The Eleventh Commandment Read online

  ‘Don’t you think the time has come to tell me the whole truth,’ said Maggie. ‘Or am I simply expected to go on believing every word you say, like a dutiful wife?’

  Connor lowered his head and remained silent.

  ‘You’ve never hidden the fact that “Maryland Insurance” is nothing more than a front for the CIA. And I’ve never pressed you on the subject. But lately even your well-disguised trips have left a little mud on your shoes.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Connor said lamely.

  ‘When I picked up your suit from the dry cleaners, they told me they’d found this in the pocket.’ Maggie placed a tiny coin on the table. ‘I’m told it has no value outside Colombia.’

  Connor stared at a ten-peso piece, that would cover a local call in Bogota.

  ‘Many wives would immediately jump to one conclusion, Connor Fitzgerald,’ Maggie continued. ‘But don’t forget, I’ve known you for over thirty years, and I’m well aware you’re not capable of that particular deception.’

  ‘I promise you, Maggie …’

  ‘I know, Connor. I’ve always accepted that there had to be a good reason why you haven’t been completely candid with me over the years.’ She leaned across, took her husband’s hand and said, ‘But if you’re now to be dumped on the scrapheap for no apparent reason, don’t you feel I have a right to be told exactly what you’ve been up to for the past twenty-eight years?’

  Jackson asked the taxi driver to pull up outside the pawn shop and wait. He would only be a few minutes, he said, and then he wanted to be taken on to the airport.

  As soon as he entered the shop, Escobar came scurrying through from the outer office. He looked agitated. When he saw who the customer was, he bowed his head and without a word pressed a key on the cash register and pulled open the drawer. He slowly extracted ten hundred-dollar bills and handed them across the counter.

  ‘I must apologise, sir,’ he said, looking up at the tall American, ‘but I fear the rifle was stolen at some time during the night.’

  Jackson didn’t comment.

  ‘The funny thing about it,’ continued Escobar, ‘is that whoever stole it didn’t take any cash.’

  Jackson still said nothing. Escobar couldn’t help thinking, after his customer had left the shop, that he hadn’t seemed all that surprised.

  As the taxi headed towards the airport, Jackson placed a hand in his jacket pocket and removed the spent cartridge. He might not be able to prove who had pulled the trigger, but he was now in no doubt who had given the order to assassinate Ricardo Guzman.

  9

  THE HELICOPTER LANDED SOFTLY on a patch of grass by the Reflecting Pool between the Washington and Lincoln Memorials. As the rotor blades slowed, a short flight of steps unfolded. The door of Nighthawk swung open and President Herrera appeared, sporting a full-dress uniform that made him look like a minor character in a B-movie. He stood to attention and returned the salute of the waiting Marines, then walked the short distance to his armoured Cadillac limousine. As the motorcade proceeded up Seventeenth Street, every flagstaff was flying the Colombian, American and District of Columbia flags.

  Tom Lawrence, Larry Harrington and Andy Lloyd were waiting for him at the south portico of the White House. ‘The better-tailored the outfit, the more colourful the sash, the more numerous the medals, the less significant the country,’ Lawrence thought as he stepped forward to greet his visitor.

  ‘Antonio, my dear old friend,’ said Lawrence as Herrera embraced him, though they had only met once before. When Herrera eventually released his host, Lawrence turned to introduce him to Harrington and Lloyd. Cameras flashed and videotapes whirred as the presidential party made its way into the White House. Several more ‘grip and grin’ pictures were taken in the long corridor below a full-length portrait of George Washington.

  After the requisite three-minute photo-op the President ushered his guest into the Oval Office. While Colombian coffee was being served and yet more photographs taken, they discussed nothing of significance. When they were eventually left alone, the Secretary of State began to guide the conversation on to the current relationship between the two countries. Lawrence was grateful for the briefing he had received from Larry earlier that morning. He felt able to speak authoritatively about extradition agreements, this year’s coffee crop, the drug problem, even the new metro being constructed in Bogota by an American company as part of an overseas aid package.

  As the Secretary of State broadened the discussion to take in the repayment of extended dollar loans and the disparity of exports and imports between the two countries, Lawrence found his mind wandering to the problems he would have to face later that day.

  The Arms Reduction Bill was getting bogged down in committee, and Andy had already warned him that the votes just weren’t stacking up. He would probably need to see several Congressmen individually if he was to have any chance of pushing it through. He was aware that these ritual visits to the White House were usually nothing more than ego-massaging, so that the elected representatives could return to their districts and inform the voters - if they were Democrats - how close their relationship was with the President, or - if they were Republicans - how the President was dependent on their support to get any legislation through. With the mid-term elections less than a year away, Lawrence realised that there would have to be quite a few unscheduled meetings during the coming weeks.

  He was brought back to the present with a jolt when Herrera said, ‘… and for that I must thank you particularly, Mr President.’ A large smile appeared on the face of Colombia’s leader as the three most powerful men in America stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Would you care to repeat that, Antonio?’ said the President, not quite sure that he had heard his visitor correctly.

  ‘As we are in the privacy of the Oval Office, Tom, I just wanted to say how much I appreciated the personal role you played in my election.’

  ‘How long have you been working for Maryland Life, Mr Fitzgerald?’ asked the Chairman of the Board. It was his first question in an interview that had already lasted for over an hour.

  ‘Twenty-eight years in May, Mr Thompson,’ replied Connor, looking directly at the man who sat at the centre of the large table facing him.

  ‘Your record is most impressive,’ said the woman sitting on the Chairman’s right. ‘And your references are impeccable. I’m bound to ask why you want to leave your present job. And, perhaps more important, why Maryland Life seems willing to let you go.’

  Connor had discussed how he should answer this question with Maggie over dinner the previous evening. ‘Just tell them the truth,’ she had said. ‘And don’t bother with any guile; you’ve never been any good at it.’ He hadn’t expected any different advice.

  ‘My only immediate chance of promotion would have meant moving to Cleveland,’ he answered, ‘and I felt I couldn’t ask my wife to give up her job at Georgetown University. It would be hard for her to find an equivalent post in Ohio.’

  The third member of the interviewing board nodded. Maggie had briefed him that one member of the panel had a son who was in his senior year at Georgetown.

  ‘I don’t think that we need to detain you any longer,’ said the Chairman. ‘I’d just like to thank you, Mr Fitzgerald, for coming to see us this afternoon.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Connor, standing to leave.

  To his surprise the Chairman rose from behind the long table and came round to join him. ‘Would you and your wife care to have dinner with us one evening next week?’ he asked as he escorted Connor to the door.

  ‘We’d be delighted, sir,’ Connor replied.

  ‘Ben,’ said the Chairman. ‘Nobody at Washington Provident calls me sir, and certainly not my senior executives.’ He smiled and shook Connor warmly by the hand. ‘I’ll ask my secretary to phone your office tomorrow morning and fix a date. I look forward to meeting your wife - Maggie, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Connor replied. He paused. ‘An