Murray McDonald - Critical Error

“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.

A few nods showed he wasn’t the only one disappointed at how they had become the hunted.

“So when will our President join us?” asked Mellon.

“Shortly,” offered Walter.

“How did you manage it? I mean, how have you got him here? You couldn’t get a call returned yesterday!” asked Lawrence Harkness, mindful of Lawson’s statement that their plan was ruined when Russell got the presidency without them.

“That’s simple. I know Andrew Russell better than anyone. In his life, there are two things he aspires to. The first and foremost is the presidency but that my friends has a lifespan of no more than eight years. His second and perhaps to us most important and to whom we have our dearly departed friend to thank,” he said raising his glass to the empty chair. “Is to become a member of the world’s most powerful and exclusive club. Gentlemen,” he raised his glass in the air again. “The Alibi Club!”

Smiles emitted from each of the group. Membership to the Alibi club was lifelong and the death of James Lawson had created an irresistible opportunity.

“Brilliant!” congratulated Mellon. The image of his presidential motorcade becoming clearer by the second.

Sam had left Rebecca behind in the room, completely understanding her dilemma. Also, if he were to be honest, it took some pressure off. Looking after himself was one thing, having to worry about somebody else at the same time was not ideal. He had spent the day preparing everything he needed. Between camping stores and DIY stores, he had secured it all.

Rebecca had, in the meantime, busied herself with tracking down potential leads for the nuclear weapon. While Sam shopped, she had hit the phones and it seemed had made some progress. While he was leaving to go to the Alibi Club, she was heading to the Palestinian Embassy, chasing a tip.

Sam had been in position for over two hours when the first limo arrived. His route into position across the rooftops had been long and circuitous. The Secret Service guys had done an excellent job, almost perfect, but fortunately for Sam, they had left the tiniest of blind spots. However, it had taken over an hour for the watcher to turn around long enough for Sam to get to it but nonetheless, it existed and Sam was in place. Moving would be a different matter entirely. The Secret Service had that well covered.

Rebecca had taken up position in the Starbucks opposite the Palestinian Embassy. Like Sam, she was just awaiting for her opportunity. It was almost eight when eventually the last light was extinguished and she had her chance. As the door was shut behind the last Palestinian, she was up and moving. Time was not on her side.

She walked up to the door and taking the key she had been given by the Head of Mossad in Washington earlier that day, she unlocked the door and entered silently. It seemed the local Mossad agents had secured a key some time ago and carried out regular checks, completely unbeknownst to the Palestinians, of what the Palestinians were up to.

Rebecca didn’t find anything that looked as though it would help her find the bomb but as she finished up and left, she smiled. The journey hadn’t been a complete waste of time.

As she stepped back onto the street, she wished she could help Sam more but Ben had been explicit. She was to stay well clear.

The President’s motorcade waited for him. He was due to finish his last appointment at around 8.30 pm. Thereafter, he was going to spend the evening with friends at his private club. All of course was true. The one bit that wasn’t entirely true was the reference to his club. This was not yet the case. He would be a guest this evening. However he was hoping that status would change very quickly.

At 8.30 to the second, he excused himself from his, he had to admit, exceptionally dull guests and made his journey to the Alibi club. He jumped into the car and found Honey, sitting waiting for him.

“Sorry, Mister President, do you mind if we run through your schedule on the way?”

It was a very short three-minute drive to the Alibi Club and hardly seemed worthwhile. However, not one to refuse a very pretty young lady, he smiled and jumped in beside her. Before they even pulled away, Honey was undoing the President’s zip and promising she would have him coming before he knew it. She lowered her head into his lap as the President rested his on the headrest, thanking God for blacked out windows, amongst many other things.

The President’s announcement that morning that he was visiting the Alibi Club that same evening had caused more than a little concern amongst his Secret Service detail, particularly as the President himself had asked for security to be significantly increased just the day before, for no apparent reason, other than ‘a bad feeling’.

The Alibi Club was locked down tight. Nobody was getting in or out of there. Of that they were sure. The journey to the club would be in the presidential limousine, nicknamed ‘The Beast’ and, immune to pretty much any form of attack. It was bullet proof, rocket proof, gas proof, fire proof. In fact just about everything proof. Unlike normal motorcades, as this was a personal trip, they had trimmed it down from the normal thirty vehicles to just four. Even that was probably overkill. Nobody knew the President was going out, never mind where he was actually going.

As the motorcade swept out of the grounds, only a small throng of tourists witnessed the cars leaving. Not one of them took any more notice than normal. Cameras clicked as they sped past. A right turn onto 17 St NW was followed two blocks later by a left onto Pennsylvania Avenue NW. One block later, they turned onto 18th St NW, a block and a half from the Alibi Club. The sixteen secret service agents prepared to jump out and escort the President into the building, surrounded by over sixty of their colleagues.