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“Why didn’t you call when you landed?” he asked sincerely.

“We were too busy running from the men with guns that were waiting for us!” she said angrily.

“What?” asked Ben, genuinely confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” The accusation was loud and clear.

“I only spoke to the Transportation Secretary and he’s got nothing to do with any of this, I’d vouch for him personally. Whether he’s mentioned to somebody else I don’t know. On your parents lives, I did not do this Rebecca.” It was perhaps the most sincere she had ever heard Ben and certainly the first time he had used her parents graves to emphasize he was being truthful.

She relented and gave a thumbs-up to Sam. Ben was clear.

“I believe you Ben, how are you?”

“Rebecca I couldn’t even begin to tell you how bad I am but that is not your concern, I assume you wish to find the rest of the men?”

“I think that’s a no-brainer. Sam warned them he was coming.”

Ben laughed, the more he heard about Sam, the more he liked him. He’d have to check his background for any Jewish ancestry, he thought. He could certainly use a man as useful as Sam Baker.

“Nice touch,” said Ben. “I like it.”

Rebecca was a little surprised at how much she liked the fact that Ben was impressed by Sam.

“Anyway, I’ve done a little digging. The men are all members of a very elite club, the Alibi Club. Tomorrow evening, they have a poker night, or at least they normally would. I’ll text you the address. It’s in Washington.”

As Rebecca relayed the conversation she had had with Ben, Sam couldn’t help but think it was a trap. A little digging? It all sounded far too good to be true and if something sounded too good to be true, it usually was.

What Sam didn’t realize was that when Ben said a little digging, he was referring to over twenty years’ worth of material he had built up on the Horsemen. Ever since the Horsemen had gottten their hooks into Andrew Russell, Ben had gotten his hooks into them. It was just a shame for them that they didn’t realize just how big his hooks were.

Akram Rayyan looked out onto the empty ocean. They had seen the activity overhead as they ploughed towards Saint John in Newfoundland. Their Northerly course and their Russian flag had kept the Americans and her allies at bay. There were only four days to go before they would strike a blow that the Americans would never forget.

His men had just completed another exercise. The parts had been disassembled and were now being placed back in their water-tight containers. Everything was working perfectly. In fact, better than perfect. They were now down to only 28 minutes. Deif had said that even touching thirty would be superb. Akram would have loved to have told Deif but with no communications, he would just have to wait and inform him on his return, Inshallah, he added quickly. Now was not the time to forget that it was Allah’s will that they were performing.

As his men came bounding towards him, he thought it was time to choose the martyr. It was only fair that a martyr should have time to prepare himself. The guessing as to who of the two would have the honor was becoming a distraction. He considered the two men’s performances and, as he had predicted, it was not possible to choose on skill or ability. He would have to leave it to Allah. He took the coin from his pocket and followed his men down for lunch. One of them was about to discover his name would last for eternity and he would soon have 72 virgins by his side.

Ahmed Hameed was a child of the streets, orphaned at the age of eight and with not a soul in the world to look after him, he had fended for himself. Such a beginning to life had ensured a toughness and street-wisdom that was impossible to learn. It had to be lived.

Deif had spotted Ahmed at only fourteen. The boy had a network of vagabonds, scroungers and pickpockets at this beck and call. His network was, Deif had explained to his other Commanders, genius. He had watched the network for some time and marveled at how they knew when trouble was coming. Ahmed’s boys were the first to move when there was wind of the Israelis coming. So much so that Deif began to use the movement of Ahmed’s boys as a warning mechanism. If you see any of those boys scarper, he warned, you run.

After marveling at him for some time, Deif made his move and recruited the young Ahmed into his fold. It was not an easy transition. Ahmed had been the boss for his whole life and taking orders from others was not something Ahmed accepted easily. However, Deif would not accept his underlings talking down to him. So he had two options: get rid of Ahmed or promote him. The thought of a sixteen-year-old barking orders to his significant elders did not sit well with Deif but he had spotted a potential in the boy that he had never seen before and he did the unthinkable, he promoted him to Commander and gave him his own area to control. Ahmed was a huge success and even men three times his age began to follow his orders unquestioningly.

At twenty three, he was still the youngest commander within Al Qassam and with Akram and Deif overseas, he was the de facto leader in charge of Al Qassam in Gaza. His leadership would never be questioned. In fact, it was believed that Akram would step aside on Deif’s death or retirement and accept Ahmed as the new leader. Akram was a right hand man, Ahmed was a leader.

Ahmed looked out across the city towards Israel. They had food aplenty, space, fresh running water. Everything they needed was just a few hundred yards away. It didn’t make sense. His people starved while they feasted. Only four days to go he thought, four days and we will have our day.

He looked down at the street vendors below as they made their way back from the twelve foot walls that the Israelis kept his people prisoner with and noticed the carts were fuller than he had ever seen them. His people would be feasting, bread and fresh produce flowed in abundance. He went down to the street and spoke to his people. The vendors had arrived at 6 am as always and watched as the border gates opened and three times the number of trucks thundered through. The Israelis unloaded the food without a word and went back across the border. The gates closed and that was it.

Ahmed was troubled. He didn’t know what the Israelis were up to but they didn’t do anything without very good reason. Ahmed wished he could speak to Deif. He would know what was going on.

“Did you deliver the extra food?” asked Ben.

“Yes, Sir,” responded the Captain who controlled the border-crossing.

“Excellent, thank you. Now remember, the same again tomorrow.”

“But Mr Meir, I won’t have enough food for my men.”

“Your men have got fat over the years, a few days dieting won’t hurt them!’ He ended the call.

Four days and counting, Ben was going to try one last roll of the dice but it was going to take a few days to set up.

John Mellon had had an exceptionally comfortable night. He would have to get the details of the mattress from Walter. Mellon was staying as a house guest of Walter Koch. Walter had drawn the short straw following the call to President Russell. Mellon had moved in along with the guards supplied by a now exceptionally overstretched Special Activities Division within the CIA, courtesy of a very weary Allan Johnson. Johnson’s Head of NCS, National Clandestine Services was perhaps the most unhappy man in the CIA having had to make numerous house-calls to grieving widows and children. Johnson had secured pretty much every able man in the NCS unit that had experience of carrying a gun. However, as they were pretty much all ex-special forces that experience tended to be very good or exceptional.

As the NCS chief had pointed out to his boss Johnson, whatever he was doing was putting the National Security of the US at risk. Four of the men he had lost were from the Special Operations Group, his most elite unit and were vital in the fight against terrorism. Johnson had brushed aside his concerns and ordered the men to be stationed as requested.

The homes of Walter Koch, Lawrence Harkness and William Hathaway were now surrounded and secured by some of the best trained killers in the world.

As Walter joined John for breakfast in the kitchen, both felt comfortable as the heavily armed patrol walked past the window.

“Did you sleep OK?” asked Walter half heartedly, not really caring and just asking out of politeness.

“Like a baby,” replied John, with enthusiasm.

“Excellent,” replied Walter, his head already buried in the newspaper. The murder of James Lawson had made it into the papers.

Walter couldn’t help but be disappointed. It had taken one bullet to the stomach and a broken pinky. That was it. Lawson had spilled their names because of a broken pinky. Pathetic.

“When are you going to discuss the Vice Presidency with Russell?” asked John, with no newspaper to amuse him.

Walter folded the paper in disgust at both the story and Mellon’s interruptions.

“Tonight,” he offered.

“Tonight’s poker night.” They had already confirmed it was going ahead.

“And he’s going to be invited and you’re going to impress him.”

“Well we both know that won’t happen.”

“True, but you can try.”

“I meant him coming! You couldn’t get him on the phone for hours. What chance will you have trying to get him to a game of poker?”

“I’ll be convincing! Don’t worry he’ll be there,” offered Walter mysteriously. “You just be on your best behavior.”

Rebecca’s network of
Sayanim
had come up trumps again. The hire-car was supplied with a few non Hertz extras and the drive to Washington had proved uneventful. Sam had insisted on a drive past the Alibi club and they were surprised to find it looked rather derelict and somewhat out of place. A small red brick three storey town house surrounded by seven and eight storey buildings. Not what you’d expect of a club frequented by billionaires, thought Sam. He had checked the address and it was correct. Rebecca also walked past the door and noted the sign, it was definitely the correct address.

Back at the small guesthouse where they had rented a room, Sam had done some research and the location began to make sense. There were only 50 members. Membership was only possible on the death of a member and the acceptance by the remaining 49. It was a very exclusive club and its façade was exactly that. A façade. Behind the doors would be an opulent interior. Of that, Sam was certain.

As they drove past the club that morning, everything had changed. The club was far from deserted as it had been the previous evening. It was swarming with activity. Dogs were sniffing the bins and drains, men in suits were examining every detail of the building and street and most bizarrely, remarked Rebecca, there was a man soldering a drain cover.

Sam knew exactly what it meant. His task had just got ten times harder and his list of targets had just grown by one. As they turned onto 17th street, Sam accelerated away from the area. He was going to have to be exceptionally careful.

“Jesus, they’re not taking any chances,” exclaimed Rebecca surprised at the scale of the operation to protect the four men.

“It’s not just them. That was a presidential advance team. It seems I’ll chalk five up to the good, this evening.”

Rebecca considered arguing against killing the President but she knew it was pointless. The man’s actions had resulted in the death of Sam’s child. She knew how that felt and nothing would have stopped her wreaking her revenge. She would just have to break it to him gently that she could not play any part of it. As an agent for a foreign government, it would be considered an act of war and she could not put her country and her people in danger. However, despite all of that, she would still give Sam as much help as she could. If nothing else, that was exactly what her orders were.

At 7.30 pm, the motorcade pulled up at Walter Koch’s front door. There was one armored limo, two cars of guards, two police cars and four motorbike outriders who would ensure they never stopped moving. The journey which had never taken him less than twenty minutes, took twelve. They hardly slowed below 45mph the whole way.

“I could get used to this!” said Walter as they drew up outside of the non-descript building.

“I am getting used to it!” replied John Mellon. The thought of his own presidential motorcade was beginning to take hold again. He didn’t know what Walter had on Russell but if he could get him to the club, he’d get Mellon the VP ticket and then it was just a matter of time.

As the wall of guards formed, the two men exited the limo and were ushered into the club house where Lawrence Harkness and William Hathaway already waited.

“Gentlemen, may I take your jackets?” offered a butler, before leading the four into a room where five large easy chairs sat in front of a roaring log fire. Only four drinks sat ready. A silent toast was raised by each to the empty chair.

“Poor James,” offered Hathaway.

“Poor coward James, more like,” suggested Walter, still angry at how easily they had been given up.