The Eleventh Commandment Read online

  ‘I’m sure we can do that,’ said Gutenburg.

  The Director nodded her agreement, then asked Ziegler: ‘Why did we develop this piece of equipment in the first place?’

  ‘It was set up in case the President died while America was at war, and we needed the enemy to believe he was still alive. But Tommy has many other uses, Director. For example …’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ interrupted Dexter.

  Ziegler looked disappointed, aware that the Director was coming to the end of her attention span.

  ‘How long would it take you to prepare a specific programme?’ Gutenburg asked.

  ‘How long will it take you to work out what the President needs to say?’ replied Ziegler, the childlike smile returning to his face.

  She kept her finger on the buzzer until Connor finally picked up the phone on his desk.

  ‘What’s the problem, Joan? I’m not going deaf.’

  ‘I’ve got Ruth Preston, the President’s personal secretary, on the line.’

  The next voice Connor heard was a woman’s. ‘Is that Connor Fitzgerald?’

  ‘Speaking,’ Connor replied. He could feel the sweat in the palm of the hand holding the phone. That never happened when he was waiting to pull the trigger.

  ‘I have the President on the line for you.’

  He heard a click. ‘Good afternoon,’ a familiar voice said.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr President.’

  ‘I think you know why I’m calling.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do.’

  Professor Ziegler pressed ‘Opening Statement’. The Director and Deputy Director held their breath.

  ‘I felt I had to call and let you know just how important I consider this assignment to be.’ Pause. ‘Because I have no doubt that you’re the right person to carry it out.’ Pause. ‘So I hope you will agree to take on the responsibility.’

  Ziegler pressed the ‘Wait’ button.

  ‘I appreciate your confidence in me, Mr President,’ said Connor, ‘and I’m grateful to you for taking the time to phone personally …’

  ‘Number 11,’ said Ziegler, who knew all the replies by heart.

  ‘I felt it was the least I could do in the circumstances.’ Pause.

  ‘Thank you, Mr President. Although Mr Gutenburg assured me of your involvement, and the Director herself called later that afternoon to confirm it, as you know, I still felt unable to take on the assignment unless I was certain that the order had come directly from you.’

  ‘Number 7.’

  ‘I can quite understand your anxiety.’ Pause.

  ‘Number 19.’

  ‘Perhaps when this is all over you and your wife would come and visit me at the White House - that is, if the Director will allow it.’ Pause.

  ‘Number 3,’ said Ziegler sharply. There was a burst of loud laughter.

  Connor moved the phone slightly away from his ear. ‘We would be honoured, sir,’ he said once the laughter had died away.

  ‘Closing statement,’ said Ziegler.

  ‘Good. I’ll look forward to seeing you as soon as you return.’ Pause. ‘I often think it’s sad that America doesn’t always appreciate its unsung heroes.’ Pause. ‘It was good talking to you. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr President.’

  Connor was still holding the phone when Joan came into the room. ‘So that’s another myth exploded,’ she said as Connor replaced the receiver. He looked up at her and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘That the President always calls everyone by their first name.’

  11

  GUTENBURG HANDED HIM a large brown envelope containing four passports, three airline tickets and a bundle of notes in different currencies.

  ‘Don’t I have to sign for all this?’ asked Connor.

  ‘No. As it’s all been a bit rushed, we’ll deal with the paperwork when you get back. Once you arrive in Moscow, you’re to go to Zerimski’s campaign headquarters and show them your credentials as a freelance reporter from South Africa. They’ll give you a press pack detailing his schedule for the runup to the election.’

  ‘Do I have a contact in Moscow?’

  ‘Yes. Ashley Mitchell.’ Gutenburg hesitated. ‘It’s his first big assignment, and he’s been briefed strictly on a need-to-know basis. He’s also been instructed only to get in touch with you if it’s a green light, in which case he’ll supply you with the weapon.’

  ‘Make and model?’

  ‘The usual custom-made Remington 700,’ said Gutenburg. ‘But if Chernopov stays ahead in the polls, I don’t expect your services will be needed, in which case you’re to return to Washington the day after the election. I’m afraid this mission may turn out to be a bit of a non-event.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Connor, and left the Deputy Director without shaking hands.

  ‘I’m afraid my arm was twisted so far up my back that I couldn’t say no,’ said Connor, putting another blue shirt in his suitcase.

  ‘You could have refused,’ said Maggie. ‘Starting a new job on the first of the month would have been a convincing enough excuse.’ She paused. ‘What was Ben Thompson’s reaction?’

  ‘He’s been very understanding,’ said Connor. ‘He has no problem with me starting a month later. It seems December is always a quiet time.’ Connor pressed his clothes down, wondering how he would fit his spongebag in. He was already wishing he had allowed Maggie to pack for him, but hadn’t wanted her to come across several items that didn’t tie in with his story. He sat down heavily on the suitcase lid. Maggie snapped the lock shut, and they fell on the bed, laughing. He took her in his arms and held on to her a little too long.

  ‘Is everything all right, Connor?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Everything’s just fine, honey,’ he said, releasing her.

  He picked up the case and carried it downstairs. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be here for Thanksgiving. Don’t forget to tell Tara I’m looking forward to seeing her at Christmas,’ he said as Maggie followed him out of the front door. He stopped beside a car she had never seen before.

  ‘And Stuart too,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said as he placed the suitcase in the boot. ‘It will be good to see him again.’ Once more he took his wife in his arms. This time he made sure he didn’t hold on too long.

  ‘Heavens, what are we going to give Tara for Christmas?’ Maggie suddenly said. ‘I haven’t even thought about it.’

  ‘If you’d seen her latest phone bill, you wouldn’t have to think about it,’ said Connor, climbing behind the wheel.

  ‘I don’t remember this car,’ said Maggie.

  ‘It’s one of the company’s,’ he explained as he turned on the ignition. ‘By the way, could you let Father Graham know he’ll have to find someone else to make up his bridge four on Saturday? Goodbye, honey.’

  Without another word he put the car into drive and eased it out onto the road. He hated saying goodbye to Maggie, and always tried to keep their farewells as short as possible. He checked in the rear-view mirror. She was standing at the end of the drive, waving, as he turned the corner onto Cambridge Place and headed for the airport.

  When he reached the end of the Dulles access road, he didn’t need to look for the arrow pointing to the long-term parking lot. He drove down the ramp and took a ticket from the machine, then parked in a far corner. He locked the car and headed towards the airport entrance, then took the escalator up one flight to the United Airlines check-in desk.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Perry,’ said the uniformed assistant who checked his ticket. ‘Flight 918 is almost ready for boarding. Please make your way to Gate C7.’

  After clearing security, Connor boarded a mobile lounge to the mid-field terminal. In the waiting area he sat in the far corner, and when the passengers were asked to board he took his usual window seat near the back. Twenty minutes later he was listening to the captain explaining that although they would not be taking off on time, they would somehow miraculously still be arriv