Critical Error (20 page)

As his car emerged onto Q Street, he could see nothing but empty road ahead. He had Senator Baker and Agent Clark’s home address and this was neither of their streets. He sped down the street and looked for taillights on any connecting streets. After two minutes of driving around, he had either lost them or they were back near Q Street. Not wanting to contemplate the former, he parked his car next to Tudor Place and began to walk along Q Street. It was 2 a.m. and very few residents would still be awake in such an affluent suburb. Homes with garages were going to be of interest. Homes with garages and signs of life would be prime suspects.

The sniper worked his way carefully down the street. As much as he wanted to find them, he didn’t want them to find him first.

It was halfway down the street that he saw the movement, indiscernible to all but the most vigilant. It was the flicker of a street lamp on a face in the corner of a window. The sniper did not react. He had them. He turned and retraced his steps back to his car. He retrieved his phone from his pocket. Comfortable that the glow from the handset would not give away his position, he hit the speed dial button.

“Where are you?” he asked his young apprentice. The sniper had to resolve his weaponry issue. He had called his apprentice, a young man who had, much like the sniper, fallen foul of a poor psych evaluation. Although what was poor for some was ideal for others and the young apprentice was certainly proving himself well in the contract killing business.

“OK, you’re about 45 minutes behind me, I’m…” had the moonlight not caught the tip of the blade, the Ka-bar 1222 would have sliced the snipers throat wide open.

Sam cursed as the sniper moved at the last instant causing him to catch nothing but the tiniest piece of flesh. The nick that should have been a slice didn’t even produce so much as a drop of blood.

Sam had sensed being followed but hadn’t been sure. As he directed Clark and his brother to the lounge, instructing them not to go near the window or put a light on, he had slipped out and taken up position in the bushes. If somebody had been following, they would need to recce the area and try to pinpoint their location. It had taken five minutes for the sniper to appear. Sam had seen enough snipers in his time. The man’s use of light and shadow, steadiness and control of breathing, pretty much nailed the guy’s expertise. He was good, spotting the almost imperceptible movement in the window was impressive. Clark had obviously tried to peak out of the corner of the window but the street light had reflected on her skin very briefly as she moved. Sam had watched as the sniper, having spotted the movement, immediately began to retrace his steps. Sam had followed and had had to use every ounce of his training and experience of tracking to ensure the sniper did not spot him. Sam had to know if the sniper had called in their position or whether he was making sure before he did call it in. On hearing the conversation and the fact that whoever he was calling didn’t know where he was, Sam moved. He had moved silently from the bush and swung the knife in a tight arc towards the snipers throat which would ensure an instant kill and silence.

As the phone clattered and smashed to the ground, the sniper avoided the blade and was already bringing his silenced pistol to bear with his other hand. Sam was just recovering from his initial strike as the silencer closed in on his face. Like his opponent, Sam reacted quickly and as the sniper depressed the trigger, Sam’s left hand burned as he pushed the barrel from his face and towards the sniper’s car. Two bullets tore through the side panel and rear tire respectively. With little strength in his left hand, Sam had no option but to drop the knife and use both hands against the pistol. Seeing an opportunity, the sniper took it and delivered a massive punch to the side of Sam's head. As Sam was forced from his feet, his two-handed grip on the pistol, although weakened, was enough to wrestle the gun free from the sniper. Sam was down but with the pistol within his reach, he was most definitely not out.

The sniper surveyed the situation in an instant. Sam had the pistol, his car had a flat and his phone was useless. Live to fight another day was a motto the sniper very much lived by. So he turned and ran. He needed his apprentice and some more weapons. Therefore, he needed a phone.

Sam shook his head, The blow had been a good one and had certainly blown off the cobwebs. The pistol lay at his side and he quickly raised it in the direction the sniper had run. As with most snipers, he was quick and more importantly, silent. By the time he had him in his sights, he had vaulted the gate and was just disappearing out of sight behind the wall of Tudor Place, a five and a half acre historic house and garden in the heart of Georgetown and open to the public. Sam picked up his knife and noted the shattered cell phone. He looked at the board detailing the opening hours. The sniper would not have missed the fact that the building would be unoccupied at night and being a tourist attraction, would have public phones.

Sam sprinted after the sniper and clearing the gate, picked up his trail. As the clouds moved across the sky, the moonlight that had assisted the sniper in avoiding the knife came and went. Shadows were thrown and disappeared almost as one. Sam stopped. This time, the sniper knew he was being trailed and from what Sam had witnessed so far, this guy was very good indeed. Although he had the pistol, the sniper, if he wanted, could let Sam walk past within inches and then disarm him.

Sam stopped running and listened. His concerns were unfounded, the sniper had obviously only one concern, alerting somebody to his location. The tinkle of breaking glass from twenty yards through the undergrowth meant he was breaking into the house. Sam picked up the pace and sprinted. He could just make out the dark shape slithering through one of the small panes that led into the drawing room. Sam had always enjoyed visiting the house and grounds when stationed in Washington and loved the peace and tranquility of being transported back to a century when life was more peaceful and far easier. It was one of the main reasons he had purchased the house on Q Street. This was his favorite part of Washington.

Sam knew the public phone was located just off the main hall which was just through the Saloon. The sniper was very close to getting back up. So far, no alarm had been triggered. The system was as antiquated as the house and required a window or door to be opened to trigger it which was just the way Sam wanted it. It also meant that he didn’t need to be overly careful. He had the pistol and the sniper was endangering his brother and himself. And, by association, he was guilty of the murder of his son, wife and dog. It was this realization that sent Sam charging towards the Saloon window, with its semi circular floor-to-ceiling portico window. Two spits from the pistol eased his way through as Sam jumped through the window at full pelt. The sniper, caught in the middle of the large and open Saloon room, threw his hands up in surrender; knowing that his benefactor would come to his aid, once the police became involved.

“OK, you win!” offered the sniper, standing with his hands in the air.

Sam almost laughed at the poor guy. He had misunderstood the situation very badly indeed. He must have assumed that, as his brother was a Senator, they would do the right thing.

Sam did. The first two bullets removed the sniper’s kneecaps. The screams, although deafening, were contained within the old building’s solid walls. Even then, the large grounds meant the nearest home was hundreds of feet away.

“You’ve got approximately 60 seconds to justify an extension to your miserable life!” offered Sam as he pointed the pistol at the sniper’s head.

It took approximately three minutes for the sniper to tell Sam what he needed to know. Nobody knew where the sniper was, other than roughly Washington and even then, it was his apprentice who had no knowledge of who their client was nor who the target was. The client was a man called James Lawson. Sam recognized the name but didn’t know where from. He confirmed the main target was Senator Charles Baker and his companions i.e. Clark and Sam. It also transpired that the sniper was unaware of and as such not involved in the attack on Sam’s family. That earned him, after his three minute extension, ,a carefully placed bullet in the head and not the gut shot that Sam had been contemplating.

Sam couldn’t cover the break-in but he could dispose of the body. A small pond in the grounds would have to suffice in the short term. Dragging a dead weight with one and a half arms was not easy but he managed and after putting the body in the pond, he found a number of large stones to lay on top. The depth and age of the pond made it unlikely that the body would be spotted, for at least a few days A quick return to the house to pick up cartridges and to wipe down visible blood stains left nothing but a break-in for the police to investigate.

The final task was to move the sniper’s car. With a bullet hole and a flat tire, it would stand out in the tree-lined street of multimillion dollar properties. A six-block ride had the tire all but shredded as he pulled into the University of Georgetown Hospital. Avoiding the CCTV cameras, Sam parked next to a number of other cars and jogged back towards the townhouse.

It was time to have a serious chat with Senator Charles Baker and find out how James Lawson fitted into the picture.

Ben had churned through a number of departments delivering the simple message ‘you don’t have sixty days, you have twelve’. All had argued it was impossible. Ben had ignored them all.

“Enter!” he shouted as the tap on the door alerted him to his next meeting.

As he looked up, expecting to see a representative from the medical team, he saw a face he did not recognize. He looked again at his diary. His secretary had inserted a name he did not recognize and added ‘five minutes only’ as a note.

“Good afternoon,” said a rather strange little man, checking his watch. “ Mr Meir, it is an honor to meet you.”

“Sorry, have we met?” asked Ben, gesturing for the man to be seated. Ben could not take his eyes off the man’s face. He was wearing the most ridiculous looking glasses Ben had ever seen. That, combined with his small but rotund stature, gave him the look of a mole.

“No, I can’t say we have,” he answered, offering nothing else.

After a moment of awkward silence, Ben spoke.

“Sorry, why are you here?”

“Because of this.” The man reached down and rather clumsily produced a photo from his briefcase and laid it in front of Ben.

Ben looked at the photo and saw little more than a grainy picture from a high angle looking down on what he recognized to be the Rafah border-crossing from Gaza to Egypt.

“Where are you from?” asked Ben, still trying to assess why the little mole was in his office.

“Intelligence Group, IAF,” replied the mole succinctly.

The mention of the non-Arab Affairs Department caught him off-guard, particularly as he was looking at a picture of the Rafah crossing. With everything else on his plate, the last thing he needed was something unconnected to the Arabs.

Ben was beginning to lose it. He did not have time for some emotional retard to waste his time and addressed him as evenly as he could.

“Would you mind telling me, what exactly it is I’m looking at?”

“Well, you see,” the mole replied, pulling another photo from his case. “This was just,” he took back the first photo from Ben’s desk. “To pinpoint the location.” And replaced it with the new one. “This one is a much greater resolution.”

Ben rubbed his forehead as he tried to stay calm. The mole had stopped talking as he lay the second photo down. All Ben could see were a number of blurred faces. He still did not know what the hell he was supposed to be looking at.

Ben looked up from the pointless photo and stared at the mole.

The mole just stared back at him somewhat vacantly. A knock at the door and the entrance of the Commander of the IAF (Israeli Air Force) interrupted the awkward stand-off.

The Air Chief knew Ben well and could see the anger and frustration in his face. He looked at the mole who smiled back at him.

“I see you’ve met Harry?” he said with a smile.

“Kind of,” replied Ben as evenly as his temper would allow. It was the busiest day he had had in years and he had no time to waste.

The Chief turned to Harry. “Harry, I told you to make the appointment but you were to wait for me before going in.”

Harry just smiled back at his Chief.

Ben shook his head. “I’m sorry but what the hell is going on? Is he some kind of re…”

“I should explain,” the Chief interrupted. “Harry is an analyst in one of our photo surveillance departments. And is an autistic savant.”

Ben began to calm down. There was something wrong with ‘Harry’. He understood the term ‘autistic’ but not ‘savant’.

“Savant?”

“They have a special skill. They can be musical, scientific, artistic or any number of things. Harry here, has a photographic memory and remembers every face he has ever seen and any detail about that person that we know. Address, phone number, date of birth, anything.”

Ben began to understand. He looked down at the photo again.

“So who are we looking at?”

Harry leaned forward and pointed to a face in the foreground. It was slightly blurred but revealed a middle-aged man with pale skin, something which did help single him out.