‘She’d erased everything, of course,’ said Dexter.
‘Of course,’ said Gutenburg.
‘But what about the printout?’
‘Again, no clue as to what was on it.’
‘She can’t have lived with Connor Fitzgerald for twenty-eight years and not picked up something about the way we work.’
‘The officer left the library and waited in his car. After a few minutes Mrs Fitzgerald came out of the building. She was no longer carrying the tape, but she was …’
‘She must have deposited it in the audio-visual centre.’
‘Exactly my thought,’ said Gutenburg.
‘How many tapes does the university store in its library?’
‘Over twenty-five thousand,’ said Gutenburg.
‘We don’t have enough time to go through them all,’ said Dexter.
‘We wouldn’t have, if Mrs Fitzgerald hadn’t made her first mistake.’
Dexter didn’t interrupt this time.
‘When she left the library she didn’t have the video, but she did have the printout. Our agent followed her to the Admissions Office, where I’m happy to say her principles got the better of her.’
Dexter raised an eyebrow.
‘Before returning to her office, Mrs Fitzgerald called in at the recycling centre. She’s not the Vice-President of GULP by accident.’
‘GULP?’
‘Georgetown University Litter Patrol. She dumped the printout in the paper depository.’
‘Good. So what did you find on it?’
‘A complete list of the videos currently on loan and unlikely to be returned until the beginning of next term.’
‘So she must have felt it was safe to leave her video in an empty box, because no one would come across it for weeks.’
‘Correct,’ said Gutenburg.
‘How many videos are there that fall into that category?’
‘Four hundred and seventy-two,’ replied Gutenburg.
‘Presumably you’ve requisitioned every one.’
‘I thought about doing that, but if an inquisitive student or member of staff became aware of a CIA presence on the campus, all hell would break loose.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Dexter. ‘So how do you intend to go about finding that video?’
‘I’ve detailed a dozen hand-picked officers, all recent graduates, to check out every one of the titles on that list until they come across a home-made video in what should be an empty box. The problem is that, despite their being dressed like students, I can’t afford to leave any one of them inside the library for longer than twenty minutes, or let them go there more than twice in a day, if they’re not going to stick out like sore thumbs, especially as there’s hardly anyone around at this time of year. So the exercise is proving rather time-consuming.’
‘How long do you think it will be before they find it?’
‘We could get lucky and come across it almost immediately, but my bet is that it will probably take a day or two, three at the most.’
‘Don’t forget you have to be back in touch with Mrs Fitzgerald in less than forty-eight hours.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten. But if we find the tape before then, that won’t be necessary.’
‘Unless Mrs Fitzgerald also recorded her phone conversation with you.’
Gutenburg smiled. ‘She did, but it was erased within seconds of her replacing the receiver. You should have seen the pleasure it gave Professor Ziegler to demonstrate his latest toy.’
‘Excellent,’ said Dexter. ‘Ring me the moment you get your hands on that video. Then there will be nothing to stop us eliminating the one person who could still …’ The red phone on her desk began to ring, and she grabbed it without completing her sentence.
‘The Director,’ she said, pressing a button on her stopwatch. ‘When did this happen? … Are you absolutely certain? … And Jackson? Where is he?’ When she had heard the reply, she immediately put the phone down. Gutenburg noticed that the stopwatch had reached forty-three seconds.
‘I do hope you find that videotape within the next forty-eight hours,’ said the Director, looking across the desk at her Deputy.
‘Why?’ asked Gutenburg, looking anxious.
‘Because Mitchell tells me that Fitzgerald was hanged at eight o’clock this morning St Petersburg time, and that Jackson has just boarded a United Airlines flight out of Frankfurt, bound for Washington.’
BOOK THREE
THE HIRED ASSASSIN
24
AT SEVEN A.M., the three thugs entered his cell and marched him off to the Chief’s office. Once they had left the room Bolchenkov locked the door, and without a word went over to a wardrobe in the corner. Inside was a policeman’s uniform, which he indicated Connor should change into. Because of his loss of weight over the past week, the clothes hung on him, and he was grateful for the braces. But with the aid of a wide-brimmed hat and a long blue coat, he managed to look like any of the thousand policemen who would be walking the beat in St Petersburg that morning. He left his prison clothes at the bottom of the wardrobe, wondering how the Chief would dispose of them. Still without saying a word, Bolchenkov ushered him out of his office and into a tiny anteroom, then locked him in.
After a long silence, Connor heard a door opening, then footsteps, followed by another door opening, which could have been the wardrobe in the Chief’s office. He didn’t move a muscle as he tried to work out what was going on. The first door opened again and two, possibly three, people rushed noisily into the office. They left a few seconds later, dragging something or someone out of the room and slamming the door behind them.
Moments later the door was unlocked, and Bolchenkov indicated that he should come out. They went through the office and back into the corridor. If the Chief turned left, they would be returning to his cell; but he turned right. Connor’s legs felt very weak, but he followed as quickly as he could.
The first thing he saw when he stepped into the courtyard was the scaffold, and someone placing a magnificent gilded chair with plush red upholstery a few paces in front of it. He didn’t need to be told who would be sitting there. As he and Bolchenkov walked across the yard, Connor noticed a group of policemen dressed in long blue coats like the one he was wearing dragging passers-by off the street, presumably to witness the execution.
The Chief moved quickly across the gravel to a car on the far side of the courtyard. Connor was about to open the passenger door when Bolchenkov shook his head and pointed to the driver’s seat. Connor took his place behind the wheel.
‘Drive up to the gate and then stop,’ said the Chief as he got into the passenger seat.
Connor kept the car in first gear as he drove slowly across the yard, stopping in front of two guards posted by the closed gate. One of them saluted the Chief and immediately began checking under the vehicle, while the other looked through the back window and inspected the boot.
The Chief leaned across and pulled down the sleeve on Connor’s left wrist. When the guards had completed their search, they returned to their positions and saluted Bolchenkov once again. Neither of them took the slightest interest in the driver. The vast wooden bolts were removed and the great gates of the Crucifix Prison were pulled open.
‘Get moving,’ said the Chief under his breath as a small boy ran into the prison compound, looking as if he knew exactly where he was going.
‘Which way?’ Connor whispered.
‘Right.’
Connor swung the car across the road and began driving alongside the Neva towards the city centre. There wasn’t another car in sight.
‘Cross the next bridge,’ said Bolchenkov, ‘then take the first left.’
As they passed the prison on the far side of the river, Connor glanced across at its high walls. The police were still trying to coax people in to add to the small crowd who had already gathered to witness his hanging. How was Bolchenkov going to get away with it?
Connor continued driving for another couple
of hundred metres, until Bolchenkov said, ‘Pull over here.’ He slowed down and brought the car to a halt behind a large white BMW with one of its rear doors open.
‘This is where we part company, Mr Fitzgerald,’ said Bolchenkov. ‘Let’s hope we never meet again.’
Connor nodded his agreement. As he stepped out of the car, the Chief added, ‘You are privileged to have such a remarkable friend.’
It was to be some time before Connor understood the full significance of his words.
‘Your flight leaves from Gate 11, Mr Jackson. It will be boarding in twenty minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Connor, as he picked up his boarding pass. He began walking slowly towards Departures, hoping the official wouldn’t check his passport too closely. Although they had replaced Jackson’s photograph with his, Chris was three years older than him, two inches shorter, and was bald. If he was asked to remove his hat, he would have to explain why his head was covered in Gorbachev-like marks. In California they would simply have assumed he was a cult member.
He handed his passport over with his right hand - if he had used his left, the sleeve would have risen to reveal the tattooed number on his wrist. Once he was back in America he would buy himself a wider watchstrap.
The official gave the passport only a cursory glance before allowing him through. His newly acquired suitcase, containing nothing more than a change of clothes and a spongebag, passed through security without hindrance. He picked it up and made his way to Gate 11, where he took a seat in the far corner of the lounge facing away from the exit that led to the plane.
In the twenty-four hours since he had left the Crucifix, Connor hadn’t relaxed for one moment.
‘This is the first call for Finnair Flight 821 to Frankfurt,’ said a voice over the intercom.
Connor didn’t move. If they had told him the truth, he would never have allowed Chris to take his place. He tried to piece together everything that had happened after he had left Bolchenkov.
He had got out of the police car and walked as quickly as he could to the waiting BMW. The Chief had already begun his return journey to the Crucifix by the time Connor climbed into the back of the car and sat beside a pale, thin young man wearing a long black cashmere coat. Neither he nor the two similarly-dressed men seated in the front of the car spoke, or even acknowledged his presence.
The BMW eased out onto the empty road and moved quickly away from the city. Once they joined the highway, the driver ignored the speed limit. As 8.00 flicked up on the dashboard clock, a road sign told Connor that they were 150 kilometres from the Finnish border.
As the distance on the signs dropped to a hundred kilometres, then fifty, then thirty, then ten, Connor began to wonder how they were going to explain the presence of a Russian policeman to the border guards. But no explanation proved necessary. When the BMW was about three hundred metres from the no man’s land that divided the two countries, the driver flashed his lights four times. The barrier at the frontier rose immediately, allowing them to cross the border into Finland without even dropping their speed. Connor was beginning to appreciate the extent of the Russian Mafya’s influence.
No one in the car had uttered a word since their journey had begun, and once again the road signs gave Connor the only clue as to where they were heading. He began to think Helsinki must be their destination, but a dozen kilometres before they reached the outskirts of the city, they took a slip road off the highway. The car slowed as the driver manoeuvred over potholes and around blind bends that led deeper and deeper into the countryside. Connor gazed at the barren landscape, covered in a thick layer of snow.
‘This is the second call for Finnair Flight 821 to Frankfurt. Would all passengers please board the aircraft.’
Connor still didn’t move.
Forty minutes after leaving the highway, the car turned into the yard of what appeared to be a deserted farmhouse. A door was opened even before they had come to a halt. The tall young man jumped out and led Connor into the house. He didn’t acknowledge the cowering woman they passed as they marched in. Connor followed him up a flight of stairs to the first landing. The Russian opened a door, and Connor entered the room. The door was slammed behind him, and he heard another key turning in another lock.
He walked across the room and looked out of the only window. One of the bodyguards was standing in the yard, staring up at him. He moved away from the window, and noticed that a complete set of clothes and a black rabbit-skin hat had been laid out on a small, uncomfortable-looking bed.
Connor stripped off all his clothes and threw them over a chair by the bed. In a corner of the room was a plastic curtain, and behind it a rusty shower. With the aid of a rough bar of soap and a trickle of lukewarm water, Connor spent several minutes trying to remove the stench of the Crucifix from his body. He dried himself with two dishcloths. When he looked in the mirror he realised that it would be some time before the scars on his head would heal and his hair return to its natural length. But the number tattooed on his wrist would be with him for the rest of his life.
He dressed in the clothes that had been left on the bed. Although the trousers were a couple of inches too short, the shirt and jacket fitted quite well, even though he must have lost at least ten pounds while he was in prison.
There was a gentle knock on the door, and the key turned in the lock. The woman who had been in the hall when they’d arrived was standing there, holding a tray. She placed it on the side table and slipped back out before Connor could thank her. He looked down at the bowl of warm broth and the three bread rolls, and literally licked his lips. He sat down and began to attack the food, but after sipping a few spoonfuls of soup and devouring one of the rolls he felt full. Suddenly overcome by drowsiness, he slumped down on the bed.
‘This is the third call for Finnair Flight 821 to Frankfurt. Would all remaining passengers please board the aircraft.’
Connor still remained in his place.
He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembered was waking and finding the pale young man standing at the end of the bed, looking down at him.
‘We leave for the airport in twenty minutes,’ he had told him, and tossed a thick brown package onto the bed.
Connor sat up and tore open the envelope. It contained a first-class ticket to Dulles International, a thousand US dollars, and an American passport.
He flicked open the passport and read the name ‘Christopher Andrew Jackson’, above a photograph of himself. He looked up at the young Russian.
‘What does this mean?’
‘It means you’re still alive,’ said Alexei Romanov.
‘This is the final call for Flight 821 for Frankfurt. Would any remaining passengers please take their seats immediately.’
Connor strolled across to the gate agent, handed over his boarding pass and made his way to the waiting plane. The steward checked his seat number and pointed to the front section of the aircraft. Connor didn’t have to search for the window seat in the fifth row, because the tall young Russian was already strapped into the aisle seat. It was obviously his job not only to pick up the package, but also to deliver it and to make sure the contract was carried out. As Connor stepped over his escort’s feet, a stewardess asked, ‘Can I take your hat, Mr Jackson?’
‘No, thank you.’
He leaned back in the comfortable seat, but didn’t relax until the plane had taken off. Then it began to sink in for the first time that he really had escaped. But to what, he wondered. He glanced to his left: from now on someone would be with him night and day until he had carried out his side of the bargain.
During the flight to Germany, Romanov never once opened his mouth, except to eat a few morsels of the meal they put in front of him. Connor left an empty plate, and then passed the time by reading Finnair’s in-flight magazine. By the time the plane landed in Frankfurt, he knew all about saunas, javelin throwers, and the Finns’ dependence on the Russian economy.
As they walked into the tr
ansit lounge, Connor spotted the CIA agent immediately. He quickly detached himself from his escort, returning twenty minutes later, to Romanov’s evident relief.
Connor knew it would be easy to shake off his minder once they were back on his own territory, but he also knew that if he tried to escape, they would carry out the threat the Chief had so vividly described. He shuddered at the thought of any of those thugs laying a finger on Maggie or Tara.
The United Airlines 777 took off for Dulles on schedule. Connor managed to eat most of the first and second courses of his lunch. The moment the stewardess removed his tray, he pressed the button in his armrest, reclined his seat and began to think about Maggie. How he envied the fact that she could always … A few moments later he fell asleep on a plane for the first time in twenty years.
When he woke, they were serving a snack. He must have been the only person on the flight to eat everything they put in front of him, including the two pots of marmalade.
In the final hour before they were due to land in Washington, his thoughts returned to Chris Jackson and the sacrifice he’d made. Connor knew he could never repay him, but he was determined not to let it be a worthless gesture.
His mind switched to Dexter and Gutenburg, who must now be assuming he was dead. First they had sent him to Russia to save their own skins. Next they had murdered Joan, because she just might have passed some information on to Maggie. How long would it be before they decided Maggie herself had become too great a risk, and that she also needed to be disposed of?
The Eleventh Commandment Page 22
