The Eleventh Commandment (1998) (45 page)

As each day passed, Connor had noticed that his minders had become more and more relaxed. At roughly the same time every morning he had jumped out of the BMW at the corner of Twenty-First Street and DuPont Circle, bought a copy of the
Post
from a newsvendor and returned to the car. Yesterday the man in the back seat hadn’t even bothered to accompany him.

They crossed Twenty-Third Street, and Connor could see DuPont Circle in the distance. The cars were now bumper to bumper, and had almost ground to a halt. On the other side of the street the traffic heading west was moving far more smoothly. He would need to judge exactly when to make his move.

Connor knew that the lights on P Street approaching the Circle changed every thirty seconds, and on average twelve cars managed to get across during that time. The most he’d counted during the week was sixteen.

When the light turned red, Connor counted seventeen cars ahead of them. He didn’t move a muscle. The light switched to green and the driver changed into first gear, but the traffic was so heavy that it was some time before he was able to edge forward. Only eight cars crawled through the light.

He had thirty seconds.

He turned and smiled at his minder in the back, and pointed to the newsvendor. The man nodded. Connor stepped out onto the sidewalk and started walking slowly towards the old man wearing a fluorescent orange vest. He didn’t once look back, so he had no idea if anyone from the second car was following him. He concentrated on the traffic moving in the opposite direction on the other side of the street, trying to estimate how long the line of cars would be when the light turned red again. When he reached the newsvendor, he already had a quarter in his hand. He gave it to the old man, who handed him a copy of the
Post
. As he turned and began to walk back towards the first BMW, the light turned red and the traffic came to a halt.

Connor spotted the vehicle he needed. He suddenly switched direction and started sprinting, darting in and out of the stationary traffic on the westbound side of the street until he reached an empty taxi, six cars away from the lights. The two men in the second BMW leaped out of the car and began running after him just as the light at DuPont Circle turned green.

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.

T
HE 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.