timing; too many things were happening at once that had major global ramifications. Rebecca had been out of the business for six years but one thing had remained with her above all else, there was no such thing as coincidence. She also knew Ben better than he thought and she knew he was holding back. Call it female intuition, call it experience, call it whatever the hell you wanted, the whole thing stank.
The shootings in Newark were reported as happening less than 30 minutes earlier. Rebecca pushed the accelerator as far as it would go.
Chapter 37
Mohammad Deif looked in disbelief as the small phone rang. Nobody knew the number, nor that he even had it. Its only purpose was for the sending of tweets to Pock-Mark. Even Pock-Mark didn’t know the number. It could just be a wrong number, a pure fluke but something deep down told him otherwise. Deif looked around him. He was in the center of Paris, crossing the Seine. Had he been in Gaza, he wouldn’t have even considered answering, the likelihood of an Apache gunship being on the other end would have been too high. However, not in Paris. Nobody was watching him, at least not that he could see.
“Hello?”
“Mohammed, my friend!”
The voice of The Sheikh chilled Deif’s blood.
“My Sh…”
The Sheikh cut him off. “Let us be careful, Mohammed, we don’t know who may be listening.”
“Of course…” Deif caught himself just in time and managed not to repeat his earlier mistake.
“I believe you have ignored my wishes?” the Sheikh asked matter-of-factly.
Deif knew the day would come when he would have to answer to the Sheikh. He had just hoped it would be after the event and not before. He also believed the Sheikh would have been grateful as it was he who had tried the very same once before but his tone suggested otherwise.
“Am I privileged enough to know where your new destination may be?” pushed the Sheikh.
Deif remained silent. He truly believed in a need to know mentality towards information and as much as he owed the Sheikh, the Sheikh did not need to know. Deif was acting on behalf of Allah. It was Allah who had told him that he could do more for his people. It was Allah who had told him to strike the Americans as well as the Jews. The American people would not be so quick to jump to the Jews’ defense after they understood the consequences of their allegiance.
“I am sorry, Allahu Akbar.” Deif ended the call and tossed his only link with Akram Rayyan into the River Seine.
He turned North and headed for the Gare du Nord. Even if the Sheikh tracked him to Paris, he wouldn’t be there long. His TGV train to Marseille was due to leave in 15 minutes. He had one job to take care of in Marseille before moving on to his eventual hideout, Saint Raphael, a small French resort on the Cote D’Azur. Mohammed Deif, mastermind of the downfall of the Zionist state, would spend the next two weeks relaxing in total luxury in the secluded coastal retreat of a Palestinian exile. As with every other part of his plan, nobody knew anything that they didn’t need to know. As all parts of the plan were now in play, there was nothing left to do. With no word from him, the five different teams would follow their orders and detonate the devices at midnight Yom Kippur. As such, nobody needed to know where he was and nobody did. Even the Palestinian exile did not know his summer mansion would become Deif’s hideout. As with most Cote D’Azur homes of the rich and famous, they sat idle for eleven months of the year. They did France in August.
Chapter 38
If there was one thing Sam had learned from the CIA, it was the art of deceit and he had become a master. The Georgetown townhouse he approached had a shell corporation listed as its owner and anyone digging would find a number of further shell corporations behind that one. If they ever were lucky enough to reach the end of the line, they would find a small office in a remote Caribbean island with a name plaque on the door. Inside, they would find a desk, a phone and a coffee machine all owned by the same shell corporation that owned the townhouse. It really was a dead end.
Sam winced as he stretched over to the glove box. The pain in his shoulder had lessened but it would be some time before the ligaments and tendons healed. The Senator pushed Sam’s attempt away and opened the glove box for him.
“Is it this?” he asked producing a small remote control with two buttons, one arrow pointing up and one down.
“Yep,” replied Sam, the pain still apparent in his voice. Both Clark and the Senator had offered to drive but Sam insisted that he wanted to keep one eye ahead and one behind. The niggle that someone was following them had not gone away. He checked the mirror again. Normally, with this feeling, he would not have gone near the safehouse but he needed to get his brother out of sight. With the road clear behind, he barked his instructions.
“OK, hit the Up button!”
Sam didn’t miss a beat. The garage door, two houses ahead, lifted up and he continued at speed towards the opening door.
“OK, hit the Down button!”
The Senator looked in horror at the half-raised door they were careering towards. Every instinct told him to ignore his brother. However, decades of knowing that his brother knew best resulted in blind trust and he pressed the Down button.
“What the hell are you doing?” screamed Clark from the backseat as the car turned sharply and the door stopped its upward motion, stalling briefly before beginning to close on the fast approaching car.
Both the Senator and Clark ducked as the car sped towards the narrowing gap, the screech of the tires adding to the drama and eliciting a small scream from Clark. The garage door snapped shut behind the now stationary car. A small scrape on the trunk would be testament to just how close it had been.
Sam turned to Clark. “In answer to your question, making sure nobody sees where we went.”
The sniper followed from a discreet distance, always keeping a number of cars between himself and the Toyota. It was only when they reached the outskirts of Washington at 1 a.m. that things began to get somewhat trickier. With little traffic on the streets, he had to drive without lights and let them remain a full turn ahead at all times. It meant he had to hold well back and dart forward after they turned to ensure he didn’t miss their next one. Everything had gone fine until the final turn onto Q street NW in Georgetown. He had watched from five blocks back as they had turned into the street and, as he had done many times before, he darted down 31st St NW and crawled towards the entrance to Q Street.
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
