The Eleventh Commandment

by Jeffrey Archer

  The key turned in the lock, and the cell door swung open. Bolchenkov entered, carrying a large duffel bag and a battered leather briefcase.

  ‘As you see, I have returned,’ said St Petersburg’s Chief of Police, sitting down opposite Connor. ‘From which you can assume that I want another off-the-record chat. Though I am bound to say I hope it will be a little more productive than our last encounter.’

  The Chief stared down at the man sitting on the bunk. Connor looked as if he had lost several pounds in the past five days.

  ‘I see that you haven’t yet become accustomed to our nouvelle cuisine,’ said Bolchenkov, lighting a cigarette. ‘I must confess that it does take a few days even for the low life of St Petersburg to fully appreciate the Crucifix’s menu. But they come round to it once they realise that they’re here for the rest of their lives, and that there is no a la carte alternative.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nose.

  ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘you may have read in the press quite recently that one of our inmates ate a fellow prisoner. But what with the food shortage and the problem of overcrowding, we didn’t think it worth making a fuss about.’

  Connor smiled.

  ‘Ah, I see you are alive after all,’ said the Chief. ‘Now, I have to tell you that there have been one or two interesting developments since our last meeting, which I have a feeling you will want to know about.’

  He placed the duffel bag and the briefcase on the floor. ‘These two pieces of luggage were reported as unclaimed by the head porter of the National Hotel.’

  Connor raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ said the Chief. ‘And to be fair, when we showed him your photograph, the porter confirmed that although he remembered a man fitting your description leaving the bag, he couldn’t recall the briefcase. Nevertheless, I suspect you won’t need to have its contents described to you.’

  The Chief flicked up the knobs of the case and lifted the lid to reveal a Remington 700. Connor stared straight ahead, feigning indifference.

  ‘Although I’m sure you have handled this type of weapon before, I’m confident that you have never seen this particular rifle, despite the initials P.D.V. being so conveniently printed on the case. Even a raw recruit could work out that you have been set up.’

  Bolchenkov drew deeply on his cigarette.

  ‘The CIA must think we have the dumbest police force on earth. Did they imagine for a moment that we don’t know what Mitchell’s real job is? Cultural Attache!’ he snorted. ‘He probably thinks the Hermitage is a department store. Before you say anything, I have another piece of news that might be of interest to you.’ He inhaled again, allowing the nicotine to reach down into his lungs. ‘Victor Zerimski has won the election, and will be installed as President on Monday.’

  Connor smiled weakly.

  ‘And as I can’t imagine that he’ll be offering you a front-row seat for the inauguration,’ said the Chief, ‘perhaps the time has come for you to tell us your side of the story, Mr Fitzgerald.’

  19

  PRESIDENT ZERIMSKI swaggered into the room. His colleagues immediately rose from their places around the long oak table and applauded until he had taken his seat below a portrait of Stalin, resurrected from the basement of the Pushkin where it had languished since 1956.

  Zerimski was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and red silk tie. He looked quite different from the other men seated round the table, who were still garbed in the ill-fitting clothes they had worn throughout the election campaign. The message was clear - they should all visit a tailor as soon as possible.

  Zerimski allowed the applause to continue for some time before waving down his colleagues as if they were just another adoring crowd.

  ‘Although I do not officially take office until next Monday,’ he began, ‘there are one or two areas where I intend to make some immediate changes.’ The President looked around at those supporters who had stood by him through the lean years, and were about to be rewarded for their loyalty. Many of them had waited half a lifetime for this moment.

  He turned his attention to a short, squat man who was staring blankly in front of him. Joseph Pleskov had been promoted from Zerimski’s bodyguard to a full member of the Politburo the day after he had shot three men who had tried to assassinate his boss while he was on a visit to Odessa. Pleskov had one great virtue, which Zerimski would require of any cabinet minister: as long as he understood his orders, he would carry them out.

  ‘Joseph, my old friend,’ Zerimski said. ‘You are to be my Minister of the Interior.’ Several faces around the table tried not to show surprise or disappointment; most of them knew they were far better qualified to do the job than the former docker from the Ukraine, and some suspected he couldn’t even spell ‘interior’. The short, thickset man beamed at his leader like a child who had been given an unexpected toy.

  ‘Your first responsibility, Joseph, will be to deal with organised crime. I can think of no better way of setting about that task than by arresting Nicolai Romanov, the so-called Czar. Because there will be no room for Czars, imperial or otherwise, while I am President.’

  One or two of the faces that had looked sullen only a moment before suddenly cheered up. Few of them would have been willing to take on Nicolai Romanov, and none of them believed Pleskov was up to it.

  ‘What shall I charge him with?’ asked Pleskov innocently.

  ‘Anything you like, from fraud to murder,’ said Zerimski. ‘Just be sure it sticks.’

  Pleskov was already looking a little apprehensive. It would have been easier if the boss had simply ordered him to kill the man.

  Zerimski’s eye circled the table. ‘Lev,’ he said, turning to another man who had remained blindly loyal to him. ‘I shall give you responsibility for the other half of my law and order programme.’

  Lev Shulov looked nervous, unsure if he should be grateful for what he was about to receive.

  ‘You are to be my new Justice Minister.’

  Shulov smiled.

  ‘Let me make it clear that there is far too much of a logjam in the courts at present. Appoint a dozen or so new judges. Be sure they are all long-standing Party members. Begin by explaining to them that I have only two policies when it comes to law and order: shorter trials and longer sentences. And I am keen to make an example of someone newsworthy in the first few days of my presidency, to leave no doubt about the fate of those who cross me.’

  ‘Did you have anyone in mind, Mr President?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Zerimski. ‘You will remember …’ There was a quiet knock on the door. Everyone turned to see who dared to interrupt the new President’s first cabinet meeting. Dmitri Titov entered noiselessly, gambling that Zerimski would have been even more annoyed not to be interrupted. The President drummed his fingers on the table as Titov walked the length of the room, then bent down and whispered in his ear.

  Zerimski immediately burst out laughing. The rest of them wanted to join in, but were unwilling to until they had heard the joke. He looked up at his colleagues. ‘The President of the United States is on the line. It seems that he wishes to congratulate me.’ Now they all felt able to join in the laughter.

  ‘My next decision as your leader is whether I should put him on hold - for another three years …’ They all laughed even louder, except for Titov, ‘… or whether I should take the call.’

  No one offered an opinion.

  ‘Shall we find out what the man wants?’ asked Zerimski. They all nodded. Titov picked up the phone by his side and handed it to his boss.

  ‘Mr President,’ said Zerimski.

  ‘No, sir,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘My name is Andy Lloyd. I am the White House Chief of Staff. May I put you through to President Lawrence?’

  ‘No, you may not,’ said Zerimski angrily. ‘Tell your President next time he calls to be on the end of the line himself, because I don’t deal with messenger boys.’ He slammed the phone down, and they
all laughed again.

  ‘Now, what was I saying?’

  Shulov volunteered. ‘You were about to tell us, Mr President, who should be made an example of in order to demonstrate the new discipline of the Justice Department.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Zerimski, the smile returning to his lips just as the phone rang again.

  Zerimski pointed at his Chief of Staff, who picked up the receiver.

  ‘Would it be possible,’ a voice enquired, ‘to speak to President Zerimski?’

  ‘Who’s calling him?’ asked Titov.

  ‘Tom Lawrence.’

  Titov handed the receiver to his boss. ‘The President of the United States,’ was all he said. Zerimski nodded and took the phone.

  ‘Is that you, Victor?’

  ‘This is President Zerimski. Who am I addressing?’

  ‘Tom Lawrence,’ said the President, raising an eyebrow to the Secretary of State and the White House Chief of Staff, who were listening in on their extensions.

  ‘Good morning. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was just calling to add my congratulations to all the others you must be receiving after your impressive’ - Lawrence had wanted say ‘unexpected’, but the State Department had counselled against it - ‘victory. A very close-run thing. But everyone in politics experiences that problem from time to time.’

  ‘It’s not a problem I will experience again,’ said Zerimski. Lawrence laughed, assuming this was meant to be funny. He wouldn’t have done so if he could have seen the stony-faced looks of those seated around the cabinet table in the Kremlin.

  Lloyd whispered, ‘Keep going.’

  ‘The first thing I’d like to do is get to know you a little better, Victor.’

  ‘Then you will have to start by understanding that only my mother calls me by my first name.’

  Lawrence looked down at the notes spread across his desk. His eye settled on Zerimski’s full name, Victor Leonidovich. He underlined ‘Leonidovich’, but Larry Harrington shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lawrence. ‘How would you like me to address you?’

  ‘The same way you would expect anyone you don’t know to address you.’

  Though they could hear only one side of it, those seated around the table in Moscow were enjoying the first encounter between the two leaders. Those in the Oval Office were not.

  ‘Try a different tack, Mr President,’ suggested the Secretary of State, cupping a hand over his phone.

  Tom Lawrence glanced down at Andy Lloyd’s prepared questions and skipped a page. ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t be too long before we could find an opportunity to meet. Come to think of it,’ he added, ‘it’s rather surprising that we haven’t bumped into each other before now.’

  ‘It’s not all that surprising,’ said Zerimski. ‘When you last visited Moscow, in June, your Embassy failed to issue me or any of my colleagues with an invitation to the dinner that was held for you.’ There were murmurs of support from around the table.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you know only too well that on overseas trips one is very much in the hands of one’s local officials …’

  ‘I shall be interested to see which of those local officials you feel need replacing after such a fundamental miscalculation.’ Zerimski paused. ‘Starting with your Ambassador, perhaps.’

  There followed another long silence while the three men in the Oval Office checked through the questions they had assiduously prepared. So far they had not anticipated one of Zerimski’s replies.

  ‘I can assure you,’ Zerimski added, ‘that I will not be allowing any of my officials, local or otherwise, to overrule my personal wishes.’

  ‘Lucky man,’ said Lawrence, giving up bothering with any of the prepared answers.

  ‘Luck is not a factor I ever take into consideration,’ said Zerimski. ‘Especially when it comes to dealing with my opponents.’

  Larry Harrington was beginning to look desperate, but Andy Lloyd scribbled a question on a pad and pushed it under the President’s nose. Lawrence nodded.

  ‘Perhaps we should try to arrange an early meeting so that we can get to know each other a little better?’

  The White House trio sat waiting for the offer to be robustly rejected.

  ‘I’ll give that my serious consideration,’ said Zerimski, to everyone’s surprise, at both ends. ‘Why don’t you tell Mr Lloyd to get in touch with Comrade Titov, who is responsible for organising my meetings with foreign leaders.’

  ‘I certainly will,’ said Lawrence, feeling relieved. ‘I’ll ask Andy Lloyd to call Mr Titov in the next couple of days.’ Lloyd scribbled another note, and handed it to him. It read: ‘And of course I would be happy to visit Moscow.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr President,’ said Zerimski.

  ‘Goodbye - Mr President,’ Lawrence replied.

  As Zerimski put the phone down, he stalled the inevitable round of applause by quickly turning to his Chief of Staff and saying, ‘When Lloyd rings, he will propose that I visit Washington. Accept the offer.’

  His Chief of Staff looked surprised.

  ‘I am determined,’ said the President, turning back to his colleagues, ‘that Lawrence should realise as soon as possible what sort of man he is dealing with. More importantly, I wish the American public to find out for themselves.’ He placed his fingers together. ‘I intend to begin by making sure that Lawrence’s Arms Reduction Bill is defeated on the floor of the Senate. I can’t think of a more appropriate Christmas present to give … Tom.’

  This time he allowed them to applaud him briefly, before silencing them with another wave of his hand.

  ‘But we must return for the moment to our domestic problems, which are far more pressing. You see, I believe it is important that our own citizens are also made aware of the mettle of their new leader. I wish to provide them with an example that will leave no one in any doubt about how I intend to deal with those who consider opposing me.’ They all waited to see who Zerimski had selected for this honour.

  He turned his gaze to the newly appointed Justice Minister. ‘Where is that Mafya hitman who tried to assassinate me?’

  ‘He’s locked up in the Crucifix,’ said Shulov. ‘Where I assume you’ll want him to remain for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Zerimski. ‘Life imprisonment is far too lenient a sentence for such a barbarous criminal. This is the ideal person to put on trial. We will make him our first public example.’

  ‘I’m afraid the police haven’t been able to come up with any proof that he …’

  ‘Then manufacture it,’ said Zerimski. ‘His trial isn’t going to be witnessed by anyone except loyal Party members.’

  ‘I understand, Mr President,’ said the new Justice Minister. He hesitated. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘A quick trial, with one of our new judges presiding and a jury made up exclusively of Party officials.’

  ‘And the sentence, Mr President?’

  ‘The death penalty, of course. Once the sentence has been passed, you will inform the press that I shall be attending the execution.’

  ‘And when will that be?’ asked the Justice Minister, writing down Zerimski’s every word.

  The President flicked over the pages of his diary and began searching for a fifteen-minute gap. ‘Eight o’clock next Friday morning. Now, something far more important - my plans for the future of the armed forces.’ He smiled at General Borodin, who was seated on his right, and who hadn’t yet opened his mouth.

  ‘For you, Deputy President, the greatest prize of all …’

  20

  AS A PRISONER in the Nan Dinh camp, Connor had developed a system for counting the days he’d been in captivity.

  At five every morning a Vietcong guard would appear carrying a bowl of rice swimming in water - his only meal of the day. Connor would remove a single grain and place it inside one of the seven bamboo poles that made up his mattress. Every week he would transfer one of the seven grains to the beam above his b
ed, and then eat the other six. Every four weeks he would remove one of the grains from the beam above his bed and put it between the floorboards under his bed. The day he and Chris Jackson escaped from the camp, Connor knew he had been in captivity for one year, five months and two days.

  But lying on a bunk in a windowless cell in the Crucifix, even he couldn’t come up with a system to record how long he had been there. The Chief of Police had now visited him twice, and left with nothing. Connor began to wonder how much longer it would be before he became impatient with his simply repeating his name and nationality, and demanding to see his Ambassador. He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Only moments after Bolchenkov had left the room the second time, the three men who had greeted him on the afternoon of his arrival came charging into his cell.

  Two of them dragged him off the bunk and threw him into the chair recently occupied by the Chief. They wrenched his arms behind his back and handcuffed him.

  That was when Connor first saw the cut-throat razor. While two of them held him down, the third took just fourteen strokes of the rusty blade to shave every hair off his head, along with a considerable amount of skin. He hadn’t wasted any time applying soap and water. The blood continued to run down Connor’s face and soak his shirt long after they had left him slumped in the chair.

  He recalled the words of the Chief when they had first met: ‘I don’t believe in torture; it’s not my style.’ But that was before Zerimski had become President.

  He eventually slept, but for how long he could not tell. The next thing he remembered was being pulled up off the floor, hurled back into the chair and held down for a second time.

  The third man had replaced his razor with a long, thick needle, and used the same degree of delicacy he had shown as a barber to tattoo the number ‘12995’ on the prisoner’s left wrist. They obviously didn’t believe in names when you booked in for room and board at the Crucifix.