The Eleventh Commandment (1998)

by Jeffrey Archer

  Connor pulled open the door and threw himself into the back of the taxi. ‘Straight ahead,’ he shouted. ‘You get $100 if you beat that light.’

  The driver pressed the palm of his hand onto his horn and kept it there as he ran the red light. The two white BMWs executed screeching U-turns, but the lights had already changed, and their path was blocked by three stationary cars.

  So far everything had gone to plan.

  The taxi swung left onto Twenty-Third Street, and Connor instructed the driver to pull over. When the car had come to a halt he passed him a hundred-dollar bill and said, ‘I want you to drive straight to Dulles Airport. If you spot a white BMW coming up behind you, don’t let it overtake you. When you get to the airport, stop for thirty seconds outside Departures, then drive slowly back into town.’

  ‘OK, man, anything you say,’ said the driver, pocketing the hundred-dollar bill. Connor slipped out of the cab, darted across Twenty-Third Street and flagged down another cab heading in the opposite direction.

  He slammed the door shut as the two BMWs swept past him in pursuit of the first taxi.

  ‘And where would you like to go this fine morning?’

  ‘Cooke Stadium.’

  ‘I hope you got a ticket, man, otherwise I’ll be bringing you straight back.’

  The three men stood as Zerimski entered the room. He waved them down as if they were a large crowd, and took the chair behind the Ambassador’s desk. He was surprised to see a rifle where the blotter would normally be, but he ignored it and turned to Alexei Romanov, who was looking rather pleased with himself.

  ‘I have some sad news for you, Alexei,’ said the President. Romanov’s expression turned to apprehension, and then to anxiety, during the long silence Zerimski allowed to follow.

  ‘I received a call earlier this morning from your cousin Stefan. It appears that your father suffered a heart attack during the night, and died on the way to hospital.’

  Romanov bowed his head. The Ambassador and First Secretary glanced towards the President to see how they should react.

  Zerimski rose, walked slowly over to Romanov and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. The Ambassador and First Secretary looked suitably grief-stricken.

  ‘I shall mourn him,’ said Zerimski. ‘He was a great man.’ The two diplomats nodded their agreement as Romanov inclined his head to acknowledge the President’s kind words.

  ‘Now his mantle has passed on to you, Alexei; a most worthy successor.’

  The Ambassador and the Chief Secretary continued to nod.

  ‘And soon,’ Zerimski said, ‘you will be given an opportunity to demonstrate your authority in a way that will leave no one in Russia in any doubt who is the new Czar.’

  Romanov raised his head and smiled, his brief period of mourning over.

  ‘That is,’ added Zerimski, ‘assuming nothing goes wrong this evening.’

  ‘Nothing can go wrong,’ said Romanov emphatically. ‘I spoke to Fitzgerald just after midnight. He’s agreed to my plan. He will report to the Embassy at four o’clock this afternoon, while you are at the football game with Lawrence.’

  ‘Why so early?’ asked Zerimski.

  ‘We need everyone to think he’s simply another member of the catering team, so that when he slips out of the kitchen six hours later nobody will give it a second thought. He will remain in the kitchen under my supervision until a few minutes before you rise to make your farewell speech.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Zerimski. ‘And then what happens?’

  ‘I will accompany him to this room, where he will collect the rifle. He will then take the private elevator to the gallery that overlooks the ballroom.’

  Zerimski nodded.

  ‘Once he is there, he will position himself behind the great statue of Lenin, where he will remain until you reach that section of your speech where you thank the American people for their hospitality and the warm welcome you have received everywhere, et cetera, et cetera, and particularly from President Lawrence. At that point, I have arranged for prolonged applause. Throughout it you must remain absolutely still.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Zerimski.

  ‘Because Fitzgerald won’t squeeze the trigger if he thinks you’re likely to make a sudden movement.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Once he has fired, he will climb out onto the ledge by the cedar tree in the back garden. He made us repeat the whole exercise several times yesterday afternoon, but this evening he will discover there is a small difference.’

  ‘And what is that?’ asked Zerimski.

  ‘Waiting under the tree will be six of my personal bodyguards,’ said Romanov. ‘They will have gunned him down long before his feet touch the ground.’

  Zerimski was silent for a moment before saying, ‘But surely your plan has a minor flaw?’

  Romanov looked puzzled.

  ‘How am I expected to survive a shot from a marksman of Fitzgerald’s reputation from such close range?’

  Romanov rose from his chair and picked up the rifle. He removed a small piece of metal and handed it to the President.

  ‘What is this?’ Zerimski asked.

  ‘The firing pin,’ Romanov replied.

  31

  THE TWO WHITE BMWs sped west on Route 66, pursuing an empty taxi that exceeded the speed limit all the way to Dulles Airport. A second cab was travelling east at a more leisurely pace towards Cooke Stadium in Maryland.

  Connor thought again about his decision to choose the stadium, with all its risks, rather than the Embassy. He had been allowed in and out of that building far too easily: no one was that lax about security, especially when their President was in town.

  When Connor was dropped at the stadium, he knew exactly where to go. He walked up the wide gravel path towards the north entrance and the two long lines of people who hung around before every home game in the hope of a day’s work. Some of them just needed the cash, while others, Pug had explained, were such fanatical Skins fans that they would resort to anything, including bribery, to get into the stadium.

  ‘Bribery?’ Connor had asked innocently.

  ‘Oh yes. Someone has to serve in the executive suites,’ said Pug with a wink. ‘And they end up with the best view of the game.’

  ‘Fascinating material for my article,’ Connor had assured him.

  The first queue was for those who wanted to work outside the stadium, organising the parking for the twenty-three thousand cars and buses or selling programmes, cushions and souvenirs to the seventy-eight thousand fans. The other was for those who hoped to work inside the stadium. Connor joined that queue, mostly made up of the young, the unemployed and what Pug had described as the early-retirement junkies, who simply enjoyed the regular outing. Pug had even described how this group dressed, so that no one would mistake them for the unemployed.

  On this particular day, a handful of Secret Service men were eyeing the hopeful applicants. Connor kept reading the Washington Post as the line moved slowly forward. Most of the front page was devoted to Zerimski’s speech to the joint session of Congress. The reaction from the members was universally hostile. When he turned to the editorial, he suspected Zerimski would be pleased with it.

  He turned to the Metro section, and a wry smile crossed his face as he read of the premature death of a distinguished academic from his home town.

  ‘Hi,’ said a voice.

  Connor glanced round at a smartly-dressed young man who had joined the queue behind him.

  ‘Hi,’ he responded briefly, before returning to his paper. He didn’t want to get involved in an unnecessary conversation with someone who might later be called as a witness.

  ‘My name’s Brad,’ the young man announced, thrusting out his right hand.

  Connor shook it, but said nothing.

  ‘I’m hoping to get a job on one of the lighting towers,’ he added. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Why the lighting towers?’ asked Connor, avoiding his question.

  ‘
Because that’s where the Secret Service’s Special Agent in Charge will be stationed, and I want to find out what the job’s really like.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Connor, folding up his paper. This was clearly not a conversation he could easily cut short.

  ‘I’m thinking about joining them when I leave college. I’ve already taken the graduate training course, but I want to see them working at close quarters. An agent told me the one job nobody wants is taking meals up to the guys on the lighting platforms behind the end zones. All those steps scare them off.’

  All 172 of them, thought Connor, who had dismissed the idea of the lighting towers early on, not because of the steps, but because there was no escape route. Brad started to tell him his life story, and by the time Connor reached the front of the queue he knew which school the boy had been to, that he was now a senior at Georgetown studying criminology - that made him think of Maggie - and why he still couldn’t decide whether to join the Secret Service or be a lawyer. ‘Next,’ said a voice. Connor turned round to the man seated behind a trestle table.

  ‘What have you got left?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Not much,’ said the man, looking down at a list covered with ticks.

  ‘Anything in catering?’ asked Connor. Like Brad, he knew exactly where he wanted to be.

  ‘Washing dishes or serving meals to employees around the stadium is all I’ve got left.’

  ‘That will be just fine.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Dave Krinkle,’ said Connor.

  ‘ID?’

  Connor handed over a driver’s licence. The man filled in a security pass and a photographer stepped forward and took a Polaroid of Connor, which seconds later was laminated onto the pass.

  ‘OK, Dave,’ the man said, handing it over. ‘This pass will get you everywhere inside the stadium except the high-security area, which includes the executive suites, the club boxes and the VIP section. You won’t need to go there anyway.’ Connor nodded and clipped the pass onto his sweater. ‘Report to Room 47, directly below Block H.’ Connor moved off to the left. He knew exactly where Room 47 was.

  ‘Next.’

  It took him a lot longer to get through the three security checks, including the magnetometer, than it had the previous day, as they were now manned by Secret Service personnel rather than the usual rentacops. Once Connor was inside the stadium, he ambled slowly along the inner walkway, past the museum and under a red banner declaring ‘HAIL VICTORY’, until he came to a stairway with an arrow pointing down to ‘Room 47, Private Catering’. Inside the small room at the foot of the stairs he found a dozen men lounging around. They all looked as if they were familiar with the routine. He recognised one or two who had been standing in the line in front of him. No one else in the room looked as if they didn’t need the money.

  He took a seat in a corner and returned to the Post, rereading a preview of the afternoon’s game. Tony Kornheiser thought it would be nothing less than a miracle if the Redskins beat the Packers - the finest team in the country. In fact, he was predicting a twenty-point margin. Connor was hoping for a totally different outcome.

  ‘OK,’ said a voice, ‘pay attention.’ Connor looked up to see a huge man wearing a chef’s uniform standing in front of them. He was about fifty, with an enormous double chin, and must have weighed over 250 pounds.

  ‘I’m the catering manager,’ he said, ‘and as you can see, I represent the glamour end of the business.’ One or two of the old hands laughed politely.

  ‘I can offer you two choices. You either wash dishes or you serve stadium employees and security guys stationed around the stadium. Any volunteers for the dishes?’ Most of the men in the room put their hands up. Dishwashing, Pug had explained, was always popular because not only did the washers get the full rate of $10 an hour, but for some of them the leftovers from the executive boxes were the best meal they had all week.

  ‘Good,’ he said, picking out five of them and writing down their names. When he had completed the list, he said, ‘Now, waiting. You can either serve the senior staff or the security personnel. Senior staff?’ he said, looking up from his clipboard. Almost all the remaining hands shot up. Again the catering manager wrote down five names. When he’d finished, he tapped his clipboard. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Everyone on the list can now report to work.’ The old pros rose from their seats and shuffled past him, through a door that Connor knew led to the kitchens. Only he and Brad were still in the room.

  ‘I’ve got two jobs left in Security,’ said the catering manager. ‘One great, one lousy. Which one of you is going to get lucky?’ He looked hopefully at Connor, who nodded and placed a hand in his back pocket.

  The catering manager walked up to him, not even glancing at Brad, and said, ‘I have a feeling you’d prefer the comfort of the JumboTron.’

  ‘Right first time,’ said Connor, slipping him a hundred-dollar bill.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ said the catering manager, returning his smile.

  Connor said nothing as the fat man pocketed the cash, exactly as Pug had predicted he would.

  That man had been worth every cent of his fee.

  ‘I should never have invited him in the first place,’ Tom Lawrence growled as he boarded Marine One to take him from the White House to the Redskins’ stadium.

  ‘And I have a feeling that our problems aren’t over yet,’ said Andy Lloyd, strapping himself into his seat.

  ‘Why? What else can go wrong?’ asked Lawrence as the helicopter blades slowly began to rotate.

  ‘There are still two public events before Zerimski returns to Russia, and my bet is that Fitzgerald will be waiting for us at one of them.’

  ‘This evening shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Lawrence. Ambassador Pietrovski has told the Secret Service on countless occasions that his people are quite capable of protecting their own President. In any case, who would take that sort of risk with so much security around?’

  ‘The normal rules don’t apply to Fitzgerald,’ said Lloyd. ‘He doesn’t work by the book.’

  The President glanced down at the Russian Embassy. ‘It would be hard enough just getting into that building,’ he said, ‘without having to worry about how you’d get out of it.’

  ‘Fitzgerald wouldn’t have the same trouble this afternoon, in a stadium holding nearly eighty thousand spectators,’ replied Lloyd. ‘That’s one place he would find it easy to slip in and out of.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Andy, there’s only a thirteen-minute window when any problem could arise. Even then, everybody in the stadium will have passed through the magnetometers, so there’s no way anyone could get a penknife in, let alone a gun.’

  ‘You think Fitzgerald doesn’t know that?’ said Lloyd as the helicopter swung east. ‘It’s not too late to cancel that part of the programme.’

  ‘No,’ said Lawrence firmly. ‘If Clinton could stand in the middle of the Olympic Stadium in Atlanta for the opening ceremony, I can do the same in Washington for a football game. Damn it, Andy, we live in a democracy, and I’m not going to allow our lives to be dictated to in that way. And don’t forget that I’ll be out there, taking exactly the same risk as Zerimski.’

  ‘I accept that, sir,’ said Lloyd. ‘But if Zerimski were to be assassinated, no one would praise you for standing by his side, least of all Helen Dexter. She’d be the first to point out…’

  Who do you think will win this afternoon, Andy?’ asked the President.

  Lloyd smiled at a ploy his boss often fell back on if he didn’t wish to continue discussing an unpalatable subject. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he replied. ‘But until I saw how many of my staff were trying to cram themselves into the advance cars this morning, I had no idea we had so many Skins fans working at the White House.’

  ‘Some of them might just have been Packers fans,’ said Lawrence. He opened the file on his lap and began to study the short profiles of the guests he would be meeting at the stadium.

  ‘OK, pay attention,’ said the catering
manager. Connor gave the impression of listening intently.

  ‘The first thing you do is collect a white coat and a Redskins cap, to show you’re on the staff. Then you take the elevator to the seventh level and wait for me to put the food in the service elevator. The Secret Service agents have a snack at ten, and lunch - Coke, sandwiches, whatever else they want - at the start of the game. You press the button on the left-hand side,’ he continued, as if he was addressing a ten-year-old, ‘and it should be with you in about a minute.’

  Connor could have told him that it took exactly forty-seven seconds for the service elevator to travel from the basement to the seventh level. But as there were two other levels - the second (club seats) and the fifth (executive suites) - which also had access to the service lift, he might have to wait until their orders were completed before the elevator reached him, in which case it could take as long as three minutes.

  ‘Once your order arrives, you take the tray to the officer stationed inside the JumboTron at the eastern end of the ground. You’ll find a door marked “Private” down the walkway to your left.’ Thirty-seven paces, Connor recalled. ‘Here’s the key. You go through it, and down an enclosed walkway until you reach the back entrance of the JumboTron.’ Seventy yards, thought Connor. In his footballing days he could have covered that distance in around seven seconds.

  While the manager continued to tell him things he already knew, Connor studied the service elevator. It was two foot three by two foot seven, and inside were clearly printed the words: ‘Maximum weight permitted 150 pounds’. Connor weighed 210 pounds, so he hoped the designer had allowed a bit of leeway. There were two other problems: he wouldn’t be able to test it out, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it from being stopped at the fifth or second floors once he was on his way down.

  ‘When you reach the door at the back of the JumboTron,’ the catering manager was saying, ‘you knock, and the agent on duty will unbolt it and let you in. Once you’ve handed him the tray, you can go to the back of the stadium and watch the first quarter. At the break you go and get the tray and take it to the service elevator. You press the green button and it will go back down to the basement. Then you can watch the rest of the game. Did you understand all that, Dave?’