by Mike Brogan
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Whaddaya want?”
“Did you see this man in the last few hours?” He handed her Stahl’s photo.
She handed it right back.
“Ma’am, please just look at – ”
“Him and the slut from Albert & Lucienne’s went in 965!” She pointed across the street. Then she turned, went back inside and slammed her door.
De Rycke’s heart pounded. He yanked out his cell phone and called de Waha.
Then he took out his Glock and tried to act cool.
* * *
Donovan’s pulse quickened as the Alpha Team, an elite Brussels ESI anti-terrorist teams carrying HK MP-5 submachine guns, took their positions on Rue de la Plume. They stood one hundred feet from Stahl’s apartment.
The Bravo Team had positioned themselves in the alley behind the apartment, closing Stahl off.
Donovan and de Waha stayed with the Alpha Team and put on Kevlar-vests and checked their Berettas.
As Donovan started to follow the team, Maccabee touched his arm.
He turned and faced her.
“Be careful.”
“I will.” He remembered that the last person who said that to him was Emma.
On a three-count signal, Alpha team burst through the door. Seconds later, Donovan and de Waha entered. Donovan saw no hint of Stahl, but sensed someone had just been in the apartment. He hurried to the bedroom, saw the rumpled bedcovers and a black windbreaker on a chair. He caught the hint of a woman’s perfume.
Gun drawn, Donovan opened an enormous oak armoire. Empty. On the table near the television, he saw two glasses with traces of whiskey and a lipstick-smudged cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray. The television felt warm.
“BMW in the garage,” someone shouted. “German plates. Dusseldorf.”
Donovan hurried to the kitchen and pointed to an open back door and an alley beyond. “Looks like he left back here.”
“Merde!” de Waha shouted. “Set up road blocks within a five mile area and on all major roads leading from Brussels.”
Donovan’s gut told him they’d be too late. Stahl had probably seen the TV bulletin and escaped in a backup vehicle or a stolen one.
“Monsieur de Waha!” someone shouted from the basement.
The group hurried down the narrow wooden stairs. Halfway down, Donovan saw some men standing beside an open vegetable bin. Their heads were bowed, their eyes riveted at something on the cement floor. They were not speaking.
Donovan moved closer and saw a woman’s legs. He hurried over, bent down and felt her neck. Her skin was warm, but he could detect no pulse. Her eyes were fixed, unresponsive and red. He saw red welts on her neck.
Stahl had strangled her.
“Camille….” Jean whispered.
Donovan nodded and touched her cheek softly. He closed his eyes and felt fresh hot rage burn through him.
We’ll get the bastard, Camille!
TWENTY SIX
Who betrayed me? Yusef or his brothers? Impossible. Stahl knew they were fanatically committed to the cause. Nor was it Wassif, his insider with G8 Security. Wassif had a three-decade hatred of the G8 countries.
Which left Herr Rutten. The doddering old Nazi, now lying stone cold in a Dusseldorf morgue, had probably left some clue referring to Stahl’s visit.
Or maybe he was been smart enough to leave a pre-written note suggesting that I might murder him.
Stahl drove the Renault van along the E40, heading west, away from Brussels. Traffic was light and the driving relaxed him. He cracked the window and let the cool country air wash over him.
Forty minutes later, he drove into the town of Knokke, an Atlantic seaside town he visited years ago. Knokke was a vacation site, crammed with tourists, families, kids. What he liked best about Knokke was that there were more tourists than locals this time of year. Perfect to hide out in.
He drove by a police car with two officers who paid no attention to him. Soon, he came upon a row of small hotels and pulled in at a charming, red-bricked bed-and-breakfast: Christine’s, a 1900s Victorian with white rocking chairs on the porches, lace curtains and red tulip gardens hugging the house.
He reached into his large backpack, slid back a zipper and checked his four passports with matching sets of IDs and credit cards. He selected the burgundy-colored Den Europaeiske Danmark, a Danish-Euro passport, in the name of Thom Larsen. He adjusted his beard, put on his sunglasses and cap, grabbed his suitcase, got out and walked toward the door.
Inside, he stepped up to the reception desk where an elderly woman in a yellow-flower smock smiled and addressed him in Flemish. “Goie middag, Mijnheer.” Her desk card name read Christine de Witte.
“Good day, madam. Do you have a room for tonight?” He spoke English.
“Yes, we do,” she answered in English. “Nice ocean view. Sixty euros a night. Includes breakfast and dinner.”
“That’s fine.” He filled in a guest card using the Danish passport.
“Just follow me, Mr. Larsen,” she said as she led him through a small sitting room with a faded green sofa, lounge chairs and a purple Persian carpet. A large television was turned off. He would incapacitate it later. Across from the television sat a man in his mid-sixties with thick gray hair. He was reading a book and sipping what looked like whisky.
“Edwin, this is Mr. Larsen from Denmark,” she said. “Edwin D’Hondt is a permanent resident.”
D’Hondt looked up with intelligent grey eyes. “Pleased to meet you. Staying long, Mr. Larsen?”
“Just tonight.”
D’Hondt smiled, looked Stahl over a moment, then went back to reading. The woman led Stahl upstairs to a spotless, comfortable-looking room at the back corner of the house.
“Perfect,” he said, handing her a hundred euros. “Keep the change.”
Her eyes widened at the amount of the tip. She thanked him and scurried from the room.
Stahl stretched his arms and realized he needed exercise. He stripped off his shirt and began doing pushups. As he completed his ninety-fifth, a single dot of perspiration appeared on his upper lip. He paused in mid-air, placed his right arm behind him and did five more one-arm pushups. His shoulders were on fire. He loved the pain.
After showering, he toweled off, walked back to the window and opened it. A gust of sea air fluffed the lace curtains and rewarded him with the sweet aroma of roasting hops from a nearby brewery. He looked at the Atlantic where a flock of gulls screamed past.
Soon, eight world leaders will scream…
He looked at the street behind the boarding house and saw a row of shops. A Stella Artois sign glowed red above a bar. Next to the bar was the store he would visit.
Stahl dressed, put on his sunglasses, adjusted his beard and locked his room. Downstairs, he walked into the small sitting room where Christine and the old man were reading. The television was still off. The old man looked up, nodded, then seemed to study him closely. Maybe a little too closely, maybe just nosy, or maybe an ex-cop.
“Oh, Mr. Larsen,” the woman said, “will you join us for dinner? Dover sole with lemon and Parmesan crust. It’s my specialty.” She smiled.
“Sorry, ma’am, but I’ve eaten, and I’m afraid I have some important business later.”
“I understand.”
“What part of Denmark are you from, Mr. Larsen?” Edwin Dhond’t asked, sipping his whisky.
“Copenhagen.”
“Nice city. Which area?”
“The Latin Quarter.”
“Smuk område,” Edwin Dhond’t said in Danish.
“You’re quire right, sir. It is a beautiful area,” Stahl said in English as he left.
* * *
As the tall guest walked outside, Edwin D’Hondt’s phony detector started beeping. He could spot a phony in seconds, thanks to decades as a customs officer at Brussels International Airport.
Something about the new guest didn’t feel right. D’Hondt put down his riveting new n
ovel, The Confessions of Al Capone, by Loren Estleman. The new guest gave off strange vibes like one of Capone’s hitmen.
D’Hondt turned to Christine De Witte. “Something funny about the new guest.”
“He’s perfectly normal.”
“Then why does he wear sunglasses inside? And even when it’s cloudy outside?”
“Probably has sensitive eyes like Burt.”
“Maybe, maybe not. And I’ll tell you something else. He’s not Danish. Not enough singsong in his voice. Chops his words off like a damned Kraut.”
“Maybe he moved to Germany.”
D’Hondt shook his head. “Forty years as a customs inspector taught me accents. That man’s mother-tongue is not Danish.”
“I saw his Danish passport.”
“Could be fake. And I’ll tell you another thing.”
“What?”
“His beard moved an inch!”
“Oh, Edwin, for God’s sake! Get your eyes checked.”
“My eyes are fine!” He sipped his whiskey. “That man doesn’t want to be recognized.”
“You suspect everyone.”
“Do not.”
“Do so.”
“And another thing!”
“What?”
“Why is his hat pulled down so far over his forehead and eyes?”
She didn’t answer.
“And why is his collar turned way up?”
“Tell me.”
“Because he doesn’t want his face seen.”
“By whom?”
Edwin Dhond’t shrugged. “Police, or maybe some mafia guys. Who knows?”
Christine De Witte rolled her eyes and flipped through the TV guide. “You read too many mysteries, Edwin.”
“And that’s why I know that man’s hiding.”
* * *
Stahl walked along the narrow street behind the boarding house. He passed an ice cream store, then the noisy bar with customers cheering a soccer game.
He entered the next store, the Battens Apotheek-Pharmacy. The store lights were bright, so he pulled his cap down further.
He walked down an aisle to the hair dyes and selected Garnier Nutrisse Noir, an ink-black shade, and paid the clerk.
Outside, Stahl strolled back toward Christine’s.
Halfway up the street he saw something that stopped him in his tracks. A television retail outlet with at least twenty large screen televisions all on - all facing the street - all showing his face!
Quickly, he checked to see if anyone was looking at him. No one was. Why should they? He bore little resemblance to the face on television.
The announcer said, “This man, Mr. Valek Stahl, has contracted meningococcal meningitis, a highly contagious disease which, if untreated, can be fatal. If you see him, do not approach him, or come in contact with him. Call 911 or your local police… ”
Stahl found it interesting that they hadn’t mentioned the real reason they wanted to capture him. They probably didn’t want to throw the city into a terror-stricken state of panic or ruin the dream of their safe and secure G8 Summit.
Too late for that dream. My weapon will soon destroy any hope for a successful Summit.
He returned to Christine’s B & B. As he walked through the sitting room, Christine looked up from her magazine and smiled. The television was still off.
Heading up toward his room, Stahl removed his sunglasses to see the stairs better, and again noticed the old man paying close attention to him. Too much attention. Stahl pretended to walk to his room, then decided to come back to the top of the stairs and listen.
“Strange man, you ask me,” Edwin said to Christine.
“No one did.”
“He wears very expensive clothes, shoes, and a gold Rolex. And he gave you one hundred Euros for the night. Why didn’t he stay in a fancier hotel? Why here?”
Christine looked offended. “Maybe he prefers my cozy atmosphere!”
“Rubbish!
“What? It’s not cozy?”
“Yes, yes! It’s very cozy!” Dhond’t said, clearly not wanting to anger Mevrow de Witte. “But that man’s hiding!”
Stahl was mildly concerned. He grew even more concerned when he heard the old man click on the television. He didn’t think they’d recognize him from his photo on television. But the old man seemed particularly perceptive.
If he did recognize him, Stahl would have no choice but to eliminate them both.
Besides they were old. They’d lived long enough.
Stahl walked to his room and locked the door. At the bathroom sink he began applying the dye to his hair. He blow-dried it, then applied a second treatment. He dyed his eyebrows and eyelashes and again dried them. He combed his new jet-black hair straight back. It looked good.
On the sink, a large fly landed on some gooey hair dye and got stuck. Stahl had hated flies ever since they crawled from his dead mother’s mouth. He took a safety pin and jabbed the sharp point into the fly’s back and watched it thrash its wings. He lit a match and let the flames lick the fly’s wings. The flame vaporized the wings and shot a vile odor into his nose. Quickly, he flushed the charred remains down the sink.
He placed the used hair-dye materials in a baggie and put it in his large Lowepro backpack. He then took out his theatrical case and looked in at the rows of contact lenses, fake ears, chin extensions, wigs, toupees, beards, moustaches, and syringes of collagen to puff out his lips and cheeks. He put on a pair of dark-blue contact lenses.
He then took off his fake beard and applied a black bushy moustache to his upper lip.
He walked over to the wall mirror and checked himself. The man in the mirror bore no resemblance to the man on television or the man who walked upstairs twenty minutes ago.
The fading sunlight bounced off the mirror into his eyes – the same sunlight that long ago bounced off the blank eyes of his dead father.
“Soon, papa, I will repay them! Ich verspreche, Vater!
Brussels was just minutes away. It was time.
But first he had to see what nosey Mr. D’Hondt and sweet Christine de Witte were up to downstairs.
TWENTY SEVEN
The palace dinner begins in just two hours, Donovan realized as he, de Waha and Maccabee reviewed the dinner’s VIP list for the third time in de Waha’s office.
Donovan was still worried about dinner security. Despite knowing that all guests, attendees, chefs, waiters, service personnel and musicians had been thoroughly vetted, and would be subjected to X-ray body scans, and admitted only with hologram ID cards, he feared that Stahl might be among them.
The office door opened and de Waha’s attractive assistant, Eliane, rushed into the office, her face flushed with excitement.
“A man just called who knows how the leaders will be attacked.”
De Waha shrugged. “Add him to the other seven who know.”
“This one’s different.”
“Why?”
“He called the assassination plot – The Medusa!”
Donovan and de Waha bolted forward in their chairs. Medusa had not been released to the media.
“He’ll call later to tell us how and where the assassination will take place.”
“When later?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did we get his Caller ID name?”
“No. Untraceable phone.”
“His language?”
“French with a slight Arab accent.”
“Someone’s turning on Stahl,” de Waha said.
Donovan nodded, but wondered why Stahl, on his most important assignment, would suddenly reveal the specifics of his attack plan to another person? Stahl worked alone. Always. On the other hand, Maccabee’s translated Sumerian note said he was working with a team. Maybe someone wasn’t a team player. Maybe he had a traitor in his midst. And maybe we had a mole in his camp.
“Call me the minute he calls back, wherever I am.”
Eliane nodded.
De Waha looked at his watch. �
��Mon dieu!”
“What’s wrong?” Donovan asked.
“The Palace Dinner! We have to get ready now!”
Maccabee stood up. “I’ll be working at the hotel.”
“What?” De Waha looked shocked. “But you must come!”
“Jean, I didn’t bring a formal dress – ”
“I need a dress!” de Waha shouted.
“Pardon?” Eliane said from her office.
“For Maccabee!”
Maccabee shook her head. “Jean, it’s not necessa – ”
“It is nessa – ”
“But, Jean - ”
“You are a highly esteemed member of our highly esteemed security team. This dinner is an official function. We’re obligated and delighted to provide you with the requisite attire as we can continue our discussions on G8 security this evening.”
“But - ”
“Carina Van Haver’s Shoppe is perfect for you,” Eliane said, smiling. You’ll love Carina and her dresses!”
Maccabee finally shrugged an okay and smiled.
Donovan watched Maccabee walk out the door with Eliane.
He decided he liked watching Maccabee walk out the door. He also liked watching her walk in the door. Or around the desk, or down the street. He liked everything else about her, too. Her smile, courage, intelligence, linguistic skill, sense of humor, and of course, her beauty.
But he didn’t like that he was being drawn to her now. This was not the time. He should be focused on Stahl. And protecting the lives of the eight most powerful leaders in the world. Nothing else should matter now.
Besides, his infatuation with her was absurd. It would lead to nothing. Maccabee obviously saw him as just an old friend of her father.
* * *
After seeing the nosy Mr. D’Hondt at Christine’s B&B engrossed in a soccer game on television, Stahl had crawled through his room’s window and dropped onto the soft dirt of the tulip bed. Then he drove off in the van.
Now, as he drove toward Brussels, he realized the soccer game would have been interrupted with a news flash about him. Nosy Mr. D’Hondt would have seen the bulletin and his face on television, maybe identified him, then discovered his Renault van missing and phoned the police.
