Critical Error (24 page)

Zak felt like a five-year-old child chastised by a disappointed parent. As he walked towards the rental car, the Sheikh handed him the keys and climbed in the passenger seat. Zak was driving.

“Where to?”

“The airport, I have a plane waiting.”

“But, my office, they are expecting me back.”

“Well, you’d better tell them not to.”

“When will I be back?”

“You’ll be back when we’re finished.”

“How long will it take?”

“As long as it takes.” The Sheikh smiled. He could keep this up for hours.

Zak got the gist and stopped asking silly questions. He called his office and told them he wouldn’t be back that afternoon. He’d worry about it the next day, when, and if, that came. He was getting a very strong notion that he would never be back.

Mohammed loved Marseille. Although it was France’s second largest city and biggest port, he never felt he was in France. Marseille people saw themselves first and foremost as Marseillais and then perhaps French. Its poor reputation, almost entirely due to the movie with Gene Hackman, ‘The French Connection’, was entirely unjustified. Certainly in the twenty first century, the city was almost indistinguishable from what it had been forty years earlier but the spirit, he knew, remained the same.

Deif sat on his rooftop balcony. He had booked a villa in the 7th Arrondissement, the Bompard, and thanks to its elevated position, he could observe the ships, as they plied their trade in and out of the busy port. He had been waiting two days for the ship to appear and almost cried out as his binoculars picked up the rusty freighter that was making its way between the small islands of Frioul and the Chateau D’If, made famous in Alexander Dumas’ ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’, just in front of Marseille. He waited for the name to become visible and yes, that was it, Akram had arrived.

Mohammed made his way downstairs, boarded his scooter and taking his life in his hands, headed towards the port. Marseille drivers were almost as crazy as the roads and after avoiding a number of life threatening crashes, he thankfully dismounted the scooter and awaited his friend’s arrival. The two containers that would complete the weapon lay alongside the Quay with the two men who had spent the previous year assembling, checking and then disassembling the equipment. They had found what they needed in Malta, a relic left to rot after World War II. However, Malta was too small for their highly covert operation, so everything had been moved to France where her relatively unpopulated South offered plenty of privacy.

As the boat pulled in to dock, Akram and Deif greeted each other as brothers. This was the last stop before they made history and as the second container swung aboard, the small crew could be heard cheering. In the Captain’s cabin, Deif and Akram went over the charts with the navigator. Neither really knew what they were looking at, other than the timeline, the only thing they cared about. At eighteen knots, they would be in position in eight days. They were still on time and it left them the luxury of one choice. Were they going to time it for midnight Yom Kippur in Israel or midnight, Yom Kippur in America?

“Simple,” replied Deif. “Whichever causes the most casualties!”

Both laughed as they then discussed which it would be midnight or 6.00 am US time.

Deif and Akram prayed together before Deif left and watched as the freighter pulled out of port and began her momentous voyage. He boarded the scooter for the last time, praying that Allah would keep him safe again and headed for the Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles train station where his train to Saint Raphael and his well deserved break awaited him.

Had Deif learned more about Marseille than its links to the Muslim world, he may have discovered that Marseille was quite literally a melting pot of cultures and communities. It not only had one of the largest Muslim populations in Europe, it was also home to the third largest Jewish community. Almost 1 in 10 Marseillais were Jewish. Of course, they were far less visible than their Muslim neighbors and far less vocal, so this was a fact easily missed by the passing traveller.

Another traveller, however, was fully aware of this. . He was a born and bred Marseillais but at the age of 18 had followed his heart and joined the military. He had flown to Israel and enlisted in the IDF. His talents as a linguist had not gone unnoticed and he was soon transferred to Mossad. Over the years, he had proved his worth and become Head of the Paris Mossad station. Had it not been for his mother’s birthday and a quick trip down to see her, he would have missed the man who he instantly recognized as a person of interest to Israel. Unfortunately and slightly embarrassingly for him, he couldn’t quite identify him. As the trip was a personal one, he had left his laptop at home and with nothing other than a mere visual recognition, he could do nothing more than follow the man.

He watched the man board the train bound for Nice and then once he had settled into his seat, he joined the same train. From a carriage behind, he kept an eye on Deif, careful to maintain his cover. By the time they both disembarked in Saint Raphael, he was certain Deif was not in the least suspicious nor aware that he was being followed. In fact, Deif was so brazen that the Head of the Paris Station began to think that he might be following an innocent man. Deif grabbed a taxi from the front of the station. This left the Paris Head with a dilemma. Follow and risk being spotted or wait for the taxi to drop him off and find out where he had been dropped. He elected for the latter, noting down the taxi registration. He knew he’d be back soon enough. He knew from experience that this was the only taxi rank in Saint Raphael.

He began to think he had made the wrong choice when after an hour the taxi had failed to return. Just as he was thinking the worst, it reappeared and the Paris Head, having secured a healthy sum of money from a nearby ATM, jumped in the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry, Sir but you must take the taxi at the front of the queue,” protested the taxi driver.

He handed the taxi driver a €50 note. “But I really like yours!”

The taxi driver looked at the wad of €50 notes in the passenger’s hand and took off to a blaze of horns from his colleagues.

After two minutes of talking to the taxi driver, it became apparent that the man he had followed was far from innocent. The taxi driver had dropped him off at one address but with no room to turn around, the taxi driver had been forced to drive further down the road before being able to complete a U-turn. When he had driven back, he saw his passenger disappearing into an entirely different property. With the address in hand, the Paris Head made a decision. Paris by train was at least five hours away but he was only thirty minutes from Nice and a ninety minute plane journey.

A little over three hours later, he was sitting in his subordinates car at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport looking through the Wanted List of photos he had instructed he bring with him. After five photos, he found the man he had just followed and hoped to God for his career that the man was where he had left him. Mohammed Deif had been found. Well, he had been four hours earlier. The Paris Head of Station just prayed he was still there as he dialed Ben Meir’s number. It was his number listed as contact, should the man be sighted.

Andrew Russell had not slept for two nights. The Senator, his brother, the Secret Service agent and even the Secretary of Defense had vanished off the face of the earth. The attack by the CIA team at Sam Baker’s house had been a debacle, all eight men dead and the targets vanishing into thin air. The President was asking questions as to the whereabouts of his Secretary of Defense and even more worryingly, the press had cottoned onto the fact that nothing had been heard of Senator Charles Baker for days. Up until his failed assassination, he was giving sound bites twice, three times a day. His office could offer them nothing more than they had not heard from him either, itself a cause for concern as to why nobody was doing anything.

It was all a total and utter disaster. He should never have agreed to it in the first place but the Horsemen had been insistent, adamant that Senator Charles Baker had to be taken out of the race. They were due to arrive shortly and he was in no state to see them. Unshaven and disheveled, he was far from presidential. He had to pull himself together or the old fuckers would be looking to replace him.

His phone rang and he looked at it with no intention of answering unless it was of national importance. He didn’t want another update from the imbeciles trying to track down the targets. He recognized the number or at least the international code, 972, Israel. It must be Ben. Ben had been avoiding his calls.

“Ben?”

“Andrew, my dear boy,” replied Ben.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” said Russell almost breathlessly. His stress levels were off the chart.

“Sorry but to say I’m busy at the moment would be a monumental understatement.”

“Of course,” Russell was fully aware of the timeline Ben was operating to. “Did you have any luck with that little job we discussed?”

“Hmmm, yes, that little job. I’m afraid our priorities clashed at a crucial moment.”

Russell was in no mood for BS. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, the agent who had tracked your target was in a position to carry out her orders when all hell broke loose and a very dear friend of mine and of Israel’s became a potential victim.”

“Shit, the house in Georgetown?”

“Yes!”

“I can assure you, no harm would have come to James. I know he’s crucial to our plans and Ararat.”

“Nevertheless, I could not take that risk. We’re at a very crucial time for Israel. Your loyalties are split. These horsemen as you call them are a risk to our nation.”

“Without them, I will not become President and Ararat may be at risk.”

“Baker will not interfere with Ararat.”

“But the democrats will. If any of what has happened comes to light, our party will be destroyed in the polls. You can’t take that risk.”

Ben remained silent. He knew Russell was right. For Ararat to work, he needed a stable government in the US. The last thing he needed was a change of politics. It was imperative that Russell, or at the very least Baker, win to keep the quid pro quo.

“Shit!”

Russell could sense a breakthrough.

“Do you know where they are?” he asked.

“Yes, but I promised my operative she would be safe.”

“Give her new orders then.”

“She would not accept them. She has spent two days with the Secretary and Baker and knows they’re friends of Israel. She knows nothing of our plans and will not kill any non terrorists without very good cause.”

“Well give me the location then.”

“That, I’m afraid, is something I can’t do either.”

“I promise we won’t harm her or the Secretary.”

“Were you going to do it yourself, that may be a promise I would accept. However, you’re not and so I can’t take the risk. Your fellow Americans are well known for sledgehammers being used to crack nuts. The operative is my goddaughter and I will not risk somebody sending a cruise missile towards her.”

“But…”

“No buts Andrew, I will sort out your mess.”

Ben hung up. He had a call to make.

As Andrew replaced the silent handset, a knock on his bedroom door signaled company. His valet announced the arrival of four gentlemen.

Andrew asked him to direct them to the library while he quickly shaved and brushed his hair.

“Gentlemen,” announced Andrew as he entered the library, closing the door behind him.

Three of the men looked at Walter Koch, waiting for him to respond on their behalf.

“We,” the others nodded their consent. “Are very concerned of where we are.”

“Gentlemen.” Andrew poured himself a Scotch. He was feeling buoyed by Ben’s call. If the Israelis wanted you dead, you died. Simple. “Everything is under control.”

“Exactly how is everything under control?” asked James Lawson, his temper simmering. He was worried. His man had disappeared over three days earlier at a point when he was allegedly about to deal with the problem.

“I have just spoken to a contact and they’re sending a team to deal with it now.”

“Sending them where?”

Andrew had absolutely no idea. Ben hadn’t trusted him with that information but ever the politician. “That, gentlemen, will all become clear very shortly. Now please, let’s not dwell on issues that are resolved. I believe there were other issues you wanted to discuss.”

Walter looked at Lawson and received an imperceptible nod. Leave it and move on.

“We have two issues. The first is the nuclear weapon that is supposedly on its way here and the second is transport.”

“As for the nuclear device, there are no updates as yet but it seems this is well covered and our borders will pick up the device the second it comes anywhere near us.”