G 8
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Stahl flailed like a wounded animal as his body swung over the apex and began descending – down toward the huge decorative white boulders, his head dangling well below the blade.
His eyes widened as he saw what awaited him below.
The blade swept down faster.
Donovan buried Maccabee’s face in his chest as Stahl’s skull smashed against the jagged boulders, crushing his jaw and eye socket. His skull scraped along the boulders a few feet and swung up again.
Donovan couldn’t move. He stared at Stahl’s misshapen, bleeding head, at his dislodged-jaw hanging open, at his limp ragdoll body sweeping up toward the top again.
He knew what he should do. Try to dislodge him. Stop the blades. The human thing to do. But he wasn’t feeling human toward Stahl. And something in him wanted the bastard mutilated for mutilating Emma, and for mutilating hundreds of innocent men, women and children with his bombs over the years, and for what he’d done to Maccabee.
But then, some other part of him said – no… don’t play this sick bastard’s game!
As Stahl swung down toward the boulders again, Donovan eased Maccabee to the side and positioned himself to pull Stahl’s leg from the grids.
As the body swung by, Donovan grabbed the leg – but the speeding blade nearly yanked his arm out of its socket.
Stahl’s skull bashed against the big stones again, split open further, misshapen as a deflated football now, dripping blood on the white tulips. Then the body raced upward again.
“Jean, stop the damn blades!”
A sudden gust of wind pushed the blades faster as the body neared the apex again, crossed over, and swept downward.
He heard gunshots near the mill door. As the body raced toward the bricks. Donovan positioned himself to throw a shoulder into Stahl’s body.
Then he heard screeching – metal on metal – as the huge blades ground to a halt. De Waha had thrown the mill’s brake.
Stahl’s body swung back and forth like a bloody carcass in a slaughterhouse.
De Waha ran out of the windmill and over to Donovan.
They stared at Stahl’s hanging corpse, a grotesque pendulum.
“Bastard got off easy,” de Waha said.
“Yeah.”
“So what do we write down for cause of death?” de Waha said.
“How about death by hanging?”
“Works for me.”
Donovan placed his arm around Maccabee, helped her to her feet and guided her from the carnage.
They strolled along the canal. Each step took them further from the madness. Further from the monster who’d destroyed their families and caused so much pain in their lives.
The irony, they both knew, was that this same monster had brought them to each other.
EPILOGUE
MANHATTAN
Donovan led Maccabee past lots of happy faces as the two of them stepped outside Manhattan’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral into a beautiful, steamy afternoon…
… and in hours, he hoped, an even steamier honeymoon…
He was overflowing with love for the woman beside him as they walked through smiling well-wishers… accurate rice-tossers… pushy camera-clickers… to leaping streamer throwers… and a friendly cop flashing his car lights.
Donovan helped Maccabee into the spacious back seat of a black limousine the length of a battleship.
“Gee - our family car!” she said, smiling.
“Dream on.”
She laughed as the limo pulled away and headed up Madison Avenue. A few minutes later, they entered the Plaza Hotel’s Grand Ballroom for their reception, an ethnic mixed salad. Donovan’s Irish and Italian relatives partied with Maccabee’s Indian and Irish cousins. The Micks crooned Hindu love ballads and danced the Kathak while the Indians danced the jig and sang Danny Boy. What the singers and dancers lacked in talent, they made up for in passion, thanks in large part to the booze.
Libations ruled the night! Irish Bushnells and Jameson, Italian Chiantis, and New Dehli Savignons flowed faster than the East River at high tide. The five-piece band played a mix of Clancy Brothers, Ravi Shankar, Mario Lanza and an occasional Hava Nagila.
His life and family felt reborn. Because they were.
Three hours later, Donovan and Maccabee, happy and tipsy, departed for the airport, leaving their happy tipsy friends to party on.
His beautiful daughter, Tish, the flower girl, danced every dance until she exhausted herself and collapsed on Gramma Anna’s lap. Donovan was heartened by how Gramma Anna and Maccabee had bonded into a warm mother-daughter relationship over the last few months, clearly filling the huge voids in each other’s lives. He was equally delighted and amazed by how quickly Tish and Maccabee had bonded and grown fond of each other.
As the limousine tunneled through Manhattan’s concrete canyons, Donovan’s cell phone rang. He saw Caller ID and punched the speakerphone.
“Congratulations again, folks,” said National Intelligence Director Michael Madigan, calling from London.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Though I’d update you two on the Medusa Plot before you escape into matrimonial and connubial bliss and refuse to answer your phones.”
“Good thinking, sir.”
“Maccabee, as a result of your translations of the newly uncovered Sumerian documents, we’ve learned the full dimensions of the Medusa. It was far more complex than we imagined. Its tentacles spread into every major financial institution in the world.”
“Who was behind it?” Donovan asked.
“Karlottah Z. Wickstrom.”
“The billionaire recluse in Curacao?”
“The very one.”
“But she supports a lot of charities.”
“For good reason. Most of them funnel money right back into her offshore dummy corporations.”
Incredible, Donovan thought. He’d only read positive PR and media about the famous businesswoman. Which proves that media image and social media rule. Pay enough people to say nice things about you – and voila - you are nice. Except that you might be evil.
“Anyway, this morning the Curacao police armed with search warrants and working with our Special Ops team, made several requests to enter her estate. All requests were refused. When her security guards opened fire, we shot back, killing seven of them. One of our guys was wounded, but he’ll recover.”
“Was Wickstrom there?” Donovan asked.
“Yes.”
“She talk?”
“Nope.”
“She lawyer-up?”
“Nope. She bottom-upped. She’s dead. Ate a cyanide capsule minutes before we got to her.”
“So… finding out who else she was involved with will take time.”
“We know who else.”
“You cracked her computer files?”
“Didn’t need to. Woman didn’t trust computers. Amazingly, she kept a handwritten notebook in a secret drawer beneath her office safe. Contains all the names. Who did what. The notebook is a prosecutor’s treasure trove. Medusa is enormous.”
“Global?”
“Oh yeah. USA, France, Germany, China, Britain, Russia, Italy, Japan, Belgium to name a few. The Medusa was a select group of greedy bastards who used shell corporations to buy what looks like thousands of futures contracts and options, calls and puts. All designed to make huge profits based on an unnamed catastrophic event early in June.”
“Did they know the event was the assassination of the G8 leaders?”
“No. They were led to believe the event might be the dissolution of the Euro… or a major re-evaluation of the Chinese yuan. Some thought it would be the collapse of the European Union. All they knew was that the event would make them very rich. Which is all these kinds of people need to know.”
“So how many knew the event was the assassinations of the G8 leaders?”
“At this point, we know of three people. Karlottah Wickstrom, a man named Simon Bennett and, of course, the extremely deceased assassin by the name
of Valek Stahl.”
“And Wickstrom was behind all this?”
“Yeah. But Bennett set it up and managed everything for her.”
“Where’s Bennett?”
“In the slammer! We grabbed him trying to board a JFK flight to Venezuela last night. He’ll do life without possibility of parole.”
“So it was all about big money?”
“Billions big.”
“ As they say, follow the money… ”
“Yeah. We estimate Wickstrom’s slice could have personally netted her nearly three billion dollars.”
“Jesus… !” Donovan was stunned by the numbers.
“And that three billion added to the billions she already had, might well have made her the richest person in the world. That was her goal according to Simon Bennett. And she wanted to achieve it fast. She was dying of cancer and had months to live. She wanted to go out on top. Money drove the woman.”
“Stahl, too?”
“No. Vengeance drove that bastard. He was repaying Israel, Europe and America for killing his family. He wanted revenge.”
“So did I,” Donovan admitted.
“That’s why I wanted you in Brussels.”
“I figured as much. One question, boss.”
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t we detect Stahl’s explosives in the Elephant Gallery?”
Director Madigan paused as though considering whether he should explain.
“The explosive rocks that Valek Stahl buried in the sandy soil beneath the elephant were covered with Herr Rutten’s secret sealant. It uses ozone and nanobot technology that masks the scent of the PETN explosives. Even the most sophisticated sniffers can’t detect them.”
“Please tell me Herr Rutten’s secret sealant formula died with him.”
“Wish I could. But I can’t. We’re searching for his formula in his underground laboratory or in the antique shop. Haven’t found it yet. Problem is he may have kept it in his head. In which case it did die with him.”
“So what’s the answer?”
Director Madigan paused. “Better detection, better sniffers.”
“Any technology in the works?”
“Some new high-tech prototypes down at Aberdeen and Fort Detrick are proving successful.”
“Sounds promising.”
“Yeah, by the way, Maccabee, the president would like to honor your father and Mossad’s Benny Ahrens for uncovering Medusa, and you for your translation efforts at a private White House ceremony when you return.”
“Thank you, Director.”
“You’re welcome.”
They hung up.
An hour later, Donovan and Maccabee boarded an Air Singapore 747. It would fly them to the South Pacific for a two-week honeymoon in Bali.
But Donovan would need to sit and chat with Director Michael Madigan when he returned. The Director’s famed CIA Intelligence resources had failed to learn one critical piece of intelligence. Donovan would not be returning to them.
Thanks to a suggestion from the President, Donovan had been offered, and accepted, a position as special advisor to the President, along with a part-time professorship at Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service.
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean Maccabee whispered in Donovan’s ear.
“You worried about changing careers?”
“No, I’m worried about something else.”
“What?”
“Changing diapers.”
Know anyone who might enjoy reading
G8
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MADISON’S AVENUE
First, she gets the frightening phone call from her father. Hours later, he’d dead. The police say it’s suicide. But Madison McKean suspects murder – because her father, CEO of a large Manhattan ad agency, refused a takeover bid by a ruthless agency conglomerate. Madison inherits his agency – and his enemies. When she and her new friend Kevin zero in on the executive behind her father’s death, they soon discover an ex-CIA hitman is zeroing in on them.
MADISON’S AVENUE takes you inside the boardrooms of today’s cut-throat, billion dollar corporations – to the white sand beaches of the Caribbean – to the high hopes and low cleavage of the Cannes Ad Festival … a world where some people take the phrase ‘bury the competition’ literally.
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DEAD AIR
Dr. Hallie Mara, an attractive young MD, and her friend, Reed Kincaid, learn that someone has singled out many men, women and children to die in ten cities across the U.S. in just a few days.
But because Hallie has no hard proof, the police refuse to investigate.
When Hallie and Reed try to find proof, they unearth something far beyond their worst fears. And as they zero in on the man behind everything, the man zeros in on them. Barely escaping with their lives, they finally convince the police and Federal authorities that a horrific disaster is imminent. But by then there’s a big problem: it may be too late.
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BUSINESS TO KILL FOR
Business is war. And Luke Tanner is about to be its latest casualty. He’s overheard men conspiring to gain control of a billion dollar business using a unique strategy – murder the two CEO’s who control the business. The conspirators discover Luke has overheard them and kidnap his girlfriend. He tries to free her, but gets captured himself.
Finally they escape, only to discover that the $1 billion business is his company … and that it may be too late to save his mentor, the CEO. The story takes you from the backstabbing backrooms of a major ad agency to the life-threatening jungles of Mexico’s Yucatan.
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ISBN 0-615-11570-5
About the Author
MIKE BROGAN is the Writers Digest award-winning author of BUSINESS TO KILL FOR, a suspense thriller that WD called, “… the equal of any thriller read in recent years.” He writes about the international world he lived and worked in for many years. His years stationed in Europe gave him a unique perspective on global conflicts. He witnessed hostile terrorist activities first hand and twice escaped bombs that went off within one hundred yards of him and his family. He brings this global experience to his latest novel, G8.
Brogan lives in Michigan where he’s completing his next novel.
To learn more, visit MikeBroganBooks.com