Murray McDonald - Critical Error

In the meantime, to keep the trail warm, she headed South, continuing on the previous direction from Newark to Edison. Without confirmation that this was the right direction, she held the speedo steady at fifty. She wasn’t going to widen the gap too much in the short term, just in case.

The Sayanim proved their worth again. What would have taken the federal agencies weeks to uncover was relayed to Rebecca a mere 17 minutes after her call. A Sprint prepaid cell had made two relatively short calls from both locations within the time frame. Being prepaid, there were no details as to ownership and unfortunately both calls were likewise received on prepaid cell phones. So Rebecca was no further forward in who she was chasing. However, the operator not only knew where the phone had been, they knew where it was heading, or at least the direction in which it was heading, due South.

Rebecca almost doubled her speed as she hung up the phone.

It was another two hours before she received the follow-up call. The prepaid cell had stopped moving and was located in and around the Georgetown area of Washington DC. Rebecca checked the satnav. She was only 32 miles away. Two hours of high speed driving had dramatically shrunk the gap between her and the target.

By the time Rebecca pulled into Q street, Sam had already dumped the sniper’s car. The sniper’s phone, which Rebecca was tracking, lay in bits alongside the sniper’s rotting corpse at the bottom of the pond. A phone call from the Sayanim confirmed the phone was no longer searching for signal, its last triangulation placed it within the grounds of Tudor Place. Rebecca had just parked on 31st NW and killed her lights as she caught a bizarre sight in her rear view mirror. It was approximately 2.30 am and a man jogged across the road behind her. It wasn’t a man merely running across a junction, it was a man who was jogging. Not only that, he was fully dressed. In Rebecca’s experience, men out at 2.30am did many things but jogging was definitely not one of them. Rebecca was a Mossad agent and one thing Mossad instilled from day one, there was no such thing as a coincidence. If it looked out of place, then it was more than likely that it was.

Rebecca waited a few seconds before exiting the car quietly and walking back towards the Q street and 31st NW crossover. She looked tentatively in the direction of the jogging man. She watched as he entered a house further up the street. She ducked back and, checking her sat nav, she worked out which number the house was. She checked her watch, 2.43 am. Cell phone companies worked 24 hours in the US but legal firms did not. However, it was already 8.43 am in Tel Aviv. She dialed Mossad’s head quarters and was quickly connected to one of the many hackers who ensured almost instant access to records from across the world. Ten minutes later, she had the details of the person who had purchased the house some three years earlier but that led nowhere. However, the coincidences were mounting. Not many homes hid their ownership. What were the chances that the house she was researching would be purchased by an anonymous entity? Like many other coincidences that night, the chances were remote. Rebecca considered calling Ben. She was 90 % certain she had the Senator in her sights but wanted to be certain. She extracted another federal badge from her bag. This time it was a Secret Service identity in the name of Rebecca Mills., She walked along 31st NW and soon turned onto Avon Lane NW. A right turn at the end, took her down to Cambridge Place NW. She hopped over the fence and dropped noiselessly into the garden of the house four along from her target. It was a three storey white house facing the Senator’s hideout. Rebecca worked her way silently through the gardens before reaching the back-door of her target property. Her next problem was gaining access without alerting the house opposite. Another call to Mossad secured an unlisted number and after a quick and alarming call to the owners, the back door opened, as instructed, in darkness. Rebecca smiled at what a woman could achieve that few men could, even with years of practice — instant trust. She displayed her badge to the property owner and continued to explain her requirement to remain out of sight and in surveillance of their neighbors. Being Secret Service, she could of course divulge little other than to emphasize it was a matter of national security and that the property owners should remain quiet about the situation.

Rebecca was offered coffee and food but refused. It was imperative that the property owners went back to bed and continued their normal routine. Rebecca took up station in a small bedroom on the third floor which directly overlooked the Senator’s location. She sat down and watched. The property owners would leave for work in the morning as normal and should she need to leave, she was to simply pull the door behind her.

Sam woke up at 6.30 am to the sound of a toilet flushing. He surveyed the room and instantly knew his worst nightmare wasn’t a nightmare. He had lost his wife and child and was on the run with his brother.

He walked down to find his brother still lying on the sofa while Agent Clark was checking kitchen cupboards to see what had survived the three years. So far, just coffee and even then the choice was black or none at all.

“Coffee?” she offered as she turned to look at Sam in the doorway.

“Please,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. The muscles had stiffened while he slept. “Is he awake?” he asked as he dipped his head towards his brother.

“Not yet,” responded Clark, pouring three coffees.

Sam took two steaming mugs and headed towards his brother, kicking the sofa as he approached. “Come on, wake up!”

Senator Charles Baker sat bolt upright. “Wha, whoa, what’s happening?”

“Some bastards are trying to kill you. Now wake up!” demanded Sam almost smiling. His brother had always been a heavy sleeper who, when disturbed, woke up with a start.

After a few shakes of the head and a slug of Clark’s coffee, the Senator came back to life. Two more slugs and the full horror of what had happened the previous day began to hit him.

“Shit, what are we going to do?” he looked at Sam.

Sam checked his watch. 6.45 am. It was time to make the call he had been considering.

“I’m going to put a call into the Secretary of Defense.”

Both Clark and the Senator reacted, the Senator beating Clark by a micro second. “Wait a minute! Last night you said we couldn’t trust anybody!”

“I don’t but a man whose life I saved probably isn’t anybody. James Murphy is the single most honorable man I have ever met. I’m willing to bet my life he’s got nothing to do with this. Trust me.”

Clark was unconvinced. However, the Senator relaxed as he recalled the rescue of Pilot Colonel James Murphy. Murphy had been shot down over Iraq during the first Gulf War. Being the pilot of a tank busting A10 Warthog, the Iraqis had little sympathy for Murphy and had made his time with them particularly unpleasant. As it became apparent that Murphy would soon be moved to Baghdad and paraded in front of the world’s press either before or during a summary execution, a rescue operation had been initiated. Over 100 miles behind enemy lines, Sam Baker was one of two pararescuemen to join the Special Forces team. The Special Forces were in the first chopper while Sam and his colleague were in a second chopper which would hold off until the Special Forces team had found Murphy. They would then swoop in and pick him up. Everything went to plan, right up until the SAM missile took out the Special Forces helicopter. The press had leaked the operation and thanks to CNN, the Iraqis knew they were coming. As the Iraqis celebrated, the pilot of the second chopper began to turn back. Sam had other ideas and with a pistol to the pilot’s head, he forced him down, landing a few hundred yards from the makeshift camp. Sam jumped out and carried out the rescue mission. The confusion and chaos caused by the first helicopter’s crash had given him a diversion that he used to full advantage.