The Eleventh Commandment (1998)

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘I accept that without question, Mr President, or I wouldn’t be here now. But I must be equally candid with you. If anyone in the Secret Service had realised that it was Fitzgerald in the JumboTron, they would probably have helped him escape.’

  ‘What kind of man can inspire such loyalty?’ asked Lawrence.

  ‘In your world, I suspect it’s Abraham Lincoln,’ said Braithwaite. ‘In ours it’s Connor Fitzgerald.’

  ‘I would have liked to meet him.’

  ‘That’s going to be difficult, sir. Even if he’s still alive, he seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I wouldn’t want my career to depend on finding him.’

  ‘Mr President,’ interrupted Lloyd, ‘you’re already running seven minutes late for the dinner at the Russian Embassy.’

  Lawrence smiled and shook hands with Braithwaite. ‘Another good man I can’t tell the American people about,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I suppose you’ll be on duty again tonight.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ve been detailed to cover the whole of President Zerimski’s visit.’

  ‘I may see you later then, Bill. If you pick up any new information about Fitzgerald, I want to hear about it immediately.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Braithwaite, turning to leave.

  A few minutes later, Lawrence and Lloyd walked in silence to the south portico, where nine limousines with their engines running stood in line. As soon as the President was in the back of the sixth car, he turned to his Chief of Staff and asked, ‘Where do you think he is, Andy?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir. But if I did, I’d probably sign up with Braithwaite’s team and help him escape.’

  ‘Why can’t we have someone like that as Director of the CIA?’

  ‘We might have had, if Jackson had lived.’

  Lawrence turned to look out of the window. Something had been nagging at him ever since he had left the stadium, but when the motorcycle escort drove through the gates of the Russian Embassy he was still no nearer to dragging it up from the recesses of his mind.

  ‘What’s he looking so angry about?’ said Lawrence, spotting Zerimski pacing up and down outside the Embassy.

  Lloyd glanced at his watch. ‘You’re seventeen minutes late, sir.’

  ‘That’s hardly a big deal, after what we’ve been through. Frankly, the damn man’s lucky to be alive.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s something you can use as an excuse, sir.’

  The motorcade drew up at the feet of the Russian President. Lawrence stepped out of the car and said, ‘Hi, Victor. Sorry we’re a couple of minutes late.’

  Zerimski made no attempt to hide his displeasure. After a cool handshake, he led his guest of honour silently into the Embassy and up the steps to the packed reception in the Green Room without uttering a word. Then he made a perfunctory excuse and dumped the President of the United States on the Egyptian Ambassador.

  Lawrence’s eyes circled the room as the Ambassador tried to interest him in an exhibition of Egyptian artefacts that had recently opened at the Smithsonian.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been trying to find a gap in my schedule to see it,’ said the President, on autopilot. ‘Everybody who’s been tells me it’s quite magnificent.’ The Egyptian Ambassador beamed, as Lawrence spotted the man he was looking for. It took him three Ambassadors, two wives and the political correspondent of Pravda before he managed to reach Harry Nourse without causing undue suspicion.

  ‘Good evening, Mr President,’ said the Attorney-General. ‘You must have been pleased with the result of the game this afternoon.’

  ‘Sure was, Harry,’ said Lawrence expansively. ‘Always said the Packers could whip the Redskins any time, any place.’ He lowered his voice: ‘I want to see you in my office at midnight tonight. I need your advice on a legal matter.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said the Attorney-General quietly.

  ‘Rita,’ said the President, turning to his right, ‘it was such fun being with you this afternoon.’

  Mrs Cooke returned the smile as a gong sounded in the background and a butler announced that dinner was about to be served. The chatter subsided, and the guests made their way into the ballroom.

  Lawrence had been placed between Mrs Pietrovski, the Ambassador’s wife, and Yuri Olgivic, the newly appointed head of the Russian Trade Delegation. The President soon discovered that Olgivic didn’t speak a word of English - another of Zerimski’s subtle hints about his attitude to opening up trade between the two nations.

  ‘You must have been pleased with the result of the game this afternoon,’ said the Russian Ambassador’s wife, as a bowl of borscht was placed in front of the President.

  ‘Sure was,’ said Lawrence. ‘But I don’t think most of the crowd was with me on that one, Olga.’

  Mrs Pietrovski laughed.

  ‘Were you able to follow what was going on?’ asked Lawrence, picking up his soup spoon.

  ‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘But I was fortunate enough to be placed next to a Mr Pug Washer, who didn’t seem to mind answering the most simple questions I asked him.’

  The President dropped his spoon before he’d taken a sip. He looked across the room at Andy Lloyd, and placed a clenched fist under his chin - the sign he always used when he needed to speak to his Chief of Staff urgently.

  Lloyd murmured a few words to the woman on his right, then folded his napkin, placed it on the table and walked over to the President’s side.

  ‘I need to see Braithwaite immediately,’ Lawrence whispered. ‘I think I know how to find Fitzgerald.’

  Lloyd slipped out of the room without saying a word as the President’s soup bowl was whisked away.

  Lawrence tried to concentrate on what the Russian Ambassador’s wife was saying, but he couldn’t get Fitzgerald out of his mind. Something about how much she would miss the States once her husband had retired.

  ‘And when will that be?’ asked the President, not at all interested in her reply.

  ‘In about eighteen months,’ Mrs Pietrovski replied, as a plate of cold beef was placed in front of the President. He continued the conversation as first one waiter served him some vegetables, and a moment later another brought some potatoes. He picked up his knife and fork just as Lloyd walked back into the room. He was at the President’s side a moment later.

  ‘Braithwaite’s waiting for you in the back of “Stagecoach”.’

  ‘I hope there isn’t a problem,’ said Mrs Pietrovski as Lawrence began folding his napkin.

  ‘Nothing important, Olga,’ Lawrence assured her. ‘They just can’t find my speech. But don’t worry, I know exactly where it is.’ He rose from his place, and Zerimski followed his every step as he left the room.

  Lawrence walked out of the ballroom, down the wooden staircase and through the front door of the Embassy before jogging down the steps and climbing into the back of the sixth car.

  Lloyd and the driver stood by the limousine as a dozen Secret Service agents surrounded it, scanning in every direction.

  ‘Bill, if Fitzgerald is still in the stadium, there’s one man who’ll know where he is. Find Pug Washer, and my bet is you’ll find Fitzgerald.’

  A few moments later the President opened the car door.

  ‘OK, Andy,’ he said, ‘let’s get back before they discover what we’re up to.’

  ‘What are we up to?’ asked Lloyd as he chased the President up the stairs.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Lawrence, striding into the ballroom.

  ‘But sir,’ said Lloyd, ‘you’ll still need …’

  ‘Not now,’ said Lawrence, as he took his seat next to the Ambassador’s wife and smiled apologetically.

  ‘Did you manage to find it?’ she asked.

  ‘Find what?’

  ‘Your speech,’ said Mrs Pietrovski, as Lloyd placed a file on the table between them.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lawrence, tapping the file. ‘By the way, Olga, how’s that daughter of yours? Natasha, isn’t it? Is she still studying
Fra Angelico in Florence?’ He picked up his knife and fork.

  The President glanced in Zerimski’s direction as the waiters reappeared to remove the plates. He put his knife and fork back down, settling for a stale bread roll with a pat of butter and finding out what Natasha Pietrovski had been up to during her junior year in Florence. He couldn’t help noticing that the Russian President appeared nervous, almost on edge, as the time drew nearer for him to make his speech. He immediately assumed that Zerimski was about to deliver another unexpected bombshell. The thought put him off his raspberry souffle .

  When Zerimski eventually rose to address his guests, even his most ardent admirers would have been hard pressed to describe his efforts as anything other than pedestrian. Some of those who watched him particularly closely wondered why he appeared to be directing so many of his remarks to the massive statue of Lenin in the gallery above the ballroom. Lawrence thought it must have been put there recently, as he didn’t remember seeing it at Boris’s farewell dinner.

  He kept waiting for Zerimski to reinforce his message to Congress the previous day, but he said nothing controversial. To Lawrence’s relief he stuck to the bland script that had been sent to the White House that afternoon. He glanced down at his own speech, which he should have gone over with Andy in the car. His Chief of Staff had scribbled a few suggestions in the margins, but there wasn’t a witty phrase or memorable paragraph from page one to page seven. But then, Andy had also had a busy day.

  ‘Let me end by thanking the American people for the generous hospitality and warm welcome I have experienced everywhere I have been during my visit to your great country, in particular from your President, Tom Lawrence.’

  The applause that greeted this statement was so loud and prolonged that Lawrence looked up from his notes. Zerimski was once again standing motionless, staring up at the statue of Lenin. He waited until the applause had ended before he sat down. He didn’t look at all pleased, which surprised Lawrence, as in his opinion the speech’s reception had been far more generous than it deserved.

  Lawrence rose to reply. His speech was received with courteous interest, but hardly with enthusiasm. He concluded with the words, ‘Let us hope, Victor, that this will be the first of many visits you make to the United States. On behalf of all your guests, I wish you a safe flight home tomorrow.’ Lawrence reflected that two lies in one sentence were a bit much, even for a politician, and wished he had had time to read the line before delivering it. He sat down to respectful applause, but it was nothing compared with the ovation Zerimski had received for an equally banal offering.

  Once the coffee had been served, Zerimski rose from his place and walked over to the double doors at the far side of the room. He soon began saying ‘Goodnight,’ in a voice that carried across the room, making it abundantly clear that he wanted his guests off the premises as quickly as possible.

  A few minutes after ten had struck on several clocks around the Embassy, Lawrence rose and began moving slowly in the direction of his host. But, like Caesar in the Capitol, he found he was continually stopped by different citizens wanting to touch the hem of the emperor’s clothes. When he eventually reached the door, Zerimski gave him a curt nod before accompanying him down the stairs to the first floor. As Zerimski didn’t speak, Lawrence took a long look at the Nzizvestni statue of Christ on the Cross that was still in its place on the first landing. Now that Lenin was back, he was surprised that Jesus had survived. At the foot of the stone steps he turned to wave to his host, but Zerimski had already disappeared back inside the Embassy. If he had taken the trouble to accompany Lawrence beyond the front door, he would have seen the SAIC waiting for him as he climbed into the back of his limousine.

  Braithwaite didn’t speak until the door had been closed.

  ‘You were right, sir,’ he said as they passed through the Embassy gates.

  The first person Zerimski saw as he walked back into the Embassy was the Ambassador. His Excellency smiled hopefully.

  ‘Is Romanov still in the building?’ Zerimski bellowed, unable to hide his anger for a moment longer.

  ‘Yes, Mr President,’ the Ambassador said, chasing after his leader. ‘He’s been …’

  ‘Bring him to me immediately.’

  ‘Where will I find you?’

  ‘In what used to be your study.’

  Pietrovski scurried away in the opposite direction.

  Zerimski marched down the long marble corridor, hardly breaking his stride as he shoved open the door of the Ambassador’s study as if he was thumping a punchbag. The first thing he saw was the rifle, still lying on the desk. He sat down in the large leather chair normally occupied by the Ambassador.

  While he waited impatiently for them to join him, he picked up the rifle and began to study it more closely. He looked down the barrel and saw that the single bullet was still in place. As he held it up to his shoulder he could feel its perfect balance, and he understood for the first time why Fitzgerald had been willing to fly halfway across America to find its twin.

  It was then that he saw the firing pin had been replaced.

  Zerimski could hear the two men hurrying down the marble corridor. Just before they reached the study, he lowered the rifle onto his lap.

  They almost ran into the room. Zerimski pointed unceremoniously to the two seats on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Where was Fitzgerald?’ he demanded before Romanov had even sat down. ‘You assured me in this room that he would be here by four o’clock this afternoon. “Nothing can go wrong,” you boasted. “He’s agreed to my plan.” Your exact words.’

  ‘That was our agreement when I spoke to him just after midnight, Mr President,’ said Romanov.

  ‘So what happened between midnight and four o’clock?’

  ‘While my men were escorting him into the city early this morning, the driver was forced to stop at a set of traffic lights. Fitzgerald leaped out of the car, ran to the other side of the road and jumped into a passing taxi. We pursued it all the way to Dulles Airport, only to find when we caught up with it outside the terminal that Fitzgerald wasn’t inside.’

  ‘The truth is that you allowed him to escape,’ said Zerimski. ‘Isn’t that what really happened?’

  Romanov bowed his head and said nothing.

  The President’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘I understand you have a code in the Mafya,’ he said, clicking the breech of the rifle shut, ‘for those who fail to carry out contracts.’

  Romanov looked up in horror as Zerimski raised the gun until it was pointing at the centre of his chest.

  ‘Yes or no?’ said Zerimski quietly.

  Romanov nodded. Zerimski smiled at the man who had accepted the judgement of his own court, and gently squeezed the trigger. The boat-tailed bullet tore into Romanov’s chest about an inch below the heart. The power of its impact hurled his lithe body back against the wall, where it remained for a second or two before slithering down onto the carpet. Fragments of muscle and bone were scattered in every direction. The walls, the carpet, the Ambassador’s dress suit and white pleated shirt were drenched with blood.

  Zerimski swung slowly round until he was facing his former representative in Washington. ‘No, no!’ cried Pietrovski, falling on his knees. ‘I’ll resign, I’ll resign.’

  Zerimski squeezed the trigger a second time. When he heard the click, he remembered that there had been only one bullet in the breech. He rose from his seat, a look of disappointment on his face.

  ‘You’ll have to send that suit to the cleaners,’ he said, as if the Ambassador had done no more than spill some egg yolk on his sleeve. The President placed the rifle back on the desk. ‘I accept your resignation. But before you clear your office, see that what’s left of Romanov’s body is patched together and sent back to St Petersburg.’ He began walking towards the door. ‘Make it quick - I’d like to be there when he’s buried with his father.’

  Pietrovski, still on his knees, didn’t reply. He had been sick, and was too
frightened to open his mouth.

  As Zerimski reached the door, he turned back to face the cowering diplomat. ‘In the circumstances, it might be wise to arrange for the body to be sent back in the diplomatic pouch.’

  35

  THE SNOW WAS FALLING HEAVILY as Zerimski climbed the steps to the waiting Ilyushin 62, creating a thick white carpet around its wheels.

  Tom Lawrence was standing on the tarmac, wearing a long black topcoat. An aide held a large umbrella above his head.

  Zerimski disappeared through the door without even bothering to turn and give the traditional wave for the cameras. Any suggestion of this being the time of year for good will to all men was obviously lost on him.

  The State Department had already issued a press release. It talked in broad terms of the success of the new Russian President’s four-day visit, significant steps taken by both countries, and the hope for further cooperation at some time in the future. ‘Useful and constructive’ were the words Larry Harrington had settled on before the morning press conference, and, as an afterthought, ‘a step forward’. The journalists who had just witnessed Zerimski’s departure would translate Harrington’s sentiments as ‘useless and destructive, and without doubt a step backwards’.

  Within moments of its grey door slamming shut the Ilyushin lurched forward, almost as if, like its master, it couldn’t wait to get away.

  Lawrence was the first to turn his back on the departing aircraft as it lumbered towards the runway. He walked quickly over to his waiting helicopter, where he found Andy Lloyd, a phone already pressed against his ear. Once the rotor blades began to turn, Lloyd quickly concluded his call. As Marine One lifted off, he leaned across and briefed the President on the outcome of the emergency operation that had taken place early that morning at the Walter Reed Hospital. Lawrence nodded as his Chief of Staff outlined the course of action Agent Braithwaite was recommending. ‘I’ll ring Mrs Fitzgerald personally,’ he said.