Critical Error (30 page)

“Is something wrong?” asked the President.

“No, it’s just Henry’s sort of irrelevant. I’m hoping you’ll be making me your VP, so keeping Henry in the loop’s sort of old news.”

“I’ve not even thought about my role…” began the President.

Allan interrupted. “Of course I’m not expecting you to make your decision straight away, Mr President. It’s just, after all we’ve been through, I thought you might consider me.”

There wasn’t anything Russell could pinpoint as a threat in the way Allan put his offer; his voice, his tone, his words were all perfectly friendly. It was the eyes, they gave away the soul and it was only then, at that moment, that Russell realized just how dark Allan Johnson’s soul really was. He also realized, looking around the Oval Office, just how much of a hold that dark soul now had over him and he even began to consider if it was worth it.

At 7.15pm they called it quits. There was nothing, the house was empty. The backpack that Deif had when the Paris Head had followed him was there but nothing else. Other than a few clothes and a couple of books, nothing. The books had been scanned and x-rayed, no hidden compartments, no flash drives, nothing. No wonder he had smiled, he really had beaten them, thought Rebecca.

Sam came in from having checked the grounds, nothing. Deif had obviously gone there, safe in the knowledge that his plans were in motion and required no further action. Sam spotted the two books on the kitchen counter, one of which made him smile.

“Jesus, I loved these books. My uncle who lived in London used to send them over every year without fail, this and the… God, what was its name…”

“The Hotspur,” offered one of the Paris Mossad men.

“That was it, every year I’d get The Victor and Charles would get The Hotspur.”

Rebecca looked at Sam and the Mossad guy like they were mad, as they started to chat about a comic book from 1981 called The Victor.

After five minutes reminiscing, Sam pulled his thoughts back to the job in hand.

“I need to get to the airport,” he announced, hoping somebody would realize he needed a lift.

Rebecca cottoned on and asked the Paris Head for somebody to take Sam to Nice asap.

“I’ll come with you to the airport, I need a break from this place. I’ll call in on the way.”

As they made to leave, Sam’s fellow comic enthusiast tossed him the Victor. “It’s no use to us, something to read on the plane!” he offered.

“Thanks,” said Sam tucking it into his small back pack.

Squeezed back into the child’s seat, they made their way back to Nice. Rebecca called Ben and dropped the devastating news that Deif was a dead end. Ben had admitted the false tooth cyanide pill was very old hat and certainly not anything he had seen for a very long time.

“So what now?” he asked Rebecca.

“Don’t know, back to America I guess.”

Ben wasn’t sure. He was thinking her talents would be better used in Israel. Four nuclear weapons in Israel were far more effective than one in America.

Ben heard Sam speaking to the driver, the American accent catching his attention.

“Who was that?” he demanded angrily.

Shit, thought Rebecca, she hadn’t mentioned Sam’s assistance and didn’t think it was really relevant. It also didn’t help that a previous assignment was the assassination of Sam’s brother. She could not risk Sam overhearing the conversation. He claimed not to understand Hebrew but Rebecca claimed not to understand many languages.

“I’ll call you back.”

“Don’t han…”

Rebecca ended the call before Ben could finish telling her not to and asked the driver to pull over for two minutes.

“Ben, sorry, I couldn’t talk.”

“Who’s in the car?” he asked angrily. He wasn’t a man people hung up on.

“Sam Baker,” she replied and held the phone from her ear.

After waiting for the inevitable expletives to stop, she brought the phone back to her ear and explained what had happened.

“…it’s all to do with some guy Lawson, James Lawson,” she finally concluded.

Ben’s brain worked like a Cray II supercomputer. The speed at which he could compute scenarios and situations and almost instantaneously come to a conclusion was staggering. Almost as soon as Rebecca had spoken, Ben had a new strategy.

“Stay with Sam Baker, assist him with whatever he needs to get to Lawson. Just be careful as to who he incriminates, we have friends in the White House.”

“OK,” she replied, again surprising herself at just how relieved she felt at not having to say goodbye to Sam.

Jumping back in the car, she was pleased to see the smile in Sam’s eyes as she relayed the news that he was stuck with her, at least for a little while longer.

The flight to Paris left on time and during the flight, they discussed how they would proceed which, for Sam, was pretty much, get to Lawson’s room, extract the information and kill him. Rebecca suggested a little more finesse which Sam considered for some time before announcing his preference for the original plan.

One problem neither of them had considered as they stepped into a significantly colder autumn evening in Paris, was that they had left pretty much the whole Mossad team in the South of France. The only people that were left in Paris were young admin girls who most certainly would not have access or the wherewithal to acquire any weapons. Sam had not expected Rebecca’s assistance and had not even considered the possibility of going armed. He had a much better weapon in his arsenal, one that had fared him very well in the past - surprise. If they didn’t know he was coming, it really wasn’t an issue. Rebecca had been warned that Lawson went nowhere without at least four bodyguards. They would all be ex-military and almost certainly ex-special forces. Sam thought back to the sniper as she relayed this information and re-iterated his earlier point. They didn’t know they were coming and that was worth more than any weapons They’d ask questions then shoot. If they knew they were coming, they’d shoot and then ask questions. Simple military rules of engagement, particularly NATO forces, don’t fire unless fired upon.

As they made their way back to central Paris, Rebecca received a call. The Paris Head had tracked down Lawson’s location. The Presidential Suite, Hotel Barrière Fouquet.

“Do you know it, Sam?” asked Rebecca.

“Intimately, when in Paris I wouldn’t stay anywhere else,” he laughed.

Rebecca looked at him, trying to ascertain if he was being serious. Israelis didn’t do sarcasm well.

“Hotel Barrière Fouquet, s’il vous plait,” she instructed the taxi driver.

Very nice, thought Sam, as they pulled off the Champs-Elysés onto Avenue George V. The hotel took up the whole first block and was nothing if not stunning in the darkness.

Rebecca pulled him back to the Champs-Elysés. She had spotted something that may be useful. A short walk away, Rebecca pulled him into a restaurant called La Durée. Sam looked around, it was like something out of a chintzy dream. Someone had gone wild with green aqua paint. Rebecca shoved him past the restaurant entrance and into a queue of people looking at little multi colored circles. Even more bizarrely, Sam watched as one of the staff informed an excited customer, rather firmly, that he could not take photos of whatever they were.

“What the hell are we doing?” he asked through gritted teeth. He wanted to kill James Lawson.

“Looking like tourists!” said Rebecca, likewise through gritted teeth.

Almost thirty minutes later, they eventually reached the front of the queue. Rebecca purchased a bottle of Rosé champagne and a box of mixed ‘macarons’. Sam was still blissfully unaware of what they were but went along with the charade. As Sam passed over a ludicrous amount of Euros, he received a small bag in return. Rebecca seemed delighted and took the bag swiftly from him.

“OK, perfect, we look like tourists returning to the hotel,” she announced with the small bag by her side. “Let’s go.”

They walked back to the hotel and encountered their first problem. The top floor of the hotel required a keycard to access it by lift. They exited the lift and walked back towards reception.

“Excuse me,” asked Sam, putting on his best Texan drawl. All foreigners thought Texans were money men, he had explained to Rebecca, who had to agree. Any Texans she had met on her travels had all been very rich.

The reception clerk’s French arrogance was unmistakable.

“Oui, monsieur?”

“What’s the best suite you’ve got in this hotel?”

“The Presidential, monsieur.”

“I’ll take it.”

Sam watched as the clerk took great pleasure in replying.

“I’m afraid it is taken, monsieur.”

“What’s the next one?”

“The Royal Suite, monsieur.”

“Let me have a look,” demanded Sam, making his disappointment clear.

The clerk toyed with informing the guest it was €6,000 per night but thought better of it. He had pushed him far enough and Americans did not take kindly to being called on money.

“Concierge!” he shouted.

As the concierge arrived, he was given instructions to take the gentleman and his wife to see the Royal Suite. After a quick tour of the suite, which both agreed inwardly was unbelievable, they said it was just not up to the George Cinq standard and was frankly not good enough, so they left. In the meantime, Rebecca had secured the key from the concierge’s pocket and Sam had had an excellent look at Lawson’s security. Two large burly men were stationed at the door. But even better, Rebecca and Sam had been spotted and assessed as just other guests.

The plan was to come back a few hours later, around 3 am, just as the guards were beginning to wane and most importantly, the receptionist and concierge had both gone home.

At 3.05 they entered the lobby and made straight for the lift. Rebecca inserted the keycard and fortunately the top floor light lit up. Sam had been concerned that keycard would have been cancelled. As the lift doors opened, the two guards jumped to attention. They had been dozing in their chairs and visibly relaxed at the sight of Sam and Rebecca, two other guests and sat back down.

“Hey guys,” Sam said as he walked towards the two guards.

Sam Baker had studied many martial arts throughout his career in the military and had come to the very firm conclusion that some people could fight and others tried to fight. He could fight. Martial arts had simply honed his innate ability. As soon as the action started, time seemed to slow down for Sam. He noticed the slightest movements and could sense what his opponent was going to do almost before his opponent knew what he was going to do himself. No training in the world would give you that skill, you either had it or you didn’t. And Sam had it in spades. He approached the two guards who towered over him and where some would see threat and power, Sam saw slowness and awkwardness.

The first strike was easiest, the two guards had seen no threat, Sam was at least four inches shorter and over one hundred pounds lighter than each of the guards. As Sam neared, he calculated the distance to the millimeter and struck, driving his right foot up and into the bodyguard’s right testicle, as though it were a field kick from the 50 yard line. The guard crumpled. Any attempts to scream were soundless as the force of the blow drove every molecule of air out of the guard’s lungs. As the first guard was crumpling to a fetal position and fighting for breath, Sam was already driving a punch towards the second guard. As his right foot touched the floor, he delivered the first hit, timed to perfection. The energy of his motion transferred from left to right foot and then powering his body forward and towards the second guard, the punch connected and it was as though every ounce of weight and momentum from his move had concentrated within the 18 square inches of his right fist and into the side of the second guard’s neck. It was a stunning blow and the second guard’s knees buckled instantly as the trauma of the blow triggered a protective shut down of the guard’s nervous system.

As the first guard managed to catch his breath, his struggling attempts to call out were ended with a second blow. A well placed chop to the back of his neck ensured he would join the other guard in a rather deeper than normal sleep.

Rebecca had watched in awe and somewhat helplessly as Sam had, without any warning, launched the attack on the two guards. She had witnessed many fights in her time but never one so one-sided and impressive. She clapped silently in appreciation of his moves. Sam blushed at the praise and waved it away. Emptying the guards’ pockets, they found two compact Walther PPS’s, very thin and easy to conceal but still packing a 9mm round. Sam could only assume they were illegal. In any event, the odds had just improved significantly. They were armed and still had the element of surprise. Two down, two to go.

Rebecca finished searching the second guard and discovered one major problem. Neither guard had the room key.

The first option was to knock on the door. But there could be a code, two knocks followed by three or one knock then another two. The possibilities were endless. Rebecca looked at Sam for inspiration. He had just assumed the guards would have a key.

“Shit!”