Donovan hated what he saw. The leaders clustering close together again… this time around a mahogany carving of an African woman’s face.
He didn’t want them clustering. He wanted them hustling their distinguished VIP butts out of the Congo museum and racing to the airport to fly home.
He was still frustrated and angry that he and Jean couldn’t persuade officials to cancel the Congo museum tour.
A minute ago, he’d tried again. He’d phoned President Colasanti’s Chief of Staff, Nester Smale, and explained his concern. Smale argued that the Congo Museum tour was absolutely necessary to demonstrate the President’s concern for African famine and genocide, as well as people of color worldwide. Smale neglected to admit that the tour would also help win African American votes back home.
Donovan looked over at the fire alarm. He was tempted to run over and pull the damn thing and get everyone outside, then claim an electrical malfunction triggered the alarm.
Because Stahl was here, in control, ready to unleash his weapon any moment.
But how did Stahl know which moment? And how did he know which galleries would be toured? And how could he know the sequence? The museum director had only decided on the gallery tour sequence thirty minutes ago.
The answer was clear. Stahl knew because he was with or near the leaders!
Or someone with or near the leaders was telling Stahl where they were.
Or… Stahl saw the leaders!
“Jean – is this tour being televised?”
Jean checked his clipboard. “Yes. Only the Grand Place ceremony and this Congo Museum tour are televised.”
“Stahl’s watching this on television.”
“So?”
“So he’s within a few hundred feet of this building. I don’t know how, but somehow he’s masked Rutten’s explosive. He has a detonator and when the leaders walk into the gallery with the explosive, he’ll – ”
“But we’ve swept every gallery five times!”
“Yeah, but - ”
De Waha’s phone suddenly rang. He answered, listened and hung up.
“A woman in a nearby restaurant saw Stahl drive in this direction.”
“What was he driving?”
“The stolen Opel Insignia we just learned about! The one stolen out near Knokke.”
Donovan and de Waha ran to the window and looked out at the parked vehicles. No silver Opel Insignias. They ran to the next window facing the side lot. A blue Opel Senator. An old Opel Vectra. No Insignias.
De Waha grabbed the security phone. “Search every silver Opel within five-hundred meters of the museum now!”
Stahl watched the leaders gather around a display of a large African yellow-billed stork. Such a beautiful bird. Even more beautiful was how the leaders clustered tightly together around the bird. The fools were contributing to their own imminent deaths.
What more can I ask for?
Only one more gallery…
He visualized his glorious, triumphant moment. They walk into the Elephant Gallery…
They’re drawn to the massive elephant - my beautiful five-ton avenging angel. They walk up to it. They marvel at its size, its long trunk and massive ivory tusks. They notice the sandy soil the elephant stands in, they see the large dark rocks in the soil. Maybe they notice Herr Rutten’s identical large dark rocks peeking up through the sandy soil.
And even if they do, it will be too late.
Because at that precise moment, I will push G 8 on the detonator phone – and those beautiful dark rocks of PETN will explode at 26,400 feet per second – shredding the infidels to confetti.
He visualized the magnificent carnage… the American’s leg here… the German’s foot there… the English woman’s fingers landing on the Italian’s crotch as his head rolls down the hall like a bowling ball.
‘Nothing rolls like a head,’ Stahl’s father had often told him. Actually, Stahl recalled, heads wobbled more than they rolled straight.
The leaders approached the door of the Elephant Gallery. The Canadian and German leaders smiled and walked toward the enormous beast… drawn like rats drawn to poison.
Out of the corner of his eye, Stahl noticed policemen running toward a silver Opel Insignia near the entrance gate. Weapons drawn, they ordered the young male driver to get out.
They know…
Stahl’s pulse kicked up a bit. Checking the television, he saw more leaders enter the Elephant Gallery. By the time the cops spotted his car, all leaders would stand beside the elephant – he’d push G 8 and escape in the chaos.
His righteous moment… the most glorious in his life… was at hand.
Just seconds now…
* * *
Donovan turned to de Waha. “Jean, back the leaders out of the Elephant Gallery – back them through the rooms they just visited! Those rooms are safe! Phone your coordinator in the Elephant Room and tell him!”
De Waha grabbed the phone, hit speed dial.
“MERDE!”
“What?”
“Busy!”
De Waha turned to Frans Kramers. “Frans, run up there. Back the leaders out of the room. Hurry!”
Kramers sprinted off toward the Elephant Gallery at the opposite end of the massive building, several hundred feet away.
Donovan focused his binoculars on the vehicles in the side lot. Vans and mini-buses blocked his view of many cars. He saw SUVs with families, busses with children, vans with seniors. He scanned the last row beside the wide steps leading down to the huge garden and froze. He blinked to be sure.
“Got him!” Donovan said.
“Where?”
“Silver Opel Insignia, seven rows back. Next to the garden steps. He’s wearing sunglasses. Black hair. Beard. It’s him! Keeps checking something on the seat – gotta be a TV!”
Donovan and de Waha raced down to the door that opened onto the side parking lot and stepped outside. Donovan felt Maccabee grab his arm from behind.
“Be safe,” she said.
He nodded, then realized the building could explode and collapse any second. “It might be safer to wait outside this door away from the concrete and glass.”
“Okay.”
Weapons drawn, Donovan and Jean ran toward Stahl’s car, less than two hundred feet away.
Donovan saw Stahl’s eyes lock on him.