The Eleventh Commandment (1998) (49 page)

Connor raised Arnie’s binoculars to his eyes and focused on the lighting towers high above the stadium. Almost all the agents were now scanning the crowd below, looking for any suggestion of trouble. None of them was showing any interest in the one location it was actually going to come from. Connor’s gaze settled on young Brad, who was peering down into the north stand, checking it row by row. The boy looked as if this was the nearest he’d been to heaven.

Connor swung round and lined the binoculars up on the fifty-yard line. The two captains were now facing each other.

Eleven thirty-six.
Another roar went up as John Kent Cooke proudly led the two Presidents out onto the field, accompanied by a dozen agents who were almost as big as the players. One look and Connor could tell that Zerimski and Lawrence were both wearing bulletproof vests.

He would have liked to line up his rifle on Zerimski and focus the mil dots on his head there and then, but he couldn’t risk being spotted by one of the sharpshooters on the lighting towers, all of whom held their rifles in the crooks of their arms. He knew that they’d been trained to aim and fire in under three seconds.

As the Presidents were introduced to the players, Connor turned his attention to the Redskins flag which was fluttering in the breeze above the western end of the stadium. He cracked the rifle open to find, as he’d expected, that it was in ‘gun-box’ condition - fully loaded, off-safe, off-cocked. He chambered the first round and slammed the breech shut. The noise acted on him like the crack of a starting pistol, and he suddenly felt his heart rate almost double.

Eleven forty-one.
The two Presidents were now chatting with the match officials. Through the binoculars, Connor could see John Kent Cooke nervously checking his watch. He leaned across and whispered something into Lawrence’s ear. The American President nodded, touched Zerimski’s elbow and guided him to a space between the two teams. There were two little white circles on the grass, with a bear painted inside one and an eagle inside the other, so the two leaders would know exactly where to stand.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said a voice over the loudspeaker. ‘Will you please stand for the national anthem of the Russian Republic.’

There was a clattering of seats as the crowd rose from their places, many of them removing their Redskins caps as they turned to face the band and choir at the western end of the field. The bandleader raised his baton, paused, then suddenly lowered it with gusto. The crowd listened restlessly to a tune few of them had ever heard before.

Although Connor had stood through the Russian national anthem many times in the past, he had found that few bands outside the country knew either at what tempo it should be played or how many verses ought to be included. So he had decided to wait for ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ before he took his one chance.

When the Russian anthem came to an end, the players began to stretch and jog on the spot in an attempt to calm their nerves. Connor waited for the bandleader to raise his baton once more, which would be his cue to line up Zerimski in his sights. He glanced at the flagpole on the far side of the stadium: the Redskins banner was now hanging limp, indicating that there was virtually no wind.

The bandmaster raised his baton a second time. Connor placed the rifle through the gap between the triangular ad panel and the video screen, using the wooden frame as a rest. He swept the telescopic sight across the field, then focused on the back of Zerimski’s head, lining up the mil dots until it completely filled the centre of the rifle’s sights.

The opening bars of the American anthem struck up, and both Presidents visibly stiffened. Connor breathed out. Three … two … one. He gently squeezed the trigger just as Tom Lawrence’s right arm swung across his chest, his hand coming to rest over his heart. Distracted by the sudden movement, Zerimski glanced to his left, and the bullet flew harmlessly past his right ear. Seventy-eight thousand out-of-tune voices ensured that no one heard the soft thud as the inch of metal embedded itself in the grass beyond the fifty-yard line.

Brad, lying flat on his stomach on the lighting platform high above the executive suite stared intently down at the crowd through a pair of binoculars. His eyes settled on the JumboTron. The vast screen was dominated by a larger than life President Lawrence, hand on heart, lustily singing the national anthem.

Brad’s glasses swept on. Suddenly he jerked them back. He thought he’d seen something in the gap between the triangular ad panel and the screen. He double-checked … it was the barrel of a rifle, pointing towards the centre of the field from the gap where he had earlier seen Arnie peering through his binoculars. He touched the fine focus and stared at a face he’d seen earlier that day. He didn’t hesitate.

‘Cover and evacuate. Gun.’

Brad spoke with such urgency and authority that Braithwaite and two of his counter-snipers instantly swung their binoculars round to the JumboTron. Within moments they had focused on Connor lining up his second shot.

‘Relax,’ Connor was murmuring to himself. ‘Don’t rush. You’ve got plenty of time.’ Zerimski’s head again filled the scope. Connor lined up the mil dots and breathed out again. Three … two …

Braithwaite’s bullet hammered into his left shoulder, knocking him backwards. A second bullet whistled through the gap where his head had been an instant before.

The national anthem came to an end.

Twenty-eight years of training had prepared Connor for this moment. Everything in his body screamed out to him to make good his escape. He immediately began to carry out plan A, trying to ignore the excruciating pain in his shoulder. He struggled to the door, switched off the light and clambered out onto the walkway. He tried to run to the far door that led out onto the concourse, but found he needed every ounce of energy just to keep moving. Forty seconds later, just as the two Presidents were being escorted from the field, he reached the door. He heard a roar from the crowd as the Redskins prepared to kick off.

Connor unlocked the door, staggered to the service elevator and jabbed the button several times. He could hear the little engine whirr into action as it began its slow progress towards the seventh level. His eyes were darting right and left, searching for the slightest sign of danger. The pain in his shoulder was becoming more and more intense, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. The first places every law enforcement agency would check were the local hospitals. He stuck his head into the shaft, and watched the top of the elevator heading towards him. It was about fifteen seconds away. But then it came to a sudden halt. Someone must be loading or unloading at the executive level.

Connor’s instinctive reaction was to fall back on his contingency plan, something he had never had to do in the past. He knew he couldn’t hang around - if he waited for more than a few more seconds, someone would spot him.

He moved as quickly as he could back towards the door that led to the JumboTron. The service elevator resumed its journey. A tray of sandwiches, a slice of Black Forest cake and the Coke that Arnie had been looking forward to appeared a few seconds later.

Connor slipped back through the door marked ‘Private’, leaving it unlocked. He had to summon up every ounce of willpower in his body to cover the seventy yards along the walkway, but he knew that agents from the Protective Intelligence Division mobile team would be swarming through that door within moments.

Twenty-four seconds later, Connor reached the massive girder that supported the video screen. He gripped the rail with his right hand and eased himself over the edge of the walkway and onto the ledge just as the door to the corridor swung open. He slipped under the walkway and heard two sets of feet run towards him, pass above him and stop outside the door to the JumboTron itself. Through a gap in the walkway he could see an officer clasping a hand gun pushing the door open. Without stepping inside, he fumbled for the light switch.

Connor waited until the lights went on and the two officers had disappeared inside the JumboTron before he began to crawl along the forty-two-foot girder for the third time that day. But now he could only hold on with his right arm, which meant that his progress was even slower. At the same time he had to be sure that the blood dripping from his left shoulder fell the 170 feet to the ground and not onto the girder for all to see.

When the leading Secret Service agent entered the Jumbo-Tron, the first thing he saw was Arnie handcuffed to the steel beam. He moved slowly towards him, constantly checking in every direction until he was standing by his side. His partner covered him while he unlocked Arnie’s handcuffs and gently lowered him to the ground, then removed the handkerchief from his mouth and checked his pulse. He was alive.

Arnie raised his eyes to the ceiling, but didn’t speak. The first Secret Service man immediately began to mount the steps to the second level, while the other officer covered him. The first man edged cautiously along the ledge behind the vast screen. A deafening roar went up around the stadium as the Redskins scored a touchdown, but he ignored it. Once he had reached the far wall, he turned back and nodded. The second officer began to climb to the top level, where he carried out a similar reconnaissance.

Both officers were back on the lower level, double-checking every possible hiding place, when a message came over the first agent’s radio.

‘Hercules 7.’

‘Hercules 7, go ahead.’

‘Any sign of him?’ asked Braithwaite.

‘There’s nobody here except Arnie, who was cuffed to a beam in his underwear. Both doors were unlocked, and there’s a trickle of blood all the way to the concourse, so you definitely winged him. He has to be out there somewhere. He’s wearing Arnie’s uniform, so he shouldn’t be too hard to spot.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ said Braithwaite. ‘If it’s who I think it is, he could be right under your nose.’

T
HREE MEN SAT
in the Oval Office listening to the tape. Two were in evening dress, the third in uniform.

‘How did you find it?’ asked Lawrence.

‘It was among the pile of clothes Fitzgerald left in the Jumbo-Tron,’ said Special Agent in Charge Braithwaite. ‘In the back pocket of his jeans.’

‘How many people have heard it?’ asked Lloyd, trying not to sound anxious.

‘Just the three of us in this room, sir,’ said Braithwaite. ‘As soon as I’d listened to it, I contacted you immediately. I haven’t even briefed my boss.’

‘I’m grateful for that, Bill,’ said the President. ‘But what about those who witnessed the incident in the stadium?’

‘Apart from myself, only five other people were aware that anything happened, and you can be assured of their discretion,’ said Braithwaite. ‘Four of them have been on my personal staff for ten years or more, and between them they know enough secrets to sink the last four Presidents, not to mention half of Congress.’

‘Did anyone actually see Fitzgerald?’ asked Lloyd.

‘No, sir. The two agents who searched the JumboTron immediately after the incident found no sign of him except a pile of clothes, a lot of blood and one of my men handcuffed to a beam. After I’d played the tape, I gave an order that there was to be no written or verbal report concerning the incident.’

‘What about the man who was hanging from the beam?’ asked the President.

‘He just lost his footing and slipped off the ledge. I’ve put him on sick leave for a month.’

‘You mentioned a fifth person,’ said Lloyd.

‘Yes, sir, a young trainee who was up on the lighting tower with us.’

‘How can you be sure he won’t talk?’ asked Lloyd.

‘His application to join the Secret Service is on my desk as we speak,’ said Braithwaite. ‘I think he’s hoping to be assigned to my division as soon as he’s completed his training.’

The President smiled. ‘And the bullet?’

‘I made a hell of a mess digging it out of the field after the stadium had been cleared,’ said Braithwaite, passing a spent piece of flat metal across to the President.

Lawrence rose from his desk, turned round and stared out of the bay window. Dusk had fallen over the Capitol. He looked across the lawn while he thought about what he was going to say.

‘It’s important that you realise one thing, Bill,’ he said eventually. ‘It certainly sounds like my voice on that tape, but I have never suggested to anyone, at any time, that Zerimski or any other person should be the target of an assassin.’