The potted plant was only a potted plant. Maccabee was relieved by how thoroughly Donovan and the security officers had checked it and other décor items out.
Security had also checked out each dinner guest’s hologram-ID card three separate times as they were admitted through increasingly tighter rings of security.
If Valek Stahl was here, he had inside help from the innermost circle of Summit security.
Suddenly a trumpet blared, and she, Donovan and over two hundred fifty dinner guests snapped to attention.
The massive doors of the Throne Room opened and the G8 leaders and their spouses, followed by the King and Queen, looking very elegant, strolled in and walked toward their regal head table. Guests applauded as cameras panned every inch of the gilded grandeur.
The orchestra eased into Debussy’s cheerful L’Apres-midi d’un faune as white-coated waiters swept into the room with trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Maccabee hoped Donovan could relax enough to enjoy all the beauty and splendor around him. But he seemed to scrutinize every waiter and guest who approached within ten feet of the head table.
She looked down at the food on their table: escargots in garlic butter, and petite slices of Ballotine de Faisan. She tried the pheasant and it dissolved in her mouth like cotton candy. She felt like purring.
“Many say the best French food is in Brussels,” Donovan said to her.
“They’re wrong.”
“Where is it?”
“In my mouth.”
Donovan smiled as de Waha tapped him on the shoulder and stared at him. Something was up.
“My secretary just called. The informant who said he’d tell us where Stahl will attack just called back.”
“And?”
“Before he could tell her where, the line went dead.”
Maccabee wondered if the line went dead because the informant did.
“Did she call him back?” Donovan asked.
“Yes, but no one answered.”
“So, Stahl could strike here tonight.”
De Waha nodded.
Maccabee saw tension grip Donovan’s face once again as he scanned the two hundred fifty guests. Then he looked at the musicians in the small balcony loft, which she realized was a perfect perch for a sniper.
Everyone seemed like they belonged.
A waiter placed the main course in front of Maccabee. Saumon a la Genevoise cooked in Madeira wine and butter, and asperges flammandes drenched in more butter and sprinkled with egg, pepper and bacon. The food smelled wonderful.
So did Donovan’s sandalwood cologne.
In the Knokke board house, Edwin D’Hondt shouted “Bastards!” at the television announcer who said, “Today’s G8 Summit meetings have been frank and - ”
“I’ll be frank!” D’Hondt shouted. “You’re interrupting my soccer game with only two minutes to go!” He had ten euros riding on Ostende who were tied with Anderlecht.
“Assholes! Can’t you wait two minutes? ”
“Edwin, your language!” Christine said
D’Hondt gulped down the rest of his scotch. The television screen faded to a photo of a man.
“And now this: Police are urgently looking
for this man, Valek Stahl. He has contracted
meningococcal meningitis. The deadly infection is
contagious. He needs urgent medical attention…
if you see him, do not approach him, and please
call 911 or the police… ”
Edwin D’Hondt studied the man’s face and eyes for a few seconds. His heart start pounding. He’d seen those eyes.
Then he grabbed the phone.
* * *
Donovan heard the orchestra segue into Glenn Miller’s version of Tuxedo Junction. De Waha and his wife and several other couples got up and began dancing. “Maccabee, would you consider dancing with a federal government employee?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Why not?”
“I only dance with Cabinet level or above!”
Laughing, they wove their way through tables and began dancing to the up-tempo music. Donovan enjoyed the dancing and when she smiled up at him, something seemed to melt inside. He knew he’d been growing closer to her each day… make that each hour, feeling the warm shift in their relationship, from the daughter of a friend – to my friend, my very good friend.
But was he ready for this? Would he ever get over the loss of Emma? And what about Maccabee? Would she ever get over the loss of her fiancé? And how does she feel about me?
Where would it all end? And why was he feeling all this now, when he should be focused on the most important job in his life - protecting the G8 leaders from the world’s most terrifying assassin…
Three very pleasant dances later, he watched the leaders stand and leave. He felt enormous relief, as though he’d just tucked a bunch of senior citizens in bed for the night.
De Waha stood, “Mes amis, we have a very busy day tomorrow. We should retire to our bedchambers.”
What about Maccabee’s bedchamber? Donovan wondered. How safe was it? How well screened were the hotel housekeepers and room service waiters and maintenance personnel? Had one called in sick and been replaced by a hitman? Had a maid placed something lethal in Maccabee’s room?
No matter how much security was in place, there was always a chance someone could get through.
They’d already tried to kill her twice!