G 8

by Mike Brogan

  Several hundred yards farther, the group came to the narrow paved road. Donovan saw no footprints and no clues on the pavement. They crossed the road and within a few feet found the footprints again and continued tracking them east toward the dark wall of trees on he border.

  Minutes later, the footprints led them into the German forest.

  An officer shouted, “Over here!”

  Donovan and de Waha hurried over. Donovan bent down and saw a silver wristwatch with a grey leather band.

  “Maccabee’s!”

  “They’re continuing through this forest,” de Waha said. “Let’s hope she’s wearing more jewelry.”

  “She is,” Donovan said, remembering her bracelets, ring and earrings.

  He soon noticed they were walking on a thick carpet of pine needles and leaves. The footprints disappeared. And soon, he realized so had her jewelry clues. Stahl and Maccabee could be walking in any direction.

  But something about the clues was bothering Donovan, something that didn’t feel right and he wasn’t sure what it was.

  Soon, they came to a treeless clearing the size of a football field. Donovan’s shoes sank into the soft ground and he sensed they’d pick up the footprints here. The team and police spread out seven abreast and methodically combed through the clearing. Flashlights swept the ground as they walked in ten-yard sections. After several minutes and several sweeps, Donovan realized there were no fresh footprints and no more jewelry in the clearing.

  “Stahl changed direction before this clearing,” Donovan said.”

  De Waha nodded and looked at his map. “If they circled the clearing and went straight ahead, they’d reach the German town of Kalderkirchen. If they turned left, they’re going along the border. If they turned right, they’re walking through several kilometers of forest. The town of Kalderkirchen – straight ahead makes sense.”

  “Or….” Donovan said, suddenly realizing what was bothering him about the jewelry clues.

  “Or what?”

  “Or… straight back!”

  De Waha looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

  “I’ve had an uneasy feeling about Maccabee’s jewelry.”

  “Why?”

  Donovan turned and looked back from where they’d come. “Stahl would make her walk in front of him, or at least beside him, right?”

  De Waha nodded.

  “Yet, we find large sparkling pieces of her jewelry… perched up like Tiffany’s displays along the path. Stahl’s smart. He doesn’t miss things. He would have seen the jewelry if he was behind her or even beside her.”

  “Maybe he was busy, looking at a map.”

  “Maybe. But those clues looked positioned, carefully placed, not simply dropped. We spotted them easily from a distance.”

  De Waha said nothing.

  “Then suddenly in the forest, we see no more jewelry, no more clues. Why? Maccabee was also wearing some bracelets, a gold pin, a silver ring and earrings. She could have easily dropped another clue here in the forest. Again, why didn’t he?”

  De Waha stared at him. “You’re saying Stahl positioned the jewelry?”

  Donovan nodded.

  “But why?”

  “So we’d think he’s continuing into Germany… ”

  De Waha closed his eyes for several moments. “While the bastard doubled back into Holland!”

  Donovan nodded.

  De Waha looked back toward Holland. “If you’re right, he could be back near Polderweg Road by now.”

  “Or further.”

  De Waha punched a button on his phone. “Look for Stahl back near Polderweg Road. Donovan and I are heading back there now. The rest of our team will continue through the forest to Kalderkirchen.”

  “If you’re right,” de Waha said, “we might get lucky and pick up their footprints heading back as we exit the forest.”

  And if I’m wrong, Donovan thought, I may have signed Maccabee’s death warrant.

  FIFTY THREE

  Maccabee noticed the fog was thicker as Stahl pushed her through the grassy fields back in Holland. She couldn’t keep this pace much longer thanks to her bruised knee. Stahl had slammed it against a tree a few minutes ago when she tried to escape while he studied his map.

  Pain now radiated from her knee to her ankle. And her jaw still throbbed where Stahl had hit it.

  She felt more desperate with each step and knew her chances of survival were not good.

  Her only hope, slim and unrealistic, was that the border inspector or the gas station attendant might have somehow recognized her even though she was wearing the blonde wig. In other words, her only hope was a miracle.

  Like the police arriving. Where were they? she wondered. Eventually, they would find the stolen Volvo. They’d track their footsteps, see her jewelry on the path, and find her wristwatch in the forest. But when they found no more footprints and jewelry they’d assume Stahl continued through the forest into Germany.

  By the time they finally figured out that Stahl had set them up and doubled back into Holland, someone would be writing her obituary.

  She had to escape - despite the gun constantly pointed at her.

  Her thoughts turned to Donovan. He’d been right. She should have listened to him in New York. He’d warned her how dangerous this was. Tried to keep her out of it. But she’d insisted he let her help, pushed him. Pushing people, hard sometimes, maybe too hard, was one of the things she didn’t like about herself. If she really wanted to do something, she would cajole, schmooze, manipulate and occasionally browbeat someone to get it. My will be done! Now she felt guilty for pushing Donovan. Very guilty.

  Still, if she hadn’t pushed, she wouldn’t have come, and if she hadn’t come, she and Donovan would not have had these last two miraculous days together. Days that had uncovered long-buried emotions in her, reawakened something she’d feared she’d lost forever when Andrew died.

  With Donovan, she’d found the courage to love again. Whatever happened to her now, the last two beautiful days had changed her forever, even if forever was down to minutes.

  But she wanted more than minutes. She wanted years and years with Donovan…

  Stahl pulled her behind a tall hedge. Through its branches, she saw Polderweg Road. A half-mile down, red and blue flashers swept over the Volvo and several police cars.

  Stahl grabbed her arm and led her through the fog to the other side of Polderweg Road. They continued walking until they came to a large river that she knew was the Maas. Checking his map, Stahl led her along the riverbank for several minutes. The cool river wind felt good against her aching jaw.

  Ahead, she saw a sign for the Serraris Jachthaven-Marina. Yachts and sailboats lined three docks that jutted out into the river. The tiny guardhouse had a faint light on. They walked up and looked inside. No one.

  She heard footsteps behind her. “Goii navent.”

  She spun around, hoping for a policeman. Instead she saw an elderly uniformed guard walking toward them. He held a palm-sized television tuned to a soccer game.

  Sensing they were tourists, he tired English. “Good evening, folks.”

  “Oh, good evening,” Stahl said. “We’re looking for our good friends. They have a Hatteras here.”

  The old guard smiled with pride. “We have three!”

  “Really?”

  “Yep! End of the dock. Look!” He pointed.

  The soccer crowd roared, then an announcer cut in, “We interrupt the game for this important message. Police are looking for… ”

  The guard squinted at the television screen. “Well, I’ll be damned?”

  “What?” Stahl asked.

  “This guy on TV… he kinda looks a little like you!”

  “Me? You’re kidding… let’s see!”

  The smiling guard walked over and showed him the screen. “See, this fella’s eyes are sorta like yours!”

  Before she knew what was happening, Stahl’s stiletto had slit open the guard’s neck. The old man’s eyes
shot wide open as red arterial blood pumped through his fingers. He slumped to the ground, his gaze never leaving Stahl.

  Maccabee felt ill. She had no time to warn the poor man. She slumped against the guardhouse and forced bile back down her throat.

  Stahl shoved and kicked the guard’s body down into the canal, where it drifted beneath the dock. Then he took Maccabee inside the guardhouse where he pried open a locked cabinet on the wall. In the cabinet keys hung on numbered hooks. He glanced at the yachts, then grabbed the keys for Number 17.

  He led her down the dock toward a large white Hatteras at the end. Her heels clicked on the wood planks and she prayed someone in the yacht with a dim light on heard them.

  Further down the dock, she took off an earring, and when Stahl wasn’t looking, tossed it against the hull of a sailboat. It clicked and splashed into the river.

  Stahl spun around and stared at her.

  “I kicked a pebble.”

  He stared at her for several seconds, obviously not buying her explanation, then yanked her toward the big Hatteras.

  As they started to step aboard the yacht, she bent down and placed her other earring on the dock.

  On board, she looked for something to use as a weapon, but saw nothing. Stahl grabbed some rope and tied her to the deck railing.

  He studied the instrument panel a moment then prepared to launch the vessel. He went back and checked out the yacht’s Detroit Diesel engines for a few moments, then came back and inserted the key in the ignition.

  He turned the key. The engines sputtered… stopped.

  He turned the key again. Sputtered… stopped.

  She prayed it was out of gas.

  He tried again.

  The big engines sputtered… coughed… stopped again… then they roared to life.

  Stahl walked over and unlooped the tether ropes from the dock poles and climbed up to the bridge. He took a small crowbar and a screwdriver from the tool compartment and pried off the dashboard screen displaying the yacht’s GPS location. Then he pulled out some wires and cut them with his stiletto, disabling the system. The GPS screen went black.

  Then he eased the large yacht out into the fog-shrouded river and turned north.

  He cruised slowly up the river a hundred yards, and accelerated. Maccabee saw no other river traffic. She looked back and saw the lights of the marina fading fast.

  Like her chance of survival.

  FIFTY FOUR

  Driving along the Maas River, Officer Wim Lenaerts checked himself in the rearview mirror and frowned. Once again, his comb-over had flopped over like the flue flap on his chimney. And his Rogaine? Forget it! Guacamole could grow more hair!

  His police radio clicked on.

  “Wim… ?” It was Daan, his captain.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Stahl might be back here in Holland.”

  “But they tracked him to Germany!”

  “Yeah, but we think he doubled back. Watch for him and the woman. And don’t mess with this psycho! Call for backup!”

  “Count on it, sir.”

  They hung up.

  Moments later, Lenaerts drove by the stolen Volvo on Polderweg Road and nodded to his fellow officers and some CSI techie pals. He continued driving north. Everything looked like it looked an hour ago, normal.

  A kilometer later, it didn’t. The Serraris Jachthaven Yacht Marina was lit up like a Hollywood film premier. Thirty minutes earlier only the small guardhouse light was on. And weeknight parties were rare at the marina. What was going on? He better check it out.

  He parked, got out and walked toward the guardhouse. He saw two old men in their pajamas hurrying down the dock toward him, waving their arms.

  “Is there a problem?” Lenaerts shouted.

  “Big problem, officer!” said an elderly guy with stalks of grey sleep hair sticking up like a punk rocker. Beside him stood an old bald guy in red wool pajamas.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Well, I was sleepin’,” Sleep Hair said.

  “Me, too,” Red Pajamas said.

  “Yep, we was sleepin’ when you wouldn’t believe it!”

  “What?”

  “Old Henri Dumon’s yacht cranks up and pulls right out.”

  “Henri like night cruises?”

  “Henri’s in Paris.”

  “Musta drove up.”

  “Drove up? Henri can’t sit up. Man’s in a coma. Celeste, that’s his wife, she says it doesn’t look good.”

  “Maybe he let someone use it.”

  “No damn way. Nobody goes on Henri’s boat, less’n he’s with ‘em. He’d sooner drink rat piss, right Jan?”

  “That’s right,” Jan said, buttoning his red pajamas.

  “I’m tellin’ you, officer, that yacht was just stolen! And old Dirk’s missing, too!”

  “Dirk, the security guard?”

  “Yep.”

  Officer Lenearts grew more concerned. Dirk was always patrolling the dock, or watching sports on his small television in the guardhouse.

  “Think Dirk took it?”

  “No way. Dirk’s afraid of the river. Doesn’t even like boats, right Jan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you see anything strange before the yacht took off?”

  “Nope, but I heard something strange.”

  “What?”

  “Clicks.”

  “Clicks?”

  “Yeah. You know, like a woman’s high heels hitting the dock clicks. High heels ain’t too normal on docks or boats.”

  Lenearts agreed, growing more interested.

  “After I heard that, the yacht engine cranks right up and cruises into the river.”

  Gotta be Stahl and the woman! Lenearts realized, his pulse pounding. “Which way did the yacht go?”

  “Toward Nijmegen.”

  “Can you describe the yacht?”

  “Hatteras. A beauty, right Jan?”

  “That’s right!” Jan said.

  “Cuts water like silk. Double cabin. Fifty-four footer.” Van Zant’s love of boats turned his parchment cheeks pink. “Twin V8 diesel engines. All the fancy electronics.”

  “White?”

  “Yep.”

  “Does it have a… you know, a top… ?”

  “A bridge. Yep, and a good size rear deck.”

  “Any other distinguishing features?”

  “Its name - L’étoile d’Uzes - in big black letters right across the back. French flag right above ‘em.”

  Lenearts wrote down the name.

  “How long ago did it leave?”

  The old man looked at his watch. “Maybe… thirty-five minutes ago.”

  “Have Dirk call me the second he gets back.” He handed the old man his card.

  “I will, but… ”

  “But what?

  “Well, it just ain’t like old Dirk to go off and disappear, right Jan?”

  “That’s right.”

  Lenearts checked around the guardhouse and saw the key storage box had been pried open. He started walking back toward his car radio, then stopped cold. He saw something on the dock.

  Spots.

  Make that drops, wet dark drops… the color of blood.

  Using his flashlight, he followed them down to the riverbank… where the beam hit a hand-sized television.

  And then a human hand… and arm floating beneath the dock.

  FIFTY FIVE

  Stahl gazed down at the water, shimmering like black satin, as he piloted the big Hatteras up river. The peaceful water calmed him almost as much as the rows of white yachts the cops would have to check along the shore.

  He looked at the woman. She was shivering where he’d tied her to a deck rail. She deserved to shiver. Her translations and her father’s had caused him trouble.

  He checked his speed. One knot below the limit. River traffic was light, and with 870 gallons of fuel, he could cruise all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.

  After disabling the GPS, he found
a Maas River map. It showed him water depth, tributaries, canals, marinas, even police locations.

  The police would of course eventually figure out he’d doubled back and stolen the yacht.

  But by then, he would have ditched it.

  And the woman.

  * * *

  Donovan was worried as he and Jean de Waha walked back into Holland. They had not found Maccabee’s and Stahl’s footprints heading back. Donovan feared he’d made a huge mistake thinking Stahl had doubled back. By now, Stahl could be deep in Germany.

  As Donovan and de Waha stepped back onto Polderweg Road, a police car raced up and stopped beside them.

  A young officer leaned out the window. “We think Stahl killed a security guard at the Serraris Marina just up the road. Then he stole a yacht!”

  “Was Maccabee with him?” Donovan asked.

  “We think so.”

  “Why?”

  “A man heard what sounded like a woman’s shoes on the dock just minutes before the yacht was stolen. And right where the yacht was moored, we found a silver earring.”

  “Shaped like a teardrop?”

  “Yes.”

  Donovan melted with relief. “Maccabee’s!”

  The officer explained that the yacht was a big fifty-five-foot Hatteras with the name L’étoile d’Uzès on the rear deck beneath a red-white-blue French flag.

  “Which direction did he go?”

  “North from the marina.”

  Donovan looked up river. “He’ll stay within the speed limits. So how far could he be now?”

  The officer unfolded a river map and pointed. “Maybe around Kevelaer or Boxmeer.”

  Donovan heard a familiar thump thump thump. He spun around and saw the halogen spotlights of a helicopter speeding through the night toward them.

  Two minutes later, he and Jean, were belted into the Dutch Police Agusta-Bell AW 139 chopper as the fifteen-seater skimmed over the river like a pelican hunting dinner.

  Two miles further, Donovan pointed at a big white yacht.

  The pilot shook his head. “That’s a Condor, 50-footer… ”

  Minutes later, near the town of Venlo, Donovan saw marinas with numerous white yachts moored side by side like piano keys. Most had their rear decks tucked tightly against the marina dock. Police would have to check each one.