Well, yes… ”

  “American women! Clothes-clothes-clothes! So many clothes!” he said, laughing. “You may proceed into Holland.”

  She froze. Should she alert him? Bolt out the door?

  Would bullets rip into her? Kill her? Kill him?

  “Is there a problem?” the guard asked as he started to walk away.

  Stahl’s gun jabbed her side.

  “No problem… ”

  “Good. Proceed, please.”

  She drove slowly into Holland.

  A mile further, Stahl climbed into the front passenger seat. He pushed the gun barrel into her face. He looked angry.

  “You hesitated back there,” he said.

  She said nothing.

  “It almost cost you your life. The next time, it will.”

  FIFTY

  Maccabee drove north in Holland. She shivered more from Valek Stahl’s stare than her wet clothes. His gaze felt like insects creeping over her skin.

  Earlier, Stahl had yanked the Garmin GPS from the dashboard and tossed it out the window… eliminating any chance the police could track the Volvo. Chances were, they wouldn’t even know about the Volvo since Stahl had removed all ID from the middle-aged couple he killed for the car.

  He turned away from her and looked at his map, apparently planning his final escape route, an escape that she sensed would not include her.

  Which meant she had to escape first.

  “Why are you involved in the G8?” he demanded.

  She was afraid to tell him she translated the Sumerian messages. “I’m a friend of Donovan Rourke.”

  “What’s your job?”

  She hesitated. “A professor.”

  “Of foreign languages, right?”

  He knows.

  “Yes.”

  “Liker du driv?”

  She understood Norwegian. “Yes, I like driving.”

  “Du er veldig attraktivt,” he said in Finnish. You are very attractive.

  She grew concerned. “Kiitos.” Thanks.

  In Arabic, he asked, “Kaifa I-Haal?” How are you doing?

  “Ana tamaaam.” I’m okay.

  “You lie easily,” he said.

  She said nothing.

  “You also translate ancient Sumerian, don’t you?”