‘I’m sure we can do that,’ said Gutenburg.
The Director nodded her agreement, then asked Ziegler: ‘Why did we develop this piece of equipment in the first place?’
‘It was set up in case the President died while America was at war, and we needed the enemy to believe he was still alive. But Tommy has many other uses, Director. For example …’
‘I’m sure he does,’ interrupted Dexter.
Ziegler looked disappointed, aware that the Director was coming to the end of her attention span.
‘How long would it take you to prepare a specific programme?’ Gutenburg asked.
‘How long will it take you to work out what the President needs to say?’ replied Ziegler, the childlike smile returning to his face.
She kept her finger on the buzzer until Connor finally picked up the phone on his desk.
‘What’s the problem, Joan? I’m not going deaf.’
‘I’ve got Ruth Preston, the President’s personal secretary, on the line.’
The next voice Connor heard was a woman’s. ‘Is that Connor Fitzgerald?’
‘Speaking,’ Connor replied. He could feel the sweat in the palm of the hand holding the phone. That never happened when he was waiting to pull the trigger.
‘I have the President on the line for you.’
He heard a click. ‘Good afternoon,’ a familiar voice said.
‘Good afternoon, Mr President.’
‘I think you know why I’m calling.’
‘Yes, sir, I do.’
Professor Ziegler pressed ‘Opening Statement’. The Director and Deputy Director held their breath.
‘I felt I had to call and let you know just how important I consider this assignment to be.’ Pause. ‘Because I have no doubt that you’re the right person to carry it out.’ Pause. ‘So I hope you will agree to take on the responsibility.’
Ziegler pressed the ‘Wait’ button.
‘I appreciate your confidence in me, Mr President,’ said Connor, ‘and I’m grateful to you for taking the time to phone personally …’
‘Number 11,’ said Ziegler, who knew all the replies by heart.
‘I felt it was the least I could do in the circumstances.’ Pause.
‘Thank you, Mr President. Although Mr Gutenburg assured me of your involvement, and the Director herself called later that afternoon to confirm it, as you know, I still felt unable to take on the assignment unless I was certain that the order had come directly from you.’
‘Number 7.’
‘I can quite understand your anxiety.’ Pause.
‘Number 19.’
‘Perhaps when this is all over you and your wife would come and visit me at the White House - that is, if the Director will allow it.’ Pause.
‘Number 3,’ said Ziegler sharply. There was a burst of loud laughter.
Connor moved the phone slightly away from his ear. ‘We would be honoured, sir,’ he said once the laughter had died away.
‘Closing statement,’ said Ziegler.
‘Good. I’ll look forward to seeing you as soon as you return.’ Pause. ‘I often think it’s sad that America doesn’t always appreciate its unsung heroes.’ Pause. ‘It was good talking to you. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Mr President.’
Connor was still holding the phone when Joan came into the room. ‘So that’s another myth exploded,’ she said as Connor replaced the receiver. He looked up at her and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘That the President always calls everyone by their first name.’
11
GUTENBURG HANDED HIM a large brown envelope containing four passports, three airline tickets and a bundle of notes in different currencies.
‘Don’t I have to sign for all this?’ asked Connor.
‘No. As it’s all been a bit rushed, we’ll deal with the paperwork when you get back. Once you arrive in Moscow, you’re to go to Zerimski’s campaign headquarters and show them your credentials as a freelance reporter from South Africa. They’ll give you a press pack detailing his schedule for the runup to the election.’
‘Do I have a contact in Moscow?’
‘Yes. Ashley Mitchell.’ Gutenburg hesitated. ‘It’s his first big assignment, and he’s been briefed strictly on a need-to-know basis. He’s also been instructed only to get in touch with you if it’s a green light, in which case he’ll supply you with the weapon.’
‘Make and model?’
‘The usual custom-made Remington 700,’ said Gutenburg. ‘But if Chernopov stays ahead in the polls, I don’t expect your services will be needed, in which case you’re to return to Washington the day after the election. I’m afraid this mission may turn out to be a bit of a non-event.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Connor, and left the Deputy Director without shaking hands.
‘I’m afraid my arm was twisted so far up my back that I couldn’t say no,’ said Connor, putting another blue shirt in his suitcase.
‘You could have refused,’ said Maggie. ‘Starting a new job on the first of the month would have been a convincing enough excuse.’ She paused. ‘What was Ben Thompson’s reaction?’
‘He’s been very understanding,’ said Connor. ‘He has no problem with me starting a month later. It seems December is always a quiet time.’ Connor pressed his clothes down, wondering how he would fit his spongebag in. He was already wishing he had allowed Maggie to pack for him, but hadn’t wanted her to come across several items that didn’t tie in with his story. He sat down heavily on the suitcase lid. Maggie snapped the lock shut, and they fell on the bed, laughing. He took her in his arms and held on to her a little too long.
‘Is everything all right, Connor?’ she asked quietly.
‘Everything’s just fine, honey,’ he said, releasing her.
He picked up the case and carried it downstairs. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be here for Thanksgiving. Don’t forget to tell Tara I’m looking forward to seeing her at Christmas,’ he said as Maggie followed him out of the front door. He stopped beside a car she had never seen before.
‘And Stuart too,’ she reminded him.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said as he placed the suitcase in the boot. ‘It will be good to see him again.’ Once more he took his wife in his arms. This time he made sure he didn’t hold on too long.
‘Heavens, what are we going to give Tara for Christmas?’ Maggie suddenly said. ‘I haven’t even thought about it.’
‘If you’d seen her latest phone bill, you wouldn’t have to think about it,’ said Connor, climbing behind the wheel.
‘I don’t remember this car,’ said Maggie.
‘It’s one of the company’s,’ he explained as he turned on the ignition. ‘By the way, could you let Father Graham know he’ll have to find someone else to make up his bridge four on Saturday? Goodbye, honey.’
Without another word he put the car into drive and eased it out onto the road. He hated saying goodbye to Maggie, and always tried to keep their farewells as short as possible. He checked in the rear-view mirror. She was standing at the end of the drive, waving, as he turned the corner onto Cambridge Place and headed for the airport.
When he reached the end of the Dulles access road, he didn’t need to look for the arrow pointing to the long-term parking lot. He drove down the ramp and took a ticket from the machine, then parked in a far corner. He locked the car and headed towards the airport entrance, then took the escalator up one flight to the United Airlines check-in desk.
‘Thank you, Mr Perry,’ said the uniformed assistant who checked his ticket. ‘Flight 918 is almost ready for boarding. Please make your way to Gate C7.’
After clearing security, Connor boarded a mobile lounge to the mid-field terminal. In the waiting area he sat in the far corner, and when the passengers were asked to board he took his usual window seat near the back. Twenty minutes later he was listening to the captain explaining that although they would not be taking off on time, they would somehow miraculously still be arriv
ing on schedule.
Back in the terminal, a young man in a dark blue suit dialled a number on his cellphone.
‘Yes?’ said a voice.
Agent Sullivan calling from “Coach House”. The bird has flown.’
‘Good. Report in again as soon as you’ve carried out the rest of your assignment.’ The line went dead.
The young man switched off his phone and took the escalator to the ground floor. He walked over to a car in the far corner of the long-term carpark, unlocked it, drove out of the lot, paid the parking ticket, and headed east.
Thirty minutes later he returned the keys to the car pool and signed the daily log. It showed that the vehicle had been checked out in his name and returned in his name.
‘Can you be absolutely sure there’ll be no trace of his ever having existed?’ asked the Director.
‘No trace whatsoever,’ said Gutenburg. ‘Don’t forget that as an NOC he was never on the Company’s books in the first place.’
‘But what about his wife?’
‘Why should she suspect anything? His monthly pay-cheque has been paid into their joint account. She won’t give it a second thought. As far as she’s concerned, he’s resigned from his present position and will be joining Washington Provident on the first of January.’
‘There’s still his former secretary.’
‘I’ve had her transferred to Langley so I can keep an eye on her.’
‘What division?’
‘Middle East.’
‘Why Middle East?’
‘Because she’ll have to be at the office during their working hours, from six in the evening until three in the morning. And for the next eight months I’m going to work her so hard that she’ll be too tired to think about anything other than what she’s going to do once she retires.’
‘Good. Where’s Fitzgerald at this moment?’
Gutenburg checked his watch. ‘Halfway across the Atlantic. He’ll be landing at London Heathrow in about four hours.’
And the car?’
‘Has already been returned to the pool. It’s currently being resprayed and given a new set of plates.’
What about his office on M Street?’
‘It will be stripped overnight, and that floor will be placed in the hands of real estate agents on Monday.’
‘You seem to have thought of everything except what happens when he returns to Washington,’ said the Director.
‘He isn’t going to return to Washington,’ replied Gutenburg.
Connor joined the long queue waiting to go through passport control. When he eventually reached the front, an official checked his passport and said, ‘I hope you have an enjoyable fortnight in Britain, Mr Perry.’
In the little box asking ‘How long do you intend to stay in the United Kingdom?’ Mr Perry had written ‘Fourteen days.’ But then, it would be Mr Lilystrand who returned to the airport the following morning.
Two men watched him as he left Terminal Three and boarded the bus for Victoria Coach Station. Forty-two minutes later, the same two men saw him join the queue at a taxi rank. Separately they followed the black cab to the Kensington Park Hotel, where one of them had already left a package for him in reception.
‘Any messages for me?’ Connor asked as he signed the registration form.
‘Yes, Mr Lilystrand,’ said the concierge. ‘A gentleman left this for you this morning.’ He handed Connor an enormous brown envelope. ‘Your room number is 211. The porter will bring up your luggage.’
‘I can manage it myself, thank you,’ he said.
As soon as Connor entered the room, he tore open the envelope. Inside was a ticket to Geneva in the name of Theodore Lilystrand, and a hundred Swiss francs. He slipped off his jacket and lay down on the bed, but despite being exhausted he was unable to sleep. He turned on the television and flicked through endless programmes - what Tara called channel surfing - but it didn’t help.
He had always disliked the waiting game. That was the only time doubts ever set in. He kept reminding himself that this would be his last mission. He began to think about Christmas with Maggie and Tara - and, yes, Stuart. He disliked not being allowed to carry photographs with him, always having to visualise them in his mind. Most of all, he hated not being able to just pick up a phone and talk to either of them whenever he felt like it.
Connor didn’t stir from his bed until it was dark. Then he emerged from his overnight prison cell to go in search of a meal. He bought an Evening Standard from a corner news-vendor and strolled into a small Italian restaurant on High Street, Kensington that was only half full.
The waiter showed him to a quiet table in the corner. The light was barely strong enough for him to read the paper. He ordered a Diet Coke with lots of ice. The British would never understand the meaning of ‘lots of ice’, and he was not surprised when the waiter returned a few minutes later bearing a long glass with three small ice cubes floating in it, and a tiny piece of lemon.
He ordered cannelloni and a side salad. Funny how he picked Maggie’s favourite dishes whenever he was abroad. Anything to remind him of her.
‘The one thing you have to do before you start your new job is find a decent tailor,’ Tara had said to him when they last spoke. ‘And I want to come with you so I can pick your shirts and ties.’
‘Your new job.’ Once again he thought about that letter. I am sorry to have to inform you … However many times he went over it, he still couldn’t think of a reason for Thompson to have changed his mind. It simply didn’t add up.
He began to read the front page of the paper: nine candidates were contesting an election to be the first Mayor of London. That’s odd, thought Connor: haven’t they always had a Mayor - what about Dick Whittington? He looked at the photographs of the contenders and their names, but they meant nothing to him. One of them would be running England’s capital in a couple of weeks’ time. He wondered where he would be then.
He paid the bill in cash and left a tip that would not give the waiter any reason to remember him. When he was back in his hotel room he switched on the television and watched a few minutes of a comedy that didn’t make him laugh. After trying a couple of movies, he slept intermittently. But he was comforted by the thought that at least he was better off than the two men stationed outside on the pavement, who wouldn’t sleep at all. He had spotted them within moments of landing at Heathrow.
He checked his watch. A few minutes after midnight - a few minutes after seven in Washington. He wondered what Maggie would be doing that evening.
‘And how’s Stuart?’ Maggie asked.
‘Still hanging in there,’ Tara replied. ‘He arrives in LA in fifteen days. I can’t wait.’
Will you both be flying straight here?’
‘No, Mom,’ said Tara, trying not to sound exasperated. As I’ve told you several times already, we’re going to rent a car and drive up the West Coast. Stuart’s never been to America, and he wants to see LA and San Francisco. Remember?’
‘Do drive carefully, won’t you?’
‘Mother, I’ve been driving for nine years without even a ticket, which is more than can be said for you or Dad. Now, will you stop worrying and tell me what you’re doing this evening?’
‘I’m going to hear Placido Domingo in La Boheme. I decided to wait until your father was out of town before I went, because I know he’d fall asleep before the first act was over.’
Are you going on your own?’
‘Yes.’
Well, be careful, Mother, and make sure you don’t sit in the first six rows.’
Why not?’ asked Maggie innocently.
‘Because some rich, handsome man might leap out of one of the boxes and ravish you.’
Maggie laughed. ‘I consider myself properly chastised.’
Why don’t you ask Joan to go with you? Then you can both talk about Dad all night.’
‘I called her at the office, but the number seems to be out of order. I’ll try her at home later.’
&
nbsp; ‘Bye, Mom, talk to you tomorrow,’ said Tara. She knew her mother would call every day while Connor was away.
Whenever Connor travelled abroad or took an evening off to partner Father Graham at the bridge club, Maggie would catch up with some of her university activities. Anything from GULP, the Georgetown University Litter Patrol, of which she was a founder member, to the Alive Women’s Poetry Society and the Irish dance class, where she gave lessons. The sight of the young students dancing, their backs straight, their feet tapping away, brought back memories of Declan O’Casey. He was now a distinguished professor, with a chair at the University of Chicago. He had never married, and still sent her a card every Christmas, and an unsigned one on Valentine’s Day. The old typewriter with the crooked ‘e’ always gave away his identity.
She picked up the phone again and dialled Joan’s home number, but there was no reply. She fixed herself a light salad, which she ate alone in the kitchen. After she had put the plate in the dishwasher she rang Joan again. There was still no answer, so she set off for the Kennedy Center. A single ticket was always easy to come by, however celebrated the guest tenor happened to be.
Maggie was transfixed by the first act of La Bohe`me, and only wished she had someone with whom to share the experience. When the curtain came down, she joined the throng heading for the foyer. As she approached the crowded bar, Maggie thought she caught a glimpse of Elizabeth Thompson. She remembered that she had invited her for coffee, but had never followed it up. She had been surprised, because the offer had sounded so genuine at the time.
When Ben Thompson turned and caught her eye, Maggie smiled and walked over to join them.
‘How nice to see you, Ben,’ she said.
‘And you too, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he replied, but not in the warm voice she remembered from dinner a fortnight before. And why hadn’t he called her Maggie?
Undaunted, she ploughed on. ‘Domingo is magnificent, don’t you think?’
The Eleventh Commandment (1998) Page 10
