were great. It was best for him simply to take what he wanted and smuggle it out. After lunch he could reverse the procedure, replace the file in the cabinet, and no one would be the wiser. After all, he was one of the top-ranking officials in the department, having been with the Belgian Military Intelligence and Security Service for ten years.
Verbaken went to the cabinet marked “B” and used his own key to unlock it. He pulled the drawer out and quickly thumbed through the manila folders until he found the one he wanted. He removed the folder, shut the drawer, and locked the cabinet. He moved to a worktable, and then slipped the folder inside his briefcase. After snapping the case shut, he walked swiftly to the File Room door. Verbaken opened it slightly and peered out. All clear. He moved into the hall and walked toward the elevators, pushing open the men’s room door as he passed it. His assistant was most likely paying no attention, but at least he had gone through the motions of using the washroom before going out.
It was a beautiful day in Brussels. Verbaken left his discreetly disguised building, which was located just off the Grand-Place, the magnificent square that was considered the centerpiece of the city. Symbols of Belgium’s royal history bordered the Grand-Place on all four sides, and Verbaken, a native Belgian, was usually impressed daily by the marvelous display of ornamental gables, gilded facades, medieval banners, and gold-filigreed rooftop sculptures. Today, however, the dazzling sights of the fifteenth-century Gothic Town Hall, the seventeenth-century neo-Gothic King’s House, and the Brewers Guild House meant nothing to him. His mind was elsewhere.
Verbaken walked briskly through the colorful, narrow, cobblestoned streets to the intersection of Rue de Chene and Rue de L’Etuve. He paid no attention to the tourists who were snapping pictures of the famous statue of the urinating little boy known as
Verbaken eventually arrived at the Metropole, the only nineteenth-century hotel in the famed city. Located in the heart of Brussels’ historical Place de Brouckere, the Hotel Metropole was more like a palace than a hotel. Verbaken had always wanted to have a second honeymoon there with his wife. She loved the mixture of styles that infused the interior with an air of luxury and richness of materials — paneling, polished teak, Numidian marble, gilded bronze, and forged iron. The place had a decidedly soothing ambience.
Once he was inside the building, Verbaken felt more comfortable with what he was about to do.
On the sidewalk in front of the hotel, two men dressed in expensive Armani business suits sat at a small round table with cups of coffee. The Metropole Cafe was a popular spot for lunch on weekdays and today was no different. All the tables were full and businessmen and tourists waited impatiently in line for the next available space. The two men didn’t care. They took their time as they sipped their coffees.
One of them, a Russian known only as “Vlad,” motioned to the waiter. In French he ordered a dish of ice cream. The waiter looked a bit perturbed, since the two men had been occupying the table for over an hour and hadn’t ordered more than coffee — and now ice cream. But the waiter smiled, said, “
The other man, a Georgian who went by the name of “Yuri,” started to say there wasn’t enough time for dessert but decided instead to stay silent.
Yuri checked his pocket to make sure the passkey was still there. The Metropole still used old-fashioned skeleton keys for the rooms, and it had been a simple matter to steal a master from one of the maids earlier that morning.
Several minutes went by and still neither man said a word to the other. The waiter brought the ice cream and, as a hint, laid the bill on the table. Vlad almost complained that they weren’t ready to leave yet, but Yuri gave him a look. Vlad thanked the waiter and smiled.
As Vlad scooped the dessert into his mouth, Yuri continued to scan the pedestrians on the sidewalk. It was the usual midday crowd — businessmen, tourists, beautiful women, not-so-beautiful women… and then he spotted the mark.
Yuri nudged Vlad with his foot. Vlad looked up and saw a man carrying a briefcase make his way through the cafe to the front doors of the hotel.
Dirk Verbaken.
Vlad quickly put money on the table, took one last spoonful of ice cream, and stood with Yuri. They both adjusted their neckties and then discreetly followed the lieutenant colonel inside.
An objective observer might guess that the two Russians were bankers, for they appeared to be men that worked with money. Perhaps they were lawyers. Or maybe they were corporate executives from very large firms. They exuded an air of sophistication, worldliness, and wealth, and that was precisely the image they wanted to project.
None of it, of course, was true.
Verbaken knocked on the door and noticed movement in the peephole. After a moment the door opened to reveal a stocky American in his thirties. He was dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants with a wet towel hung around his neck. Beside his left leg he carried a.22 caliber Beretta Bobcat.
“Lieutenant Colonel Verbaken,” the man said.
“Hello.” The Belgian spoke fluent English.
“Come in.” The man held the door open and Verbaken stepped into the room. The man shut the door and locked it, then turned to Verbaken with his hand out. “It’s good to finally meet you in person. Rick Benton.”
Verbaken shook Benton’s hand and said, “I think I pictured you older.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Benton said. “Please sit down. Can I get you something to drink?” He led Verbaken into the suite’s sitting room, which was equipped with a large wooden desk, a minibar, a television, a glass-top coffee table, green chairs and a sofa, a cupboard with a full-length mirror, potted plants, and a large window that opened onto a terrace.
“Some water is fine if you have it. You know, I’ve lived in Brussels all my life, but I’ve never been in a room in the Metropole,” Verbaken said.
“It’s a very nice place,” Benton said. He went to the minibar, fetched two bottles of springwater, and joined Verbaken. He looked at the Belgian and asked, “I assume you brought it?”
Verbaken nodded. He set his briefcase on his lap, opened it, and handed the file to Benton. “I’ve got a little less than an hour,” he said.
Benton glanced at the number of pages in the folder and said, “Shouldn’t be a problem. I can snap pictures of each page with this.” He showed Verbaken the Operational Satellite Uplink that the NSA provided to him.
“I don’t suppose you ever met the subject in question?” Benton asked.
Verbaken shook his head. “No, no, that was before my time. I joined the service a couple of years after the man was killed. There may be one or two of the senior staff who knew him. Very interesting guy.”
Benton nodded and snapped a shot of the first page. “Have you heard any more about our friends in the Middle East?”
“No more than what you already have. I’m still looking into it, though. You might say it’s a pet project of mine,” Verbaken answered. “Have you been to Belgium before?”
“Yes, a while back. I wouldn’t mind being stationed in Europe instead of in that cesspool over in the Middle East,” Benton said. “Believe me, this is a
Verbaken chuckled. “I can imagine.”
“Have you ever been to the States?”
“Three times. My wife and I—” Verbaken was interrupted by a knock at the door. The man froze and his eyes widened.
Benton held up his hands. “Don’t worry. I ordered myself some lunch. That’s room service.” He grabbed the small Beretta and went to the door. After looking through the peephole, Benton opened the door to a small man in a white coat.
“Room service,” the man said in English.
