My enemies arrive… Stahl realized as the Belgian police helicopter descended like a bird of prey over the sprawling Congo Museum grounds.
The downwash from the rotors flattened the red and white flowers in the gardens and pushed tiny ripples across the massive reflecting pool.
The chopper touched down, sending dust devils swirling into the air. Moments later, two men and a tall woman stepped out.
Stahl recognized the first man: Jean de Waha, Belgian’s Director General of G8 Summit security. Stahl had studied the man’s impressive bio and work habits for months.
The second man, tall, powerfully-built and wearing an American-cut suit, had his back to Stahl. As the man turned, Stahl blinked a few times, then squinted to be sure. No question about it. He was looking at a CIA operative he’d been hired to terminate two years ago, a man named Donovan Rourke. A man lucky to be alive.
Stahl remembered breaking into Rourke’s apartment not far from here. When Rourke wasn’t home, he’d carried out plan B – terminated Rourke’s wife. Her death achieved the client objective: rendered Rourke ineffective. In fact, the man became such a basket case, the CIA transferred him back to Langley headquarters. Once there, he ceased to be a problem for Stahl’s employer.
But now, Stahl realized with no small pleasure, I may have a chance to finish the job, get some ‘closure’ as the Americans say. And repay him for the difficulty he’s caused me in the last few days.
Stahl looked at the attractive woman. Tall and thin with smooth, honey-hued skin and dark, silky hair. She wore a stylish royal blue suit and the way she and Rourke glanced at each other suggested something personal between them, maybe romantic.
A chubby, bald museum official hurried outside and ushered them in through the museum’s side door.
* * *
Inside the museum, Donovan, de Waha and Maccabee stared at a wall of television monitors revealing the galleries the leaders would soon walk through. Donovan saw armed guards in each gallery.
He turned and looked outside at the anti-terrorist teams patrolling the perimeter. Plainclothes officers walked through the crowds looking for Stahl. Blue vans jammed with paramilitary squads were parked in strategic locations around the museum. Security looked tight. Everything looked safe.
An illusion, Donovan knew.
Because Stahl was here. He had to be. This was the last time the leaders were together. From here, they would depart separately for their flights back home.
It would happen here.
The Congo Museum.
Stahl’s plan all along.
Which meant he was either near the museum, or in the museum. Or, he’d planted Herr Rutten’s weapon, an explosive probably, inside the museum.
So why hadn’t a gallery-by-gallery sweep minutes ago detected some hint of an explosive? And why hadn’t a similar sweep detected an airborne chemical or biological weapon?
The answer was simple. Stahl’s weapon was undetectable.
Herr Rutten must have used a sophisticated ozone or microscopic nanobot-masking device. Some experts said ozone and nanobots might mask the scent of an explosive so well even dogs and electronic sniffers could not detect it.
Whatever the case, the weapon had to be here.
So was Stahl. His ego required that he see his end game, see his creation’s devastation, see his history-changing catastrophe take place, see the bleeding corpses.
See it all in person.
Donovan dabbed perspiration from his brow, walked out into the hallway and ran his fingers along the cool marble wall. He remembered when little Tish ran her toy train along this same wall. She made such a racket, Emma and he took her outside to play in the gardens.
Two weeks later Emma was dead. Murdered by the same man now planning eight more murders here in this museum in a matter of minutes.
Maccabee walked up beside him. “Hey there, Mister”
He turned and smiled.
“You look kinda lost.”
“Lost and found… last night,” he said, suddenly flooded with love for her.
She smiled back as de Waha rushed over with the head of museum security, a man named Frans Kramers.
“We just completed the final check of the museum,” Kramers said. “The museum is cleared. No explosives, no bio or chemical weapons found.”
“Basement?” Donovan asked.
“Clean.”
“Nothing.”
“The dogs?”
“Nothing.”
“How much time before the limos arrive?”
De Waha checked his watch. “Six minutes.”
Despite the excellent security, despite Kramer’s assurances, despite the weapons sweeps, Donovan couldn’t relax. Stahl’s weapon was here!
“Jean… ?”
“Yeah?”
“Stahl has to hit here!”
De Waha nodded.
“Let’s try again to cancel this tour.”
“I tried five minutes ago.”
“And?”
“The authorities turned me down again. Unanimous decision by the leaders.”
“Why?”
“Their image,” De Waha said.
“For chrissakes, they’ve already got thousands of image photos and video!”
“No, their image toward Africa. They’ve been criticized for neglecting Africa’s problems: genocide, famine, AIDS, disease. They want the leaders seen in this African museum, showing they care. If they cancel this museum tour, the world will see it as further proof that the world leaders don’t care about Africa. As they tour, TV announcers and commercials will talk about G8’s bold new plans to help solve Africa’s problems. So that’s a good thing.”
“But not if the leaders die here!”
De Waha nodded. “I tried… ”
Donovan knew he had. “I wouldn’t be surprised that Stahl chose this African museum tour because he knew the leaders could not afford the bad PR from canceling the tour.”
De Waha nodded. “Probably. But the leaders also insisted on something else.”
“What?”
“They insisted that Stahl not be allowed to determine their agenda.”
“Understandable, but then their agenda may include their own funerals.”
De Waha shrugged.
Donovan felt frustrated, like someone was holding a blowtorch to his skin. He had to move, walk, do something. “Frans, could you hurry us through the galleries for one last look. Maybe we’ll get lucky, see something.”
Kramers glanced at his watch. “We’ll have to rush!”
He led them quickly into the first gallery, which displayed mining products from the Congo. Donovan scanned the display cases filled with big chunks of copper, uranium and cobalt. Are these big chunks really what they appear to be? Could they be C4 or PETN explosives?
“How many items in the museum?” Donovan asked.
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“250,000 rock samples, 56,000 wood samples, and somewhere around 10 million animals and life forms.”
Jesus! Impossible to screen them all.
Still, he wondered if Stahl might have replicated a larger object, like a statue or animal, using an explosive and then somehow made it undetectable. But experts said no way.
Experts also said the Titanic could not sink.
They walked quickly into the second gallery, a display of beautiful African woodcarvings. Everything seemed normal, safe. The next gallery was filled with a large collection of objects from several Congo villages and the Matadi-Leopoldville railway.
The adjoining room displayed native spears and weapons from the tribes of southern central Africa. Again, nothing looked threatening except the spears and knives, but they were locked up in cases.
“How much time?” Donovan asked.
“Three minutes,” Kramers said.
“Let’s hurry through the remaining galleries,” de Waha said. They rushed into a gallery containing rare metals and minerals. Donovan saw rows of brilliant diamonds sparkling at him from a display case.
Outside, a car alarm started beeping. Donovan looked out a side window and saw the parking area jammed with cars.
“Jean, those cars in the lot… ”
“Yeah?”
“Were they swept for explosives?”
“Yes. Officers with hand-held sniffers and dogs have been checking them for the last fifteen minutes.”
“Is security checking the drivers and passengers?”
“Yes. Both ground security and roof snipers.”
Donovan was anxious about the proximity of the cars to the museum, especially those within one hundred feet. Cars could hide hundreds of pounds of explosives. On the other hand, the cars seemed too far away, and the museum walls far too thick for a car explosion to injure the leaders. The blast would only kill people in the immediate blast area.
Stahl’s explosive was inside the museum where the blast would kill the eight leaders.
Donovan heard the motorcade sirens drawing near.
Kramers hurried them into a large room, The Elephant Gallery, where several large African animals looked like they’d just crept out of the jungle. In the middle stood the enormous elephant that little Tish had been afraid of.
He looked at the majestic beast with its long trunk and ivory tusks flaring out. The twelve thousand pound elephant stood on its natural African terrain of tall grass and rocks in sandy soil. As Donovan walked past the elephant, its dark eyes seemed to follow him, as though trying to communicate, maybe warn him. A cold draft swept across Donovan’s face.
Something in this gallery made him uneasy. Very uneasy.
He turned and looked back into the elephant’s eyes. Were they warning him? Or was he hallucinating?
Outside, the motorcade sirens whined down to a stop.
“The leaders are here,” de Waha said.
They hurried back to the control room and Donovan watched the television screens fill up with leaders entering the museum. His pulse pounded against his temple. His throat and eyes were bone dry. He stared at the screen, afraid to blink and miss something.
The moment of truth was at hand.
Stahl and his weapon were here.
And Donovan had no idea how to stop him!