The Eleventh Commandment

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘Don’t you think the time has come to tell me the whole truth,’ said Maggie. ‘Or am I simply expected to go on believing every word you say, like a dutiful wife?’

  Connor lowered his head and remained silent.

  ‘You’ve never hidden the fact that “Maryland Insurance” is nothing more than a front for the CIA. And I’ve never pressed you on the subject. But lately even your well-disguised trips have left a little mud on your shoes.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Connor said lamely.

  ‘When I picked up your suit from the dry cleaners, they told me they’d found this in the pocket.’ Maggie placed a tiny coin on the table. ‘I’m told it has no value outside Colombia.’

  Connor stared at a ten-peso piece, that would cover a local call in Bogota.

  ‘Many wives would immediately jump to one conclusion, Connor Fitzgerald,’ Maggie continued. ‘But don’t forget, I’ve known you for over thirty years, and I’m well aware you’re not capable of that particular deception.’

  ‘I promise you, Maggie …’

  ‘I know, Connor. I’ve always accepted that there had to be a good reason why you haven’t been completely candid with me over the years.’ She leaned across, took her husband’s hand and said, ‘But if you’re now to be dumped on the scrapheap for no apparent reason, don’t you feel I have a right to be told exactly what you’ve been up to for the past twenty-eight years?’

  Jackson asked the taxi driver to pull up outside the pawn shop and wait. He would only be a few minutes, he said, and then he wanted to be taken on to the airport.

  As soon as he entered the shop, Escobar came scurrying through from the outer office. He looked agitated. When he saw who the customer was, he bowed his head and without a word pressed a key on the cash register and pulled open the drawer. He slowly extracted ten hundred-dollar bills and handed them across the counter.

  ‘I must apologise, sir,’ he said, looking up at the tall American, ‘but I fear the rifle was stolen at some time during the night.’

  Jackson didn’t comment.

  ‘The funny thing about it,’ continued Escobar, ‘is that whoever stole it didn’t take any cash.’

  Jackson still said nothing. Escobar couldn’t help thinking, after his customer had left the shop, that he hadn’t seemed all that surprised.

  As the taxi headed towards the airport, Jackson placed a hand in his jacket pocket and removed the spent cartridge. He might not be able to prove who had pulled the trigger, but he was now in no doubt who had given the order to assassinate Ricardo Guzman.

  9

  THE HELICOPTER LANDED SOFTLY on a patch of grass by the Reflecting Pool between the Washington and Lincoln Memorials. As the rotor blades slowed, a short flight of steps unfolded. The door of Nighthawk swung open and President Herrera appeared, sporting a full-dress uniform that made him look like a minor character in a B-movie. He stood to attention and returned the salute of the waiting Marines, then walked the short distance to his armoured Cadillac limousine. As the motorcade proceeded up Seventeenth Street, every flagstaff was flying the Colombian, American and District of Columbia flags.

  Tom Lawrence, Larry Harrington and Andy Lloyd were waiting for him at the south portico of the White House. ‘The better-tailored the outfit, the more colourful the sash, the more numerous the medals, the less significant the country,’ Lawrence thought as he stepped forward to greet his visitor.

  ‘Antonio, my dear old friend,’ said Lawrence as Herrera embraced him, though they had only met once before. When Herrera eventually released his host, Lawrence turned to introduce him to Harrington and Lloyd. Cameras flashed and videotapes whirred as the presidential party made its way into the White House. Several more ‘grip and grin’ pictures were taken in the long corridor below a full-length portrait of George Washington.

  After the requisite three-minute photo-op the President ushered his guest into the Oval Office. While Colombian coffee was being served and yet more photographs taken, they discussed nothing of significance. When they were eventually left alone, the Secretary of State began to guide the conversation on to the current relationship between the two countries. Lawrence was grateful for the briefing he had received from Larry earlier that morning. He felt able to speak authoritatively about extradition agreements, this year’s coffee crop, the drug problem, even the new metro being constructed in Bogota by an American company as part of an overseas aid package.

  As the Secretary of State broadened the discussion to take in the repayment of extended dollar loans and the disparity of exports and imports between the two countries, Lawrence found his mind wandering to the problems he would have to face later that day.

  The Arms Reduction Bill was getting bogged down in committee, and Andy had already warned him that the votes just weren’t stacking up. He would probably need to see several Congressmen individually if he was to have any chance of pushing it through. He was aware that these ritual visits to the White House were usually nothing more than ego-massaging, so that the elected representatives could return to their districts and inform the voters - if they were Democrats - how close their relationship was with the President, or - if they were Republicans - how the President was dependent on their support to get any legislation through. With the mid-term elections less than a year away, Lawrence realised that there would have to be quite a few unscheduled meetings during the coming weeks.

  He was brought back to the present with a jolt when Herrera said, ‘… and for that I must thank you particularly, Mr President.’ A large smile appeared on the face of Colombia’s leader as the three most powerful men in America stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Would you care to repeat that, Antonio?’ said the President, not quite sure that he had heard his visitor correctly.

  ‘As we are in the privacy of the Oval Office, Tom, I just wanted to say how much I appreciated the personal role you played in my election.’

  ‘How long have you been working for Maryland Life, Mr Fitzgerald?’ asked the Chairman of the Board. It was his first question in an interview that had already lasted for over an hour.

  ‘Twenty-eight years in May, Mr Thompson,’ replied Connor, looking directly at the man who sat at the centre of the large table facing him.

  ‘Your record is most impressive,’ said the woman sitting on the Chairman’s right. ‘And your references are impeccable. I’m bound to ask why you want to leave your present job. And, perhaps more important, why Maryland Life seems willing to let you go.’

  Connor had discussed how he should answer this question with Maggie over dinner the previous evening. ‘Just tell them the truth,’ she had said. ‘And don’t bother with any guile; you’ve never been any good at it.’ He hadn’t expected any different advice.

  ‘My only immediate chance of promotion would have meant moving to Cleveland,’ he answered, ‘and I felt I couldn’t ask my wife to give up her job at Georgetown University. It would be hard for her to find an equivalent post in Ohio.’

  The third member of the interviewing board nodded. Maggie had briefed him that one member of the panel had a son who was in his senior year at Georgetown.

  ‘I don’t think that we need to detain you any longer,’ said the Chairman. ‘I’d just like to thank you, Mr Fitzgerald, for coming to see us this afternoon.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Connor, standing to leave.

  To his surprise the Chairman rose from behind the long table and came round to join him. ‘Would you and your wife care to have dinner with us one evening next week?’ he asked as he escorted Connor to the door.

  ‘We’d be delighted, sir,’ Connor replied.

  ‘Ben,’ said the Chairman. ‘Nobody at Washington Provident calls me sir, and certainly not my senior executives.’ He smiled and shook Connor warmly by the hand. ‘I’ll ask my secretary to phone your office tomorrow morning and fix a date. I look forward to meeting your wife - Maggie, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Connor replied. He paused. ‘An
d I look forward to meeting Mrs Thompson, Ben.’

  The White House Chief of Staff picked up the red phone, but didn’t immediately recognise the voice.

  ‘I have some information you might find useful. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.’

  Lloyd quickly grabbed a blank yellow pad and flicked the top off a felt-tip pen. He didn’t need to press any buttons - every conversation that took place on that particular phone was automatically recorded.

  ‘I’ve just returned from ten days in Bogota, and someone down there was making sure that doors were not only slammed in my face, but locked and bolted.’

  ‘So Dexter must have found out what you were up to,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Within minutes of my speaking to the local Chief of Police, would be my bet.’

  ‘Does that mean she also knows who you’re working for?’

  ‘No, I covered myself on that front, which is why I’ve taken so long getting back to you. And I can promise you that after the wild goose chase I led one of her junior officers on, she’ll never be able to fathom who I’m reporting back to. Our Cultural Attache in Bogota is now following up every known drug baron, every junior official in the narcotics department, and half the local police force. His report will fill so many pages it will take them a month just to read it, let alone figure out what the hell I was doing down there.’

  ‘Did you come up with anything we could pin on Dexter?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘Nothing she wouldn’t be able to explain away with the usual smoke and mirrors. But all the evidence suggests that the CIA was behind the assassination.’

  We already know that,’ said Lloyd. ‘The President’s problem is that, although our informant’s credentials are impeccable, he could never appear on the stand, because he’s the person who directly benefited from the assassination. Do you have anything that could stand up in court?’

  ‘Only Bogota’s Chief of Police, and his credentials certainly aren’t impeccable. If he were to stand up in court, you could never be certain which side he’d end up supporting.’

  ‘Then how can you be so sure the CIA was involved?’

  ‘I saw the rifle that I’m confident was used to kill Guzman. I even got hold of the spent cartridge of the bullet that hit him. What’s more, I’m fairly sure I know the man who made the gun. He’s the best in the business, and he’s contracted to work for a small number of NOCs.’

  ‘NOCs?’

  ‘Non-official cover officers, unattached to any government agency. That way the CIA can deny all knowledge of their activities if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘So the assassin is a serving officer of the CIA,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘It looks that way. Unless it turns out to be the one Dexter pensioned off a few days ago.’

  ‘Well there’s one person we ought to have on our payroll.’

  There was a long silence before Jackson finally said, ‘That may be the way you do things at the White House, Mr Lloyd, but this man wouldn’t betray a former employer, however large a bribe you offered him. Threatening him won’t work either: he wouldn’t give you the time of day if you put a gun to his head.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘He served under me in ‘Nam, and even the Vietcong couldn’t get anything out of him. If you really want to know, he’s about the only reason I’m still alive. In any case, Dexter will already have convinced him that her orders came direct from the White House.’

  ‘We could tell him she was lying,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘That would only put his own life in danger. No, I have to be able to prove Dexter’s involvement without him finding out what we’re up to. And that won’t be easy.’

  ‘So how do you intend to do it?’

  ‘By going to his retirement party.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes, because there’ll be one person there who loves him even more than she loves her country. And she might just be willing to talk. I’ll be in touch.’

  The phone went dead.

  When Nick Gutenburg, the Deputy Director of the CIA, entered the drawing room of the Fitzgeralds’ home, the first person he saw was his predecessor Chris Jackson, deep in conversation with Joan Bennett. Was he telling her who he’d been working for in Bogota? Gutenburg would have liked to overhear what they were talking about, but first he had to say hello to his host and hostess.

  ‘I’ll do another nine months with the company,’ Joan was saying. ‘By then I’ll be eligible for my full pension. After that, I’m hoping to join Connor in his new job.’

  ‘I’ve only just heard about that,’ said Jackson. ‘It sounds ideal. From what Maggie was telling me, he won’t have to spend quite so much time travelling.’

  ‘That’s right, but his appointment isn’t official yet,’ said Joan. And you know how Connor feels about things being cut and dried. But as the Chairman of Washington Provident has invited him and Maggie to dinner tomorrow night, I think we can assume he’s landed the job. Unless, of course, Mr Thompson simply wants to make up a bridge four.’

  ‘Good of you to come, Nick,’ said Connor warmly, passing the Deputy Director a glass of Perrier. He didn’t need to be reminded that Gutenburg never allowed alcohol to pass his lips.

  Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Connor,’ replied Gutenburg.

  Turning to his wife, Connor said, ‘Maggie, this is Nick Gutenburg, a colleague of mine. He works in …’

  ‘Loss adjustment,’ Gutenburg interjected quickly. ‘We’re all going to miss your husband at Maryland Life, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said.

  Well, I’m sure your paths will cross again,’ said Maggie, ‘now that Connor’s taking up another job in the same line of business.’

  ‘It hasn’t been confirmed yet,’ said Connor. ‘But as soon as it is, Nick, you’ll be the first to hear about it.’

  Gutenburg’s eyes returned to Jackson, and when he moved away from Joan Bennett, Gutenburg slipped across the room to join her.

  ‘I was delighted to hear that you’ll be staying with the company, Joan,’ were his opening words. ‘I thought you might be leaving us to join Connor in his new job.’

  ‘No, I’ll be remaining with the firm,’ said Joan, uncertain how much the Deputy Director knew.

  ‘I just thought that as Connor’s continuing in the same line of business …’

  You’re on a fishing trip, thought Joan. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Who’s Chris Jackson talking to?’ Gutenburg asked.

  Joan looked across the room. She would like to have been able to say she had no idea, but she knew she wouldn’t get away with it. ‘That’s Father Graham, the Fitzgeralds’ local parish priest from Chicago, and Tara, Connor’s daughter.’

  ‘And what does she do?’ asked Gutenburg.

  ‘She’s completing a PhD at Stanford.’

  Gutenburg realised that he was wasting his time trying to get any real information out of Connor’s secretary. After all, she had worked for Fitzgerald for nearly twenty years, so there wasn’t much doubt where her loyalties lay - though there was nothing in her file to suggest that their relationship was anything but professional. And, looking at Miss Bennett, he suspected she might be the last forty-five-year-old virgin left in Washington. When Connor’s daughter went over to the drinks table to refill her glass, Gutenburg left Joan without another word.

  ‘My name’s Nick Gutenburg,’ he told her, thrusting out his hand. ‘I’m a colleague of your father’s.’

  ‘I’m Tara,’ she said. ‘Do you work at the downtown office?’

  ‘No, I’m based in the suburbs,’ said Gutenburg. ‘Are you still on the West Coast doing graduate work?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Tara replied, looking a little surprised. ‘And what about you? Which branch of the company do you work for?’

  ‘Loss adjustment. It’s rather boring compared with what your father does, but someone has to stay at home and do the paperwork,’ he said, letting out a little laugh. ‘By the way, I was de
lighted to hear about your dad’s new appointment.’

  ‘Yes, Mom was pleased that such a prestigious firm snapped him up so quickly. Although it’s still not official.’

  ‘Will he be working out of Washington?’ Gutenburg asked, sipping his Perrier.

  ‘Yes, the company’s based just a couple of blocks from his old office …’ Tara stopped talking when she heard a sharp noise. She turned to see Chris Jackson banging the table to bring the guests to order.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she whispered. ‘That’s my cue to resume my official duties for the evening.’ She walked quickly away, and Gutenburg turned to listen to his predecessor at Langley.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Chris began. He waited until everyone was silent before he continued. ‘It’s my privilege to propose a toast to two of my oldest friends, Connor and Maggie. Over the years, Connor has consistently proved to be the one man most likely to get me into a scrape.’

  The guests laughed. One called out, ‘Only too true,’ and another added, ‘I know the problem.’

  ‘But once you’re in a scrape, I don’t know anyone better to get you out of it.’ This was greeted by warm applause. ‘We first met …’

  Gutenburg felt his pager buzz, and quickly pulled it off his belt. ‘troy asap’, it read. He flicked it off, and slipped out of the room into the hall. He picked up the nearest phone as if he was in his own home and dialled a number that wasn’t in any directory. It hadn’t even rung before a voice said, ‘The Director.’

  ‘I got your message, but I’m on a non-secure line.’ He didn’t need to announce who he was.

  ‘What I have to tell you, everyone in the world will know about in a few hours.’

  Gutenburg didn’t speak. It wasted time.

  ‘Yeltsin died of a heart attack seventeen minutes ago,’ said Helen Dexter. ‘Report to my office immediately, and cancel everything you’re doing for the next forty-eight hours.’ The line went dead. No call from a non-secure line to Dexter’s office ever lasted more than forty-five seconds. She kept a stop-watch on her desk.