Stahl drove his Renault rental van to meet his team, Yusef and his brothers, near the Gare du Midi train station.
It warmed his heart to see Allah’s chosen people walking the city streets. Muslim men, women and children, many dressed in traditional Middle-Eastern clothing. He saw two women wearing gossamer thin face veils, defying Belgium’s non-burka, no-face-veil law. Brave women. He was proud of them.
The city’s Muslim population had grown to seventeen percent and was growing just as fast in most European cities. A fact that delighted Stahl… and, of course, terrified the historically indigenous Europeans.
Stahl loved numbers. And numbers didn’t lie.
For every non-Muslim baby born in Europe, there were eight Muslim babies born in Europe. And because of the eight-to-one birth rate advantage, estimates were that nearly half the boys born in certain European cities were named Mohammad.
Muslims make lots of babies. Like Catholics in the old days.
Stahl smiled at the thought. By 2030, we will control Europe… And, then, it’s only a matter of time. First Western Europe, then Eastern Europe and Russia.
And finally we will conquer The Great Satan – America! In the USA, the Muslim birth rate is six percent versus the anemic two percent for all other Americans.
“Wake up, America!” he whispered. “You’ve got a big Trojan Horse in your midst! Muslims! And we’re growing bigger every day.”
Stahl parked in front of a gray brick apartment building and checked to see if anyone had followed him. No one had. He grabbed a large travel bag, got out and entered the building. He walked down a dark hallway that smelled like cat urine and beer and stuck to the soles of his shoes.
Perhaps he should have rented a nicer apartment for the brothers, but he wanted them hidden in a low rent flat where they fit in and would not draw attention to themselves.
He knocked on door A 2. The peephole slid open and a dark luminous eye peered out at him. The door clicked open and Yusef, smiling, ushered him inside.
“Welcome, Valek.”
Stahl nodded and unzipped the hanger travel bag. “These are your Brussels Police uniforms. The large one, the one with the shoulder bars is yours Yusef. The two shorter uniforms are for your brothers. My uniform is at my apartment.”
“Excellent,” Yusef said, as he hung the navy blue uniforms in a hall closet. “Come, take coffee with us and we’ll update you.”
Stahl followed Yusef into the living room. Ahmed and Iram hurried over and everyone sat around a small Formica table. Yusef poured cups of Arab coffee, its fragrant scent of cardamom reminding Stahl of the last morning his mother brewed her rich, delicious coffee… the morning the Israeli rockets killed her.
Stahl sipped coffee and it tasted delicious. He nodded for Yusef to begin his report.
“Everything is in place and ready.”
“None.”
For the next twenty minutes Yusef explained how they’d followed Stahl’s instructions to the letter. They’d taken their large cases to the Arab food shop two blocks from the Grand Place. The shop owner led them down to his basement crawl space that opened into the ancient walled-up sewer that hadn’t been used in decades. The shop owner removed a few loose concrete blocks from the sewer wall. The brothers stepped through the sewer wall opening and carried their cases down the bone dry sewer one hundred yards to a small door that opened onto a cellar of an ancient four-story building on the Grand Place.
In the Grand Place building, they’d climbed up to the third floor and entered room 3C, where they moved a massive armoire aside. Behind the armoire was a door. They opened it and carried their cases inside the hidden alcove room. Then they’d walked to the alcove window and looked down at the Grand Place below. Specifically, they’d looked at the wooden grandstand directly beneath them.
The grandstand where the leaders would soon sit.
Yusef also explained how they’d rehearsed the attack until their movements were fluid.
Exactly as I directed, Stahl thought, pleased with their work.
“Excellent, Yusef. I will meet you in the room just before the Grand Place ceremony begins.”
“Insha’Allah, we will change the world!” Yusef said.
“Allah wills it!” Stahl said.
The group all clasped hands.
Stahl pointed to a spot on the map. “Afterward, wearing our police uniforms, we’ll walk to a dark blue Mercedes van at this location.” He pointed to a spot a few blocks north of the Grand Place. “The van will have three Daffy Duck decals on the corner of driver’s side windshield. We will be driven to Montpellier in southern France. There, a man will fly us to Teheran. Questions?”
There were none.
“Let’s synchronize,” Stahl said. On his signal, the brothers set the U.S. Special Ops titanium wristwatches he’d given them.
Stahl finished his coffee, stood and they walked to the door.
Again, he praised them for their work, left and drove back to his apartment.
Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the apartment carrying the pine case containing the late Herr Rutten’s final masterpiece. Stahl was wearing a uniform he’d taken from the home of a local man eight months ago. The man’s body and suicide note were found a few days later when he washed up on the shore of the Scheldt River.
Stahl placed the pine case in a rental van and drove off.
* * *
Two hours later, Stahl returned with the pine case empty. He took off the uniform, dressed in his regular clothes and flipped on the television. CNN International showed the G8 leaders at the Royal Palace, chatting as they walked through the gardens, smelling the red, yellow and blue flowers.
Smell the flowers why you can…
He walked to the bay window and looked outside. Thick gray rain clouds had pushed in. Gusty winds swayed the Dutch elms. He breathed in deep and let it out. The most important assignment of his life was at hand and everything was ready. Yet he felt oddly restless. Perhaps it was the magnitude of his task, or the excitement of his imminent revenge.
Whatever it was, he needed to ease the tension creeping into his muscles. Perhaps a long walk would help. He put on his windbreaker and sunglasses, left the apartment and headed toward nearby Boulevard du Midi. Fat drops of rain began to splash onto the grey sidewalk, turning it into black slate.
Just ahead, he saw a neon sign for Albert & Lucienne’s, a small bar. He entered the busy tavern and smelled fried food and cigars. At the long mahogany bar, several men watched a soccer game on a large television. In the corner, young men threw darts. Stahl sat on a barstool.
The redheaded, mustached bartender walked up and Stahl ordered a beer and a croque monsieur: melted cheese with chicken instead of ham. Not eating swine was one of the few Muslim restrictions he still followed. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps his mother’s mandate that he never eat pork.
Three stools down, a skinny guy attacked a huge pile of boeuf americain, raw ground beef with onions. Oddly, he’d never seen an American eat boeuf americain, probably because Americans were afraid to try things they didn’t understand… which, of course, was most things in life.
The bartender served his beer, a De Koninck amber. Stahl sipped some and realized how much he liked Belgian beer. He also liked the country. Of course, the G8 assassinations would damage its image forever. Damage well deserved, he felt, since Belgium had sided with America and its puppet democracies too many times over the decades.
Perfume suddenly filled his nostrils. In the mirror, he watched a young woman walk behind him, then sit on the stool beside him. She smiled and leaned close.
“You are a visitor here, no?” she asked in good English, somehow guessing, probably by his clothes, that he wasn’t Belgian.
“Yes.”
She brushed her fingers along his bicep as he sipped his beer. “Your muscle is huge,” she said, rubbing her arm against his. She fingered some foam from his beer and licked it off.
He gestured for her to take the beer. She did and thanked him. He ordered another De Koninck and she scooted her stool closer, resting her thigh against his.
“So where are you from?” she asked.
Her hand brushed his knee.
“Denmark.”
“You have business in Brussels?”
He nodded.
“What kind of business?”
He paused. “People business.”
“You mean like… personnel work?”
Stahl liked the analogy. “Yeah. You could say we’re making some personnel changes.”
He studied her. Very attractive face and figure. Alluring blue eyes, nicely applied makeup that didn’t quite hide the two-inch scar on her chin. Plump, red lips. Big gold banana earrings that drew attention away from her natural beauty.
“I’m kinda in the personnel business, too.” She pressed her breast against his arm.
Stahl noticed her glass was nearly empty. “Another beer?”
“I’d like that. And anything else you might suggest.” Another naughty girl smile.
Stahl ordered two more beers, and the bartender served them. She drank some, brushed his thigh again and left her hand there.
“So, are you staying near here?” she asked.
“Around the corner.”
He looked at her for a few moments. Why not have a little fun, relieve his tension? Everything was set. All he had to do was lie low until it was time. Why not lie low with her? She might even provide him with an alibi should he need one.
They drank beer for a while.
“Maybe we could go there now,” she said, “Your body is so, ah… masculine! But you seem a little tense Perhaps you need a little comfort?”
Perhaps you’re right.
Her hand brushed against his crotch
“What’s your name?”
“Camille. What’s yours?”
“Thomas.”
Stahl paid and they left.
Outside, they stepped into a heavy mist. The wet sidewalk glistened now and looked as slick as polished black marble. Raindrops had pooled in the sunken stones.
As Camille and the stranger left Albert & Lucienne’s Bar, the bartender, Albert Hellings, walked down the bar to pour another Glenfiddich for old Henri.
As Hellings reached for the bottle, the TV sportscaster said they were interrupting the soccer game for a news bulletin.
Hellings poured the whiskey, but missed seeing something one foot above his head, a news bulletin that showed the face of the man… a man he’d served beer to minutes ago.