The Eleventh Commandment (1998)

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘That’s not possible,’ began Maggie. ‘Connor would never …’

  ‘I think it might be wise, Mrs Fitzgerald, to allow Mr Farnham to speak on behalf of all of you in future,’ said the man. Maggie would have corrected him if Tara hadn’t quickly kicked her leg. ‘You’ll need these,’ he said, handing over three passports to Stuart. He checked them and passed one to Maggie and another to Tara, as the man returned to the cockpit.

  Stuart looked down at the remaining passport, which like the other two bore the American eagle on its cover. When he flicked it open he found his own photograph above the name ‘Daniel Farnham’. Profession: University law professor. Address: 75 Marina Boulevard, San Francisco, California. He passed it across to Tara, who looked puzzled.

  ‘I do like dealing with professionals,’ said Stuart. ‘And I’m beginning to realise that your father is one of the best.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t remember any more words?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Stuart. ‘No, wait a moment - “anarchy”.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘Now I know where we’re going.’

  It’s a long drive from Dallas to Washington. The two thugs who had dropped Connor and Romanov off at the airport had always planned to break the journey somewhere before continuing to the capital the following day. Just after nine o’clock that evening, having covered around four hundred miles, they pulled into a motel on the outskirts of Memphis.

  The two senior CIA officers who watched them park their BMW reported back to Gutenburg forty-five minutes later. ‘They’ve checked into the Memphis Marriott, rooms 107 and 108. They ordered room service at nine thirty-three, and are currently in Room 107 watching Nash Bridges.’

  ‘Where’s the rifle?’ asked Gutenburg.

  ‘It’s handcuffed to the wrist of the man booked into Room 108.’

  ‘Then you’re going to need a waiter and a pass key,’ said Gutenburg.

  Just after ten o’clock, a waiter appeared in Room 107 and set up a table for dinner. He opened a bottle of red wine, poured two glasses and laid out the food. He told the guests he would return in about forty minutes to clear the table. One of them told him to cut up his steak into little pieces, as he only had the use of one hand. The waiter was happy to oblige. ‘Enjoy,’ he added, as he left the room.

  The waiter then went straight to the carpark and reported to the senior officer, who thanked him, then made a further request. The waiter nodded, and the agent handed him a fifty-dollar bill.

  ‘Obviously not willing to let go of it even when he’s eating,’ said the other agent once the waiter was out of earshot.

  The waiter returned to the carpark a few minutes after midnight, to report that both men had gone to bed in their own rooms. He handed over a pass-key, and in return was given another fifty-dollar bill. He left feeling he’d done a good night’s work. What he didn’t know was that the man in Room 107 had taken the keys of the handcuffs, so as to be sure that no one would try and steal the briefcase from his partner while he was asleep.

  When the guest in 107 woke the following morning, he felt unusually drowsy. He checked his watch, and was surprised to find how late it was. He pulled on his jeans and hurried through the connecting door to wake his partner. He came to a sudden halt, fell on his knees and began to vomit. Lying on the carpet in a pool of blood was a severed hand.

  As they stepped off the plane in Cape Town, Stuart was aware of the presence of two men watching their every move. An immigration officer stamped their passports, and they headed towards the baggage claim area. After only a few minutes, luggage began to appear on the carousel. Maggie was surprised to see two of her old suitcases coming down the chute. Stuart was starting to get used to the way Connor Fitzgerald operated.

  Once they had retrieved their bags, Stuart put them all on a trolley and they walked towards the green customs exit. The two men filed in close behind them.

  As Stuart was wheeling the trolley through customs, an officer stepped into his path, pointed to the red suitcase and asked if the owner would place it on the counter. Stuart helped Maggie lift it, as the two men following them reluctantly moved on. Once they had passed through the sliding doors they stationed themselves a few feet from the exit. Each time the doors opened, they could be seen peering back through. Within moments they were joined by two other men.

  Would you open the case, please, ma’am,’ asked the customs officer.

  Maggie flicked up the catches and smiled at the mess that greeted her. Only one person could have packed that case. The customs officer dug around among her clothes for a few moments, and eventually came out with a cosmetics bag. He unzipped it and removed a small cellophane packet which contained a white powdery substance.

  ‘But that isn’t…’ began Maggie. This time it was Stuart who restrained her.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to conduct a body search, ma’am,’ said the officer. ‘Perhaps, in the circumstances, your daughter would like to join you.’

  Stuart wondered how the officer could possibly have known that Tara was Maggie’s daughter, when he apparently didn’t assume that he was her son.

  ‘Would all three of you care to follow me,’ said the officer. ‘Please bring the case, and the rest of your luggage.’ He lifted a section of the counter and ushered them through a door that led into a small, drab room with a table and two chairs. ‘One of my colleagues will join you in a moment,’ he said. He closed the door, and they heard the key turning in the lock.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Maggie. ‘That bag wasn’t …’

  ‘I expect we’re about to find out,’ said Stuart.

  A door on the far side of the room opened, and a tall, athletic-looking man, who didn’t have a hair on his head although he couldn’t have been a day over fifty, bounced into the room. He was dressed in blue jeans and a red sweater, and certainly didn’t give the impression of being a customs officer. He went straight over to Maggie, took her right hand and kissed it.

  ‘My name is Carl Koeter,’ he said in a broad South African accent. ‘This is a great honour for me, Mrs Fitzgerald. I’ve wanted for many years to meet the woman who was brave enough to marry Connor Fitzgerald. He called me yesterday afternoon and asked me to assure you that he’s very much alive.’

  Maggie would have said something, but the flow didn’t stop.

  ‘Of course I know far more about you than you do about me, but unhappily on this occasion we will not have time to remedy that.’ He smiled at Stuart and Tara, and bowed slightly. ‘Perhaps you would all be kind enough to follow me.’

  He turned, and began to push the trolley through the door.

  ‘”Always we’d have the new friend meet the old“,’ Maggie whispered. Stuart smiled.

  The South African led them down a steep ramp and along a dark, empty passageway. Maggie quickly caught up with him, and immediately began to question him about his phone conversation with Connor. At the end of the tunnel they climbed up another ramp, and emerged on the far side of the airport. Koeter guided them quickly through security, where they were met with only the most cursory of checks. After another long trek they arrived in an empty departure lounge, where Koeter handed over three tickets to a gate agent and received three boarding passes for a Qantas flight to Sydney that had been mysteriously held up for fifteen minutes.

  ‘How can we begin to thank you?’ asked Maggie.

  Koeter took her hand and kissed it again. ‘Ma’am,’ he replied, ‘you will find people all over the world who will never be able to fully repay Connor Fitzgerald.’

  They both sat watching the television. Neither of them spoke until the twelve-minute clip had come to an end.

  ‘Could it be possible?’ said the Director quietly.

  ‘Only if he somehow changed places with him in the Crucifix,’ replied Gutenburg.

  Dexter was silent for some time before she said, ‘Jackson would only have done that if he was willing to sacrifice his own life.’

  Gutenb
urg nodded.

  ‘And who’s the man who paid for the rifle?’

  ‘Alexei Romanov, the son of the Czar and the number two in the Russian Mafya. One of our agents spotted him at Frankfurt airport, and we suspect he and Fitzgerald are now working together.’

  ‘So it must have been the Mafya who got him out of the Crucifix,’ said Dexter. ‘But if he needed a Remington 700, who’s the target?’

  ‘The President,’ said Gutenburg.

  ‘You could be right,’ replied Dexter. ‘But which one?’

  28

  THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES and the Secretary of State were among the seventy-two officials lined up on the runway when the Russian Air Force Ilyushin 62 landed at Andrews Air Force Base just outside Washington DC. The red carpet had already been rolled out, a podium with a dozen microphones was in place, and a wide staircase was being towed towards the exact spot on the tarmac where the aircraft would taxi to a standstill.

  As the door of the plane opened, Tom Lawrence shielded his eyes from the bright morning sun. A tall, slim stewardess was standing in the doorway. A moment later a short, squat man appeared next to her. Although Lawrence knew that Zerimski was only five foot four, standing next to the tall stewardess cruelly emphasised his lack of stature. Lawrence doubted if it would be possible for a man of Zerimski’s height to become President of the United States.

  As Zerimski slowly descended the steps, the massed ranks of photographers began clicking furiously. From behind their cordon, camera crews from every network focused on the man who would dominate the world’s news for the next four days.

  The US Chief of Protocol stepped forward to introduce the two Presidents, and Lawrence shook hands warmly with his guest. ‘Welcome to the United States, Mr President.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Zerimski, immediately wrong-footing him.

  Lawrence turned to present the Secretary of State.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Larry,’ said Zerimski.

  Zerimski appeared disarmingly affable and friendly as he was introduced to each new official: the Defense Secretary, the Commerce Secretary, the National Security Advisor. When he came to the end of the line, Lawrence touched his elbow and guided him towards the podium. As they walked across the runway, the American President leaned down and said, ‘I’ll just say a few words of welcome, Mr President, and then perhaps you’d like to reply.’

  ‘Victor, please,’ Zerimski insisted.

  Lawrence stepped up onto the podium, extracted a single sheet of paper from an inside pocket and placed it on the lectern.

  ‘Mr President,’ he began; then, turning towards Zerimski, he smiled and said, ‘Victor. May I begin by welcoming you to America. Today marks the opening of a new era in the special relationship between our two great countries. Your visit to the United States heralds …’

  Connor sat in front of three television screens, watching the major networks’ coverage of the ceremony. That night he would replay the tapes again and again. There was an even greater security presence on the ground than he had anticipated. The Secret Service seemed to have turned out a full Dignitary Protective Division for each President. But there was no sign of Gutenburg, or of any CIA operatives. Connor suspected that the Secret Service was unaware that a potential assassin was on the loose.

  Connor wasn’t at all surprised that the rifle he had bought in Dallas had never reached its destination. The two Mafya hoodlums had done everything to tip off the CIA except call them on their toll-free number. Had he been Deputy Director, Connor would have allowed them to deliver the rifle, in the hope that they would lead him to the person who intended to use it. Gutenburg had obviously considered that removing the weapon was more important. Perhaps he was right. Connor couldn’t risk being put through another debacle like the one in Dallas. They had made it necessary for him to come up with an alternative plan.

  After the episode in the Memphis Marriott, it had become clear that Alexei Romanov wasn’t willing to take the blame if anything else went wrong, and Connor now had overall control of the preparations for the assassination. Those shadowing him kept a respectful distance, although they never let him out of their sight - otherwise he would have been at Andrews Air Force Base that morning. Although he could still have shaken them off whenever he chose, Connor was made aware of their attitude to failure when he learned that the local Mafya boss in Dallas had chopped off the hoodlum’s other hand, so that he couldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  The President came to the end of his welcoming speech and received a round of applause that had little impact in such a large open space. He stepped aside to allow Zerimski to respond, but when the Russian President took his place, he couldn’t be seen above the bank of microphones. Connor knew that the press would remind the six foot one American President of this public relations disaster again and again over the next four days, and that Zerimski would assume it had been done intentionally to upstage him. He wondered which White House advance man’s head would roll later that day.

  Shooting a six-foot man would be much easier than one who was only five foot four, Connor reflected. He studied the agents from the Dignitary Protective Division who had been assigned to protect Zerimski during his visit. He recognised four of them, all of whom were as good as any in their profession. Any one of them could have brought a man down with a single shot at three hundred paces, and disarmed an attacker with one blow. Behind their dark glasses, Connor knew that their eyes were darting ceaselessly in every direction.

  Although Zerimski could not be seen by those standing on the runway, his words could be heard clearly. Connor was surprised to find that the hectoring, bullying manner he had employed in Moscow and St Petersburg had been replaced by a far more conciliatory tone. He thanked ‘Tom’ for his warm welcome, and said that he was confident the visit would prove fruitful for both nations.

  Connor was sure that Lawrence wouldn’t be fooled by this outward display of warmth. This obviously wasn’t the time or place for the Russian President to allow the Americans to discover his real agenda.

  As Zerimski continued to read from his script, Connor glanced down at the four-day itinerary prepared by the White House and so conveniently catalogued minute by minute in the Washington Post. He knew from years of experience that even with the best-laid plans, such programmes rarely managed to keep to their original timetables. At some time during the visit, he had to assume that the unexpected would happen; and he had to be sure that it wasn’t at the moment when he was lining up his rifle.

  The two Presidents would be flown by helicopter from the Air Force base to the White House, where they would immediately go into a session of private talks, which would continue over lunch. After lunch, Zerimski would be taken to the Russian Embassy to rest, before returning to the White House in the evening for a black-tie dinner in his honour.

  The following morning he would travel to New York to address the United Nations and have lunch with the Secretary-General, followed by a visit to the Metropolitan Museum in the afternoon. Connor had laughed out loud when he read that morning in the style section of the Post that Tom Lawrence had become aware of his guest’s great love of the arts during the recent presidential campaign, in the course of which Zerimski had found time in his busy schedule to visit not only the Bolshoi, but also the Pushkin and the Hermitage Museums.

  After the Russian President returned to Washington on Thursday night, he would have just enough time to rush to the Embassy and change into a dinner jacket before attending a performance of Swan Lake by the Washington Ballet at the Kennedy Center. The Post tactlessly reminded its readers that over half the corps de ballet were Russian immigrants.

  On the Friday morning there would be extended talks at the White House, followed by lunch at the State Department. In the afternoon Zerimski would deliver an address to a joint session of Congress, which would be the high point of his four-day visit. Lawrence hoped that the legislators would be convinced that the Russian leader was a man of peace, and
agree to back his Arms Reduction Bill. An editorial in the New York Times warned that this might be the occasion at which Zerimski would outline Russia’s defence strategy for the next decade. The paper’s diplomatic correspondent had contacted the press office at the Russian Embassy, only to be informed curtly that there would be no advance copies of that particular speech.

  In the evening Zerimski would be the guest of honour at a US-Russia Business Council dinner. Copies of that speech had already been widely circulated, with a casual indifference to any embargo. Connor had been through every sentence, and knew that no self-respecting journalist would bother to print a word of it.

  On the Saturday Zerimski and Tom Lawrence would go to Cooke Stadium in Maryland to watch the football game between the Washington Redskins and the Green Bay Packers, the team that Lawrence, who had been the senior Senator for Wisconsin, had supported all his life.

  In the evening Zerimski would host a dinner at the Russian Embassy to return the hospitality of all those whose guest he had been during his visit.

  The following morning he would fly back to Moscow - but only if Connor had failed to carry out the contract.

  Nine venues for Connor to consider. But he had already dismissed seven of them before Zerimski’s plane had touched down. Of the remaining two, the banquet on the Saturday night looked the most promising, especially after he’d been told by Romanov that the Mafya had the catering concession for all functions held at the Russian Embassy.

  A smattering of applause brought Connor’s attention back to the welcoming ceremony. Some of the people standing on the runway were unaware that Zerimski had completed his speech until he stepped down from the podium, so the reception he received was not quite as enthusiastic as Lawrence had hoped.

  The two leaders walked across the tarmac to a waiting helicopter. Normally no Russian President would fly in a US military aircraft, but Zerimski had brushed aside any objections, telling his advisors he wanted to take every opportunity of wrong-footing Lawrence. They climbed on board and waved to the crowd. Moments later Marine One rose, hovered above the ground for a few seconds, then lifted away. Those women who had not attended a welcoming ceremony before were unsure whether to cling on to their hats or hold down their dresses.