The Eleventh Commandment Read online

  Laughter spread around the hall.

  ‘He may call everyone else by their first name, but he’ll call me “Mr President”.’

  Connor knew that the American media would report that remark from coast to coast, and that every word of the speech would be raked over in the Oval Office.

  ‘There are only eight days to go, my friends, before the people decide,’ Zerimski said. ‘Let us spend every moment of that time making sure we have an overwhelming victory on election day. A victory that will send out a message to the whole world that Russia is back as a power to be reckoned with on the global stage.’ His voice was beginning to rise with every word. ‘But don’t do it for me. Don’t even do it for the Communist Party. Do it for the next generation of Russians, who will then be able to play their part as citizens of the greatest nation on earth. Then, when you have cast your vote, you will have done so knowing that we can once again let the people be the power behind the nation.’ He paused, and looked around the audience. ‘I ask for only one thing - the privilege of being allowed to lead those people.’ Dropping his voice almost to a whisper, he ended with the words, ‘I offer myself as your servant.’

  Zerimski took a pace backwards and threw his arms in the air. The audience rose as one. The final peroration had taken forty-seven seconds, and not for a moment had he remained still. He had moved first to his right and then to his left, each time raising the corresponding arm, but never for more than a few seconds at a time. Then he bowed low, and after remaining motionless for twelve seconds he suddenly stood bolt upright and joined in the clapping.

  He remained in the centre of the stage for another eleven minutes, repeating several of the same gestures again and again. When he felt he had milked every ounce of applause he could drag out of the audience, he descended the steps from the stage, followed by his entourage. As he walked down the centre aisle, the noise rose higher than ever, and even more arms were thrust out. Zerimski grabbed as many as he could during his slow progress to the back of the hall. Never once did Connor’s eyes leave him. Even after Zerimski had left the hall, the cheering continued. It didn’t die down until the audience began to leave.

  Connor had noted several characteristic movements of the head and hands, small mannerisms that were often repeated. He could see already that certain gestures regularly accompanied certain phrases, and he knew that soon he would be able to anticipate them.

  ‘Your friend just left,’ said Sergei. ‘I follow him?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Jackson. ‘We know where he’s spending the night. Mind you, that poor bastard a few paces behind him is going to be led a merry dance for the next hour or so.’

  ‘What do we do next?’ asked Sergei.

  ‘You grab some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a long day.’

  ‘You haven’t paid me for today yet,’ said Sergei, thrusting out his hand. ‘Nine hours at $6 an hour is - $56.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s eight hours at $5 an hour,’ said Jackson. ‘But nice try.’ He passed $40 over to Sergei.

  ‘And tomorrow?’ his young partner asked after he had counted and pocketed the notes. ‘What time you want me?’

  ‘Meet me outside his hotel at five o’clock, and don’t be late. My guess is we’ll be following Zerimski on his travels to Yaroslavl, and then returning to Moscow before going on to St Petersburg.’

  ‘You’re lucky, Jackson. I was born in St Petersburg, and there’s nothing I don’t know about the place. But remember, I charge double outside Moscow.’

  ‘You know, Sergei, if you go on like this, it won’t be long before you price yourself out of the market.’

  14

  MAGGIE DROVE OUT of the university parking lot at one minute past one. She swung left onto Prospect Street, braking only briefly at the first stop sign before accelerating away. She only ever took an hour for lunch, and if she failed to find a parking spot near the restaurant it would cut down their time together. And today she needed every minute of that hour.

  Not that any of her staff in the Admissions Office would have complained if she had taken the afternoon off. After twenty-eight years working for the university - the last six as Dean of Admissions - if she had put in a backdated claim for overtime, Georgetown University would have had to launch a special appeal.

  At least today the gods were on her side. A woman was pulling out of a spot a few yards from the restaurant where they had arranged to meet. Maggie put four quarters in the meter to cover an hour.

  When she entered the Cafe Milano, Maggie gave the maitre d’ her name. ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said, and guided her to a table by the window to join someone who had never been known to be late for anything.

  Maggie kissed the woman who had been Connor’s secretary for the past nineteen years, and took the place opposite her. Joan probably loved Connor as much as she had any man, and for that love she had never been rewarded with more than the occasional peck on the cheek and a gift at Christmas, which Maggie inevitably ended up buying. Though Joan was not yet fifty, her sensible tweeds, flat shoes and cropped brown hair revealed that she had long ago given up trying to attract the opposite sex.

  ‘I’ve already decided,’ Joan said.

  ‘I know what I’m going to have too,’ said Maggie.

  ‘How’s Tara?’ asked Joan, closing her menu.

  ‘Hanging in there, to use her own words. I only hope she’ll finish her thesis. Although Connor would never say anything to her, he’ll be very disappointed if she doesn’t.’

  ‘He speaks warmly of Stuart,’ Joan said as a waiter appeared by her side.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maggie, a little sadly. ‘It looks as if I’m going to have to get used to the idea of my only child living thirteen thousand miles away.’ She looked up at the waiter. ‘Cannelloni and a side salad for me.’

  ‘And I’ll have the angel-hair pasta,’ said Joan.

  ‘Anything to drink, ladies?’ the waiter asked hopefully.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Maggie firmly. ‘Just a glass of water.’ Joan nodded her agreement.

  ‘Yes, Connor and Stuart got on well,’ said Maggie once the waiter had left. ‘Stuart will be joining us for Christmas, so you’ll have a chance to meet him then.’

  ‘I look forward to that,’ said Joan.

  Maggie sensed that she wanted to add something, but after so many years she had learned that there was no point in pressing her. If it was important, Joan would let her know when she was good and ready.

  ‘I’ve tried to call you several times in the past few days. I hoped you might be able to join me at the opera or come for dinner one evening, but I seem to keep missing you.’

  ‘Now that Connor’s left the company, they’ve closed the office on M Street and moved me back to headquarters,’ said Joan.

  Maggie admired the way Joan had chosen her words so carefully. No hint of where she was working, no suggestion of for whom, not a clue about what her new responsibilities were now that she was no longer with Connor.

  ‘It’s no secret that he hopes you’ll eventually join him at Washington Provident,’ said Maggie.

  ‘I’d love to. But there’s no point in making any plans until we know what’s happening.’

  ‘What do you mean, “happening”?’ asked Maggie. ‘Connor’s already accepted Ben Thompson’s offer. He has to be back before Christmas, so he can start his new job at the beginning of January.’

  A long silence followed before Maggie said quietly, ‘So he didn’t get the job with Washington Provident after all.’

  The waiter arrived with their meals. ‘A little parmesan cheese, madam?’ he asked as he placed them on the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Joan, staring intently at her pasta.

  ‘So that’s why Ben Thompson cold-shouldered me at the opera last Thursday. He didn’t even offer to buy me a drink.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Joan, as the waiter left them. ‘I just assumed you knew.’

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