Murray McDonald - Critical Error

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 facade was exactly that. A facade. 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.