The Eleventh Commandment

by Jeffrey Archer

  All she really hoped was that one day her daughter would find someone willing to wait on a park bench all night just to see her draw a curtain.

  7

  JACKSON LIT A CIGARETTE, and listened carefully to every word the man from the White House had to say. He made no attempt to interrupt him.

  When Lloyd eventually came to the end of his prepared piece, he took a sip of the acqua minerale in front of him and waited to hear what the former Deputy Director of the CIA’s first question would be.

  Jackson stubbed out his cigarette. ‘May I ask why you thought I was the right person for this assignment?’

  Lloyd was not taken by surprise. He had already decided that if Jackson asked that particular question, he would simply tell the truth. ‘We know that you resigned your post with the CIA because of a … difference of opinion’ - he emphasised the words - ‘with Helen Dexter, despite the fact that your record with the Agency had been exemplary, and until then you were considered her natural successor. But since resigning for reasons that on the face of it seem somewhat bizarre, I believe you have not been able to find a job worthy of your qualifications. We suspect that Dexter also has something to do with that.’

  ‘It only takes one phone call,’ said Jackson, ‘off the record, of course - and suddenly you find you’ve been removed from any shortlist. I’ve always been wary of speaking ill of the living, but in the case of Helen Dexter, I’m happy to make an exception.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘You see, Dexter believes that Tom Lawrence has the second most important job in America,’ he continued. ‘She is the true defender of the faith, the nation’s last bastion, and to her elected politicians are nothing more than a temporary inconvenience who will, sooner or later, be ejected by the voters.’

  ‘The President has been made aware of that on more than one occasion,’ Lloyd said, with some feeling.

  ‘Presidents come and go, Mr Lloyd. My bet is that, like the rest of us, your boss is human, and therefore you can be sure that Dexter will have a file on him which is filled with the reasons why Lawrence isn’t qualified for a second term. And by the way, she’ll have one almost as thick on you.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to start building up our own file, Mr Jackson. I can think of no one better qualified to carry out the task.’

  ‘Where would you like me to begin?’

  ‘By investigating who was behind the assassination of Ricardo Guzman in Bogota last month,’ said Lloyd. ‘We have reason to believe that the CIA might have been involved, directly or indirectly.’

  ‘Without the President’s knowledge?’ said Jackson in disbelief.

  Lloyd nodded, removed a file from his briefcase and slid it across the table. Jackson flicked it open.

  ‘Take your time,’ said Lloyd, ‘because you’re going to have to memorise everything.’

  Jackson began reading, and started making observations even before he had come to the end of the first page.

  ‘If we assume that it was a lone gunman, trying to get any reliable information will be virtually impossible. That sort of character doesn’t leave a forwarding address.’ Jackson paused. ‘But if it is the CIA we’re dealing with, then Dexter has a ten-day start on us. She’s probably already turned every avenue that might lead to the assassin into a blind alley - unless …’

  ‘Unless … ?’ echoed Lloyd.

  ‘I’m not the only person that woman has crossed over the years. It’s just possible that there might be someone else based in Bogota who - ‘ He paused. ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘The new President of Colombia is making an official visit to Washington in three weeks’ time. It would help if we had something by then.’

  ‘It’s already beginning to feel like the old days,’ said Jackson as he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Except this time there’s the added pleasure of Dexter being officially on the other side.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Who will I be working for?’

  ‘Officially you’re freelance, but unofficially you work for me. You’ll be paid at the same level as you were when you left the Agency, your account credited on a monthly basis, although for obvious reasons your name won’t appear on any books. I’ll contact you whenever …’

  ‘No you won’t, Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson. ‘I’ll contact you whenever I have anything worthwhile to report. Two-way contacts only double the chance of someone stumbling across us. All I’ll need is an untraceable phone number.’

  Lloyd wrote down seven figures on a cocktail napkin. ‘This gets straight through to my desk, bypassing even my secretary. After midnight it’s automatically transferred to a phone by the side of my bed. You can call me night or day. You needn’t bother about the time difference when you’re abroad, because I don’t care about being woken up.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ said Jackson. ‘Because I don’t think Helen Dexter ever sleeps.’

  Lloyd smiled. ‘Have we covered everything?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Jackson. ‘When you leave, turn right and then take the next right. Don’t look back, and don’t hail a taxi until you’ve walked at least four blocks. From now on you’re going to have to think like Dexter, and be warned, she’s been at it for thirty years. There’s only one person I know who’s better than she is.’

  ‘I hope that’s you,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Jackson.

  ‘Don’t tell me he already works for Dexter.’

  Jackson nodded. ‘Even though he’s my closest friend, if Dexter ordered him to kill me, there isn’t an insurance company in town that would take out a policy on my life. If you expect me to beat both of them, you’d better hope I haven’t gone rusty over the past eight months.’

  The two men rose. ‘Goodbye, Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson as they shook hands. ‘I’m sorry that this will be our first and last meeting.’

  ‘But I thought we agreed -‘ said Lloyd, looking anxiously at his new recruit.

  ‘To work together, Mr Lloyd, not to meet. You see, Dexter wouldn’t consider two meetings a coincidence.’

  Lloyd nodded. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  ‘And Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson, ‘don’t visit the National Gallery again, unless it’s for the sole purpose of seeing the paintings.’

  Lloyd frowned. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘Because the half-asleep guard in Gallery 71 was planted there on the day of your appointment. It’s all in your file. You go there once a week. Is Hopper still your favourite artist?’

  Lloyd’s mouth went dry. ‘Then Dexter already knows about this meeting?’

  ‘No,’ said Jackson. ‘You got lucky this time. It’s the guard’s day off.’

  Although Connor had seen his daughter cry many times when she was younger, over a cut leg, a bruised ego or simply not getting her own way, this was quite different. While she clung to Stuart he pretended to be absorbed in a rack of bestselling books at the news-stand, and reflected on one of the most enjoyable holidays he could remember. He’d put on a couple of pounds and had managed to almost master the surfboard, although he had rarely experienced more pride before more falls. During the past fortnight he had come first to like, and later to respect Stuart. And Maggie had even stopped reminding him every morning that Tara hadn’t returned to her room the previous night. He took that to be his wife’s reluctant seal of approval.

  Connor picked up the Sydney Morning Herald from the newsstand. He flicked over the pages, only taking in the headlines until he came to the section marked ‘International News’. He glanced towards Maggie, who was paying for some souvenirs that they would never display or even consider giving as presents, and which would undoubtedly end up in Father Graham’s Christmas sale.

  Connor lowered his head again. ‘Landslide for Herrera in Colombia’ was the headline running across three columns at the foot of the page. He read about the new President’s one-sided victory over the National Party’s last-minute replacement for Ricardo Guzman. Herrera, the article went on to say, planned to visit America i
n the near future to discuss with President Lawrence the problems Colombia was currently facing. Among the subjects uppermost …

  ‘Do you think this would be all right for Joan?’

  Connor glanced across at his wife, who was holding up a Ken Done print of Sydney Harbour.

  ‘A bit modern for her, I would have thought.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to get her something from duty free once we’re on the plane.’

  ‘This is the last call for United Airlines Flight 816 to Los Angeles,’ said a voice that echoed around the airport. ‘Will all those who have not yet boarded the aircraft please make their way immediately to Gate 27.’

  Connor and Maggie began walking in the direction of the large departure sign, trying to stay a few paces in front of their daughter and Stuart, who were locked together as if they were in a three-legged race. Once they had gone through passport control, Connor hung back, while Maggie carried on towards the departure lounge to tell the gate agent that the last two passengers would be following shortly.

  When Tara reluctantly appeared round the corner a few moments later, Connor placed an arm gently around her shoulders. ‘I know it’s not much of a consolation, but your mother and I think he’s …’ Connor hesitated.

  ‘I know,’ she said between sobs. ‘As soon as I get back to Stanford, I’m going to ask if they’ll allow me to complete my thesis at Sydney University.’ Connor spotted his wife talking to a stewardess by the gate to the aircraft.

  ‘Is she that afraid of flying?’ the stewardess whispered to Maggie when she saw the young woman sobbing.

  ‘No. She just had to leave something behind that they wouldn’t let her take through customs.’

  Maggie slept almost the entire fourteen-hour flight from Sydney to Los Angeles. Tara always marvelled at how she managed it. She could never do more than doze during a flight, however many pills she took. She held her father’s hand firmly. He smiled at her but didn’t speak.

  Tara returned his smile. For as long as she could remember, he had been the centre of her world. It never worried her that she might not meet a man who could take his place; more that when she did, he wouldn’t be able to accept it. Now that it had happened, she was relieved to discover just how supportive he was. If anything, it was her mother who was proving to be the problem.

  Tara knew that if her mother had her way, she would still be a virgin, and probably still living at home. It wasn’t until the eleventh grade that she stopped believing that if you kissed a boy you’d become pregnant. That was when a classmate passed on to her a much-thumbed copy of The Joy of Sex. Each night, curled up under the sheets with a torch, Tara would turn the pages.

  But it was only after her graduation from Stone Ridge that she lost her virginity - and if everyone else in her class had been telling the truth, she must have been the last. Tara had joined her parents for a long-promised visit to her great-grandfather’s birthplace. She fell in love with Ireland and its people within moments of landing at Dublin. Over dinner in their hotel on the first night, she told her father that she couldn’t understand why so many of the Irish were not content to remain in their homeland, but had to emigrate.

  The young waiter who was serving them looked down at her and recited:

  ‘Ireland never was contented.’

  ‘Say you so? You are demented.

  Ireland was contented when

  All could use the sword and pen.’

  ‘Walter Savage Landor,’ Maggie said. ‘But do you know the next line?’

  The waiter bowed.

  ‘And when Tara rose so high …’

  Tara blushed, and Connor burst out laughing. The waiter looked puzzled.

  ‘It’s my name,’ Tara explained.

  He bowed again before clearing away the plates. While her father was settling the bill and her mother was collecting her coat, the waiter asked Tara if she would like to join him for a drink at Gallagher’s when he came off duty. Tara happily agreed.

  She spent the next couple of hours watching an old movie in her room, before creeping downstairs just after midnight. The pub Liam had suggested was only a few hundred yards down the road, and when Tara walked in she found him waiting at the bar. Liam wasted no time in introducing her to the joys of Guinness. She wasn’t surprised to discover that he had taken the job as a waiter during the holidays before he completed his final year at Trinity College, studying the Irish poets. Liam was surprised, however, to find how well she could quote Yeats, Joyce, Wilde and Synge.

  When he took her back to her room a couple of hours later, he kissed her gently on the lips and asked, ‘How long are you staying in Dublin?’

  ‘Two more days,’ she replied.

  ‘Then don’t let’s waste a moment of it.’

  After three nights during which she hardly slept, Tara departed for Oscar’s birthplace in Kilkenny, feeling qualified to add a footnote or two to The Joy of Sex.

  As Liam carried their bags down to the hire car, Connor gave him a large tip and whispered, ‘Thank you.’ Tara blushed.

  At Stanford in her sophomore year, Tara had what might have been described as an affair with a medical student. But it wasn’t until he proposed that she realised she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with him. It hadn’t taken her a year to reach a very different conclusion about Stuart.

  They had first met when they bumped into each other. It was her fault - she wasn’t looking when she crossed his path as he swooped down the face of a large wave. Both of them went flying. When he lifted her out of the water, Tara waited for a richly deserved tirade of abuse.

  Instead he just smiled and said, ‘In future, try and keep out of the fast lane.’ She performed the same trick later that afternoon, but this time on purpose, and he knew it.

  He laughed and said, ‘You’ve left me with two choices. Either I start giving you lessons, or we can have a coffee. Otherwise our next meeting might well be in the local hospital. Which would you prefer?’

  ‘Let’s start with the coffee.’

  Tara had wanted to sleep with Stuart that night, and by the time she was due to leave ten days later, she wished she hadn’t made him wait three days. By the end of the week …

  ‘This is your captain speaking. We’re now beginning our descent into Los Angeles.’

  Maggie woke with a start, rubbed her eyes and smiled at her daughter. ‘Did I fall asleep?’ she asked.

  ‘Not until the plane took off,’ Tara replied.

  After they’d collected their luggage, Tara said goodbye to her parents and went off to join her connecting flight to San Francisco. As she disappeared into the crowd of arriving and departing passengers, Connor whispered to Maggie, ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she turned round and took the next plane back to Sydney.’ Maggie nodded.

  They headed off in the direction of the domestic terminal, and climbed aboard the ‘red-eye’. This time Maggie was asleep even before the video describing the safety drill had been completed. As they flew across the States, Connor tried to dismiss Tara and Stuart from his thoughts, and to concentrate on what needed to be done once he was back in Washington. In three months’ time he was due to be taken off the active list, and he still had no idea which department they planned to transfer him to. He dreaded the thought of being offered a nine-to-five job at headquarters, which he knew would consist of giving lectures to young NOCs on his experiences in the field. He had already warned Joan that he would resign if they didn’t have anything more interesting to offer him. He wasn’t cut out to be a teacher.

  During the past year there had been hints about one or two front-line posts for which he was being considered, but that was before his boss had resigned without explanation. Despite twenty-eight years of service and several commendations, Connor was aware that now Chris Jackson was no longer with the Company, his future might not be quite as secure as he’d imagined.

  8

  ‘ARE YOU CERTAIN Jackson can be trusted?’

  ‘No, Mr President, I’m
not. But I am certain of one thing: Jackson loathes - I repeat, loathes - Helen Dexter as much as you do.’

  ‘Well, that’s as good as a personal recommendation,’ said the President. ‘What else made you pick him? Because if loathing Dexter was the primary qualification for the job, there must have been a fairly large number of candidates.’

  ‘He also has the other attributes I was looking for. There’s his record, as an officer in Vietnam and as head of counter-intelligence, not to mention his reputation as Deputy Director of the CIA.’

  ‘Then why did he suddenly resign when he still had such a promising career ahead of him?’

  ‘I suspect that Dexter felt it was a bit too promising, and he was beginning to look like a serious contender for her post.’

  ‘If he can prove that she gave the order to assassinate Ricardo Guzman, he still might be. It looks as if you’ve chosen the best man for the job, Andy.’

  ‘Jackson told me there was one better.’

  ‘Then let’s recruit him as well,’ said the President.

  ‘I had the same idea. But it turns out that he’s already working for Dexter.’

  ‘Well, at least he won’t know Jackson’s working for us. What else did he have to say?’

  Lloyd opened the file and began to take the President through the conversation he had had with the former Deputy Director of the CIA.

  When he’d finished, Lawrence’s only comment was, ‘Are you telling me I’m expected to just sit around twiddling my thumbs while we wait for Jackson to come up with something?’

  ‘Those were his conditions, Mr President, if we wanted him to take on the assignment. But I have a feeling that Mr Jackson isn’t the sort of person who sits around twiddling his thumbs.’

  ‘He’d better not be, because every day Dexter’s at Langley is a day too many for me. Let’s hope Jackson can supply us with enough rope to hang her publicly. And while we’re at it, let’s hold the execution in the Rose Garden.’