The Eleventh Commandment (1998)

by Jeffrey Archer

  He stood back, and suddenly the noise of the police sirens was obliterated by the roar of a hundred thousand voices.

  Jackson looked towards the press enclosure. He could see that the journalists were far more interested in the disappearing police car than in Zerimski’s frequently repeated words.

  ‘Mafya hitman,’ the Turkish journalist was informing a colleague - a ‘fact’ that she had picked up from someone in the crowd, whom she would later quote as ‘an authoritative source’.

  Mitchell was looking up at a row of television cameramen who were following the progress of the police car as it disappeared out of sight, its blue lamp flashing. His eyes settled on the one person he needed to speak to. He waited patiently for Clifford Symonds to look in his direction, and when he eventually did, Mitchell waved his arms to indicate that he needed to speak to him urgently. The CNN reporter quickly joined the American Cultural Attache among the cheering throng.

  Zerimski remained in the centre of the platform, soaking up the adulation of the crowd. He had no intention of leaving while they were still howling their approval.

  Symonds listened carefully to what Mitchell had to tell him. He was due on air in twelve minutes. The smile on his face became broader by the second.

  ‘Are you absolutely certain?’ he asked, when Mitchell had finished speaking.

  ‘Have I ever let you down in the past?’ Mitchell asked, trying to sound offended.

  ‘No,’ said Symonds apologetically. ‘You never have.’

  ‘But you must keep this piece of information a million miles away from the Embassy.’

  ‘Of course. But who shall I say is my source?’

  ‘A resourceful and diligent police force. That’s the last thing the Chief of Police is going to deny.’

  Symonds laughed. ‘I’d better get back to my producer if I’m going to lead on this for the morning newscast.’

  ‘OK,’ said Mitchell. ‘Just remember - make sure it can’t be traced back to me.’

  ‘Have I ever let you down in the past?’ retorted Symonds. He turned and dashed back towards the press enclosure.

  Mitchell slipped away in the opposite direction. There was still one more receptive ear in which he needed to plant the story, and it would have to be done before Zerimski left the stage.

  A protective line of bodyguards was barring any over-enthusiastic supporters from getting near the candidate. Mitchell could see his press secretary only a few yards away, basking in the cheers his leader was receiving.

  Mitchell told one of the guards in perfect Russian who he needed to speak to. The thug turned around and shouted at the press secretary. If Zerimski was elected, thought Mitchell, it wasn’t exactly going to be a subtle administration. The press secretary made an immediate sign to let the American through, and he entered the cordoned-off area and joined another of his chess partners. He briefed him quickly, telling him that de Villiers had been disguised as an old man, and which hotel he’d been seen leaving just before he’d entered the restaurant.

  By the end of the day, it would have dawned on Fitzgerald and Jackson that they had both been dealing with a real professional.

  17

  THE PRESIDENT and his Chief of Staff sat alone in the Oval Office, watching the early-morning news. Neither of them spoke as Clifford Symonds presented his report.

  ‘An international terrorist was arrested in Freedom Square this afternoon during a speech given by the Communist leader Victor Zerimski. The as-yet unnamed man is being held in the notorious Crucifix Prison in the centre of St Petersburg. The local police are not ruling out the possibility that this may be the same man who was recently linked with the assassination of Ricardo Guzman, a presidential candidate in Colombia. The man who police have arrested is thought to have been following Zerimski for several days while he was campaigning around the country. Only last week he was described in Time magazine as the most expensive hired gun in the west. He is thought to have been offered a million dollars by the Russian Mafya to remove Zerimski from the presidential race. When the police tried to arrest him, it took four of them just to hold him down.’

  Some footage followed of a man being arrested in the crowd and hustled away, but the best shot they had managed was the back of a head covered in a fur hat. Symonds’ face reappeared on the screen.

  ‘The Communist candidate continued to deliver his speech, although the arrest took place only a few yards in front of the platform. Zerimski later praised the St Petersburg police for their diligence and professionalism, and vowed that however many attempts were made on his life, nothing would deter him from his fight against organised crime. Zerimski is currently running neck and neck with Prime Minister Chernopov in the opinion polls, but many observers feel that today’s incident will give a boost to his popularity in the final run-up to the election.

  ‘A few hours before Zerimski addressed the rally, he held a private meeting with General Borodin at his headquarters on the north side of the city. No one knows the outcome of those talks, but the General’s spokesmen are not denying that he will soon be making a statement about whether he intends to continue his campaign for President, and perhaps more importantly, which of the two remaining candidates he would pledge to support were he to withdraw. The election has suddenly been thrown wide open. This is Clifford Symonds, CNN International, in Freedom Square, St Petersburg.’

  ‘On Monday the Senate will continue to debate the Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction …’

  The President pressed a button on his remote control, and the screen went blank.

  ‘And you’re telling me that the man they’ve arrested has no connection with the Russian Mafya, but is a CIA agent?’

  ‘Yes. I’m waiting for Jackson to call in and confirm that it’s the same man who killed Guzman.’

  ‘What do I say to the press if they question me about this?’

  ‘You’ll have to bluff, because we don’t need anyone to know that the man they’re holding is one of ours.’

  ‘But it would finish off Dexter and her little shit of a Deputy once and for all.’

  ‘Not if you claimed you knew nothing about it, because then half the population would dismiss you as a CIA dupe. But if you admit you did know, the other half would want you impeached. So for now I suggest you confine yourself to saying that you are awaiting the result of the Russian elections with interest.’

  ‘You bet I am,’ said Lawrence. ‘The last thing I need is for that evil little fascist Zerimski to become President. We’d be back to Star Wars overnight.’

  ‘I expect that’s exactly why the Senate is holding out on your Arms Reduction Bill. They won’t want to make a final decision until they know the outcome of the election.’

  Lawrence nodded. ‘If it’s one of ours they’ve got holed up in that goddamn jail, we’ve got to do something about it, and quickly. Because if Zerimski does become President, then God help him. I certainly wouldn’t be able to.’

  Connor didn’t speak. He was wedged between two officers in the back of the police car. He knew these young men had neither the rank nor the authority to question him. That would come later, and from someone with a lot more braid on his lapel.

  As they drove through the vast wooden gates of the Crucifix prison and into a cobbled yard, the first thing Connor saw was the reception party. Three massive men in prisoners’ garb stepped forward, almost pulled the car’s back door off its hinges and dragged him out. The young policemen who had been sitting on either side of him looked terrified.

  The three thugs quickly bundled the new prisoner across the yard and into a long, bleak corridor. That was when the kicking and punching began. Connor would have protested, but their vocabulary seemed to consist only of grunts. When they reached the far end of the corridor, one of them pulled open a heavy steel door and the other two threw him into a tiny cell. He made no effort to struggle when they removed first his shoes, then his watch, wedding ring and wallet - from which they would lea
rn nothing. They left, slamming the cell door closed behind them.

  Connor rose slowly to his feet and warily stretched his limbs, trying to discover if any bones had been broken. There didn’t seem to be any permanent damage, he decided, although the bruises were already beginning to appear. He looked around the room, which wasn’t much larger than the sleeping compartment he’d travelled in from Moscow. The green brick walls looked as if they hadn’t seen a splash of paint since the turn of the century.

  Connor had spent eighteen months in a far more restricted space in Vietnam. Then his orders had been clear: when questioned by the enemy, give only your name, rank and serial number. The same rules did not apply to those who lived by the Eleventh Commandment:

  Thou shalt not get caught. But if you are, deny absolutely that you have anything to do with the CIA. Don’t worry - the Company will always take care of you.

  Connor realised that in his case he could forget ‘the usual diplomatic channels’, despite Gutenburg’s reassurances. Lying on the bunk in his tiny cell, it now all fell so neatly into place.

  He hadn’t been asked to sign for the cash, or for the car. And he now remembered the sentence he’d been trying to recall from the recesses of his mind. He went over it word by word:

  ‘If it’s your new job you’re worrying about, I’d be happy to have a word with the Chairman of the company you’re joining and explain to him that it’s only a short-term assignment.’

  How did Gutenburg know he’d been interviewed for a new job, and that he was dealing directly with the Chairman of the company? He knew because he’d already spoken to Ben Thompson. That was the reason they had withdrawn their offer. ‘I’m sorry to inform you … ‘

  As for Mitchell, he should have seen through that angelic choirboy facade. But he was still puzzled by the phone call from the President. Why had Lawrence never once referred to him by name? And the sentences had been a little disjointed, the laugh a little too loud.

  Even now he found it hard to believe the lengths to which Helen Dexter was willing to go to save her own skin. He stared up at the ceiling. If the President had never made the phone call in the first place, he realised he had no hope of being released from the Crucifix. Dexter had successfully removed the one person who might expose her, and Lawrence could do nothing about it.

  Connor’s unquestioning acceptance of the CIA operative’s code had made him a willing pawn in her survival plan. No Ambassador would be making diplomatic protests on his behalf. There would be no food parcels. He would have to take care of himself, just as he had in Vietnam. And he had already been told by one of the young officers who’d arrested him of another problem he would face this time: no one had escaped from the Crucifix in eighty-four years.

  The cell door suddenly swung open, and a man dressed in a light blue uniform covered in gold braid walked in. He took his time lighting a cigarette. His fifteenth that day.

  Jackson remained in the square until the police car was out of sight. He was furious with himself. He finally turned and marched off, leaving the cheering mob behind him, walking so quickly that Sergei had to run to keep up with him. The young Russian had already decided that this was not a time to be asking questions. The word ‘Mafya’ was on the lips of everyone they passed in the street. Sergei was relieved when Jackson stopped and hailed a taxi.

  Jackson could only admire how well Mitchell - no doubt guided by Dexter and Gutenburg - had carried out the whole operation. It was a classic CIA sting, but with a difference: this time it was one of their own they had ruthlessly left languishing in a foreign jail.

  He tried not to think about what they would be putting Connor through. Instead he concentrated on the report he was about to make to Andy Lloyd. If only he had been able to contact him the previous night, he might have got the go-ahead to pull Connor out. His cellphone still wasn’t working, so he was going to have to risk using the phone in his hotel room. After twenty-nine years, he had been given one chance to balance the books. And he had been found wanting.

  The taxi stopped outside Jackson’s hotel. He paid the fare and ran inside. Not bothering to wait for the elevator, he leapt up the stairs until he reached the first floor and then sprinted down the corridor to Room 132. Sergei had only just caught up with him by the time he had turned the key and opened the door.

  The young Russian sat on the floor in the corner of the room and listened to one half of a conversation Jackson had with someone called Lloyd. When he eventually put the phone down, Jackson was white and trembling with rage.

  Sergei spoke for the first time since they had left the square: ‘Maybe it’s time I called one of my mother’s customers.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Dexter the moment Gutenburg entered her office. The Deputy Director smiled as he took the seat opposite his boss and placed a folder on her desk.

  ‘I’ve just been watching the headlines on ABC and CBS,’ she said. ‘They’ve both run with Symonds’ version of what took place in Freedom Square. Is there any feel yet as to how big the press are going to play the story tomorrow?’

  ‘They’re already losing interest. Not a shot was fired, not even a punch was thrown, and the suspect turned out to be unarmed. And no one’s suggesting that the man they’ve arrested might be an American. By this time tomorrow, the story will only be making the front pages in Russia.’

  ‘How are we responding to any press enquiries?’

  ‘We’re saying that it’s an internal problem for the Russians, and that in St Petersburg hired gunmen come cheaper than a decent wristwatch. I tell them they only have to read Time’s piece on the Russian Godfather last month to appreciate the problems they’re facing. If they push me, I point them in the direction of Colombia. If they keep on pushing, I throw in South Africa. That gives them several column inches to feed their hungry editors.’

  ‘Did any of the networks show footage of Fitzgerald after he’d been arrested?’

  ‘Only the back of his head, and even then he was surrounded by police. Otherwise you can be sure they’d have run it over and over.’

  ‘What chance is there of him appearing in public and making a statement that would compromise us, and that the press might follow up?’

  ‘Virtually none. If they ever do hold a trial, the foreign press will certainly be excluded. And if Zerimski’s elected, Fitzgerald will never set foot outside the Crucifix again.’

  ‘Have you prepared a report for Lawrence?’ asked Dexter. ‘Because you can be sure he’ll be trying to make two and two equal six.’

  Gutenburg leant forward and tapped the file he had placed on the Director’s desk.

  She flicked it open and began reading, showing no sign of emotion as she turned the pages. When she reached the end, she closed the file and allowed a flicker of a smile to cross her face before passing it back across the table.

  ‘See that it’s signed in your name and sent over to the White House immediately,’ she said. ‘Because whatever doubts the President may have at this moment, if Zerimski becomes President, he will never want to refer to the subject again.’

  Gutenburg nodded his agreement.

  Helen Dexter looked across the desk at her deputy. ‘It’s a pity we had to sacrifice Fitzgerald,’ she said. ‘But if it helps to get Zerimski elected, it will have served a double purpose. Lawrence’s Arms Reduction Bill will be rejected by Congress, and the CIA will have far less interference from the White House.’

  Connor swung his legs off the bunk, placed his bare feet on the stone floor and faced his visitor. The Chief took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke high into the air. ‘Filthy habit,’ he said, in flawless English. ‘My wife never stops telling me to give it up.’

  Connor showed no emotion.

  ‘My name is Vladimir Bolchenkov. I am the Chief of Police of this city, and I thought we might have a little chat before we think about putting anything on the record.’

  ‘My name is Piet de Villiers. I am a South African citizen working for the J
ohannesburg Journal, and I wish to see my Ambassador.’

  ‘Now there’s my first problem,’ said Bolchenkov, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. ‘You see, I don’t believe your name is Piet de Villiers, I’m fairly sure you’re not South African, and I know for certain that you don’t work for the Johannesburg Journal, because there’s no such paper. And just so we don’t waste too much of each other’s time, I have it on the highest authority that you were not hired by the Mafya. Now, I admit that I don’t yet know who you are, or even which country you come from. But whoever it is that sent you has, to use a modern colloquialism, dropped you in deep shit. And, if I may say so, from a very great height.’

  Connor didn’t even blink.

  ‘But I can assure you that they are not going to do the same thing to me. So if you feel unable to assist with my enquiries, there is nothing I can do except leave you here to rot, while I continue to bask in the glory that is currently being undeservedly heaped upon me.’

  Connor still didn’t react.

  ‘I see that I’m not getting through to you,’ said the Chief. ‘I feel it’s my duty to point out that this isn’t Colombia, and that I will not be switching my allegiance according to who I’ve spoken to most recently, or who offers me the thickest wad of dollars.’ He paused and drew on his cigarette again before adding, ‘I suspect that’s one of the many things we have in common.’

  He turned and began walking towards the cell door, then stopped. ‘I’ll leave you to think it over. But if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t wait too long.’

  He banged on the door. ‘Let me assure you, whoever you are,’ he added as the door was opened, ‘there will be no thumbscrews, no rack, or any other, more sophisticated forms of torment while I’m St Petersburg’s Chief of Police. I don’t believe in torture; it’s not my style. But I cannot promise you everything will be quite so friendly if Victor Zerimski is elected as our next President.’