The Eleventh Commandment (1998)

by Jeffrey Archer

  Connor was tempted to say, No, sir. Would you be kind enough to run through it once again, but a little more slowly?

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘OK. If the officer treats you good, I’ll send him up a steak after full time. When he’s finished that, report to me and collect your pay. Fifty dollars.’ He winked.

  Pug had explained that serious fans didn’t bother to pick up their wages if they wanted to be offered the job again. ‘Remember,’ he had said, ‘when the manager mentions the word “pay”, just wink.’

  Connor had no intention of collecting the $50, or of ever returning to the stadium. He winked.

  32

  ‘WHY IS LAWRENCE TRAVELLING to the game by helicopter when I’m stuck in the back of this car?’ Zerimski asked as his nine-limousine motorcade swept out of the Embassy gates.

  ‘He has to make sure he’s there before you,’ said Titov. ‘He wants to be introduced to all the guests, so that by the time you arrive he can give the impression he’s known them all his life.’

  ‘What a way to run a country,’ said Zerimski. ‘Not that this afternoon is important.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Do you know, I’ve even seen the rifle Fitzgerald plans to kill me with,’ he said eventually. Titov looked surprised. ‘He’s using the same model the CIA planted on him in St Petersburg. But with a refinement.’ He put a hand in his jacket pocket. ‘What do you think this is?’ he asked, holding up what looked like a bent nail.

  Titov shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘It’s the firing pin of a Remington 700,’ Zerimski replied. ‘So we can even allow him to pull the trigger before the bodyguards begin to pump bullets into him.’ He studied it closely. ‘I think I’ll have it mounted and keep it on my desk in the Kremlin.’ He dropped it back in his pocket. ‘Has the speech I’m meant to be giving tonight been released to the press?’

  ‘Yes, Mr President,’ replied Titov. ‘It’s full of the usual platitudes. You can be confident that not a word of it will ever be printed.’

  ‘And what about my spontaneous reaction after Fitzgerald has been killed?’

  ‘I have it here, Mr President.’

  ‘Good. Give me a taste of it,’ said Zerimski, leaning back in his seat.

  Titov removed a file from the case by his side and began reading from a handwritten script: ‘On the day of my election, President Lawrence telephoned me at the Kremlin and gave me a personal invitation to visit his country. I accepted that offer in good faith. What happens when I take it up? My outstretched hand is met not with an olive branch, but with a rifle pointing directly at me. And where? In my own Embassy. And who pulled the trigger? An officer of the CIA. Had it not been for my good fortune …’

  ‘A former officer,’ interrupted Zerimski.

  ‘I thought it prudent,’ said Titov, looking up from his notes, ‘for you to appear to make the occasional error, even to repeat yourself. That way no one will suggest you always knew what was going on. In America, they want to believe that everything is a conspiracy.’

  ‘I shall be only too happy to fuel their paranoia,’ said Zerimski. ‘Long after Lawrence has been removed, I expect Americans will be writing copious volumes about how I was responsible for the complete breakdown in relations between the two countries. Lawrence’s administration will end up as nothing more than a footnote in the history of the resurgence of the Russian empire under my presidency.’ He beamed at Titov. And after I have achieved that, there will be no more talk of elections. Because I shall remain in power until the day I die.’

  Connor checked his watch. It was nine fifty-six. He pressed the button beside the service elevator and immediately heard the whirr of an engine as it began its slow journey up to the seventh level.

  There were still thirty-four minutes before the stadium would be opened to the public, although Connor knew it would take some time for the crowd to pass through the thirty magnetometers and the personal security checks. But he was keeping to a far stricter timetable than anyone else in the stadium. Forty-seven seconds later he removed the tray and pressed the button to let the staff in the basement know he had received it.

  He walked quickly along the seventh-floor concourse, past a concession stand, and up to the door marked ‘Private’. He balanced the tray on one hand, turned the key in the lock with the other and slipped inside. Then he switched on the lights and strode down the covered walkway at the back of the JumboTron. He checked his watch again - eighty-three seconds. Too long, but as the final run would be without a tray, it should be possible to complete the whole exercise, from roof to basement, in under two minutes. If it all went to plan, he would be out of the stadium and on his way to the airport before they had time to set up any roadblocks.

  Connor balanced the tray in one hand and knocked on the door with the other. A few seconds later it was opened by a tall, heavily-built man who stood silhouetted in an oblong of light.

  ‘I’ve brought you a snack,’ said Connor with a warm smile.

  ‘Great,’ said the sharpshooter. ‘Why don’t you come in and join me?’ He removed a pastrami sandwich from the tray, and Connor followed him along a thin, galvanised steel platform behind a vast screen made up of 786 televisions. The Secret Service man sat down and dug his teeth into the sandwich. Connor tried not to let him see how closely he was studying his rifle.

  The JumboTron was on three floors, one above the platform and one below. Connor put the tray down beside the officer, who was sitting in the middle of the flight of stairs that led to the lower ramp. He took more interest in his can of Diet Coke than in Connor’s roaming eyes.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, between swigs, ‘I’m Arnie Cooper.’

  ‘Dave Krinkle,’ Connor replied.

  ‘So how much did you have to pay for the privilege of spending the afternoon with me?’ asked Arnie with a grin.

  Marine One landed at the heliport to the north-east of the stadium, and a limousine purred up even before the copter’s steps had touched the ground. Lawrence and Lloyd emerged a moment later, and the President turned to wave to the large gathering of well-wishers before climbing into the back of the waiting car. They covered the quarter-mile to the stadium in under a minute, passing through every security check without hindrance. John Kent Cooke, the owner of the Redskins, was waiting at the stadium’s entrance to greet them.

  ‘This is a great honour, sir,’ he said as Lawrence stepped out of the limousine.

  ‘It’s good to meet you, John,’ replied the President, shaking the slim, grey-haired man by the hand.

  Cooke guided his guest towards a private lift.

  ‘Do you really believe the Skins can win, John?’ Lawrence asked with a grin.

  ‘Now that’s the sort of loaded question I might have expected from a politician, Mr President,’ Cooke replied as they stepped into the lift. ‘Everyone knows you’re the Packers’ number one fan. But I’m bound to say the answer to your question is “Yes, sir.” Fight for old DC. The Skins will win.’

  ‘The Washington Post doesn’t agree with you,’ said the President as the doors opened at the press level.

  ‘I’m sure you’re the last person to believe everything you read in the Post, Mr President,’ said Cooke. Both men laughed as he led Lawrence into his box, a large, comfortable room positioned above the fifty-yard line, with a perfect view of the whole field. ‘Mr President, I’d like to introduce you to one or two of the folks who have made the Redskins the greatest football team in America. Let me start with my wife, Rita.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Rita,’ Lawrence said, shaking her by the hand. ‘And congratulations on your triumph at the National Symphony Ball. I’m told they raised a record amount under your chairmanship.’

  Mrs Cooke beamed with pride.

  Lawrence was able to recall an appropriate fact or anecdote about every person he was introduced to, including the little old man wearing a Redskins blazer who couldn’t possi
bly have been a former player.

  ‘This is Pug Washer,’ said John Kent Cooke, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘Now, he …’

  ‘… is the only man in history to make the Redskins Hall of Fame without playing a single game for the team,’ said the President.

  A huge smile appeared on Pug’s face.

  ‘And I’m also told that you know more about the history of the team than any living person.’

  Pug promised himself he would never vote Republican again.

  ‘So tell me, Pug, in Packers versus Skins games, what were Vince Lombardi’s regular-season points when he was coaching the Packers, compared to his year with the Skins?’

  ‘Packers 459, Skins 435,’ said Pug with a rueful smile.

  ‘Just as I thought - he should never have left the Packers in the first place,’ said the President, slapping Pug on the back.

  ‘Do you know, Mr President,’ said Cooke, ‘I’ve never been able to come up with a question about the Redskins that Pug wasn’t able to answer.’

  ‘Has anyone ever stumped you, Pug?’ asked the President, turning to the walking encyclopaedia again.

  ‘They try all the time, Mr President,’ Pug replied. ‘Why, only yesterday a man …’

  Before Pug could complete his sentence, Andy Lloyd touched Lawrence’s elbow. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but we’ve just been informed that President Zerimski is only five minutes away from the stadium. You and Mr Cooke should make your way to the north-east entrance now, so that you’ll be in time to welcome him.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Lawrence. He turned to Pug and said, ‘Let’s continue our conversation just as soon as I get back.’

  Pug nodded as the President and his entourage left the room to go and greet Zerimski.

  ‘It’s a bit cramped in here,’ Connor shouted above the noise of the large ventilation fan in the ceiling.

  ‘Sure is,’ said Arnie, finishing off his Diet Coke. ‘But I guess it goes with the job.’

  ‘Are you expecting any trouble today?’

  ‘Nope, not really. Of course, we’ll all be on full alert the moment the two Presidents walk out onto the field, but that only lasts for about eight minutes. Although if Special Agent Braithwaite had his way, neither of them would be allowed out of the owner’s box until it was time for them to go home.’

  Connor nodded and asked several more innocuous questions, listening carefully to Arnie’s Brooklyn accent, and concentrating especially on any expressions he used regularly.

  As Arnie dug his teeth into a slice of chocolate cake, Connor looked through a gap in the rotating advertising boards. Most of the Secret Service officers in the stadium were also taking a snack break. He focused on the lighting tower behind the western end zone. Brad was up there listening intently to an officer who was pointing towards the owner’s box. Just the sort of young man the Service needed to recruit, thought Connor. He turned back to Arnie. ‘I’ll see you again at the start of the game. A plate of sandwiches, another slice of cake and some more Coke suit you?’

  ‘Yep, sounds great. But go easy on the cake. I don’t mind my wife telling me I’ve put on a few pounds, but lately the SAIC has begun to comment on it.’

  A siren sounded to let all the staff in the stadium know it was ten thirty, and the gates were about to be opened. The fans began to flood into the stands, most of them heading straight for their usual seats. Connor gathered up the empty Coke can and the plastic container and placed them on the tray.

  ‘I’ll be back with your lunch when the game kicks off,’ he said.

  ‘Yep,’ replied Arnie, his binoculars now focused on the crowd below. ‘But don’t come in until after the two Presidents are back in the owner’s box. No one else is allowed in the JumboTron while they’re out on the field.’

  ‘OK, I understand,’ said Connor, taking a last look at Arnie’s rifle. As he turned to go, he heard a voice coming over a two-way radio.

  ‘Hercules 3.’

  Arnie unclipped the radio from the back of his belt, pressed a button and said, ‘Hercules 3, go ahead.’

  Connor hesitated by the door.

  ‘Nothing to report, sir. I was just about to run an eye over the west stand.’

  ‘Fine. Report in if you see anything suspicious.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Arnie, and clipped the receiver back onto his belt.

  Connor quietly stepped out onto the covered walkway, closed the door behind him and placed the empty Coke can on the step.

  He checked his watch, then walked quickly down the covered walkway, unlocked the door and turned off the lights. The concourse was swarming with fans heading for their seats. When he reached the lift shaft, he checked his watch again. Fifty-four seconds. On the final run it would have to take less than thirty-five. He pressed the button. Forty-seven seconds later the service elevator reappeared. Obviously no one on the second or fifth levels had been calling for it. He placed the tray inside and pressed the button once again. It immediately began its slow journey down to the basement.

  No one gave Connor, dressed in a long white catering coat and a Redskins cap, a second glance as he strolled casually past the concession stand towards the door marked ‘Private’. He slipped inside and locked the door behind him. In the darkness he walked noiselessly back along the narrow walkway until he was a few yards from the entrance to the JumboTron. He stood looking down at the vast steel girder that held the massive screen in place.

  Connor gripped the handrail for a moment, then fell to his knees. He leaned forward, grabbed the girder with both hands, and eased himself off the walkway. He stared fixedly at the screen which, according to the architects’ plans, was forty-two feet in front of him. It looked more like a mile.

  He could see a small handle, but he still had no idea if the emergency trapdoor that had been clearly marked on the engineer’s plans really existed. He began to crawl slowly along the girder, inch by inch, never once looking down at the 170-foot drop below him. It felt like two miles.

  When he finally reached the end of the girder, he dropped his legs over the sides and gripped tightly, as if he was on horseback. The screen switched from a replay of a touchdown in the Skins’ previous game to an advertisement for Modell’s sporting goods store. Connor took a deep breath, gripped the handle, and pulled. The trapdoor slid back, revealing the promised twenty-two-and-a-half-inch-square hole. Connor slowly hauled himself inside and slid the door back in place.

  Pressed in on all sides by steel, he began to wish that he had added a thick pair of gloves to his clothing. It was like being inside a refrigerator. Nevertheless, as each minute passed he became more confident that should it prove necessary to fall back on his contingency plan, no one would ever discover where he was hiding.

  He lay suspended inside the hollow steel girder 170 feet above the ground for over an hour and a half, barely able to turn his wrist to check the time. But then, in Vietnam he’d once spent ten days’ solitary confinement standing upright in a bamboo cage with water up to his chin.

  Something he suspected Arnie had never experienced.

  33

  ZERIMSKI SHOOK HANDS WARMLY with everyone he was introduced to, and even laughed at John Kent Cooke’s jokes. He remembered the names of all the guests, and answered every question that was put to him with a smile. ‘What the Americans call a charm offensive,’ Titov had told him: it would only add to the horror of what he had planned for them that evening.

  He could already hear the guests telling the press, ‘He couldn’t have been more relaxed and at ease, especially with the President, whom he kept referring to as “my dear and close friend Tom”.’ Lawrence, the guests would recall, did not show quite the same degree of warmth, and was slightly frosty towards his Russian visitor.

  After the introductions had been completed, John Kent Cooke banged on a table with a spoon. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt such a pleasant occasion,’ he began, ‘but time is marching on, and this is probably going to be the only
opportunity I have in my life to brief two Presidents at once.’ A little laughter broke out. ‘So here goes.’ He put on a pair of glasses and began reading from a sheet of paper handed to him by his public affairs assistant.

  ‘At eleven twenty I will accompany both Presidents to the south entrance of the stadium, and at eleven thirty-six I will lead them out onto the field.’ He looked up. ‘I have arranged for the welcome to be deafening,’ he said with a smile. Rita laughed just a little too loudly.

  ‘When we reach the centre of the field, I will introduce the Presidents to the two team captains, and they in turn will introduce them to their co-captains and the coaches. Then the Presidents will be introduced to the match officials.

  ‘At eleven forty, everyone will turn and face the west stand, where the Redskins band will play the Russian national anthem, followed after a short pause by “The Star-Spangled Banner”.

  ‘At precisely eleven forty-eight our honoured guest President Zerimski will flip a silver dollar. I shall then accompany both gentlemen off the field and bring them back here, where I hope everyone will enjoy watching the Redskins defeat the Packers.’

  Both Presidents laughed.

  Cooke looked up at his guests, smiling with relief that the first part of his ordeal was over, and asked, Any questions?’

  ‘Yes, John, I have a question,’ said Zerimski. ‘You didn’t explain why I have to flip the coin.’

  ‘So that the captain who correctly guesses whether it’s heads or tails can choose which team kicks off

  What an amusing idea,’ said Zerimski.

  As the minutes slipped by, Connor checked his watch more and more frequently. He didn’t want to be inside the JumboTron for any longer than necessary, but he needed time to familiarise himself with a rifle he hadn’t used for some years.