G 8

by Mike Brogan

  “… with fog increasing throughout the

  night and tomorrow morning. And now for

  an update from Brussels. Today at the G8

  Economic Summit, a major explosion ripped

  through the world famous Congo Museum

  as the Summit leaders were touring the

  galleries… ”

  “And… ?” Stahl said.

  “… Two guards have died, and another

  is injured, but is expected to fully recover

  according to doctors… ”

  Stahl wondered why the announcer even mentioned the lowly guards…

  “… and fortunately, all eight world leaders

  escaped without injury. They are now flying

  home… ”

  Stahl stopped breathing.

  His heart pounded into his throat.

  He finally managed to draw air into his lungs.

  “You are lying! I saw the leaders standing at the elephant! I saw eighty pounds of PETN explode! I saw bloody human body parts blast out of the museum windows!”

  He paced back and forth, breathing deeply, the hairs on his neck stiff as bristles.

  Then he understood. “The cowards are lying! They’re afraid to tell the world the leaders are dead! They’re afraid of global panic! I know what they’re doing. They’re using lookalikes, doppelgängers. All governments have them. They’re lying!”

  He walked to the rear porthole and looked out. His vision was blurry, his mind spinning out of control, his skin blanketed with cold sweat.

  Then, slowly, logic began to take hold and he realized that authorities could not hide the death of eight world leaders. The media jackals see the leaders every day. Reporters would spot the lookalikes. Up-close television pictures would reveal facial differences.

  He took several deep breaths.

  So… the eight Satans ARE fucking alive! But how?”

  Stahl threw his tumbler against the cast iron wall of the barge, splintering glass throughout the galley.

  “… according to a reliable source, police first

  thought a spark from media transformers

  had ignited propane tanks, but now they

  have evidence a bomb was detonated by an

  assassin watching the leaders on television.

  What the assassin didn’t realize was that he

  was watching time-delay TV. What he saw

  had actually taken place minutes earlier. The

  leaders were at the other end of the museum

  having refreshments when the explosion

  destroyed the Elephant Gallery several

  hundred feet away. Al Qaeda and six other

  terrorist groups have claimed responsibility.

  Authorities are investigating….”

  Stahl slammed his fist down on the small radio, smashing it to pieces.

  “But the television screen said LIVE! I saw it. The said it would be a LIVE broadcast!”

  He paced back and forth his rage erupting beyond anything he’d ever felt before.

  “I’ll kill all eight!” He turned to Maccabee. “And the two men who got off the helicopter with you! You’ll all die!”

  He stood over her, shouting, spittle spraying her face. He hated the G8 leaders, hated Rourke, hated de Waha, hated her! Crazed with anger, he backhanded her across the mouth, splitting her lip, and sending blood down her chin.

  Stahl knew his emotions were running wild, something he rarely experienced, but when he did, he always felt rage. The kind of rage that often resulted in serious injury or death to anyone around him!

  He forced himself to walk back and forth, and regain some control of his emotions. He was adjusting to something he’d never faced before – failure.

  And he refused to accept it.

  I have not failed.

  I merely postponed my ultimate victory.

  And I will deliver the heads of these eight infidels.

  FORTY SIX

  Officer Jos Dyckmans couldn’t believe his eyes. He and his partner, Officer Wim Smit, were staring at the ugliest house-barge Dyckmans had ever seen.

  Long strips of green paint had peeled off the hull and drooped down into the canal water. On the deck, trash bags spewed slimy brown lettuce, soppy slices of pizza and empty wine bottles. A large rat gnawed on some green moldy stuff. Nearby, sat a hideous pink sofa with nasty exposed springs and even nastier black and red stains.

  “Le Barge… de Garbage!” Dyckmans said, chuckling at his own wit.

  “Yeah!”

  Dyckmans and Smit were searching for Valek Stahl, checking all vessels along the south bank of the Albert Canal. This was the thirty-second boat they’d checked with no luck.

  “This search is a waste of time! Nobody escapes by barge for chrissakes!” Officer Dyckmans said.

  “Yeah, nobody!”

  They stepped onto the foul smelling barge and Dyckmans knocked on the door. No response. He knocked harder. Thirty seconds later a skinny young man with long, straggly brown hair and drug-glazed eyes opened it. Beside him appeared a young woman with the same twilight-zone gaze. Her enormous breasts filled a white T-shirt with a picture of an AC Delco oil filter above the words, “Screw Me In Your Car.” She looked like the Belgian army just did.

  Dyckmans handed Stahl’s photo to the man. “Have you seen this man with a woman in a blue suit in the last few hours?”

  They stared at the photo, moving it close to their pinpoint-pupils, then back, then close again.

  “Ain’t seen him. You, Stella?”

  “Seen who… ?”

  Dyckmans realized they wouldn’t recognize the Pope saying Mass.

  “If you do see them, please call this number immediately.” He handed them a card.

  “Sure thing, officer.”

  As they headed toward the next barge, Dyckmans noticed a cottage perched on a small hill. Someone inside would have an excellent view of the Albert Canal. Lace curtains hung over the windows that were shaped like a ship’s portholes. In the front yard, red tulips surrounded a large ship’s wheel overgrown with ivy. A roof weathervane shaped like a ship’s sail twirled in the wind. Leaning against the side of the cottage was a cast iron anchor.

  “Maybe someone up there saw something!” Dyckmans said.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  They climbed the brick steps to the cottage and Dyckmans knocked on the door.

  An old raspy voice croaked from within. The door squeaked open and a leather-cheeked old man in a wheelchair grinned up at them with bright gray eyes surrounded by at least eighty years of wrinkles. He wore a black wool sweater and baggy corduroy trousers. His hands looked like they’d been microwaved.

  “Step aboard, lads,” he said, smiling. “Captain Dirk Van Ackere, retired, at your service.”

  They followed him inside where he rolled his chair behind an oak desk with a photo album opened to a faded picture of a Texaco supertanker. A small television in the corner was playing Moby Dick. Ahab was shouting at a sailor.

  “Sit, lads.”

  They sat in chairs made of grey driftwood.

  “Sittin’s all I do since that shit-faced trucker put me in this damn wheelchair. His third DUI!”

  “I’m very sorry for you, sir,” Dyckmans said, meaning it.

  “Police locked his ass up! Damn well deserved it.”

  Dyckmans nodded and handed Stahl’s photo to him. “We wonder if you’ve seen anyone who resembles this man in the last few hours.”

  The old man scrunched up his brow as he studied the photo, then handed it back.

  “Yep. I seen him.”

  Dyckmans wasn’t sure he heard correctly. “Are you positive?”

  “Yep. All I do is watch the canal boats. Usta captain supertankers. Saudi crude. Rammed a bunch of Somali pirates once. Tossed them skinny bastards in my brig. Now I’m in the brig!” He thumped his wheelchair.

  “Was there a tall woman with him?”

  “Yep. Damn pretty woman
, you ask me.” Van Ackere winked.

  Dyckmans’ heart started pounding. “What was the man wearing?”

  “Let’s see, that fella wore a dark shirt and ah… dark- brown trousers!”

  “That’s correct! And the woman?”

  “She wore a blue suit. Cut a nice figure, she did.”

  “Damn - you DID see them!”

  “I just told you I did.”

  “Did you see his car?”

  “Still do.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind them evergreens yonder.” He pointed out a side window. “That red BMW, German car.”

  Dyckmans stood and saw a red fender.

  “I don’t buy no Kraut shit,” Van Ackere said. “Bastards hurt my family bad. Both wars!”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Krauts went back to Germany. Where they belong!”

  “No, no, the man and woman.”

  “Oh, they boarded a barge right down there.” He pointed at the empty canal dock just below the cabin.

  Dyckmans was excited. “What kind of barge?”

  “Vacation barge. Belgian flag. Moored here a few times over the years, then again yesterday.”

  “You remember anything else about the barge?”

  “Registration number.”

  Dyckmans didn’t believe him. “But barge numbers are long! How could – ?”

  “I remember ‘em. Keeps my noodle sharp. Hey - use it or lose it, right? Run ten barges past me right now. I’ll give you all the numbers in sequence.”

  “But that’s imposs - ”

  “Wanna bet a hundred euros?”

  Dyckmans, who couldn’t remember his own license plate number, doubted the old man could do it. But something told Dyckmans not to bet. “Nope. What’s the barge number?”

  The old man closed his eyes. “Let’s see, that barge number was… six… five… zero… three… four… seven… one… BL.”

  Amazed, Dyckmans wrote down the number.

  “Got a red albatross on the bow, too.”

  “How long ago did the barge leave?”

  He glanced at the ship’s clock on the wall. “Reckon she pulled anchor at least three hours ago. Maybe more.”

  Dyckmans had to get the news to headquarters. He reached for his cell phone and speed-dialed. Nothing. He checked his battery icon. No power lines. Shit! And Wim’s phone was charging in the police car half-mile away. “Could we use your phone?”

  “Ain’t got one!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t need one.”

  “You don’t need a phone?”

  “Nope! My friends are all dead or nuts.”

  “Where’s the nearest phone?”

  “Them assholes on that smelly barge.” He pointed toward the Barge de Garbage. “I’d like to drop a bunker buster bomb on it!”

  Dyckmans and Smit thanked the old man, ran down the hill, and banged on the barge door again. Half minute later, the stoned couple stared out as though they’d never seen them before.

  “Police emergency! I need to use your phone.”

  The young man pointed inside. “Galley wall.”

  Dyckmans rushed into the barge, ducking to avoid the low ceiling. The sweet scent of marijuana filled his lungs.

  He hurried past a snoring four-hundred-pound bearded man wearing red leotards and a tutu. Looking around, Dyckmans realized he could be in a sex shop in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. Long plastic devices of terrifying anatomical purpose stood like candlesticks along a mantle. Below the mantle, was a fake fireplace with a turning spit. Skewered on the spit was a plastic nude female who squealed each time the flames licked her butt.

  And on the ceiling, glowing pink… and smiling forgivingly on the entire sinful panorama, was Richard Nixon, grinning and flashing his V sign.

  Dyckmans phoned the news to his superior and hung up. They thanked the stoned couple and left the barge, knowing they’d just completed the most important police work of their careers.

  “Let’s celebrate at Froukje’s Bar,” Smit said.

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not? We’re off duty in three minutes.”

  “Boss says we gotta guard the BMW.”

  “Why?”

  “Stahl may come back for it!”

  * * *

  “Canal barge!” de Waha said, hanging up his phone in the Congo Museum room.

  “Both Maccabee and Stahl?”

  “Yes!”

  Donovan melted with relief. “How was she?”

  “Apparently fine.”

  Stahl is keeping her as a hostage. Maybe he would bargain. Maybe he would release her.

  Or maybe he’d finally decide she was slowing him down and that the canal was the perfect place to make a body disappear. Sooner or later, Donovan knew, Stahl would decide he didn’t need her any longer.

  De Waha pointed to the large map. “They boarded the barge here and headed east.”

  “So where could they be now?” Donovan asked.

  “At the speed limit, with no stops, it should be about here. The towns of Eigenbilzen and Gellik.”

  They jogged outside the Congo Museum to the waiting police helicopter, its rotors turning slowly. In twenty minutes they would be just a kilometer or so from the barge. As the chopper floated up over the Congo Museum gardens, Donovan saw smoke still wafting from some Elephant Gallery windows. He looked at the huge gardens and saw where Stahl’s tires had left long black slash marks on the grass. He prayed that was the only thing Stahl slashed today.

  FORTY SEVEN

  Officer Pieter Kass sat on a tree stump and shoveled the rest of the Cote D’Or chocolate bar into his mouth. He loved how the chocolate melted and slid down his gullet like an oyster. And the good news, he reminded himself, is that chocolate is so healthy, chocked full of those wonderful riboflavins.

  Kaas dropped the Cote D’Or wrapper on the ground. It landed on seven other wrappers.

  He shifted his two hundred ninety-seven pounds on the stump, giving his hemorrhoids a breather, then focused his binoculars on the next barge inching past on the Albert Canal. He checked the barge number against the number he got from the precinct.

  “Wrong, wrong, wrong!” he shouted like a television talent judge.

  He loved assignments like this, where he could channel his keen powers of observation and 20-20 vision.

  Another long black barge crawled past.

  “Sorry, wrong number!”

  Going to be a long night, he thought, as he stuffed a new Cote D’or halfway into his mouth and licked his fingers.

  Another barge crept into view. Growing more bored with each barge, he read the numbers aloud… “6… 5… 0… 3… 4… 7… 1… BL.”

  Something rattled in his brain. He stopped chewing.

  “Jezus Christus! That’s it! That’s Stahl’s barge!”

  Heart pounding, Kass yanked out his cell phone. As he started to dial, he dropped his chocolate bar. Grabbing for it, the phone slipped between his fingers and splashed into the canal along with the chocolate bar.

  “SHITSHITSHIT!” he hissed.

  Kass scooched off the tree stump, bent down and grabbed around in the squishy canal muck for the phone. He pulled out the heel of a shoe, a muddy Heineken bottle, and then froze. Something slimy began to curl around his fingers.

  An eel!

  He jerked his hand away from the slimy creature too fast - lost his balance, fell backward into the canal and found himself sitting in water up to his waist.

  “FUCK!”

  Kaas crawled back on shore, shook off the mud and water and squished over to his bicycle. He hoisted his massive buttocks onto the bike, swallowing its skinny seat, and pumped off toward his police station two miles away.

  Minutes later, his heart pounding harder than his hemorrhoids, Kaas collapsed in a chair opposite Inspector De Groot.

  The Inspector looked incensed that Kass had just made his only guest chair sopping wet.

  “Kass? You�
�re dripping all - ”

  “Stahl’s… barge! I saw it!”

  * * *

  As the police chopper droned through the black night, Donovan wondered if Stahl and Maccabee were still on the barge. Donovan knew there was a good possibility that it had docked earlier and someone picked Stahl up.

  Next to Donovan, Jean de Waha hung up his phone.

  “We’ve got eyes on the barge now. It’s near where the Albert Canal feeds into the Juliana Canal. Near the Dutch and German borders.”

  “Are border officials stopping barges?”

  “Yes. And barges are already backing up.”

  “And Stahl’s is under surveillance?”

  “Yes.”

  Donovan nodded.

  “We’re touching down where Kanne Road Bridge crosses the canal. A police team will be ready for us to board.”

  Minutes later, at a height of two thousand feet, Donovan looked down at the long line of barges lit up like Christmas lights along the Albert Canal. He hoped Maccabee was on the one with the red albatross on the bow.

  The chopper banked right and soon touched down. Donovan saw a waiting police car, lights off. Barges were backed up from the Dutch border. Jean and he deplaned and introduced themselves to three police officers.

  “Where’s Stahl’s barge?” de Waha asked.

  “Thirteenth back. Got a red Albatross painted on the bow.”

  “How long’s it been stopped?” Donovan asked.

  “Minute or two.”

  “Did you see Stahl or Maccabee?”

  “No.”

  “Who’s the captain?”

  “Old guy named Marcel Spaanbroek. We checked him out. His company rents barges for family vacations. He’s been piloting barges over forty years. My sense is he has no idea who his passenger is.”

  “It’s better if he doesn’t,” Donovan said.

  FORTY EIGHT

  Valek Stahl had felt the engine shift into idle as the barge crept to a stop. Perhaps they’d backed up at the Dutch border. Time to find out. He climbed up to the deck cabin and saw the old captain hunched over the pages of De Standaard newspaper. Beyond the captain, Stahl saw barges backed up ahead for at least a quarter-mile.

  “Border slowdown?”

  The captain turned around and faced him. “Yep.”