The Eleventh Commandment

by Jeffrey Archer

  Dear Mother,

  Just a note to confirm that Stuart arrives in Los Angeles on Friday. We plan to drive up to San Francisco for a few days before flying to Washington on the fifteenth.

  Maggie smiled.

  We’re both looking forward to spending Christmas with you and Dad. He hasn’t phoned me, so I assume he isn’t back yet.

  Maggie frowned.

  I’ve had a letter from Joan, who doesn’t seem to be enjoying her new job. I suspect that, like all of us, she is missing Dad. She tells me she is buying a sexy new Volkswagen …

  Maggie read the sentence a second time before her hand began trembling. ‘Oh my God, no!’ she said out loud. She checked her watch - six twenty. On the television, Lisa McRee was holding up a paperchain of holly and berries. ‘Festive Christmas decorations the children can help with,’ she declared brightly. ‘Now we turn to the topic of Christmas trees.’

  Maggie flicked over to Channel 5. Another newscaster was speculating about whether Zerimski’s planned visit would influence Senate leaders before they cast their vote on the Arms Reduction Bill.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ said Maggie.

  Finally the newscaster said, ‘And now we have more on that accident on the George Washington Parkway. We go live to our on-the-spot correspondent, Liz Fullerton.’

  ‘Thank you, Julie. I’m standing on the median of the George Washington Parkway, where the tragic accident took place at approximately three fifteen this morning. Earlier I interviewed an eye-witness who told Channel 5 what he had seen.’

  The camera focused on a man who clearly hadn’t expected to be on television that morning.

  ‘I was headed into Washington,’ he told the reporter, ‘when this sanding truck deposited its load on the highway, causing the car behind to swerve and run out of control. The car skidded right across the road, down the bank and into the Potomac.‘ The camera swung across to show a wide angle of the river, focusing on a group of police divers before returning to the reporter.

  ‘No one seems to be quite sure exactly what happened,’ she continued. ‘It’s even possible that the driver of the sanding truck, sitting high up in his cab, continued on his journey unaware that an accident had taken place.’

  ‘No! No!’ screamed Maggie. ‘Don’t let it be her!’

  ‘Behind me you can see police divers, who have already located the vehicle, apparently a Volkswagen Golf. They hope to bring it to the surface within the next hour. The identity of the driver is still unknown.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ repeated Maggie. ‘Please, God, not Joan.’

  ‘The police are requesting that the driver of a black Mercedes who may have witnessed the accident should come forward to help with their enquiries. We hope to bring you more news on the hour, so until then …’

  Maggie ran into the hall, grabbed her coat and rushed out of the front door. She leapt into her car, and was relieved when the old Toyota spluttered into life almost immediately. She eased it slowly out onto Avon Place, before accelerating down Twenty-Ninth Street and east on M Street in the direction of the Parkway.

  If she had checked her rear-view mirror, she would have seen a small blue Ford making a three-point turn before chasing after her. The passenger in the front seat was dialling an unlisted number.

  ‘Mr Jackson, it is so good of you to come and see me again.’

  Jackson was amused by Nicolai Romanov’s elaborate courtesy, especially as it carried with it the pretence that he might have had some choice in the matter.

  The first meeting had been at Jackson’s request, and obviously hadn’t been considered ‘a waste of time’, as Sergei was still running around on both legs. Each subsequent meeting had followed a summons from Romanov to bring Jackson up to date with the latest plans.

  The Czar sank back in his winged chair, and Jackson noticed the usual glass of colourless liquid on the table by his side. He remembered the old man’s reaction on the one occasion he had asked a question, and waited for him to speak.

  ‘You’ll be glad to hear, Mr Jackson, that with the exception of a single problem that still needs to be resolved, everything required to make good your colleague’s escape has been arranged. All we need now is for Mr Fitzgerald to agree our terms. Should he find himself unable to do so, I can do nothing to prevent him from being hanged at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’ Romanov spoke without feeling. ‘Allow me to take you through what we have planned so far, should he decide to go ahead. I am certain that, as a former Deputy Director of the CIA, your observations will prove useful.’

  The old man pressed a button in the armrest of his chair, and the doors at the far end of the drawing room opened immediately. Alexei Romanov entered the room.

  ‘I believe you know my son,’ said the Czar.

  Jackson glanced in the direction of the man who always accompanied him on his journeys to the Winter Palace, but rarely spoke. He nodded.

  The young man pushed aside an exquisite fourteenth-century tapestry depicting the Battle of Flanders. Behind it was concealed a large television set. The flat silver screen looked somewhat incongruous in such magnificent surroundings, but no more so, Jackson thought, than its owner and his acolytes.

  The first image to come up on the screen was an exterior shot of the Crucifix prison.

  Alexei Romanov pointed to the entrance. ‘Zerimski is expected to arrive at the jail at seven fifty. He will be in the third of seven cars, and will enter through a side gate situated here.’ His finger moved across the screen. ‘He will be met by Vladimir Bolchenkov, who will accompany him into the main courtyard, where the execution will take place. At seven fifty-two …’

  The young Romanov continued to take Jackson through the plan minute by minute, going into even greater detail when it came to explaining how Connor’s escape would be achieved. Jackson noticed that he seemed unconcerned by the one remaining problem, obviously confident that his father would come up with a solution before the following morning. When he had finished, Alexei switched off the television, replaced the tapestry and gave his father a slight bow. He then left the room without another word.

  When the door had closed, the old man asked, ‘Do you have any observations?’

  ‘One or two,’ said Jackson. ‘First, let me say that I’m impressed by the plan, and convinced it has every chance of succeeding. It’s obvious you’ve thought of almost every contingency that might arise - that is, assuming Connor agrees to your terms. And on that, I must repeat, I have no authority to speak on his behalf

  Romanov nodded.

  ‘But you’re still facing one problem.’

  ‘And do you have a solution?’ asked the old man.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Jackson. ‘I have.’

  Bolchenkov spent nearly an hour spelling out Romanov’s plan in great detail, then left Connor to consider his response. He didn’t need to be reminded that he was faced with an unalterable time limit: Zerimski was due to arrive at the Crucifix in forty-five minutes.

  Connor lay on his bunk. The terms could not have been expressed more explicitly. But even if he did accept those terms, and his escape was successfully engineered, he was not at all confident that he would be able to carry out his side of the bargain. If he failed, they would kill him. It was that simple - except that Bolchenkov had promised that it would not be the quick and easy death of the hangman’s noose. He had also spelled out - in case Connor should be in any doubt - that all contracts made with the Russian Mafya and not honoured automatically became the responsibility of the offender’s next of kin.

  Connor could still see the cynical expression on the Chief’s face as he extracted the photographs from an inside pocket and passed them over to him. ‘Two fine women,’ Bolchenkov had said. ‘You must be proud of them. It would be a tragedy to have to shorten their lives for something they know nothing about.’

  Fifteen minutes later the cell door swung open again, and Bolchenkov returned, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. This time he didn’t sit down. C
onnor continued to look up at the ceiling as if he wasn’t there.

  ‘I see that our little proposal is still presenting you with a dilemma,’ said the Chief, lighting the cigarette. ‘Even after our brief acquaintance, that does not surprise me. But perhaps when you hear my latest piece of news, you will change your mind.’

  Connor went on gazing at the ceiling.

  ‘It appears that your former secretary, Joan Bennett, has met with an unfortunate car accident. She was on her way from Langley to visit your wife.’

  Connor swung his legs off the bed, sat up and stared at Bolchenkov.

  ‘If Joan is dead, how could you possibly know she was on her way to see my wife?’

  ‘The CIA aren’t the only people who are tapping your wife’s telephone,’ replied the Chief. He took a last drag from his cigarette, allowed the stub to fall from his mouth and ground it out on the floor.

  ‘We suspect that your secretary had somehow discovered who it was that we arrested in Freedom Square. And without putting too fine a point on it, if your wife is as proud and headstrong as her profile suggests, I think we can assume that it won’t be long before she reaches the same conclusion. If that is the case, I fear Mrs Fitzgerald is destined to suffer the same fate as your late secretary.’

  ‘If I agree to Romanov’s terms,’ Connor said, ‘I wish to insert a clause of my own into the contract.’

  Bolchenkov listened with interest.

  ‘Mr Gutenburg?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is Maggie Fitzgerald. I’m the wife of Connor Fitzgerald, who I believe is currently abroad on an assignment for you.’

  ‘I don’t recall the name,’ said Gutenburg.

  ‘You attended his farewell party at our home in Georgetown only a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘I think you must have mistaken me for someone else,’ replied Gutenburg calmly.

  ‘I have not mistaken you for anyone else, Mr Gutenburg. In fact, at eight twenty-seven on the second of November, you made a phone call from my home to your office.’

  ‘I made no such call, Mrs Fitzgerald, and I can assure you that your husband has never worked for me.’

  ‘Then tell me, Mr Gutenburg, did Joan Bennett ever work for the Agency? Or has she also been conveniently erased from your memory?’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  ‘Ah, I’ve caught your attention at last. Allow me to repair your temporary loss of memory. Joan Bennett was my husband’s secretary for nearly twenty years, and I have a feeling you would find it hard to deny that you knew she was on her way from Langley to see me when she met her death.’

  ‘I was sorry to read of Miss Bennett’s tragic accident, but I’m at a loss to understand what it has to do with me.’

  ‘The press are apparently mystified about what actually took place on the George Washington Parkway yesterday morning, but they might be a step nearer to the solution if they were told that Joan Bennett used to work for a man who has disappeared from the face of the earth while carrying out a special assignment for you. I’ve always found in the past that journalists consider a story involving a Medal of Honor winner to be of interest to their readers.’

  ‘Mrs Fitzgerald, I can’t be expected to remember every one of the seventeen thousand people the CIA employs, and I certainly don’t recall ever meeting Miss Bennett, let alone your husband.’

  ‘I see I’ll have to jog that failing memory of yours a little further, Mr Gutenburg. As it happens, the party you didn’t attend and didn’t telephone from was, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, videotaped by my daughter. She’d hoped to surprise her father by giving him the tape for Christmas. I’ve just had another look at it, Mr Gutenburg, and although you play only a minor role, I can assure you that your tete-a-tete with Joan Bennett is there for all to see. This conversation is also being recorded, and I have a feeling that the networks will consider your contribution worth airing on the early evening news.’

  This time Gutenburg didn’t reply for some time. ‘Perhaps it might be a good idea for us to meet, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I can see no purpose in that, Mr Gutenburg. I already know exactly what I require from you.’

  ‘And what is that, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  ‘I want to know where my husband is at this moment, and when I can expect to see him again. In return for those two simple pieces of information, I will hand over the tape.’

  ‘I’ll need a little time …’

  ‘Of course you will,’ said Maggie. ‘Shall we say forty-eight hours? And Mr Gutenburg, don’t waste your time tearing my home apart searching for the tape, because you won’t find it. It’s been hidden somewhere that even a mind as devious as yours wouldn’t think of.’

  ‘But …’ began Gutenburg.

  ‘I should also add that if you decide to dispose of me in the same way you did Joan Bennett, I’ve instructed my lawyers that if I die in suspicious circumstances, they are to immediately release copies of the tape to all three major networks, Fox and CNN. If, on the other hand, I simply disappear, the tape will be released seven days later. Goodbye, Mr Gutenburg.’

  Maggie put the phone down and collapsed onto the bed, bathed in sweat.

  Gutenburg shot through the connecting door between his office and the Director’s.

  Helen Dexter glanced up from her desk, unable to hide her surprise that her Deputy had entered the room without bothering to knock.

  ‘We have a problem,’ was all he said.

  22

  THE CONDEMNED MAN ate no breakfast.

  The kitchen staff always made an effort to remove the lice from the bread for a prisoner’s last meal, but this time they had failed. He took one look at the offering and put the tin plate under his bunk.

  A few minutes later, a Russian Orthodox priest entered the cell. He explained that although he was not of the same denomination as the prisoner, he would be happy to perform the last rites.

  The holy sacrament was the only food he would eat that day. After the priest had performed the little ceremony, they knelt together on the cold stone floor. At the end of a short prayer the priest blessed him and left him to his solitude.

  He lay on his bunk staring up at the ceiling, not for one moment regretting his decision. Once he had explained his reasons, Bolchenkov had accepted them without comment, even nodding curtly as he left the cell. It was the nearest the Chief would ever get to admitting that he admired a man’s moral courage.

  The prisoner had faced the prospect of death once before. It didn’t hold the same horror for him a second time. On that occasion he had thought about his wife, and the child he would never see. But now he could only think of his parents, who had died within a few days of each other. He was glad that neither of them had gone to their graves with this as their final memory of him.

  For them, his return from Vietnam had been a triumph, and they were delighted when he had told them that he intended to go on serving his country. He might even have become Director if a President in trouble hadn’t decided to appoint a woman, in the hope that it would help his flagging campaign. It hadn’t.

  Although it was Gutenburg who had placed the knife firmly between his shoulderblades, there wasn’t any doubt about who had handed him the weapon; she would have enjoyed playing Lady Macbeth. He would go to his grave knowing that few of his fellow countrymen would ever be aware of the sacrifice he had made. For him that only made it all the more worthwhile.

  There would be no ceremonial farewell. No coffin draped with the American flag. No friends and relatives standing by the graveside to hear the priest extolling the dedication and public service which had been the hallmark of his career. No Marines raising their rifles proudly in the air. No twenty-one-gun salute. No folded flag given on behalf of the President to his next of kin.

  No. He was destined to be just another of Tom Lawrence’s unsung heroes.

  For him, all that was left was to be hanged by the ne
ck in an unloved and unloving land. A shaven head, a number on his wrist, and an unmarked grave.

  Why had he made that decision which had so moved the usually passionless Chief of Police? He didn’t have time to explain to him what had taken place in Vietnam, but that was where the die had been irrevocably cast.

  Perhaps he should have faced the firing squad all those years ago in another far-off land. But he had survived. This time there was no one to rescue him at the last moment. And it was too late now to change his mind.

  The Russian President woke in a foul mood that morning. The first person he took it out on was his chef. He swept his breakfast onto the floor and shouted, ‘Is this the sort of hospitality I can expect when I come to Leningrad?’

  He stormed out of the room. In his study, a nervous official placed on his desk documents for signing which would empower the police to arrest citizens without having to charge them with any crime. This did nothing to change Zerimski’s black mood. He knew that it was merely a ploy to get a few pickpockets, dope peddlers and petty criminals off the streets. It was the Czar’s head he wanted delivered to him on a platter. If the Minister for the Interior continued to fail him, he would have to consider replacing him.

  By the time his Chief of Staff arrived, Zerimski had signed away the lives of another hundred men whose only crime had been to support Chernopov during the election campaign. Rumours were already circulating around Moscow that the former Prime Minister planned to emigrate. The day he left the country, Zerimski would sign a thousand such orders, and would imprison everybody who had ever served Chernopov in any capacity.

  He threw his pen down on the desk. All this had been achieved in less than a week. The thought of the havoc he was going to cause in a month, a year, made him feel a little more cheerful.

  ‘Your limousine is waiting, Mr President,’ said a petrified official whose face he couldn’t see. He smiled at the thought of what would undoubtedly be the highlight of his day. He had been looking forward to a morning at the Crucifix as others would anticipate an evening at the Kirov.