Mitchell had turned off his light the moment the train had pulled out of the station, but he didn’t sleep.
Sergei had been unable to hide his excitement at the thought of travelling on the Protsky express. He had followed his partner to their compartment like a contented puppy. When Jackson pulled open the door, Sergei announced, ‘It’s bigger than my flat.’ He leapt onto one of the bunks, kicked off his shoes and pulled the blankets over him without bothering to take off any clothes. ‘Saves washing and changing,’ he explained as Jackson hung his jacket and trousers on the flimsiest wire hanger he’d ever seen.
As the American prepared for bed, Sergei rubbed the steamed-up window with an elbow, making a circle he could peer through. He didn’t say another word until the train began to move slowly out of the station.
Jackson climbed into his bunk and switched his light off.
‘How many kilometres to St Petersburg, Jackson?’
‘Six hundred and thirty.’
‘And how long will it take us to get there?’
‘Eight and a half hours. We’ve got another long day ahead of us, so try to get some sleep.’
Sergei switched off his light, but Jackson remained awake. He was now certain that he knew why his friend had been despatched to Russia. Helen Dexter obviously wanted Connor out of the way, but Jackson still didn’t know how far she would go to save her own skin.
He had attempted to ring Andy Lloyd earlier that afternoon on his cellphone, but hadn’t been able to get through. He didn’t want to risk calling from the hotel, so he decided to try again after Zerimski had delivered his speech in Freedom Square the following day, by which time Washington would have woken up. Once Lloyd knew what was going on, Jackson was sure he would be given the authority to abort the whole operation before it was too late. He closed his eyes.
‘Are you married, Jackson?’
‘No, divorced,’ he replied.
‘There are now more divorces each year in Russia than in the States. Did you know that, Jackson?’
‘No. But I’ve come to realise over the past couple of days that that’s just the sort of useless information you carry around in that head of yours.’
‘What about children? You have any?’
‘None,’ said Jackson. ‘I lost …’
‘Why don’t you adopt me? Then I go back to America with you.’
‘I don’t think Ted Turner could afford to adopt you. Now go to sleep, Sergei.’
There was another long silence.
‘One more question, Jackson?’
‘Tell me how I’m going to stop you.’
‘Why is this man so important to you?’
Jackson waited some time before answering. ‘Twenty-nine years ago he saved my life in Vietnam, so I guess you could say I owe him for those years. Does that make any sense?’
Sergei would have replied, but he’d fallen fast asleep.
15
VLADIMIR BOLCHENKOV, St Petersburg’s Chief of Police, had enough on his mind without having to worry about four mysterious phone calls. Chernopov had visited the city on Monday, and had brought the traffic to a standstill by demanding that his motorcade should be the same size as the late President’s.
Borodin was refusing to allow his men to leave their barracks until they were paid, and now that it looked as if he was out of the race for President, rumours of a military coup were beginning to surface once again. ‘It’s not hard to work out which city Borodin will want to take over first,’ Bolchenkov had warned the Mayor. He had set up a whole department to deal with the threat of terrorism during the election campaign. If any of the candidates were going to be assassinated, it wouldn’t be on his territory. That week alone, the department had received twenty-seven threats on Zerimski’s life. The Chief had dismissed them as the usual assortment of weirdos and lunatics - until a young lieutenant had rushed into his office earlier that morning, white-faced and talking far too quickly.
The Chief sat and listened to the recording the Lieutenant had made moments before. The first call had come through at nine twenty-four, fifty-one minutes after Zerimski had arrived in the city.
‘There will be an attempt on Zerimski’s life this afternoon,’ said a male voice with an accent that Bolchenkov couldn’t quite place. Mid-European, perhaps; certainly not Russian.
‘While Zerimski is addressing the rally in Freedom Square, a lone gunman hired by the Mafya will make the attempt. I will call back with more details in a few minutes’ time, but I will speak only to Bolchenkov.’ The line went dead. The brevity of the call meant there was no possibility of tracing it. Bolchenkov knew immediately that they were dealing with a professional.
Eleven minutes later the second call came through. The Lieutenant bluffed for as long as he could, claiming they were trying to find the Chief, but all the caller said was, ‘I will phone again in a few minutes’ time. Just be sure Bolchenkov is standing by the phone. It’s your time that’s being wasted, not mine.’
That was when the Lieutenant had burst into the Chief’s office. Bolchenkov had been explaining to one of Zerimski’s sidekicks why his motorcade couldn’t be allocated the same number of police outriders as Chernopov’s. He immediately stubbed out his cigarette and went to join his team in the terrorism unit. It was another nine minutes before the caller phoned again.
‘Is Bolchenkov there?’
‘This is Bolchenkov speaking.’
‘The man you are looking for will be posing as a foreign journalist, representing a South African newspaper that doesn’t exist. He arrived in St Petersburg on the express from Moscow this morning. He is working alone. I will call you again in three minutes.’
Three minutes later the whole department was assembled to listen to him.
‘I’m sure that by now the entire anti-terrorism division of the St Petersburg Police are hanging on my every word,’ was the caller’s opening salvo. ‘So allow me to give you a helping hand. The assassin is six foot one, has blue eyes and thick sandy hair. But he’ll probably be disguised. I don’t know what he will be wearing, but then you must do something to earn your wages.’ The line went dead.
The whole unit listened to the tapes again and again over the next half-hour. Suddenly the Chief stubbed out another cigarette and said, ‘Play the third tape again.’ The young Lieutenant pressed a button, wondering what his boss had picked up that the rest of them had missed. They all listened intently.
‘Stop,’ said the Chief after only a few seconds. ‘I thought so. Go back and start counting.’
Count what? the Lieutenant wanted to ask as he pressed the playback button. This time he heard the faint chime of a carriage clock in the background.
He rewound the tape and they listened once again. ‘Two chimes,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘If it was two in the afternoon, our informant was calling from the Far East.’
The Chief smiled. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It’s more likely that the call was made at two in the morning, from the east coast of America.’
Maggie picked up the phone by her bed and dialled a 650 number. It only rang a couple of times before it was picked up.
‘Tara Fitzgerald,’ said a brisk voice. No ‘Hello, good evening,’ or confirmation that the caller had dialled the correct number. Just the bold announcement of her name, so no one needed to waste any time. How like her father, Maggie thought.
‘It’s Mom, honey.’
‘Hi, Mom. Has the car broken down again, or is it something serious?’
‘Nothing, honey, I’m just missing your father,’ she replied, laughing. ‘I hoped you’d have time for a chat.’
Well, at least you’re only missing one man,’ said Tara, trying to lighten the tone. ‘I’m missing two.’
‘Maybe, but at least you know where Stuart is, and can give him a call whenever you want to. My problem is that I haven’t a clue where your father is.’
‘There’s nothing new about that, Mom. We all know the rules when Dad’s away. The womenfol
k are expected to sit at home dutifully waiting for their master to return. Typically Irish …’
‘Yes, I know. But I have an uneasy feeling about this particular trip,’ said Maggie.
‘I’m sure there’s no need to be anxious, Mother. After all, he’s only been away for a week. Remember how many times in the past he’s turned up when you least expected it. I’ve always assumed it was a dastardly plot to make sure you don’t have a lover on the side.’
Maggie laughed unconvincingly.
‘Something else is worrying you, isn’t it, Mom?’ said Tara quietly. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘I discovered an envelope addressed to me hidden in one of his drawers.’
‘The old romantic,’ said Tara. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t opened it.’
‘Why not, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Because he’s written clearly on the outside, “Not to be opened before 17 December”.’
‘Mom, it’s probably just a Christmas card,’ said Tara lightly.
‘I doubt it,’ said Maggie. ‘I don’t know many husbands who give their wives Christmas cards, and certainly not in a brown envelope hidden in a drawer.’
‘If you’re that anxious about it, Mom, I’m sure Dad would want you to open it. Then you might find out you’ve been worrying about nothing.’
‘Not until 17 December,’ said Maggie quietly. ‘If Connor arrived home before then and discovered I’d opened it, he’d …’
‘When did you find it?’
‘This morning. It was among his sports clothes, in a drawer I hardly ever open.’
‘I’d have opened it straight away if it had been addressed to me,’ said Tara.
‘I know you would,’ said Maggie, ‘but I still think I’d better leave it for a few more days before I do anything. I’ll put it back in the drawer in case he suddenly turns up. Then he’ll never know I’d even come across it.’
‘Perhaps I should fly back to Washington.’
‘Why?’ asked Maggie.
‘To help you open it.’
‘Stop being silly, Tara.’
‘No sillier than you just sitting there on your own fretting about what might be inside.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘If you’re so uncertain, Mother, why don’t you give Joan a call and ask her advice?’
‘I already have.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘Open it.’
Bolchenkov sat on the desk at the front of the operations room and looked down at the twenty hand-picked men. He struck a match and lit his seventh cigarette of the morning.
‘How many people are we expecting in the square this afternoon?’ he asked.
‘It’s only a guess, Chief,’ said the most senior uniformed officer present, ‘but it could be as many as a hundred thousand.’
A murmur of whispered conversations broke out.
‘Quiet,’ said the Chief sharply. ‘Why so many, Captain? Chernopov only managed seventy thousand.’
‘Zerimski’s a far more charismatic figure, and now that the polls are moving in his direction, I predict he’ll prove a much bigger draw.’
‘How many officers can you spare me on the ground?’
‘Every available man will be in the square, Chief, and I’ve cancelled all leave. I’ve already issued the man’s description, in the hope that we can pick him up before he even reaches the square. But not many of them have any experience of something this big.’
‘If there are really going to be a hundred thousand people in the square,’ said Bolchenkov, ‘it will be a first for me as well. Have all your officers been issued with the description?’
‘Yes, but he may be in disguise. In any case, there are a lot of tall foreigners with blue eyes and sandy hair out there. And don’t forget, they haven’t been told why he’s wanted for questioning. We don’t need a panic on our hands.’
Agreed. But I don’t want to frighten him off now, just to give him a second chance later. Has anyone picked up any more information?’
‘Yes, Chief,’ replied a younger man leaning against the back wall. The Chief stubbed out his cigarette and nodded.
‘There are three South African journalists officially covering the election. From the description given to us by our informant, I’m fairly confident it’s the one who calls himself Piet de Villiers.’
‘Anything on the computer about him?’
‘No,’ said the young officer. ‘But the police in Johannesburg were extremely cooperative. They have three men on their files answering to that name, with crimes ranging from petty theft to bigamy, but none of them fitted the description, and in any case two of them are currently locked up. They’ve no idea of the whereabouts of the third. They also mentioned a Colombian connection.’
‘What Colombian connection?’
‘A few weeks ago the CIA circulated a confidential memo giving details about the murder of a presidential candidate in Bogota. It seems they traced the assassin to South Africa, then lost him. I called my contact at the CIA, but all he could tell me was that they knew the man was on the move again, and that he was last seen boarding a plane for Geneva.’
‘That’s all I need,’ said the Chief. ‘I don’t suppose there was any sign of de Villiers when Zerimski visited the Hermitage this morning?’
‘No, Chief,’ said another voice, ‘not if he was with the press corps. There were twenty-three journalists there, and only two of them vaguely fitted the description. One was Clifford Symonds, an anchor with CNN, and the other I’ve known for years. I play chess with him.’ Everyone in the room laughed, helping to break the tension.
‘Rooftops and buildings?’ said the Chief.
‘I have a dozen men detailed to cover the rooftops around the square,’ said the head of the small-arms unit. ‘Most of the buildings are public offices, so I’ll station plain-clothes officers at every entrance and exit. If anyone fitting the description tries to enter the square, or any of the buildings overlooking it, he’ll be arrested on the spot.’
‘Be careful you don’t arrest some foreign dignitary and get us into even worse trouble. Any questions?’
‘Yes, Chief. Have you considered calling off the rally?’ asked a voice from the back.
‘I have, and I decided against it. If I were to cancel a meeting every time I received a threat to a public figure, our telephone lines would be blocked with calls from every half-baked radical with nothing better to do than cause mayhem. In any case, it could still be a false alarm. And even if de Villiers is roaming around the city, when he sees our presence on the ground he might have second thoughts. Any more questions?’
No one stirred.
‘If any of you picks up anything, and I mean anything, I want to know immediately. Heaven help the man who tells me afterwards, “I didn’t mention it, Chief, because I didn’t think it was important at the time.”’
Connor kept the television on while he shaved. Hillary Bowker was bringing viewers up to date with what was happening in the States. The Arms Reduction Bill had passed the House, squeaking home by a mere three votes. Tom Lawrence was nevertheless claiming the result as a triumph for common sense. The pundits, on the other hand, were already warning that the Bill would face a far tougher passage once it reached the floor of the Senate.
‘Not at all,’ the President had assured the assembled journalists at his morning press briefing. Connor smiled. ‘The House was simply carrying out the will of the people, and I’m confident that the Senate will want to do exactly the same.’
The President was replaced by a pretty girl with bright red hair who reminded Connor of Maggie. In my line of work I should have married a newscaster, he had once told her.
And now, to find out more about the upcoming elections in Russia, we go over to Clifford Symonds, our correspondent in St Petersburg.’
Connor stopped shaving and stared at the screen.
‘The opinion
polls show that the two leading candidates, Prime Minister Grigory Chernopov and Communist Party leader Victor Zerimski, are now running neck and neck. The Communist candidate will be addressing a rally in Freedom Square this afternoon that the police are predicting could be attended by as many as a hundred thousand people. This morning Mr Zerimski will have a private meeting with General Borodin, who is expected shortly to announce his withdrawal from the race following his poor showing in the latest opinion polls. Uncertainty remains as to which of the two front-runners he will support, and on that decision could hang the result of the election. This is Clifford Symonds, CNN International, St Petersburg.’
Hillary Bowker’s face reappeared on the screen. ‘And now for the weather,’ she said with a broad smile.
Connor flicked off the television, as he had no interest in being told the temperature in Florida. He rubbed some more lather into his stubble and continued shaving. He had already decided that he wasn’t going to attend Zerimski’s morning press conference, which would be nothing more than a panegyric from his press secretary about what his boss had achieved even before breakfast, or go to the Hermitage and spend most of his time avoiding Mitchell. He would concentrate on Zerimski’s main public appearance that day. He had already found a convenient restaurant on the west side of the square. It wasn’t known for its cuisine, but it did have the advantage of being on the second floor, and overlooking Freedom Square. More important, it had a rear door, so he wouldn’t have to enter the square before it was necessary.
Once he had left his hotel, he called the restaurant from the nearest public phonebox and booked a corner table by the window for twelve o’clock. He then went in search of a rented car, which was even harder to find in St Petersburg than it had been in Moscow. Forty minutes later he drove into the centre of the city and left the vehicle in an underground carpark only a couple of hundred yards from Freedom Square. He had decided to drive back to Moscow after the speech. That way he would soon find out if anyone was following him. He walked up into the street, strolled into the nearest hotel and slipped the head porter a twenty-dollar bill, explaining that he needed a room for about an hour so that he could take a shower and change his clothes.
The Eleventh Commandment Page 14
