G 8

by Mike Brogan

  He found the pictographs in my purse.

  “Don’t you?”

  “A bit.”

  “Which has caused me problems.”

  She drove around a vegetable truck and thought about signaling the driver, but the man didn’t look her way.

  “The Sumerians, you know, had a very humane way of killing their enemies.”

  She said nothing.

  “Simple and quick.”

  She waited.

  “They drove a spike into their head.”

  She blinked and tried to focus on the road ahead.

  “Death was fast. Too fast for my enemies.”

  She said nothing.

  “Enemies like your friends, Rourke and de Waha. And, of course, you, the translator!”

  Her pulse pounded and she took a deep breath of air.

  She passed a truckload of sheep and looked into their eyes. They looked as frightened as she felt. Are we both being led to the slaughter?

  Stahl turned his attention back to the map. As she drove, she saw road signs indicating the German border was just a few kilometers to the east. Donovan had mentioned that they believed Stahl lived in Germany. Would he try to cross the German border and head home? Would he take her with him?

  By now the police would have found the Opel in the forest near the Congo museum, and maybe even the stolen red BMW by the canal. But linking Stahl to this Volvo might take hours or days.

  The further she drove, the more desperate she felt. Her neck still ached where he’d knocked her unconscious. Her jaw throbbed where he hit her after learning that the G8 leaders survived the explosion.

  Ahead she saw the lights of a Shell station. The fuel needle was touching E.

  “We’re low on gas,” she said. “There’s a stat – ”

  “Pull in at the full service pump. Say nothing.”

  She turned in and stopped at the full service pump. The station was attached to a restaurant filled with what looked like families, regular customers, and truck drivers. An attendant hurried out to the car. She had to signal him.

  Stahl waved him over. “Fill it up.”

  The young, skinny attendant nodded, then walked back and began pumping gas.

  The station phone started ringing.

  The police calling maybe! Maccabee thought.

  Go answer it!

  The attendant turned and hurried toward the phone. But someone else picked up and the attendant strolled back to the car and began cleaning the windshield on Stahl’s side.

  Somehow, she had to signal the attendant.

  Stahl was focused on his map. She reached into her coat pocket, felt a hairpin, a rubber band and an eyebrow pencil. She raised the eyebrow pencil up to her neck and pretending to straighten her necklace, she wrote… H U L P, the Dutch word for HELP below her neck between the open collars of her blouse.

  The attendant strolled around and began cleaning her side of the windshield. As he wiped, he nodded and smiled at Maccabee, but didn’t appear to see H U L P. She leaned toward him.

  Still no reaction.

  Glancing down, she saw why. Everything above her breasts was in dark shadows. Maybe if she slid down into the light…

  She checked Stahl again. Still buried in his map.

  She inched down until the station lights hit H U L P and looked up.

  The attendant was gone, back at the pump, replacing the gas nozzle.

  She watched him take Stahl’s money and walk back to the station.

  “Drive!” Stahl said.

  “I need to use the restroom.”

  “Drive!”

  * * *

  The police car radio came alive and Donovan’s stomach tightened.

  “We’ve found the stolen police car,” an officer said.

  “Where?” de Waha asked.

  “Roadside rest area south of Maastricht.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Two bodies.”

  Donovan closed his eyes.

  “Man and woman in their fifties.”

  Donovan was relieved, but outraged that Stahl murdered two more innocent people.

  “No wallets, but we found a crumpled VISA receipt in the woman’s back pocket. She’s Mari Ange Battens, 402 Rue St. Laurent from Liege. We’re running her through Motorvoertuig Registreert, our Motor Vehicle Records Division. We should have her vehicle any - hang on!”

  Donovan heard background voices.

  “The Battens have a Volvo V70. Dark blue, license BCD 4286.”

  “BOLO the Volvo to all police groups fast!” de Waha said. “Belgium, Holland and Germany. Make it Euro-wide.”

  Donovan’s hope rekindled. They had a vehicle to track. With every police officer in Europe looking for the Volvo, they might find it before Stahl did something to Maccabee… or switched vehicles again.

  “Let’s go!” de Waha said to the driver. The police car spun out of its parking spot, dinging gravel off the Kanne Bridge and into the Albert Canal below. Within seconds, the car was traveling at one hundred fifty kilometers an hour.

  “He’s heading home,” de Waha said. “Back to Germany.”

  “Probably. It’s only minutes away.”

  “But he knows border guards are looking for him and Maccabee.”

  “So he’ll avoid the border guards and probably walk over.”

  De Waha nodded.

  “After… ” Donovan whispered.

  “After what?”

  “After he dumps her body.”

  “No! He needs her,” de Waha said. “And don’t forget the Stockholm syndrome. The longer a hostage and a captor are together, the stronger their relationship and the less likely the captor will kill the hostage. That’s what happens normally.”

  “You forget something, Jean.”

  “What?”

  “There’s nothing normal about Stahl.”

  FIFTY ONE

  Stahl knew the police would track him into Holland. They would discover the abandoned police car and the bodies of the middle-aged couple from the Volvo. They might even find something that linked the couple to the Volvo. Then they’d see video of the Volvo crossing the border into Holland.

  By now they could be closing in on him. Which is why he would keep Maccabee close by for now. With her at his side, the police wouldn’t risk a full-blown assault or sniper shot.

  And soon, he’d be where a sniper shot couldn’t reach him.

  * * *

  Maccabee knew she couldn’t wait for a chance to escape – she had to create it, maybe even while she was driving.

  But how? She was running out of time.

  Ahead she saw a thick fencepost next to the road. What if she reached over, unbuckled his seatbelt, then slammed his side of the car into the fencepost? It might incapacitate him long enough for her to escape. The fencepost was coming up fast.

  She had to decide!

  Then she noticed he had a side-air bag. It would protect him enough to come after her.

  She checked his gun in his left hand. He seemed to be holding it less tightly than earlier. Could she reach over and yank it from his hand? She visualized how she would grab it and aim it at his head.

  She took her right hand off the wheel and placed it at her side.

  Then, as though reading her mind, Stahl switched the gun to his right hand.

  Frustrated, she drove ahead.

  Maybe she could say she was very sick, about to vomit, then slow the car to a stop, open the door and bolt into a forest. She thought about that a moment, then knew she’d feel bullets enter her back before she got ten feet. Or he’d catch her and beat her again.

  She’d have to wait for the right opportunity. One with a better chance of success.

  She drove past the Dutch city of Maastricht and continued running parallel to the German border, a few kilometers to the east. Many roads led to the border, but Stahl gave no hint of his plan.

  She knew she had to stay calm. She’d tried to not give him any reason to hit her again. She d
id exactly what he said, drove as he’d directed, at the speed he demanded.

  She kept reminding herself that she was sitting next to a stone-cold psychopath. When he’d shot the couple in the Volvo and dragged their bodies into the forest, his expression, and probably his blood pressure, hadn’t changed.

  She was his hostage for now… and his next victim the moment he no longer needed her. And she saw no reason he needed her now.

  Deep down, she knew that unless she did something first, it was only a matter of time before he killed her…

  * * *

  Donovan flinched when the police radio beeped, shattering the car’s silence.

  “Van Kampen here, sir!”

  “What’s up?” de Waha said.

  “A customs inspector at the Dutch border south of Maastricht saw a dark blue Volvo V70 pass through a while ago. Woman driver. No man in the car. But lots of big suitcases and clothing bags in back.”

  “Enough for a man to hide under?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she American?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she look part Indian?”

  “Well, maybe, but… ”

  “But what?”

  “He said her hair was blonde.”

  “Not Maccabee,” de Waha said.

  Donovan’s hope sank. No one spoke for several moments.

  “Hang on a second, sir,” Van Kampen grew excited.

  Donovan heard him speaking rapid-fire Dutch to someone.

  “We got a match, sir!”

  “A match… ?”

  “The border DVD video just matched the Volvo license plate to the stolen Volvo!”

  “But how could it be Maccabee?” de Waha asked.

  “She’s wearing one of Stahl’s wigs,” Donovan said, with a gun in her side.”

  “What road are they on?” Donovan said.

  “E-25, heading north.”

  “When did they cross the border into Holland?”

  “About… twenty-five minutes ago.”

  “Alert all police in the area,” de Waha said. “We are now in pursuit.”

  The driver mashed the gas pedal down and Donovan watched the Porsche Turbo speedometer climb to one hundred seventy kilometers per hour in seconds. At this speed, they’d soon reach the beltway around Maastricht.

  The problem was which beltway exit did Stahl take? The exits were as numerous as the spokes on a Schwinn tire. One road led to Germany, one into Holland, one toward the Atlantic coast, one back toward Belgium. And several led into Maastricht, a city of one hundred twenty-five thousand… perfect for Stahl to disappear in.

  Donovan studied the map. He ran his finger along the E-25 Motorway toward Roermond, then up to the larger city of Venlo, then along the N-278 toward the German border city of Aachen.

  Several roads led over to the German border, some only a mile long. But Stahl knew the border officers were on hyper alert for him and an attractive, half-Indian woman. Still, with Maccabee wearing a blonde wig, and Stahl wearing another new disguise, he might risk driving into Germany at a border crossing.

  Or safer yet, he might walk into Germany.

  Another loud beep from the police car radio.

  “Van Kampen, sir. A gas station attendant on the A-73 near Swalmen says he saw a Volvo like the one we’re tracking. A woman fitting Maccabee’s description was driving – and a male passenger that fits Stahl’s description. Lots of suitcases and clothing bags in back.”

  “Did she have blonde hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does the gas station video confirm it’s the same Volvo?”

  “Their camera isn’t working.”

  “Anything else?” de Waha said.

  “Nope.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Sixteen minutes ago.”

  “Where’s Swalmen?” de Waha asked.

  “Here!” Donovan pointed to the map. About thirty kilometers ahead.”

  “Did they head north on the A-73?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s them,” de Waha said.

  Donovan nodded. “So he’s still running north beside the German border.”

  “Right. Concentrate your men on A-73 north of the service station. Set up a roadblock just south of Venlo. Reinforce all German border crossings. Have choppers hugging the border. We’re heading up 73 now.”

  Donovan calculated that Stahl was only twenty minutes ahead.

  The driver hit the gas again and in seconds, the Porsche’s 530 horsepower pushed the car up to two hundred kilometers an hour. Donovan couldn’t believe the car’s speed. They’d close the gap fast, assuming Stahl ordered Maccabee to drive at the speed limit.

  And assuming Stahl remained on the A-73.

  And assuming he stayed in the Volvo.

  Donovan hated assuming.

  FIFTY TWO

  “Exit here onto Polderweg Road!” Stahl said.

  Maccabee exited and saw a sign for the small Dutch town of Belfeld.

  Minutes later, he said, “Park alongside that row of trees.”

  She saw the row of trees, but no houses, no buildings, no other vehicles, no signs of life. Just empty fields of tall grass leading up to a sprawling forest in the distance.

  A perfect place to dump my corpse, she thought.

  Trembling, she steered onto the road’s gravel shoulder and crunched to a stop beside the row of evergreens.

  She had to escape now… run away in this field, even though her chances of getting away were dismal.

  Stahl grabbed the keys, came around and opened her door.

  “GET OUT!”

  She stepped from the car and took a deep breath. The cold night air felt like shards of glass piercing her lungs. Exactly how the bullets would feel.

  She heard the rhythmic thump of a distant helicopter. Turning, she saw its searchlights bleaching the ground white. The chopper raced along the German border a mile to the east.

  Stahl glanced at the chopper, then pushed her into the field of tall grass, heading toward Germany. A few feet later, he stopped and stared at her. Slowly, he reached toward her neck.

  She took a step back and got ready to kick him in the groin and run - when suddenly he yanked her necklace off.

  Then his eyes seemed to focus on something below her neck… something she thought she’d rubbed off.

  He was staring at the remnant smudges of H U L P.

  Anger flashed in his eyes.

  He hit her hard. She stumbled back and steadied herself against a tree. Her jaw felt like he’d driven a nail into it. Had he broken it? She opened her mouth and it worked, but with pain.

  He grabbed her arm and yanked her down a narrow path that led into the field. A few feet later, he stopped and positioned her necklace atop a small mound of dirt.

  Then he turned the necklace so the moonlight reflected off it.

  What’s he doing? He wants them to see the necklace! Why?

  Stahl pushed her farther into the soggy field toward the German border, stopping every few feet to check their footprints. He seemed pleased that their wet prints were easy to track.

  They came to a narrow road, crossed it and continued into the next field, leaving more fresh prints. She looked ahead and saw the German forest was not far.

  Stahl led her up to the forest, then inside several yards where he stopped and stared at her. His gaze slid from her neck… to her wrist.

  “Give me your watch!”

  She handed it to him. He placed it on a small clump of leaves next to her footprint. Then he positioned the watch so the moonlight glinted off the crystal face. The police couldn’t miss it.

  He still wants the police to follow us! Why?

  A hundred feet farther into the forest, Stahl bent down and examined where they’d just walked. When he saw no footprints on the leaves and pine needles, he seemed quite pleased.

  What’s going on? First he wants them to follow us - now he doesn’t?

  Is he setting th
em up for something? Leading them into a trap? An ambush? How can one man hope to ambush a squad of armed police?

  What’s he really up to?

  * * *

  As the police car sped past Roermond, Donovan feared Stahl had already switched vehicles again and escaped deep into his home turf -Germany. There he would have numerous places to hide himself… and Maccabee’s body.

  Donovan saw three Dutch police choppers sweeping along the border, their spotlights bleaching the forest white below. He worried that the forest was so dense the pilots probably couldn’t see anyone beneath, especially anyone wearing dark clothes and trying to hide, like Stahl and Maccabee.

  The car phone blared to life – “We found the Volvo!”

  “Where?” de Waha said.

  “Near Belfeld. Off A-73, alongside Poldersweg Road. No signs of Stahl or Maccabee!”

  “Any evidence they switched cars or were picked up?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Footprints?”

  “Still looking.”

  “We’re four kilometers away,” de Waha said, signaling the driver to hit the gas.

  Minutes later, their Police Porsche screeched to a stop beside the Volvo and two Dutch police cars. Donovan jumped out and hurried over to the officers by the Volvo. When he saw some blood splatter on Maccabee’s driver side window, he had to steady himself against the fender.

  Did Stahl shoot her? Or is this blood from the couple he shot to steal the Volvo?

  “Over here,” shouted a young officer in the field.

  The group ran over to him and looked down. Donovan saw the same heel and toe marks he’d seen in the mud beside the Albert Canal.

  “Maccabee’s footprints!” Donovan said, relieved she was at least walking.

  “Look at this!” an officer shouted deeper in the field as he pointed at something.

  Donovan and de Waha ran up to him and looked down at a necklace with a silver butterfly.

  “That’s Maccabee’s!” Donovan said.

  “She put the necklace here so we’d follow,” a policeman said.

  “Up here,” shouted a tall officer farther in the field.

  “What?” de Waha shouted.

  “More footprints.”

  “He’s heading toward the German border,” de Waha said.

  “He might have crossed it by now,” Donovan said, as two officers ran up and aimed 400-lumen Torch flashlights on the prints. The blinding white lights turned the ground to high noon. The prints were easy to follow.