The Eleventh Commandment (1998)

by Jeffrey Archer

  When he came back down in the lift a few minutes before twelve, the head porter didn’t recognise him. Connor left a duffle bag with him and said he would be back to pick it up around four. When the porter placed the bag under the counter he noticed the briefcase for the first time. As each bore a label with the same name, he put them together.

  Connor walked slowly up the side street next to Freedom Square. He passed two policemen who were questioning a tall, sandy-haired foreigner. They didn’t give him a second glance as he slipped inside and took the lift to the second-floor restaurant. He gave the head waiter his name, and was immediately directed to a corner table. He sat so that he was shielded from most of the other diners, but still had a bird’s-eye view of the square below.

  He was thinking about Tom Lawrence, and wondering how late he would leave it before he made up his mind, when a waiter appeared by his side and handed him the menu. Connor glanced out of the window, and was surprised to find that the square was already filling up, although there were still two hours to go before Zerimski was due to deliver his speech. Among the crowd he spotted several plain-clothes policemen. One or two of the younger ones were already clinging to statues and checking carefully around the square. But what were they looking for? Was the Chief of Police being over-cautious, or did he fear there might be some form of demonstration during Zerimski’s speech?

  The head waiter returned. ‘Could I please take your order, sir? The police have instructed us to close the restaurant before two o’clock.’

  ‘Then I’d better have the minute steak,’ said Connor.

  16

  ‘WHERE DO YOU THINK he is right now?’ asked Sergei.

  ‘He’ll be out there somewhere, but if I know him he’ll be damn near impossible to find in this crowd,’ said Jackson. ‘It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘Who ever lost a needle in a haystack?’

  ‘Stop making smart-assed remarks and do what you’re being paid for,’ said Jackson. ‘I’ll give you a ten-dollar bonus if you can spot him. Remember, he’s likely to be well disguised.’

  Sergei suddenly took a far greater interest in the crowd milling around in the square. ‘See that man on the top step in the north corner?’ he said. ‘Talking to a policeman.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Jackson.

  ‘That’s Vladimir Bolchenkov, the Chief of Police. A fair man, even though he’s the second most powerful person in St Petersburg.’

  ‘Who’s the first?’ asked Jackson. ‘The Mayor?’

  ‘No, his brother Joseph. He’s the city’s Mafya boss.’

  ‘Doesn’t that cause a slight conflict of interest?’

  ‘No. You only get arrested in St Petersburg if you’re not Mafya.’

  ‘Where do you get all your information?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘My mother. She’s slept with both of them.’

  Jackson laughed as they continued to watch the Chief talking to the uniformed officer. He would have liked to overhear their conversation. If it had been taking place in Washington, the CIA would have been able to play back every word that passed between them.

  ‘You see the young men draped around the statues?’ said the senior police officer standing next to Bolchenkov.

  What about them?’ said the Chief.

  ‘Just in case you were wondering why I haven’t arrested them, they’re all members of my team, and have a better view of the crowd than anyone. Look behind you, Chief: the hotdog salesman, the two men on the flower barrows and the four news-vendors are also mine. And I’ve got twelve busloads of uniformed police less than a block away, who can be pulled in at a moment’s notice. There will also be another hundred plain-clothes men drifting in and out of the square during the next hour. Every exit is covered, and anyone who has a view of the square will have one of my men within a few feet of him.’

  ‘If he’s as good as I think he is,’ said the Chief, ‘he’ll have found somewhere you haven’t thought of

  Connor ordered a cup of coffee and continued to watch the activity taking place in the square below. Although there were still thirty minutes to go before the candidate was due to arrive, the square was already packed with everyone from Zerimski-worshippers to the simply curious. He was amused by how hard the hotdog vendor was trying to disguise the fact that he was a policeman. The poor man had just received another voluble complaint - probably forgotten the ketchup. Connor turned his attention to the far side of the square. The little stand erected for the press was now the only area that remained unoccupied. He wondered why so many plain-clothes detectives were milling around, far more than was necessary to keep a casual passer-by from straying into a reserved area. Something didn’t add up. He was distracted by a hot coffee being placed in front of him. He checked his watch. Zerimski should have finished his meeting with General Borodin by now. The outcome would lead the news on all the networks that evening. Connor wondered if he would be able to tell from Zerimski’s manner if a deal had been struck.

  He called for the bill, and while he waited he concentrated on the scene below him for the last time. No professional would ever have considered Freedom Square a suitable target area. Besides all the problems he had already identified, the Chief of Police’s thoroughness was evident for anyone to see. Despite this, Connor felt that the sheer size of the crowd would give him his best opportunity yet to study Zerimski at close quarters, which was why he had decided not to sit among the press on this occasion.

  He paid his bill in cash, walked slowly over to the girl seated in the little booth and passed her a ticket. She handed him his hat and coat, and he gave her a five-rouble note. Old people always leave small tips, he’d read somewhere.

  He joined a large group of workers streaming out of offices on the first floor, who had obviously been given time off to attend the rally. Any managers within a mile of the square had probably accepted that not much work was going to be done that afternoon. Two plain-clothes policemen standing a few yards from the door were scrutinising the group of workers, but because of the freezing air they were revealing as little of themselves as possible. Connor found himself being borne along by the crowd as it flowed out onto the pavement.

  Freedom Square was already packed as Connor tried to squeeze between the bodies and make his way towards the podium. The crowd must be well over seventy thousand strong. He knew that the Chief of Police would have been praying for a thunderstorm, but it was a typical winter’s day in St Petersburg - cold, sharp and clear. He looked towards the roped-off press enclosure, which still seemed to have a considerable amount of activity going on around it. He smiled when he spotted Mitchell in his usual place, about ten feet from where he himself would normally have been seated. Not today, my friend. At least this time Mitchell was wearing a warm overcoat and the appropriate headgear.

  ‘Good day for pickpockets,’ said Sergei, scanning the crowd.

  ‘Would they risk it with this sort of police presence?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘You can always find a cop when you don’t need one,’ said Sergei. ‘I’ve already seen some old lags leaving with wallets. But the police don’t seem interested.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ve got enough problems on their hands, what with a crowd of nearly a hundred thousand and Zerimski expected to arrive at any moment.’

  Sergei’s eyes settled on the Chief of Police. ‘Where is he?’ Bolchenkov was asking a sergeant with a walkie-talkie.

  ‘He left the meeting with Borodin eighteen minutes ago, and is being driven down Preyti Street. He should be with us in about seven minutes.’

  ‘Then in seven minutes our problems begin,’ said the Chief, checking his watch.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s possible our man might just try taking a shot at Zerimski while he’s in the car?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said the Chief. ‘We’re dealing with a pro. He wouldn’t consider a moving target, especially one in a bulletproof car. In any case, he couldn’t be certain which vehicle Zerimski was in. No, our man
’s out there in that crowd somewhere, I feel it in my bones. Don’t forget, the last time he tried something like this, it was a standing target in the open. That way it’s almost impossible to hit the wrong person; and with a big crowd you have a better chance of escaping.’

  Connor was still edging his way slowly towards the platform. He cast an eye round the crowd, and identified several more plain-clothes policemen. Zerimski wouldn’t mind, as they would only add to the numbers. All he would care about was having a larger turnout than Chernopov.

  Connor checked the roofs. A dozen or so marksmen were scanning the crowd with binoculars. They couldn’t have been more obvious if they’d been wearing yellow tracksuits. There were also at least a couple of hundred uniformed police standing around the perimeter of the square. The Chief obviously believed in the value of deterrence.

  The windows of the buildings around the square were crammed with office-workers trying to get the best possible view of what was going on below them. Once again Connor glanced towards the roped-off press enclosure, which was now beginning to fill up. The police were checking everyone’s credentials carefully - nothing unusual about that, except that some of the journalists were being asked to remove their headgear. Connor watched for a few moments. Everyone being challenged had two things in common: they were male, and they were tall. It caused him to stop in his tracks. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Mitchell a few paces away from him in the crowd. He frowned. How had the young agent recognised him?

  Suddenly, without warning, a loud roar came from behind him, as if a rock star had arrived on stage. He turned and watched Zerimski’s motorcade make its slow progress around three sides of the square, coming to a halt in the north-west corner. The crowd was applauding enthusiastically, although they couldn’t possibly see the candidate, as the windows of all the cars were black. The doors of the Zil limousines were opened, but there was no way of knowing if Zerimski was among those who had stepped out, as he was surrounded by so many burly bodyguards.

  When the candidate finally mounted the steps a few moments later, the crowd began cheering even louder, reaching a climax as he walked to the front of the stage. He stopped and waved first in one direction and then another. By now Connor could have told you how many paces he would take before he turned and waved again.

  People were leaping up and down to get a better view, but Connor ignored the bedlam all around him. He kept his eye on the police, most of whom were looking away from the stage. They were searching for something, or someone, in particular. A thought flashed across his mind, but he dismissed it at once. No, it wasn’t possible. Paranoia setting in. He’d once been told by a veteran agent that it was always at its worst on your last assignment.

  But if you were in any doubt, the rule was always the same: get yourself out of the danger area. He looked around the square, quickly weighing up which exit he should take. The crowd was beginning to calm down as they waited for Zerimski to speak. Connor decided he would start moving towards the north end of the square the moment there was a burst of prolonged applause. That way it was less likely that he’d be noticed slipping through the crowd. He glanced, almost as a reflex action, to see where Mitchell was. He was still standing a few yards to his right, if anything a little closer than when he had first spotted him.

  Zerimski approached the microphone with his hands raised, to let the crowd know that he was about to begin his speech.

  ‘I’ve seen the needle,’ said Sergei.

  ‘Where?’ demanded Jackson.

  ‘There, about twenty paces from stage. He has different-coloured hair and walks like an old man. You owe me ten dollars.’

  ‘How did you pick him out from this distance?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘He is the only one trying to leave the square.’

  Jackson passed over a ten-dollar bill as Zerimski stopped in front of the microphone. The old man who had introduced him in Moscow sat alone at the back of the stage. Zerimski didn’t allow that kind of mistake to happen a second time.

  ‘Comrades,’ he began resonantly, ‘it is a great honour for me to stand before you as your candidate. As each day passes, I become more and more aware …’

  As Connor scanned the crowd, he once again caught sight of Mitchell. He’d taken another step towards him.

  ‘Although few of our citizens wish to return to the old totalitarian days of the past, the vast majority …’

  Just the odd word change here and there, thought Connor. He noticed that Mitchell had taken another step towards him.

  ‘… want to see a fairer distribution of the wealth that has been created by their skills and hard work.’ As the crowd began to cheer, Connor quickly moved a few paces to his right. When the applause died down, he froze, not moving a muscle.

  ‘Why is the man on the bench following your friend?’ asked Sergei.

  ‘Because he’s an amateur,’ said Jackson.

  ‘Or a professional who knows exactly what he’s doing?’ suggested Sergei.

  ‘My God, don’t tell me I’m losing my touch,’ said Jackson.

  ‘So far he’s done everything but kiss him,’ said Sergei.

  ‘Look at the streets of St Petersburg, comrades,’ continued Zerimski. ‘Yes, you will see Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars, but who is driving them? Only the privileged few …’

  When the crowd burst into applause again, Connor took a few more steps towards the north end of the square.

  ‘I look forward to the day when this is not the only country on earth where limousines outnumber family cars …’

  Connor glanced back to find that Mitchell had taken two or three more steps in his direction. What was he playing at?

  ‘… and where there are more Swiss bank accounts than hospitals.’

  He would have to lose him during the next burst of applause. He concentrated on Zerimski’s words, to anticipate exactly when he would make his move.

  ‘I think I’ve spotted him,’ said a plain-clothes policeman who was sweeping the crowd through a pair of binoculars.

  ‘Where, where?’ demanded Bolchenkov, grabbing the glasses.

  ‘Twelve o’clock, fifty yards back, not moving a muscle. He’s in front of a woman wearing a red scarf. He doesn’t look like his photograph, but whenever there’s a burst of applause he moves too quickly for a man of that age.’

  Bolchenkov began focusing the glasses. ‘Got him,’ he said. After a few seconds he added, ‘Yes, it might just be him. Brief those two at one o’clock to move in and arrest him, and tell the pair twenty yards in front of him to cover them. Let’s get it over with as quickly as possible.’ The young officer looked anxious. ‘If we’ve made a mistake,’ said the Chief, ‘I’ll take the responsibility.’

  ‘Let us never forget,’ continued Zerimski, ‘that Russia can once again be the greatest nation on earth …’

  Mitchell was now only a pace away from Connor, who was studiously ignoring him. In just a few more seconds there would be an extended ovation when Zerimski told the crowd what he intended to do when he became President. No bank accounts supplied by the bribes of dishonest businessmen - that always got the loudest cheer of all. Then he’d be clean away, and would make sure that Mitchell was transferred to a desk job in some mosquito-infested backwater.

  ‘… I shall be dedicating myself to your service, and be more than satisfied with the salary of a President, rather than taking bribes from dishonest businessmen whose only interest is in pillaging the nation’s assets.’

  The crowd erupted into cheers. Connor turned suddenly and began moving to his right. He had taken almost three strides when the first policeman grabbed his left arm. A second later another came at him from the right. He was thrown to the ground, but made no attempt to resist. Rule one: when you’ve nothing to hide, don’t resist arrest. His hands were wrenched behind his back and a pair of handcuffs snapped around his wrists. The crowd began to form a little circle around the three men on the ground. They were now far more interested in th
e sideshow than in Zerimski’s words. Mitchell hung back slightly, and waited for the inevitable ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Mafya hitman,’ he whispered into the ears of those nearest him. He moved back towards the press enclosure, muttering the words ‘Mafya hitman’ periodically.

  ‘Let me leave you good citizens in no doubt that if I were to be elected President, you can be sure of one thing …’

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ said a third man whom Connor couldn’t see because his nose was being pressed firmly against the ground.

  ‘Take him away,’ said the same authoritative voice, and Connor was bundled off towards the north end of the square.

  Zerimski had spotted the disturbance in the crowd, but like an old pro he ignored it. ‘If Chernopov were to be elected, the Americans would be more concerned about the views of Mexico than those of Russia,’ he continued unfalteringly.

  Jackson never took his eyes off Connor as the crowd quickly divided, making a path to allow the police through.

  ‘My friends, there are only six days to go before the people decide …’

  Mitchell walked quickly away from the commotion and headed towards the press stand.

  ‘Don’t do it for me. Don’t even do it for the Communist Party. Do it for the next generation of Russians …’

  The police car, surrounded by four motorcycles, began to make its way out of the square.

  ‘… who will then be able to play their part as citizens of the greatest nation on earth. I ask for only one thing - the privilege of being allowed to lead those people.’ This time he was silent until he was sure he had the attention of everyone in the square, before ending softly with the words, ‘Comrades, I offer myself as your servant.’