G 8

by Mike Brogan

  “But he only communicates through untraceable e-mail drafts. And he’s disappearing after this assignment.”

  She paused. “That’s my point. Your job is to make sure he disappears. Permanently.”

  “But - ”

  “Your problem!” She pushed a button beneath her desk and the office door clicked open. Wickstrom’s eyes looked back at the Financial Times, letting Bennett know he was dismissed.

  At the door, Fritz stood twitching like a rabid animal, ready to pounce if Bennett didn’t leave immediately.

  Bennett stood and walked out. At least he was comforted with the knowledge that very soon he’d have more money than he could count. He was also comforted with the knowledge that Karlottah Wickstrom was dying.

  Slowly and painfully.

  THIRTEEN

  Bob Rosiek was worried. Donovan Rourke, his protégé, faced a horrific assignment in a city where he faced a horrific memory. The man’s thoughts and work would be interrupted with visions of his wife, Emma.

  Rosiek had not been in favor of the decision to send him to Brussels, but had been overruled.

  He phoned Donovan on the CIA Gulfstream.

  Donovan picked up on the first ring. “What’s up Bob?”

  “We’ve just got Maccabee Singh set up for her flight to Europe. She’s well protected, Donovan.”

  “Good.”

  “Also, NSA thinks there may be a couple more messages in Sumerian pictograms.”

  “Where?”

  “In Europe. They’re gathering them now.”

  “She told me she feels she can translate them.”

  “Good. All the more reason to have her in Brussels under better protection with all of you”

  “Agreed.”

  “How you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “You going to be okay over there, Donovan?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a lot to keep me focused.”

  “Like the assignment.”

  “Yeah, that and revenge.”

  “I understand. But, don’t let revenge screw up the job.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Be careful, Donovan.”

  “I will.”

  They hung up.

  Rosiek sat back and looked out his office window. He was still worried about Donovan. The man was returning to the location of his wife brutal murder. His need for revenge could make him less attentive to protecting the eight most powerful leaders in the world.

  On the other hand, he knew Rourke had an ability to compartmentalize his grief and focus on the job at hand. He’d seen him do it before.

  Rosiek remembered back at the CIA Farm. Early on, he’d known that Donovan had the right stuff: brains and guts. He remembered one night during paramilitary training when Donovan had trudged through a freezing sleet storm, crawled through icy slush, and navigated himself to the team’s pre-assigned map coordinates forty minutes before the other candidates.

  Another time, he won the obstacle course race by cutting through a snake-infested swamp and then used a cigarette lighter to remove several leaches and ticks from his legs and chest.

  Since The Farm, Donovan’s real world experience gave him the all-around tradecraft abilities second to none. His skill had earned him the Top Secret/SCI All-Access Clearances to virtually everything in the Agency.

  But his skill had cost him big. An assassin was hired to kill him, but when Donovan wasn’t home, murdered his wife.

  Devastated, he and his young daughter, Tish, had flown back to the states where he tendered his resignation. But, Michael Madigan, then CIA Director, persuaded him to stay in the Company and assigned him to their Manhattan anti-terrorism bureau. Donovan buried his loss in eighteen-hour workdays.

  But today, Rosiek knew, he still carried the pain of losing Emma.

  And in Brussels, Rosiek knew Donovan would be reminded of that pain everywhere he looked.

  FOURTEEN

  Donovan’s face was on fire. He opened his eyes to blinding sunshine pouring through the Gulfstream window. He’d slept for a whopping twenty minutes.

  In the next three days, sleep would be a dereliction of duty. He had too much to do and too little time. Even though he’d be working with his friend, Jean de Waha, they still had a lot to do.

  He looked out the window and saw the orange tile roofs of a familiar Brussels suburb. He recognized an ancient church steeple and a cobblestone road where a blur of red-jerseyed bicyclists raced around a tight curve. He was back home, his second home. Just as he left it. Charming. Rustic. Peaceful.

  Life-changing for him.

  Life-ending for Emma.

  The Gulfstream touched down at Brussels International Airport and taxied to a private hangar. Donovan deplaned and was met by a colleague, Special Agent Perkins, who whisked him through diplomatic G8 customs and into a black Chevy Suburban.

  Twenty-five minutes later, in the center of Brussels, which many people considered the capital of the European Union, they steered into the small circular drive of the Amigo Hotel. The Amigo was always Donovan’s first choice, mainly because it was just a block from the Grand Place, the eleventh century square that was Donovan’s favorite ancient site in Europe.

  “Welcome to the Amigo,” said a young red-haired bellhop opening Donovan’s door.

  Donovan thanked him, went inside and was escorted upstairs to his room. He looked around at the hand-painted antique armchairs and sofa, and the Louis XV desk that probably cost more than the housekeeper’s annual wages.

  At the window he gazed down at the little shops on the street below. One shop window was filled with small statues of the Manneken Pis, the legendary three-year-old boy who saved Brussels when he put out a major fire by urinating on it. Donovan smiled at the hundreds of little boys aiming their diminutive dorks at a group of giggling school-girls walking by.

  He looked further down the street toward the Grand Place Square and his gut tightened. The G8 leaders would soon sit there - in the open - for windy speeches, surrounded by thousands of people and hundreds of windows from which Katill could strike.

  His phone rang and he picked up.

  “It’s alive!” Jean de Waha said.

  “SuperSpook never sleeps.”

  “Does he still imbibe?”

  “More than he should at times.” Like every night. Donovan reminded himself to control his drinking during the G8.

  “Amigo Bar in ten minutes?”

  “See you there,” Donovan said, hanging up. It would be terrific to see Jean again. He hadn’t kept in touch much simply because talking to Jean in Brussels usually conjured up memories of Emma.

  Donovan grabbed his phone and called Tish in Manhattan. He listened to her yammer on about the red clay bunny she’d made in preschool. He promised to bring her a new movie DVD about a young Belgian boy named Tintin. She screamed with delight. Hanging up, he realized that listening to Tish was better than booze.

  He headed down to the Amigo Bar and sat in a private corner booth. Seconds later, Jean de Waha strolled in, the familiar spring in his walk.

  De Waha looked about the same. A slender, distinguished, sixty-four-year old with thick brown-gray hair and a friendly, handsome face. His brow maybe had a few more lines, his suit a few more wrinkles, his tie a few more pipe tobacco crumbs. But his dark eyes, as always, were intelligent and focused.

  They shook hands, ordered Stella Artois and seconds later the waiter placed the cold beers in front of him.

  De Waha placed a small electronic device on the table and turned it on. Donovan recognized the new voice barrier machine that prevented electronic devices from eavesdropping on their conversation.

  “So how’s D. C.?” de Waha asked.

  “It’s panic on the Potomac!”

  “Same here, and in Paris, London, Tokyo, Moscow, Rome, you name it.”

  Donovan nodded. “Some congressmen want our President to cancel his trip
for fear he may get killed. Others want him to come here in the hopes he does.”

  De Waha smiled. “Nice people, politicians!”

  “Mark Twain said it best.”

  “Said what?”

  “‘Politicians are like babies.’”

  “How so?”

  “Both need to be changed often.”

  De Waha cackled and sipped his beer. Then, he reached in his pocket and handed Donovan a folded piece of paper. “This new intercept appears to have Sumerian symbols similar to the message Professor Singh translated.”

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “Dusseldorf. Three hours ago. We sent it to Rosenquist at NSA.”

  “Maccabee Singh can translate it faster. She’s coming to Brussels.” Donovan called Rosenquist who agreed to scan and e-mail the message to Maccabee immediately.

  Donovan hung up. “Anything more on this Katill, Valek Stahl?”

  “Nothing,” de Waha said. “Interpol is updating his profile. The man’s a ghost. Possible sightings in Germany near Cologne, a few in Riyadh, Paris, Yemen and New York. At least twelve aliases. Most recently, Horst Speerman, Ernst Fleischer, Phillippe DuMaurier, Axel Braun.”

  “Bio?” Donovan asked.

  “German father, Arab mother. They were killed along with his young sister in an Israeli air raid on a terrorist bomb-making enclave in southern Lebanon. Stahl was nine, saw it happen. Damaged him forever. His father was a PLO bomb-maker, but Stahl still blamed Israel and is extremely motivated against it and those who support it.”

  “Like the G8 leaders,” Donovan said.

  “Like them.”

  They sipped their beers.

  “And he speaks six languages fluently.”

  “Any more good news?”

  “He never fails.”

  “He failed to kill me,” Donovan said, then thought, but killed Emma instead. “What’s he look like?”

  “You name it. A crippled beggar in a London subway, a ski instructor in Norway, an old woman in a Tangiers souk. He’s used latex noses, theatrical makeup, collagen injections, plastic cheek inserts, colored contact lenses. Basically, if it walks, hobbles or rolls in a chair, it could be him.”

  “And when he’s not in disguise?”

  “Thirty-five, six-three, blond-brown hair, medium tone complexion. Very strong. Serious weightlifter. He once dropped a three hundred pound Kawasaki motorcycle on a German intelligence agent, crushing the man to death.”

  “Jesus! Any photos?”

  “Seven years old and fuzzy. We’re enhancing them.”

  Donovan sipped more beer. “So, the bottom line is, Stahl’s personally and financially motivated to kill the G8 leaders.”

  “Yeah, but who’s paying him the fifty million?”

  “A lot of willing donors out there,” Donovan said.

  “Yeah. And a lot of motives.”

  “Maybe Al Qaeda’s payback for Bin Laden’s death.”

  “Or the angry dethroned Arab Spring dictators? Fifty million dollars or euros is chickenfeed for them.”

  “Or maybe Hamas, Hezbollah, Jihadists, Taliban. ”

  “In brief, all the usual suspects.”

  Donovan nodded. “But imagine the implications of killing all leaders.”

  “Panic worldwide.”

  “Right. Al Qaeda would love that. Throw the world into chaos. That may be their goal.”

  “True. But eventually things will return to normal.”

  “I agree. These eight countries are not banana republics. They will replace their assassinated leaders through their legislative processes. The transfer of power should be fairly orderly in most cases.”

  “But maybe not so orderly,” de Waha said, toying with his ‘beer blotter.

  “One thing won’t be orderly,” Donovan said.

  “What?”

  “The financial markets. The stock markets of the world will crash like asteroids. People will sell at any price. End of the world selling!”

  “And financial experts who know exactly when the crash will happen could make a bundle.”

  Donovan nodded. “Money could be behind this.”

  They sipped their beer.

  “Whatever is behind it Jean, our motivation is clear. Stopping the bastard!”

  “But the bastard holds all the aces.”

  “Yeah. Stahl’s methodically planned each detail. He’s studied the Summit agenda. He probably knows where the leaders will be, at what time. He’s chosen his location and learned our security procedures for it. He’s convinced he’s found a way around them.”

  “No wonder I can’t sleep nights,” de Waha said.

  Over the next two hours, he and Jean reviewed security measures for each event. They then looked for ways to circumvent their own security, found a couple of remote possibilities and fixed them. One hour later both men came to a conclusion neither wanted to verbalize: there were a few narrow opportunities where Stahl might have a chance to penetrate their defenses, but only if he had certain inside information.

  Information could always be bought. Especially by someone with money, like Stahl.

  Donovan didn’t like the uneasy feeling in his gut.

  He also didn’t like the phone call he received from the boss, the Director of National Intelligence, Michael Madigan, minutes before walking into the bar.

  Madigan told him that all eight leaders had decided to proceed with the G8 Summit at all costs and regardless of the threat. They needed to reach agreements and find solutions to global problems. Too much was riding on the Summit.

  It would not be cancelled or relocated.

  And it began in hours.

  FIFTEEN

  DUSSELDORF

  CNN’s high-angle camera showed the caravan of eight black-velvet-draped coffins rattling down the cobblestone street. He watched blood drip from each coffin, and was delighted to see more blood dripping from the casket of the American President. Delirious crowds threw rocks at the caskets that had been smeared with yellow Christian crosses and Stars of David. People wept with joy.

  Wolf Blitzer said, “Let’s shift to Kabul, and then to Islamabad and Teheran where you’ll see even bigger crowds celebrating.”

  In each city, the camera showed thousands of people rejoicing in the righteous deaths of the G8 Summit leaders. All eight of them…

  Valek Stahl’s eyes shot open. He stared at the ceiling above his bed and smiled.

  Today’s dream is tomorrow’s reality.

  He got up, stretched, and began his morning workout. After thirty minutes of heavy weightlifting, one hundred pushups and fifty chin-ups, he ran four six-minute miles on his new NordicTrack treadmill, checking world news on the treadmill’s built-in Internet screen.

  He showered, ate breakfast and turned on his laptop. He logged onto Le Soir, a Belgian French language newspaper, then De Standaard, a Flemish language paper, then the major international newswires and web browsers.

  He was looking for any last-second modifications in the G8 Summit itinerary. There were none.

  To confirm his findings, he phoned Wassif Aziz, a local police officer assigned to G8 security. Wassif, Stahl’s Summit insider, lost his wife, three children, and parents from bombs in Baghdad years ago. Wassif detested the G8 countries. Although Al Qaeda had actually detonated the bombs, Wassif blamed the presence of allied troops, mostly Americans, for forcing Al Qaeda to detonate the bombs.

  And, as a Muslim male, Wassif was committed to his moral duty: to avenge the death of his family. He accepted his duty. He also accepted Stahl’s fifty thousand euros.

  Wassif answered on the first ring.

  “How’s the weather today?” Stahl said in French.

  “No clouds.”

  “If you see clouds, even small clouds, phone me or use our other venue.”

  “Of course.”

  Stahl hung up and realized it was time to go brief his team. He left his Dusseldorf apartment and stepped outside into a crisp breeze blowing off the
Rhine River. He looked around and saw no one watching him.

  Seven blocks later, he entered Die Sahara, a small middle-eastern restaurant. He smelled the rich aromas of garlic and basil and Chicken Shawarma. In the far corner, several wrinkle-faced old men with sunken eyes sipped fragrant Arabic coffee and argued politics.

  Opposite the men, in a small alcove, sat a group of black-clad middle-aged women riveted to an Egyptian soap opera on television.

  Stahl walked through to the kitchen where two women prepared lamb and rice dishes, while another poured chickpeas into a blender, making hummus. At a butcher-block, a tall, muscular, dark-haired young man chopped lamb shanks with a bloody cleaver.

  Stahl spoke to him. “Yusef….”

  Yusef turned and seeing Stahl, smiled, then rushed over and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “It is time,” Stahl said. “Get your brothers.”

  Yusef nodded, then hurried up the back stairs. Stahl watched him go, noticing once again how physically similar Yusef and he were. Like Stahl, Yusef stood about six-three and weighed about two hundred ten pounds. Yusef also had a German father and Arab mother. And his parents, like Stahl’s, were killed by Israeli raids in southern Lebanon. The only difference was that Yusef’s hair was black while Stahl’s was a brownish-blond.

  Moments later, Yusef brought his two half-brothers, Ahmed and Iram, into the kitchen. The two younger brothers, shorter and darker, embraced Stahl warmly, clearly in awe of his reputation.

  Yusef led them all to a basement storage room where they sat at an old wooden table. Iram locked the door and turned on a water faucet to prevent anyone from overhearing.

  Stahl stared at them several seconds, letting the gravity of his visit sink in.

  “Allah’s sacred mission is at hand,” Stahl said.

  They leaned forward, anxious.

  “And he has chosen us!”

  Their dark, eager eyes widened.

  “We shall retaliate against the godless infidels. We will avenge their evil occupation of our sacred Muslim lands… and the slaughter of thousands of our innocent men, women and children.”

  “Allahu Akbar!” The brothers said.

  Ahmed leaned forward. “Tell us Katill - how shall we achieve Allah’s glorious jihad?”