“Fit for a King!” Jean de Waha said.
But is it safe for the King… and his guests, the world’s most powerful leaders? Donovan wondered, as he gazed around the interior of the massive Palais Royale, the official palace of the King and Queen of Belgium. He’d always marveled at the massive neo-classical palace and considered it to be one of the most striking royal residences in Europe.
Now, Jean and he had to make it the safest residence in Europe.
“This is the Throne Room,” said Georges Lafleur, de Waha’s Deputy Director in the Security Intelligence Division. “We’ll host the G8 leaders’ state dinner here.”
Donovan knew and liked Lafleur. The tall, muscular man with thick blond hair and blue eyes was an ex-soccer star who became a highly skilled anti-terrorist operative.
The Throne Room was enormous. It measured 150 feet by 87 feet with gleaming shades of parquet woods on the floor, Rubens on the walls, red drapes on the windows, and lavish gold leaf trim everywhere else. But what riveted Donovan’s attention most hung from the ceiling – eleven crystal chandeliers the size of lunar landing modules.
“In America we have a name for places like this,” Donovan said.
“Motel 6?” Lafleur said.
Donovan laughed. “Museums.”
De Waha smiled. “Hey, like Mel Brooks said, ‘it’s good to be the King!’”
“Mel’s right,” a deep voice said behind them.
Donovan turned and was shocked to see Albert II, the ex-King of Belgium, smiling and walking toward them with an entourage.
“Your Excellency,” de Waha said, “what a pleasant surprise. Permit me to introduce my American colleague, Donovan Rourke.”
King Albert smiled. “I’ve met Mr. Rourke before. In Bruges, a few years ago. A boring diplomatic function, as I recall.”
“That’s right, your Excellency. It’s nice to see you again.” He remembered him as a smart, friendly, respected and beloved monarch.
“And it’s good to see you, Mr. Rourke.”
They shook hands.
“So tell me, Donovan, is our humble abode here safe?”
“Safe as our Fort Knox, your Excellency.”
King Albert smiled. “Minus the gold, of course.”
“Well… yes.”
“You know, the Nazis stole ours. Over $220 million worth of gold bars. Stamped little Swastikas on them. Used the gold to pay for their war.”
“So I heard.”
An aide whispered in the King’s ear.
“I must go. Asparagus farmers are storming the palace gates! What’s a king to do? If you need anything, let me know.”
“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.