G 8

by Mike Brogan

  “We will, your Excellency,” de Waha said.

  As the King and his entourage left, Georges Lafleur led Donovan and de Waha down a long corridor to a steel door. Lafleur punched in a long code and the door slid open.

  They entered the room and Donovan saw several security officers seated at computers beneath a huge wall of television screens.

  “Our control room.” Lafleur said. “Over two hundred screens monitor every palace opening: windows, doors, roof openings, garage doors, sewer openings, the chimneys. If even a bird invades an opening, a computer-guided camera will lock on it – and warn us with a buzzer and flashing light.”

  Donovan was impressed. “What about the ventilation systems?”

  “We’ve installed the latest sniffers, the best biological and chemical detection devices.”

  “How often have the rooms been sniffed?”

  “More than dogs in heat.”

  Donovan smiled. “And you’ve vetted the dinner guests and food service personnel, right?”

  “Three separate times. Each person will be issued a photo ID with a hologram.”

  Donovan watched Lafleur sip water from a glass. “Georges, what about the water. You know, for drinking, ice cubes, cooking.”

  Lafleur nodded. “Any lethal agent introduced into the palace water system will be detected by our sophisticated sensors.”

  “And if the sophisticated sensors fail?”

  “We have a low tech, back-up water sensor system.” Lafleur signaled Donovan and de Waha into a nearby bathroom. He lifted the lid on the toilet tank and gestured for them to look.

  Donovan looked and saw five gold fish swimming around.

  “Fish are very sensitive to toxic water.”

  Minutes later, satisfied with palace security, Donovan and de Waha drove to the Congo Museum where thousands of animal displays, artworks, precious diamonds and gems from the Belgian Congo and other African countries were displayed. Security appeared excellent.

  Finally, they were driven back to the Grand Place in the heart of the city.

  This is where Stahl will strike, Donovan thought. This is where I would strike.

  The reason was simple: the leaders would be sitting out in the open on the grandstand - like ducks on a pond - for thirty-three minutes of windy speeches.

  Surrounded by thousands of people.

  And hundreds of windows.

  And even though all buildings would be cleared of all people, and all building doors locked and guarded, Donovan feared Stahl might somehow get inside one. Or was already inside, hiding, lying in wait.

  Donovan looked around the Grand Place. The eleventh-century square, the size of two football fields side by side, had a long, glorious history. And more than its share of inglorious history.

  Like in the 1500s when the Spanish conquerors beheaded Belgians on its cobblestones, and in 1695 when French cannons bombarded some of the buildings. And in 1941 when Nazi soldiers rounded up some of the 30,000 local Jews and sent them to die in the Holocaust camps. Donovan remembered his good friend, Maurice, who’d survived as a nine-year-old boy living day to day in alleys, eating handouts from Belgians who defied the Nazis and risked their lives to shelter and feed him.

  Donovan looked up at the ancient buildings, their windows glimmering in the lights.

  “The windows, Jean!”

  De Waha nodded. “I tried to have them boarded up, but got overruled.”

  “By whom?”

  “The Preservation of Antiquity Committee. They said boarding the windows is a desecration.”

  “But killing eight world leaders isn’t?”

  De Waha shrugged.

  Donovan nodded, understood his friend’s frustration.

  The wind suddenly kicked up and he looked at the illuminated medieval buildings trimmed with gleaming gold leaf. A recent survey named the historic Grand Place the most beautiful square in Europe.

  Donovan agreed, but hoped it didn’t become the site of The Most Significant Political Massacre in History.

  * * *

  A mile west, near the Gare du Midi train station, Yusef and his younger brothers, Ahmed and Iram, sat in the kitchen of the small apartment that Valek Stahl rented for them.

  They finished eating a meal of lamb and black bean hummus, chicken with eggplant, and rice pudding, then sat back and sipped their cold milk.

  Yusef studied his brothers. Their bellies were full, their brains and bodies ready. He was proud of them, even though they’d complained to him about the long hours of practice he’d subjected them to for the last two days. But the practice had paid off. Ahmed had his timing down perfectly, and Iram was only two seconds slower, well within the acceptable range.

  “Very soon my brothers,” Yusef said, “we will avenge the decades of injustice.”

  “Allahu Akbar!” said Iram and Ahmed together.

  Yusef stood. “Now, it is time to begin.”

  They picked up three large cases, headed outside, placed the heavy cases in the gray Peugeot panel van and drove off.

  Four hours later, they returned to their apartment.

  Their cases were empty.

  He looked at his brothers. They looked as excited as he felt. And no wonder.

  We’re prepared and practiced.

  History is in our hands.

  EIGHTEEN

  This is tougher than five star Sudoku, Maccabee realized as she translated the latest Sumerian message at her hotel room desk.

  The new message was longer and complicated, too complicated for her jet-lagged brain. She needed to snap her synapses back to life before she met Donovan and Jean de Waha downstairs in the Amigo Bar in a little while.

  Yawning, she stretched her arms and legs, then put on her running shorts, T-shirt and Nikes and began jogging in place. The plush Persian carpet felt good on her feet.

  Jogging over to the window, she looked down on the tiny shops below. Tourists window-shopped. Children ate french fries smothered with mayonnaise. People shuffled down narrow cobblestone streets that their ancestors had shuffled down for centuries.

  She jogged faster and looked across the street into some business offices where men and women hunched over their desktop computers. Her eyes were drawn to a dimly lit office directly opposite her. A tall man faced her. He held something long and black in his arms. He raised it up to his eye and aimed it directly at her.

  A rifle!

  She jumped to the side, waiting for the bullet to shatter the glass.

  Nothing!

  He’s waiting for me to appear again…

  Her heart pounding, she peeked through the side of the curtain. He was still aiming right at her! But now she noticed the barrel was much thicker than a rifle.

  My God – a rocket launcher!

  As she turned to run, the man pulled something out of the barrel… and the air rushed from her lungs.

  He unraveled a wall poster.

  She leaned against the wall, catching her breath. Death By Mailing Tube!

  She felt foolish. Clearly, her imagination was still hyperventilating thanks to her father’s murder and her attacker in the apartment. She told herself to relax! Hotel security was everywhere, she was registered as Antoine Charbonneau, and her guard, Theo, big enough to go bear hunting with a switch, sat right outside in the hall.

  She ran hard for another fifteen minutes, then showered, dressed and went downstairs to meet Donovan and Jean de Waha in the Amigo Bar.

  * * *

  Donovan saw businessmen spin their barstools and look toward the door. Then he saw why: Maccabee. She walked toward their table, her white cotton dress hugging long tan legs worthy of lingerie commercial. Her hair, full and lustrous, gleamed like black silk in the soft overhead lighting.

  Donovan was shocked by her transformation. At the funeral home her eyes had been red and puffy from crying, her cheeks pale and drawn. Now, she was composed and well… very attractive.

  “Maccabee, meet Jean de Waha,” Donovan said, “Je
an is Director of Belgium’s Sûreté de l’État, sort of Belgium’s version of the CIA and FBI. He’s also my old friend.”

  “All true,” de Waha said, “except for the ‘old’ and ‘friend’ parts.”

  Maccabee smiled and introduced herself. “Je suis très heureux de faire votre connaissance, Monsieur de Waha.”

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle, and I’m happy to meet you,” he said, raising his eyebrows at her excellent French.

  The waiter appeared and she ordered a white wine.

  “What’s that?” she asked pointing to a small square piece of electronic equipment on the table.

  “An electronic barrier. Keeps the nasty people from hearing our conversation.”

  “Those noisy car dealers also help,” Donovan said.

  “You speak French as though you lived in Paris,” de Waha said.

  “I did during my father’s sabbatical at the Sorbonne. I was twelve. I attended the Lycee Internationale in Paris.”

  “Excellent school system,” de Waha said, “despite the fact that my idiot cousin runs it.”

  Maccabee laughed as the waiter served her wine.

  “So how’s the new Sumerian message coming along?” Donovan asked, hoping it might reveal vital information on the G8 attack.

  “It’s long and complicated. Later tonight, I’ll receive some pictographs and logograms by e-mail. With them, I hope to have the message translated by early tomorrow morning or maybe sooner.”

  As she talked, Donovan noticed again how she had matured into a poised and beautiful young woman.

  De Waha checked his watch. “Time for dinner. We have reservations at an excellent restaurant near the Grand Place.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Place.”

  “You will in sixty seconds.”

  They walked outside and the crisp night air felt refreshing on Donovan’s face. As they strolled down the narrow cobblestone street, he noticed Maccabee checking the five men walking beside the black Suburban following them.

  “They’re ours,” Donovan said.

  She looked relieved, but Donovan sensed she was still anxious over the attack in her apartment.

  A few feet later, they stepped into the Grand Place square. Donovan watched Maccabee stop and stare like a kid at Disneyworld, just as millions of visitors before her had done. Her gaze moved from one ancient, enchanting, illuminated, gold-leaf-trimmed building to another.

  “Did I just walk into the Middle Ages?”

  “Yep,” Donovan said.

  “Jean, c’est magnifique!”

  “Merci.”

  As they walked across the square’s worn cobblestones, Donovan couldn’t stop the flood of memories. Sunday strolls with Emma and little Tish on these same cobblestones. Tish bending down to talk to the parrots at the Sunday bird market. Emma buying red tulips on flower day. His stomach ached at the memories.

  They stopped in front of the huge Hôtel de Ville, the largest building on the square, its illuminated spire rising three hundred feet into the night sky.

  “The Hôtel de Ville is our Town Hall,” de Waha said. “It was here before Columbus discovered America.”

  “So was Jean!” Donovan said, backing away before de Waha could elbow him.

  “See the doors,” de Waha said.

  “They’re enormous,” Maccabee said.

  “But look – they’re off-center to the left. The architect was so angry when he saw how off-center they were, he climbed the tower and leapt to his death right on the stones where you’re standing.”

  Maccabee took a step back. “Didn’t anyone try to stop him?”

  “Going up, yes. Coming down, no.”

  Donovan heard hammering. He turned and saw that carpenters were finishing up the G8 grandstand at the far end of the square. The stand was surrounded by guards holding Belgian FAL automatic rifles. He knew the grandstand would be guarded non-stop until the eight leaders stepped onto it for the ceremony.

  But what if Stahl was one of the carpenters? And what if he’d made grandstand boards with explosives? Donovan knew that C4 or PETN explosives could be molded to look like everything from wood planks to toothpaste to Barbie Dolls. He told himself to relax. Guards and Hazmat teams would be scrutinizing and using dogs and sophisticated machines to sniff the grandstand tonight and tomorrow.

  They walked over to the restaurant, Aux Armes de Bruxelles, and enjoyed a marvelous meal of lobster bisque, roasted lamb and crepes Suzette. As Donovan finished eating, he remembered something he’d almost forgotten: some of the best French cuisine in the world is in Brussels.

  Back in the Amigo Hotel, they squeezed through media crews in the lobby and went up to de Waha’s suite. There, they picked up folders for their meeting with the G8 national security directors.

  Donovan asked Maccabee to come along and show the directors a sample of Sumerian pictograph writing in case they’d seen similar messages.

  * * *

  Benoit Broutafache, a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man, sat in the Amigo lobby typing on his laptop, posing as a reporter. He watched Maccabee and the two men weave through the crowded lobby and enter an elevator.

  Broutafache flipped open his cell phone and dialed.

  In Manhattan, Nikko Nikolin picked up.

  “She’s here!”

  “Where?”

  “At the Amigo Hotel with Rourke and the Belgian guy.”

  “Can you get to her?”

  “I can get to anybody.”

  “Our friend will be pleased.

  “I’ll be pleased with the rest of my fee.”

  “Half was wired to your Belize account an hour ago.”

  “I know.”

  “The rest on completion.”

  Broutafache hung up, felt the custom-made plastic Glock in his pocket. The hotel’s metal detector had failed to detect the weapon because he’d put the gun’s only metal part, the small thin firing pin, on his key chain between several similar looking small thin toy golf clubs. The security guard didn’t even notice the difference when he passed the key chain through the metal detector.

  Broutafache closed his laptop, stood and checked Maccabee’s room number again.

  Then he walked toward the hotel’s back stairwell.

  NINETEEN

  COLOGNE

  Valek Stahl was concerned. Through his BMW windshield, he saw a young cop on the steps of the Kolner Dom Cathedral staring at Stahl’s parked car. Stahl was parked legally, but the cop seemed anxious, like he might walk over and ask him questions. Stahl wondered if the cops were closing in on Herr Rutten. Maybe they suspected the old man of selling products more dangerous than antiques.

  Stahl started to drive away, but stopped when an elderly woman hurried over and embraced the cop. Smiling, the apparent mother and son turned and entered the cathedral. Stahl paused a moment, remembering the last time he embraced his mother like that - the morning the Israelis murdered her.

  Stahl got out of his BMW. A bus swept past, engulfing him in smelly diesel fumes. He noticed dark clouds moving overhead as he walked across Komodienstrasse and entered Herr Rutten’s small antique shop, jiggling the doorbell.

  “Coming… ” Rutten shouted from the back.

  “It’s Stahl.”

  “Ah, Herr Stahl, good to see you again.” Rutten hobbled up to the door, flipped the Geschlossen/Closed sign facing the street, then locked the door.

  Rutten looked like he’d worked late into the night to finish Stahl’s project. His rheumy eyes had tightened into puffy black slits. His face was as parched as a Dead Sea scroll. Flakes of dandruff dotted his black sweater like tiny potato chip crumbs.

  “This way, Herr Stahl.”

  Rutten led Stahl down an aisle with World War II German Army helmets, bayonets and Luger pistols. Stahl found it odd that Rutten placed the war memorabilia next to his prized collection of antique, not-for-sale Beatrix Potter bunnies.

  Rutten reached behind the bunnies, revealing a faded swastika on his for
earm.

  The old Nazi had often bragged about his days as a young Sobibor SS guard. His job was separating children from their mothers as trains unloaded Jewish prisoners at the camp. One day, when a mother refused to give up her young daughter, Rutten pulled out his Luger and shot her and her daughter to death. Then, to teach a lesson, he shot the next two women in line. Rutten was never charged with war crimes since the remaining eyewitnesses were shot or gassed within hours.

  Rutten took out a tattered 1937 Berlin phonebook, opened it and pushed a button inside. Suddenly the entire bookcase moved back two feet, exposing a narrow staircase. Stahl remembered the dark, narrow, descending stairs as he followed the old man down to the bottom where Rutten flipped the light switch.

  Once again Stahl marveled at what he saw: the exact opposite of the antique shop. He was standing in Herr Rutten’s modern factory of death. Sophisticated, electronic tool-making machinery, the newest Baileigh metal lathes, a chrome punch press, and expensive laser-cutting machine. The machine shop and laboratory was sixty-feet-by-sixty-feet of white-tiled floor and walls gleaming under halogen lighting. The soft hum of air conditioners and purifiers filled the room.

  So did the tar-like scent of C4 explosives.

  In this secret underground factory, Rutten had assembled every weapon imaginable. From sophisticated explosives, to simple, but deadly chemical and biological weapons. He even stored certain components for a suitcase dirty bomb here.

  The old man led Stahl over to an open cabinet. Rutten reached in and took out a large brown leather case. His bloodshot eyes brightened as he lifted the top, smiled down at his newest creation for Stahl. He gestured for Stahl to look.

  Stahl saw precisely what he’d asked for. Even better than he’d expected. Incredible! The man was a master craftsman, an artist.

  “Excellent work, Herr Rutten!”

  Rutten smiled. “It will perform perfectly.”

  “Backup systems?”

  “Two. If the primary system fails – which is impossible – the first and second system will activate within four seconds.”

  “Well done.”

  The old man gazed at his masterpiece. Stahl knew that Rutten only cared about one thing: that his creations worked. Who his weapons killed was irrelevant. All killing was irrelevant to him after Sobibor.