The Eleventh Commandment

Chapter One

As he opened the door the alarm went off.

The sort of mistake you would expect an amateur to make, which was surprising, as Connor Fitzgerald was considered by his peers to be the professional’s professional.

Fitzgerald had anticipated that it would be several minutes before the local policia responded to a burglary in the San Victorina district.

There were still a couple of hours to go before the kick-off of the annual match against Brazil, but half the television sets in Colombia would already be switched on. If Fitzgerald had broken into the pawn shop after the game had started, the policia probably wouldn’t have followed it up until the referee had blown the final whistle. It was well known that the local criminals looked upon the match as a ninety-minute parole period. But his plans for that ninety minutes would have the policia chasing their shadows for days. And it would be weeks, probably months, before anyone worked out the real significance of the break-in that Saturday afternoon.

The alarm was still sounding as Fitzgerald closed the back door and made his way quickly through the small store room towards the front of the shop. He ignored the rows of watches on their little stands, emeralds in their cellophane bags and gold objects of every size and shape displayed behind a fine-mesh grille. All were carefully marked with a name and date, so their impoverished owners could return within six months and reclaim their family heirlooms. Few ever did.

Fitzgerald swept aside the bead curtain that divided the store room from the shop, and paused behind the counter. His eyes rested on a battered leather case on a stand in the centre of the window. Printed on the lid in faded gold letters were the initials ‘D.V.R.’ He remained absolutely still until he was certain that no one was looking in.

When Fitzgerald had sold the hand-crafted masterpiece to the shopkeeper earlier that day, he had explained that as he had no intention of returning to Bogota, it could go on sale immediately. Fitzgerald was not surprised that the piece had already been placed in the window. There wouldn’t be another one like it in Colombia.

He was about to climb over the counter when a young man strolled past the window. Fitzgerald froze, but the man’s attention was wholly occupied by a small radio he was pressing to his left ear. He took about as much notice of Fitzgerald as he would of a tailor’s dummy. Once he was out of sight, Fitzgerald straddled the counter and walked to the window. He glanced up and down the road to check for any casual observers, but there were none. With one movement he removed the leather case from its stand and walked quickly back. He leapt over the counter and turned to look out of the window again to reassure himself that no inquisitive eyes had witnessed the burglary.

Fitzgerald swung round, pulled aside the bead curtain and strode on towards the closed door. He checked his watch. The alarm had been blaring away for ninety-eight seconds. He stepped into the alley and listened. Had he heard the whine of a police siren, he would have turned left and disappeared into the maze of streets that ran behind the pawnbroker’s shop. But apart from the alarm, everything remained silent. He turned right and walked casually in the direction of Carrera Septima.

When Connor Fitzgerald reached the pavement he glanced left and then right, weaved through the light traffic and, without looking back, crossed to the far side of the street. He disappeared into a crowded restaurant, where a group of noisy fans were seated around a large-screen television.

Nobody gave him a glance. Their only interest was in watching endless replays of the three goals Colombia had scored the previous year. He took a seat at a corner table. Although he couldn’t see the television screen clearly, he had a perfect view across the street. A battered sign with the words ‘J. Escobar. Monte de Piedad, establecido 1946’ flapped in the afternoon breeze above the pawn shop.

Several minutes passed before a police car screeched to a halt outside the shop. Once Fitzgerald had seen the two uniformed officers enter the building, he left his table and walked nonchalantly out of the back door onto another quiet Saturday afternoon street. He hailed the first empty taxi and said in a broad South African accent, ‘El Belvedere on the Plaza de Bolivar, por favor.’ The driver nodded curtly, as if to make it clear that he had no wish to become involved in a prolonged conversation. As Fitzgerald slumped into the back of the battered yellow cab, he turned up the radio.

Fitzgerald checked his watch again. Seventeen minutes past one. He was running a couple of minutes behind schedule. The speech would have already begun, but as they always lasted for well over forty minutes, he still had more than enough time to carry out his real reason for being in Bogota. He moved a few inches to his right, so as to be sure the driver could see him clearly in the rear-view mirror.

Once the policia began their enquiries, Fitzgerald needed everyone who had seen him that day to give roughly the same description: male, Caucasian, fiftyish, a shade over six foot, around 210 pounds, unshaven, dark unruly hair, dressed like a foreigner, with a foreign accent, but not American. He hoped that at least one of them would be able to identify the South African nasal twang. Fitzgerald had always been good at accents. In high school he had regularly been in trouble for mimicking his teachers.

The taxi’s radio continued to pump out the views of expert after expert on the likely outcome of the annual fixture. Fitzgerald mentally switched off from a language he had little interest in mastering, although he had recently added ‘falta’, ‘fuera’ and ‘gol’ to his limited vocabulary.

When the little Fiat drew up outside the El Belvedere seventeen minutes later, Fitzgerald handed over a ten-thousand-peso note, and had slipped out of the cab before the driver had a chance to thank him for such a generous tip. Not that the taxi drivers of Bogota are well known for their overuse of the words ‘muchas gracias’.

Fitzgerald ran up the hotel steps, past the liveried doorman and through the revolving doors. In the foyer, he headed straight for the bank of elevators opposite the check-in desk. He had to wait only a few moments before one of the four lifts returned to the ground floor. When the doors slid open he stepped inside and pressed the button marked ‘8’, and the ‘Close’ button immediately afterwards, giving no one a chance to join him. When the doors opened on the eighth floor, Fitzgerald walked down the thinly carpeted corridor to room 807. He pushed a plastic card into the slot and waited for the green light to glow before he turned the handle. As soon as the door opened, he placed the ‘Favor de no Molestar’ sign on the outside knob, closed the door and bolted it.

He checked his watch yet again: twenty-four minutes to two. By now he calculated that the police would have left the pawn shop, having concluded that it was a false alarm. They would phone Mr Escobar at his home in the country to inform him that everything appeared to be in order, and would suggest that when he returned to the city on Monday, he should let them know if anything was missing. But long before then, Fitzgerald would have replaced the battered leather case in the window. On Monday morning the only items that Escobar would report stolen would be the several small packets of uncut emeralds that had been removed by the policia on their way out. How long would it be before he discovered the only other thing that was missing? A day? A week? A month? Fitzgerald had already decided he would have to leave the odd clue to help speed up the process.

Fitzgerald took off his jacket, hung it over the nearest chair and picked up the remote control from a table by the side of the bed. He pressed the ‘On’ button and sat down on the sofa in front of the television. The face of Ricardo Guzman filled the screen.

Fitzgerald knew that Guzman would be fifty next April, but at six foot one, with a full head of black hair and no weight problem, he could have told the adoring crowd that he had not yet turned forty, and they would have believed him. After all, few Colombians expected their politicians to tell the truth about anything, especially their age.

Ricardo Guzman, the favourite in the upcoming presidential election, was the boss of the Cali cartel, which controlled 80 per cent of the New York cocaine trade, and made over a billion dollars a year. Fitzgerald had not come across this information in any of Colombia’s three national newspapers, perhaps because the supply of most of the country’s newsprint was controlled by Guzman.

‘The first action I shall take as your President will be to nationalise any company in which Americans are the majority shareholders.’

The small crowd that surrounded the steps of the Congress building on the Plaza de Bolivar screamed their approval. Ricardo Guzman’s advisors had told him again and again that it would be a waste of time making a speech on the day of the match, but he had ignored them, calculating that millions of television viewers would be flicking through the channels in search of the soccer, and would come across him on their screens, if only for a moment. The same people would then be surprised, only an hour later, to see him striding into the packed stadium. Football bored Guzman, but he knew that his entrance moments before the home team were due to take the field would divert the crowd’s attention away from Antonio Herrera, the Colombian Vice-President and his main rival in the election. Herrera would be seated in the VIP box, but Guzman would be in the midst of the crowd behind one of the goals. The image he wished to portray was of a man of the people.

Fitzgerald estimated that there was about six minutes of the speech left. He had already heard Guzman’s words at least a dozen times: in crowded halls, in half-empty bars, on street corners, even in a coach station while the candidate had addressed the local citizens from the back of a bus. He pulled the leather case off the bed and onto his lap.

‘...Antonio Herrera is not the Liberal candidate,’ hissed Guzman, ‘but the American candidate. He is nothing more than a ventriloquist’s dummy, whose every word is chosen for him by the man who sits in the Oval Office.’ The crowd cheered again.

Five minutes, Fitzgerald calculated. He opened the case and stared down at the Remington 700 that had been out of his sight for only a few hours.

‘How dare the Americans assume that we will always fall in line with whatever is convenient for them?’ Guzman barked. ‘And simply because of the power of the God-almighty dollar. To hell with the God-almighty dollar!’ The crowd cheered even more loudly as the candidate took a dollar bill from his wallet and tore George Washington into shreds.

‘I can assure you of one thing,’ continued Guzman, scattering the tiny pieces of green paper over the crowd like confetti.

‘God isn’t an American...’ mouthed Fitzgerald.

‘God isn’t an American!’ shouted Guzman.

Fitzgerald gently removed the McMillan fibreglass stock from the leather case.

‘In two weeks’ time, the citizens of Colombia will be given the opportunity to let their views be heard right across the world,’ Guzman shouted.

‘Four minutes,’ murmured Fitzgerald, as he glanced up at the screen and mimicked the smile of the candidate. He took the Hart stainless steel barrel from its resting place and screwed it firmly into the stock. It fitted like a glove.

‘Whenever summits are held around the world, Colombia will once again be sitting at the conference table, not reading about it in the press the following day. Within a year I will have the Americans treating us not as a Third World country, but as their equals.’

The crowd roared as Fitzgerald lifted the Leupold 10 Power sniper scope from its place and slid it into the two little grooves on the top of the barrel.

‘Within a hundred days you will see changes in our country that Herrera wouldn’t have believed possible in a hundred years. Because when I am your President...’

Fitzgerald slowly nestled the stock of the Remington 700 into his shoulder. It felt like an old friend. But then, it should have done: every part had been hand-crafted to his exact specifications.

He raised the telescopic sight to the image on the television screen, and lined up the little row of mil dots until they were centred an inch above the heart of the candidate.

‘...conquer inflation...’

Three minutes.

‘...conquer unemployment...’

Fitzgerald breathed out.

‘...and thereby conquer poverty.’

Fitzgerald counted three... two... one, then gently squeezed the trigger. He could barely hear the click above the noise of the crowd.

Fitzgerald lowered the rifle, rose from the sofa and put the empty leather case down. It would be another ninety seconds before Guzman reached his ritual condemnation of President Lawrence.

He removed one of the hollow-point bullets from its little leather slot inside the lid of the case. He broke the stock and slipped the bullet into its chamber, then snapped the barrel shut with a firm upward movement.

‘This will be a last chance for the citizens of Colombia to reverse the disastrous failures of the past,’ cried Guzman, his voice rising with every word. ‘So we must be sure of one thing...’

‘One minute,’ murmured Fitzgerald. He could repeat word for word the final sixty seconds of a Guzman speech. He turned his attention from the television and walked slowly across the room towards the french windows.

‘...that we do not waste this golden opportunity...’

Fitzgerald pulled back the lace curtain that obscured the view of the outside world, and stared across the Plaza de Bolivar to the north side of the square, where the presidential candidate was standing on the top step of the Congress building, looking down on the crowd. He was about to deliver his coup de grace.

Fitzgerald waited patiently. Never leave yourself in the open for longer than is necessary.

‘Viva la Colombia!’ Guzman cried. ‘Viva la Colombia!’ the mob screamed back in a frenzy, although many of them were no more than paid flunkies strategically placed among the crowd.

‘I love my country,’ declared the candidate. Thirty seconds of the speech left. Fitzgerald pushed open the french windows, to be greeted by the full volume of the masses repeating Guzman’s every word.

The candidate dropped his voice almost to a whisper: ‘And let me make one thing clear — my love of my country is my only reason for wishing to serve as your President.’

For a second time, Fitzgerald pulled the stock of the Remington 700 slowly up into his shoulder. Every eye was looking at the candidate as he boomed out the words, ‘Dios guarde a la Colombia!’ The noise became deafening as he raised both arms high in the air to acknowledge the roars of his supporters shouting back, ‘Dios guarde a la Colombia!’ Guzman’s hands remained triumphantly in the air for several seconds, as they did at the end of every speech. And, as always, for a few moments he remained absolutely still.

Fitzgerald lined up the tiny mil dots until they were an inch above the candidate’s heart, and breathed out as he tightened the fingers of his left hand around the stock. ‘Three... two... one,’ he murmured under his breath, before gently squeezing the trigger.

Guzman was still smiling as the boat-tailed bullet tore into his chest. A second later he slumped to the ground like a string-less puppet, fragments of bone, muscle and tissue flying in every direction. Blood spurted over those who were standing nearest to him. The last Fitzgerald saw of the candidate was his outstretched arms, as if he were surrendering to an unknown enemy.

Fitzgerald lowered the rifle, broke the stock and quickly closed the french windows. His assignment was completed.

His only problem now was to make sure he didn’t break the Eleventh Commandment.

Chapter Two

‘Should I send a message of condolence to his wife and family?’ asked Tom Lawrence.

‘No, Mr President,’ replied the Secretary of State. ‘I think you should leave that to an Assistant Secretary for Inter-American Affairs. It now looks certain that Antonio Herrera will be the next President of Colombia, so he’ll be the person you’ll have to do business with.’

‘Will you represent me at the funeral? Or should I send the Vice-President?’

‘Neither of us, would be my advice,’ replied the Secretary of State. ‘Our Ambassador in Bogota can represent you quite adequately. As the funeral will take place this weekend, we couldn’t be expected to be available at such short notice.’

The President nodded. He had become accustomed to Larry Harrington’s matter-of-fact approach to everything, including death. He could only wonder what line Larry would adopt were he himself to be assassinated.

‘If you have a moment, Mr President, I think I should brief you in greater detail on our present policy in Colombia. The press may want to question you on the possible involvement of...’

The President was about to interrupt him when there was a knock on the door, and Andy Lloyd entered the room.

It must be eleven o’clock, thought Lawrence. He hadn’t needed a watch since he had appointed Lloyd as his Chief of Staff.

‘Later, Larry,’ said the President. ‘I’m about to give a press conference on the Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction Bill, and I can’t imagine many journalists will be interested in the death of a presidential candidate in a country that, let’s face it, most Americans couldn’t even place on a map.’

Harrington said nothing. He didn’t feel it was his responsibility to point out to the President that most Americans still couldn’t place Vietnam on a map either. But once Andy Lloyd had entered the room, Harrington knew that only the declaration of a world war would have given him priority. He gave Lloyd a curt nod and left the Oval Office.

‘Why did I ever appoint that man in the first place?’ Lawrence asked, his eyes fixed on the closed door.

‘Larry was able to deliver Texas, Mr President, at a moment when our internal polls showed that the majority of southerners considered you a northern wimp who would quite happily appoint a homosexual as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.’

‘I probably would,’ said Lawrence, ‘if I thought he was the right man for the job.’

One of the reasons Tom Lawrence had offered his old college friend the post of White House Chief of Staff was that after thirty years, they had no secrets from each other. Andy told it as he saw it, without any suggestion of guile or malice. This endearing quality ensured that he could never hope to be elected to anything himself, and would therefore never be a rival.

The President flicked open the blue file marked ‘IMMEDIATE’ that Andy had left for him earlier that morning. He suspected that his Chief of Staff had been up most of the night preparing it. He began to go over the questions Andy considered were the most likely to be asked at the midday press conference:

How much taxpayers’ money do you anticipate saving by this measure?

‘I suppose Barbara Evans will be asking the first question, as usual,’ said Lawrence, looking up. ‘Do we have any idea what it might be?’

‘No, sir,’ Lloyd replied. ‘But as she’s been pressing for an Arms Reduction Bill ever since the day you beat Gore in New Hampshire, she’s hardly in a position to complain now that you’re ready to deliver it.’

‘True. But that won’t necessarily stop her asking an unhelpful question.’

Andy nodded his agreement as the President glanced at the next question.

How many Americans will lose their jobs as a result of this?

Lawrence looked up. ‘Is there anyone in particular you want me to avoid?’

‘The rest of the bastards,’ said Lloyd with a grin. ‘But when you wrap it up, go to Phil Ansanch.’

‘Why Ansanch?’

‘He backed the Bill at every stage, and he’s among your dinner guests tonight.’

The President smiled and nodded as he continued to run his finger down the list of anticipated questions. He stopped at number seven.

Isn’t this another example of America losing its way?

He looked up at his Chief of Staff. ‘Sometimes I think we’re still living in the Wild West, the way certain members of Congress have reacted to this Bill.’

‘I agree, sir. But as you know, 40 per cent of Americans still consider the Russians our greatest threat, and nearly 30 per cent expect us to go to war with Russia in their lifetime.’

Lawrence cursed, and ran a hand through his thick, prematurely grey hair before returning to the list of questions, stopping again when he reached nineteen.

‘How much longer am I going to be asked questions about burning my draft card?’

‘As long as you’re the Commander-in-Chief, would be my guess,’ replied Andy.

The President mumbled something under his breath and moved on to the next question. He looked up again. ‘Surely there’s no chance of Victor Zerimski becoming the next President of Russia?’

‘Probably not,’ said Andy, ‘but he’s moved up to third place in the latest opinion poll, and although he’s still well behind Prime Minister Chernopov and General Borodin, his stand against organised crime is beginning to make a dent in their leads. Probably because most Russians believe Chernopov is financed by the Russian Mafya.’

‘What about the General?’

‘He’s been losing ground, since most of the Russian army haven’t been paid for months. The press have been reporting that soldiers are selling their uniforms to tourists on the streets.’

‘Thank God the election’s still a couple of years away. If it looked as if that fascist Zerimski had the slightest chance of becoming the next President of Russia, an Arms Reduction Bill wouldn’t get past first base in either House.’

Lloyd nodded as Lawrence turned the page. His finger continued to run down the questions. He stopped at twenty-nine.

‘How many members of Congress have weapons manufacturing and base facilities in their districts?’ he asked, looking back up at Lloyd.

‘Seventy-two Senators and 211 House members,’ said Lloyd, without having to refer to his unopened file. ‘You’ll need to convince at least 60 per cent of them to support you to guarantee a majority in both Houses. And that’s assuming we can count on Senator Bedell’s vote.’

‘Frank Bedell was demanding a comprehensive Arms Reduction Bill when I was still in high school in Wisconsin,’ said the President. ‘He has no choice but to support us.’

‘He may still be in favour of the Bill, but he feels you haven’t gone far enough. He’s just demanded that you reduce our defence expenditure by over 50 per cent.’

‘And how does he expect me to pull that off?’

‘By withdrawing from NATO and allowing the Europeans to be responsible for their own defence.’

‘But that’s totally unrealistic,’ said Lawrence. ‘Even the Americans for Democratic Action would come out against that.’

‘You know that, I know that, and I suspect that even the good Senator knows that. But it doesn’t stop him appearing on every television station from Boston to Los Angeles, claiming that a 50 per cent reduction in defence expenditure would solve America’s health-care and pension problems overnight.’

‘I wish Bedell spent as much time worrying about the defence of our people as he does about their health care,’ said Lawrence. ‘How do I respond?’

‘Lavish praise on him for his tireless and distinguished record of defending the interests of the elderly. But then go on to point out that, as long as you are Commander-in-Chief, the United States will never lower its defences. Your first priority will always be to ensure that America remains the most powerful nation on earth, et cetera, et cetera. That way we should keep Bedell’s vote, and perhaps even sway one or two of the hawks as well.’

The President glanced at his watch before turning to the third page. He gave out a deep sigh when he came to question thirty-one.

How can you hope to get this Bill enacted, when the Democrats don’t have a majority in either House?

‘OK, Andy. What’s the answer to that one?’

‘You explain that concerned Americans are making it clear to their elected representatives right across the country that this Bill is long overdue, and no more than common sense.’

‘I used that line last time, Andy. For the Drugs Enforcement Bill, remember?’

‘Yes, I do remember, Mr President. And the American people backed you all the way.’

Lawrence let out another deep sigh before saying, ‘Oh, to govern a nation that doesn’t have elections every two years and isn’t hounded by a press corps convinced it could do a better job than the democratically elected government.’

‘Even the Russians are having to come to terms with the phenomenon of the press corps,’ said Lloyd.

‘Who would have believed we’d live to see that?’ said Lawrence, as he scanned the final question. ‘My hunch is that if Chernopov promised the Russian voters that he intended to be the first President to spend more on health care than on defence, he’d romp home.’

‘You may be right,’ said Lloyd. ‘But you can also be certain that if Zerimski were elected, he’d start rebuilding Russia’s nuclear arsenal long before he considered building new hospitals.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said the President. ‘But as there’s no chance of that maniac being elected...’

Andy Lloyd remained silent.

Chapter Three

Fitzgerald knew that the next twenty minutes would decide his fate.

He walked quickly across the room and glanced at the television. The crowd were fleeing from the square in every direction. Noisy elation had turned to blind panic. Two of Ricardo Guzman’s advisors were bending over what remained of his body.

Fitzgerald retrieved the spent cartridge and replaced it in its slot inside the leather case. Would the owner of the pawn shop notice that one of the bullets had been used?

From the other side of the square, the unmistakable whine of a police siren rose above the noise of the screaming crowd. This time the response had been a lot quicker.

Fitzgerald unclipped the viewfinder and placed it in its sculpted slot. He then unscrewed the barrel, slipped it into position, and finally replaced the stock.

He glanced at the television screen for the last time and watched the local policia pouring into the square. He grabbed the leather case, pocketed a book of matches from an ashtray on top of the television, then crossed the room and opened the door.

He looked up and down the empty corridor, then walked quickly in the direction of the freight elevator. He jabbed the little white button on the wall several times. He had unlocked the window that led to the fire escape only moments before he left for the pawn shop, but he knew that if he had to fall back on his contingency plan, a posse of uniformed police would probably be waiting for him at the bottom of the rickety metal staircase. There would be no Rambo-type helicopter, blades whirring, offering him an escape to glory as bullets flew past his ears, hitting everything except him. This was the real world.

When the heavy lift doors slid slowly open, Fitzgerald came face to face with a young waiter in a red jacket carrying an overloaded lunch tray. He had obviously drawn the short straw, and not been given the afternoon off to watch the match.

The waiter was unable to hide his surprise at the sight of a guest standing outside the freight elevator. ‘No, senor, perdone, no puede entrar,’ he tried to explain as Fitzgerald brushed past him. But the guest had jabbed the button marked ‘Planta Baja’ and the doors had closed long before the young man could tell him that particular lift ended up in the kitchen.

When he reached the ground floor, Fitzgerald moved deftly between the stainless steel tables covered with row upon row of hors d’oeuvres waiting to be ordered, and bottles of champagne that would only be uncorked if the home side won. He had reached the far end of the kitchen, pushed his way through the swing doors and disappeared out of sight long before any of the white-clad staff could think of protesting. He ran down a poorly-lit corridor — he had removed most of the lightbulbs from their sockets the previous night — to a heavy door that led to the hotel’s underground car park.

He removed a large key from his jacket pocket, closed the door behind him and locked it. He headed straight for a small black Volkswagen parked in the darkest corner. He took a second, smaller key from his trouser pocket, unlocked the car’s door, slipped behind the wheel, placed the leather case under the passenger seat and turned on the ignition. The engine immediately sprang into life, even though it had not been used for the past three days. He revved the accelerator for a few seconds before easing the gear lever into first.

Fitzgerald manoeuvred the vehicle unhurriedly between the rows of parked cars and drove up the steep ramp out onto the street. He paused at the top of the slope. The policia were breaking into a parked car, and didn’t even glance in his direction. He turned left and headed slowly away from the Plaza de Bolivar.

And then he heard the whining sound behind him. He glanced at the rear-view mirror to see two policia outriders bearing down on him, their flashing lights full on. Fitzgerald pulled over to the side of the road as the outriders and the ambulance carrying Guzman’s lifeless body sped past him.

He took the next left down a side street and began a long, circuitous route to the pawn shop, often doubling back on himself. Twenty-four minutes later he drove into an alley and parked behind a truck. He retrieved the battered leather case from under the passenger seat and left the car unlocked. He planned to be back behind the wheel in less than two minutes.

He quickly checked up and down the alley. There was no one in sight.

Once again as Fitzgerald entered the building, the alarm went off. But this time he was not worried about the speedy arrival of a passing patrol — most of the policia would be fully occupied, either at the stadium, where the game was due to kick off in half an hour, or arresting anyone who was still within a mile of the Plaza de Bolivar.

Fitzgerald closed the back door of the pawn shop behind him. For the second time that day he moved quickly through the rear office and, sweeping back the bead curtains, stopped behind the counter. He checked for passers-by before returning the battered leather case to its original place in the window.

When Escobar returned to the shop on Monday morning, how long would it be before he discovered that one of the six boat-tailed magnum bullets had been fired, and only the casing remained in place? And even then, would he bother to pass on the information to the police?

Fitzgerald was back behind the wheel of the Volkswagen in less than ninety seconds. He could still hear the clanging alarm as he drove onto the main street and began to follow the signs for Aeropuerto El Dorada. No one showed the slightest interest in him. After all, the game was just about to kick off. In any case, what possible connection could there be between an alarm going off in a pawn shop in the San Victorina district and the assassination of a presidential candidate in the Plaza de Bolivar?

Once Fitzgerald had reached the highway, he stuck to the centre lane, never once exceeding the speed limit. Several police cars shot past him, on their way into the city. Even if anyone had stopped him to check his papers, they would have found that everything was in order. The packed suitcase on the back seat would reveal nothing unusual for a businessman who was visiting Colombia to sell mining equipment.

Fitzgerald slipped off the highway when he reached the exit for the airport. After a quarter of a mile he suddenly swung right and drove into the parking lot of the San Sebastian hotel. He opened the glove compartment and removed a much-stamped passport. With the book of matches he had taken from the El Belvedere, he set Dirk van Rensberg alight. When his fingers were about to be burnt, he opened the car door, dropped the remains of the passport on the ground and stamped out the flames, making sure the South African crest was still recognisable. He put the matches on the passenger seat, grabbed his suitcase from the back and slammed the door closed, leaving the keys in the ignition. He walked towards the front door of the hotel and deposited the remains of Dirk van Rensberg’s passport and a large, heavy key in the litter bin at the bottom of the steps.

Fitzgerald pushed through the revolving doors behind a group of Japanese businessmen, and remained in their slipstream as they were ushered towards an open elevator. He was the only passenger to step out on the third floor. He headed straight for room 347, where he extracted another plastic card that unlocked another room, booked in another name. He tossed the suitcase onto the bed and checked his watch. One hour and seventeen minutes until take-off.

He removed his jacket and threw it over the only chair, then opened the suitcase and took out a washbag before disappearing into the bathroom. It was some time before the water was warm enough for him to place the plug in the basin. While he waited he cut his nails, then he scrubbed his hands as thoroughly as a surgeon preparing for an operation.

It took Fitzgerald twenty minutes to remove every trace of his week-old beard, and several handfuls of shampoo needed to be rubbed in firmly under the warm shower before his hair returned to its natural wavy state and sandy colour.

Fitzgerald dried himself as best he could with the single thin towel the hotel had provided, then returned to the bedroom and put on a clean pair of jockey shorts. He walked over to the chest of drawers on the far side of the room, pulled open the third drawer and felt about until he found the packet taped to the drawer above. Although he hadn’t occupied the room for several days, he was confident that no one would have come across his hiding place.

Fitzgerald ripped open the brown envelope and quickly checked its contents. Another passport in yet another name. Five hundred dollars in used notes and a first-class ticket to Cape Town. Escaping assassins don’t travel first class. Five minutes later he left room 347, his old clothes strewn all over the floor and a ‘Favor de no Molestar’ sign on the door.

Fitzgerald took the guest elevator to the ground floor, confident that no one would give a fifty-one-year-old man in a blue denim shirt, striped tie, sports jacket and grey flannels a second look. He stepped out of the elevator and strolled across the lobby, making no attempt to check out. When he’d arrived eight days earlier, he had paid cash in advance for the room. He had left the mini-bar locked, and never once rung room service, made an outside call or watched a pay film. There would be no extra charges on this guest’s account.

He only had to wait for a few minutes before the shuttle bus swept up to the entrance. He checked his watch. Forty-three minutes to take-off. He wasn’t at all anxious about missing Aeroperu’s Flight 63 to Lima. He felt sure nothing was going to run on time that day.

Once the bus had dropped him at the airport he made his way slowly in the direction of the check-in counter, where he was not surprised to be told that the flight to Lima had been held up by over an hour. Several policia in the overcrowded, chaotic departures hall were suspiciously eyeing every passenger, and although he was stopped and questioned several times, and his case searched twice, he was eventually allowed to proceed to Gate 47.

He slowed his pace when he saw a couple of backpackers being dragged off by airport security staff. He idly wondered just how many innocent unshaven male Caucasians would spend the night being questioned in cells because of his actions earlier that afternoon.

When Fitzgerald joined the queue that led to Passport Control, he repeated his new name under his breath. It was his third that day. The blue-uniformed official in the little cubicle flicked open the New Zealand passport and carefully studied the photograph inside, which bore an undeniable resemblance to the smartly dressed man standing in front of him. He handed back the passport and allowed Alistair Douglas, a civil engineer from Christchurch, to stroll through to the departure lounge. After a further delay, the flight was finally called. A stewardess guided Mr Douglas to his seat in the first-class section.

‘Would you care for a glass of champagne, sir?’

Fitzgerald shook his head. ‘No, thank you. A glass of still water will be just fine,’ he replied, trying out his New Zealand accent.

He fastened his seatbelt, sat back and pretended to read the in-flight magazine as the aircraft began its slow progress down the bumpy runway. Because of the extended line of planes waiting to take off in front of them, there was enough time for Fitzgerald to choose the dishes he would eat and the movie he would watch long before the 727 began its acceleration for takeoff. When the wheels finally left the ground, Fitzgerald started to relax for the first time that day.

Once the aircraft had reached its cruising altitude, he disposed of the in-flight magazine, closed his eyes, and began to think about what needed to be done once he landed in Cape Town.

‘This is your captain speaking,’ said a sombre voice. ‘I have an announcement to make which I know will cause some of you considerable distress.’ Fitzgerald sat bolt upright. The one eventuality he hadn’t planned for was an unscheduled return to Bogota.

‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that a national tragedy has taken place in Colombia today.’

Fitzgerald lightly gripped the armrest of his seat and concentrated on breathing evenly.

The captain hesitated for a moment. ‘My friends,’ he declared gravely, ‘Colombia has suffered a terrible loss.’ He paused. ‘Our national team has been defeated by Brazil, by two goals to one.’

An audible groan went through the cabin, as if crashing into the nearest mountain would have been a preferable alternative. Fitzgerald allowed the suggestion of a smile to cross his lips.

The stewardess reappeared by his side. ‘Can I fix a drink for you now we’re on our way, Mr Douglas?’

‘Thank you,’ Fitzgerald replied. ‘I think I’ll have that glass of champagne after all.’

Chapter Four

As Tom Lawrence entered the packed room, the press corps rose to their feet.

‘The President of the United States,’ declared the Press Secretary, just in case there was a visitor from outer space.

Lawrence climbed the one step up to the podium and placed Andy Lloyd’s blue file on the lectern. He waved at the assembled journalists in a now-familiar gesture to let them know they could resume their seats.

‘I am delighted to announce,’ began the President, sounding relaxed, ‘that I will be sending to Congress a Bill which I promised the American people during the election campaign.’

Few of the senior White House correspondents seated in front of him wrote down a word, as most of them knew that if there was going to be a story worth printing, it was much more likely to come during the question-and-answer session than from any prepared statement. In any case, the President’s opening remarks would be handed to them in a press kit as they left the room. Old pros only fell back on the prepared text when they had to fill extra column inches.

This did not stop the President from reminding them that the passing of an Arms Reduction Bill would allow him to release more revenue for long-term health care, so that elderly Americans could expect a better standard of living during their retirement.

‘This is a Bill that will be welcomed by any decent, caring citizen, and I am proud to be the President who will guide it through Congress.’ Lawrence looked up and smiled hopefully, feeling satisfied that his opening statement at least had gone well.

Shouts of ‘Mr President!’ came from every direction as Lawrence opened his blue file and glanced down at the thirty-one likely questions. He looked up and smiled at a familiar face in the front row. ‘Barbara,’ he said, pointing to the veteran UPI journalist whose right it was, as the doyenne of the press corps, to ask the first question.

Barbara Evans rose slowly to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mr President.’ She paused for a moment before asking, ‘Are you able to confirm that the CIA had no involvement in the assassination of the Colombian presidential candidate, Ricardo Guzman, in Bogota on Saturday?’

A buzz of interest rippled around the room. Lawrence stared down at the redundant thirty-one questions and answers, wishing he hadn’t dismissed Larry Harrington’s offer of a more detailed briefing quite so casually.

‘I’m glad you asked that question, Barbara,’ he responded, without missing a beat. ‘Because I want you to know that while I’m President, such a suggestion doesn’t even arise. This administration would never in any circumstances interfere with the democratic process of a sovereign state. In fact, only this morning, I instructed the Secretary of State to call Mr Guzman’s widow and pass on my personal condolences.’

Lawrence was relieved that Barbara Evans had mentioned the dead man’s name, because otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to recall it. ‘It may also be of interest to you to know, Barbara, that I have already asked the Vice-President to represent me at the funeral, which I understand will be held in Bogota this weekend.’

Pete Dowd, the Secret Service agent in charge of the Presidential Protective Division, immediately left the room to warn the Vice-President before the press got to him.

Barbara Evans looked unconvinced, but before she could follow up with a second question the President had turned his attention to a man standing in the back row who, he hoped, would have no interest in the presidential election in Colombia. But once he had asked his question, Lawrence began to wish he had. ‘What chance does your Arms Reduction Bill have of becoming law if Victor Zerimski looks likely to be the next Russian President?’

For the next forty minutes Lawrence answered several questions about the Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction Bill, but they were interspersed with demands to be told about the CIA’s current role in South America, and how he would deal with Victor Zerimski should he become the next Russian President. As it became all too apparent that Lawrence didn’t know a great deal more than they did about either subject, the hacks, scenting blood, began to badger him on them to the exclusion of all others, including the Arms Reduction Bill.

When Lawrence at last received a sympathetic question from Phil Ansanch on the subject of the Bill, he gave a long, discursive reply, and then without warning wrapped up the press conference by smiling down at the baying journalists and saying, ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure, as always.’ Without another word he turned his back on them, quickly left the room and headed in the direction of the Oval Office.

The moment Andy Lloyd had caught up with him, the President growled under his breath, ‘I need to speak to Larry Harrington immediately. As soon as you’ve tracked him down, call Langley. I want the Director of the CIA in my office within the hour.’

‘I wonder, Mr President, if it might be wiser...’ began the Chief of Staff.

‘Within the hour, Andy,’ said the President, not even looking at him. ‘If I find out that the CIA had any involvement in that assassination in Colombia, I’ll hang Dexter out to dry.’

‘I’ll ask the Secretary of State to join you immediately, Mr President,’ said Lloyd. He disappeared into a side office, picked up the nearest phone and dialled Larry Harrington at the State Department. Even over the phone the Texan was unable to disguise his pleasure at being proved right so quickly.

When Lloyd had put the phone down, he made his way back to his own office, closed the door and sat silently at his desk for a few moments. Once he had thought through exactly what he needed to say, he dialled a number that only one person ever answered.

‘The Director,’ was all Helen Dexter said.

Connor Fitzgerald handed over his passport to the Australian customs official. It would have been ironic if the document had been challenged, because for the first time in three weeks he was using his real name. The uniformed officer tapped out the details on his keyboard, checked the computer screen, then pressed a few more keys.

Nothing untoward appeared, so he stamped the tourist visa and said, ‘Hope you enjoy your visit to Australia, Mr Fitzgerald.’

Connor thanked him and walked through to the baggage hall, where he took a seat opposite the motionless console and waited for his luggage to appear. He never allowed himself to be the first to pass through customs, even when he had nothing to declare.

When he had landed in Cape Town the previous day, Connor had been met off the plane by his old friend and colleague Carl Koeter. Carl had spent the next couple of hours debriefing him before they enjoyed a long lunch discussing Carl’s divorce and what Maggie and Tara were up to. It was the second bottle of 1982 Rustenberg Cabernet Sauvignon that nearly caused Connor to miss his flight to Sydney. In the duty-free shop he hurriedly chose presents for his wife and daughter that were clearly stamped ‘Made in South Africa’. Even his passport gave no clue that he had arrived in Cape Town via Bogota, Lima and Buenos Aires.

As he sat in the baggage collection zone waiting for the console to start up, he began to think about the life he had been leading for the past twenty-eight years.

Connor Fitzgerald had been brought up in a family dedicated to the cause of law and order.

His paternal grandfather, Oscar, named after another Irish poet, had emigrated to America from Kilkenny at the turn of the century. Within hours of landing at Ellis Island he had headed straight for Chicago, to join his cousin in the police department.

During Prohibition Oscar Fitzgerald was among the small band of cops who refused to take bribes from the mob. As a result he failed to rise above the rank of sergeant. But Oscar did sire five Godfearing sons, and only gave up when the local priest told him it was the Almighty’s will that he and Mary wouldn’t be blessed with a daughter. His wife was grateful for Father O’Reilly’s words of wisdom — it was difficult enough raising five strapping lads on a sergeant’s salary. Mind you, if Oscar had ever given her one cent more than she was entitled to from his weekly pay packet, Mary would have wanted to know in great detail where it came from.

On leaving high school, three of Oscar’s boys joined the Chicago PD, where they quickly gained the promotion their father had deserved. Another took holy orders, which pleased Mary, and the youngest, Connor’s father, studied criminal justice at De Paul on the GI Bill. After graduating, he joined the FBI. In 1949 he married Katherine O’Keefe, a girl who lived two doors away on South Lowe Street. They only had one child, a son, whom they christened Connor.

Connor was born in Chicago General Hospital on 8 February 1951, and even before he was old enough to attend the local Catholic school it had become clear that he was going to be a gifted football player. Connor’s father was delighted when his son became captain of the Mount Carmel High School team, but his mother still kept him working late into the night, to make sure he always completed his homework. ‘You can’t play football for the rest of your life,’ she continually reminded him.

The combination of a father who stood whenever a woman entered the room and a mother who verged on being a saint had left Connor, despite his physical prowess, shy in the presence of the opposite sex. Several girls at Mount Carmel High had made it only too obvious how they felt about him, but he didn’t lose his virginity until he met Nancy in his senior year. Shortly after he had led Mount Carmel to another victory one autumn afternoon, Nancy had taken him behind the bleachers and seduced him. It would have been the first time he’d ever seen a naked woman, if she’d taken off all her clothes.

About a month later, Nancy asked him if he’d like to try two girls at once.

‘I haven’t even had two girls, let alone at once,’ he told her. Nancy didn’t seem impressed, and moved on.

When Connor won a scholarship to Notre Dame, he didn’t take up any of the numerous offers that came the way of all the members of the football team. His team-mates seemed to take great pride in scratching the names of the girls who had succumbed to their charms on the inside of their locker doors. Brett Coleman, the team’s place-kicker, had seventeen names inside his locker by the end of the first semester. The rule, he informed Connor, was that only penetration counted: ‘The locker doors just aren’t big enough to include oral sex.’ At the end of his first year, ‘Nancy’ was still the only name Connor had scratched up. After practice one evening he checked through the other lockers, and discovered that Nancy’s name appeared on almost every one of them, occasionally bracketed with that of another girl. The rest of the team would have given him hell for his low scoring if he hadn’t been the best freshman quarterback Notre Dame had seen for a decade.

It was during Connor’s first few days as a sophomore that everything changed.

When he turned up for his weekly session at the Irish Dance Club, she was putting on her shoes. He couldn’t see her face, but that didn’t matter much, because he was unable to take his eyes off those long, slim legs. As a football hero, he had become used to girls staring at him, but now the one girl he wanted to impress didn’t seem aware that he even existed. To make matters worse, when she stepped onto the dance floor, she was partnered by Declan O’Casey, who had no rival as a dancer. They both held their backs rigidly straight, and their feet moved with a lightness Connor could never hope to match.

When the number came to an end, Connor still hadn’t discovered her name. And, worse, she and Declan had left before he could find some way of being introduced to her. In desperation, he decided to follow them back to the women’s dorms, walking fifty yards behind and always remaining in the shadows, just as his father had taught him. He grimaced as they held hands and chatted happily. When they reached Le Mans Hall she kissed Declan on the cheek and disappeared inside. Why, he wondered, hadn’t he concentrated more on dancing and less on football?

After Declan had headed off in the direction of the men’s dorms, Connor began to stroll casually up and down the sidewalk below the dormitory windows, wondering if there was anything he could do. He finally caught a glimpse of her in a dressing gown as she drew the curtain, and hung around for a few more minutes before reluctantly returning to his room. He sat on the end of his bed and began composing a letter to his mother, telling her that he had seen the girl he was going to marry, although he hadn’t actually spoken to her yet — and come to think of it, he didn’t even know her name. As Connor licked the envelope, he tried to convince himself that Declan O’Casey was nothing more to her than a dancing partner.

During the week, he tried to find out as much as he could about her, but he picked up very little other than that she was called Maggie Burke, had won a scholarship to St Mary’s, and was in her freshman year studying Art History. He cursed the fact that he had never entered an art gallery in his life; in fact the nearest he’d come to painting was whenever his father asked him to touch up the fence surrounding their little back yard on South Lowe Street. Declan, it turned out, had been dating Maggie since her last year at school, and was not only the best dancer in the club, but was also considered the university’s brightest mathematician. Other institutions were already offering him fellowships to pursue a postgraduate degree, even before the results of his final exams were known. Connor could only hope that Declan would be offered an irresistible post far away from South Bend as soon as possible.

Connor was the first to turn up at the dance club the following Thursday, and when Maggie appeared from the changing room in her cream cotton blouse and short black skirt, the only question he had to consider was whether to stare up into those green eyes or down at her long legs. Once again she was partnered by Declan all evening, while Connor sat mutely on a bench, trying to pretend he wasn’t aware of her presence. After the final number the two of them slipped off. Once again Connor followed them back to Le Mans Hall, but this time he noticed that she wasn’t holding Declan’s hand.

After a long chat and another kiss on the cheek, Declan disappeared off in the direction of the men’s dorms. Connor slumped down on a bench opposite her window and stared up at the balcony of the girls’ dormitory. He decided to wait until he had seen her draw the curtains, but by the time she appeared at the window, he’d dozed off.

The next thing he remembered was waking from a deep sleep in which he had been dreaming that Maggie was standing in front of him, dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown.

He woke with a start, stared at her in disbelief, jumped up and thrust out his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Connor Fitzgerald.’

‘I know,’ she replied as she shook his hand. ‘I’m Maggie Burke.’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘Any room on that bench?’ she asked.

From that moment, Connor never looked at another woman.

On the following Saturday Maggie went to a football game for the first time in her life, and watched him pull off a series of remarkable plays in front of what was for him a packed stadium of one.

The next Thursday, she and Connor danced together all evening, while Declan sat disconsolately in a corner. He looked even more desolate when the two of them left together, holding hands. When they reached Le Mans Hall, Connor kissed her for the first time, then fell on one knee and proposed. Maggie laughed, turned bright red, and ran inside. On his way back to the men’s dorms Connor also laughed, but only when he spotted Declan hiding behind a tree.

From then on Connor and Maggie spent every moment of their spare time together. She learned about touchdowns, end zones and lateral passes, he about Bellini, Bernini and Luini. Every Thursday evening for the next three years he fell on one knee and proposed to her. Whenever his team-mates asked him why he hadn’t scratched her name on the inside of his locker, he replied simply, ‘Because I’m going to marry her.’

At the end of Connor’s final year, Maggie finally agreed to be his wife — but not until she had completed her exams.

‘It’s taken me 141 proposals to make you see the light,’ he said triumphantly.

‘Oh, don’t be stupid, Connor Fitzgerald,’ she told him. ‘I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life with you the moment I joined you on that bench.’

They were married two weeks after Maggie had graduated summa cum laude. Tara was born ten months later.

Chapter Five

‘Do you expect me to believe that the CIA didn’t even know that an assassination attempt was being considered?’

‘That is correct, sir,’ said the Director of the CIA calmly. ‘The moment we became aware of the assassination, which was within seconds of it taking place, I contacted the National Security Advisor, who, I understand, reported directly to you at Camp David.’

The President began to pace around the Oval Office, which he found not only gave him more time to think, but usually made his guests feel uneasy. Most people who entered the Oval Office were nervous already. His secretary had once told him that four out of five visitors went to the rest room only moments before they were due to meet the President. But he doubted if the woman sitting in front of him even knew where the nearest rest room was. If a bomb had gone off in the Rose Garden, Helen Dexter would probably have done no more than raise a well-groomed eyebrow. Her career had outlasted three Presidents so far, all of whom were rumoured at some point to have demanded her resignation.

‘And when Mr Lloyd phoned to tell me that you required more details,’ said Dexter, ‘I instructed my deputy, Nick Gutenburg, to contact our people on the ground in Bogota and to make extensive enquiries as to exactly what happened on Saturday afternoon. Gutenburg completed his report yesterday.’ She tapped the file on her lap.

Lawrence stopped pacing and came to a halt under a portrait of Abraham Lincoln that hung above the fireplace. He looked down at the nape of Helen Dexter’s neck. She continued to face straight ahead.

The Director was dressed in an elegant, well-cut dark suit with a simple cream shirt. She rarely wore jewellery, even on state occasions. Her appointment by President Ford as Deputy Director at the age of thirty-two was meant to have been a stopgap to placate the feminist lobby a few weeks before the 1976 election. As it was, Ford turned out to be the stopgap. After a series of short-term directors who either resigned or retired, Ms Dexter finally ended up with the coveted position. Many rumours circulated in the hothouse atmosphere of Washington about her extreme right-wing views and the methods she had used to gain promotion, but no member of the Senate dared to question her appointment. She had graduated summa cum laude from Bryn Mawr, followed by the University of Pennsylvania Law School, before joining one of New York’s leading law firms. After a series of rows with the board over the length of time it took women to become partners, ending in litigation that was settled out of court, she had accepted an offer to join the CIA.

She began her life with the Agency in the office of the Directorate of Operations, eventually rising to become its Deputy. By the time of her appointment, she had made more enemies than friends, but as the years passed they seemed to disappear, or were fired, or took early retirement. When she was appointed Director she had just turned forty. The Washington Post described her as having blasted a hole through the glass ceiling, but that didn’t stop the bookies offering odds on how many days she would survive. Soon they altered that to weeks, and then months. Now they were taking bets on whether she would last longer as the head of the CIA than J. Edgar Hoover had at the FBI.

Within days of Tom Lawrence taking up residence in the White House, he had discovered the lengths to which Dexter would go to block him if he tried to encroach on her world. If he asked for reports on sensitive subjects, it was often weeks before they appeared on his desk, and when they eventually did, they inevitably turned out to be long, discursive, boring and already out of date. If he called her into the Oval Office to explain unanswered questions, she could make a deaf mute appear positively forthcoming. If he pushed her, she would play for time, obviously assuming she would still be in her job long after the voters had turned him out of his.

But it was not until he proposed his nomination for a vacancy on the Supreme Court that he saw Helen Dexter at her most lethal. Within days, she had placed files on his desk that went to great lengths to point out why the nominee was unacceptable.

Lawrence had pressed on with the claims of his candidate — one of his oldest friends, who was found hanging in his garage the day before he was due to take up office. He later discovered that the confidential file had been sent to every member of the Senate Selection Committee, but he was never able to prove who had been responsible.

Andy Lloyd had warned him on several occasions that if he ever tried to remove Dexter from her post, he had better have the sort of proof that would convince the public that Mother Teresa had held a secret bank account in Switzerland regularly topped up by organised crime syndicates.

Lawrence had accepted his Chief of Staff’s judgement. But he now felt that if he could prove the CIA had been involved in the assassination of Ricardo Guzman without even bothering to inform him, he could have Dexter clearing her desk within days.

He returned to his chair and touched the button under the rim of his desk which would allow Andy to listen in on the conversation, or pick it up off the tape later that evening. Lawrence realised that Dexter would know exactly what he was up to, and he suspected that the legendary handbag which never left her side lacked the lipstick, perfume and compact usually associated with her sex, and had already recorded every syllable that had passed between them. Nevertheless, he still needed his version of events for the record.

‘As you seem to be so well informed,’ the President said as he sat down, ‘perhaps you could brief me in more detail on what actually happened in Bogota.’

Helen Dexter ignored his sarcastic tone, and picked up a file from her lap. The white cover bearing a CIA logo had printed across it the words ‘FOR THE PRESIDENT’S EYES ONLY‘. Lawrence wondered just how many files she had stashed away across the river marked ‘FOR THE DIRECTOR’S EYES ONLY‘.

She flicked the file open. ‘It has been confirmed by several sources that the assassination was carried out by a lone gunman,’ she read.

‘Name one of these sources,’ snapped the President.

‘Our Cultural Attaché in Bogota,’ replied the Director.

Lawrence raised an eyebrow. Half the Cultural Attachés in American embassies around the world had been placed there by the CIA simply to report back directly to Helen Dexter at Langley without any consultation with the local Ambassador, let alone the State Department. Most of them would have thought the Nutcracker Suite was a dish to be found on the menu of an exclusive restaurant.

The President sighed. ‘And who does he think was responsible for the assassination?’

Dexter flicked over a few pages of the file, extracted a photograph and pushed it across the Oval Office desk. The President looked down at a picture of a well-dressed, prosperous-looking middle-aged man.

‘And who’s this?’

‘Carlos Velez. He runs the second-largest drug cartel in Colombia. Guzman, of course, controlled the biggest.’

‘And has Velez been charged?’

‘Unfortunately he was killed only a few hours after the police had obtained a warrant to arrest him.’

‘How convenient.’

The Director didn’t blush. Not possible in her case, thought Lawrence: after all, blushing requires blood.

‘And did this lone assassin have a name? Or did he also die only moments after a court order was...’

‘No, sir, he’s still very much alive,’ the Director replied firmly. ‘His name is Dirk van Rensberg.’

‘What’s known about him?’ asked Lawrence.

‘He’s South African. Until recently he lived in Durban.’

‘Until recently?’

‘Yes. He went underground immediately after the assassination.’

‘That would be quite easy to do, if you were never above ground in the first place,’ said the President. He waited for the Director to react, but she remained impassive. Eventually he said, ‘Do the Colombian authorities go along with your account of what happened, or is our Cultural Attaché your only source of information?’

‘No, Mr President. We picked up the bulk of our intelligence from Bogota’s Chief of Police. In fact, he already has in custody one of van Rensberg’s accomplices, who was employed as a waiter at the El Belvedere hotel, the building from which the shot was fired. He was arrested in the corridor only moments after he had helped the assassin to escape in the freight elevator.’

‘And do we know anything of van Rensberg’s movements following the assassination?’

‘He seems to have taken a flight to Lima in the name of Alistair Douglas, and then continued on to Buenos Aires, using the same passport. We lost track of him after that.’

‘And I doubt if you’ll ever find him again.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be that pessimistic, Mr President,’ said Dexter, ignoring Lawrence’s tone. ‘Hired assassins tend to be loners who often disappear for several months following a job of this importance. Then they reappear once they feel the heat is off.’

‘Well,’ said the President, ‘let me assure you that in this case I intend to keep the heat on. When we next meet, I may well have a report of my own for you to consider.’

‘I shall look forward to reading it,’ said Dexter, sounding like the school bully who had no fear of the headmaster.

The President pressed a button under his desk. A moment later there was a tap on the door and Andy Lloyd entered the room.

‘Mr President, you have a meeting with Senator Bedell in a few minutes,’ he said, ignoring Dexter’s presence.

‘Then I’ll leave you, Mr President,’ said Dexter, rising from her place. She put the file on the President’s desk, picked up her handbag and left the room without another word.

The President didn’t speak until the Director of the CIA had closed the door behind her. Then he turned to his Chief of Staff. ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ he muttered as he dropped the file into the out tray. Lloyd made a mental note to retrieve it as soon as his boss had left the room. ‘I guess the best we can hope for is that we’ve put the fear of God in her, and that she won’t consider carrying out another operation like that while I’m in the White House.’

‘Remembering the way she treated you when you were a Senator, Mr President, I wouldn’t put a lot of money on that.’

As I can hardly employ an assassin to remove her, what do you suggest I do?’

‘In my opinion she has left you with two choices, Mr President. You can either sack her and face the inevitable Senate inquiry, or accept defeat, go along with her version of what took place in Bogota, and hope you can get the better of her next time.’

‘There could be a third choice,’ the President said quietly.

Lloyd listened intently, making no attempt to interrupt his boss. It quickly became clear that the President had given considerable thought to how he might remove Helen Dexter from her post as Director of the CIA.

Connor collected his thoughts as he glanced up at the baggage arrivals screen. The console was beginning to spew out the luggage from his flight, and some passengers were already stepping forward to pick up the first bags.

It still saddened him that he had not been present at his daughter’s birth. While he had doubts about the wisdom of the United States’s policy in Vietnam, Connor shared his family’s patriotism. He volunteered for military service, and completed officers’ candidate school while he waited for Maggie to graduate. They ended up only having time for a wedding and a four-day honeymoon before Second Lieutenant Fitzgerald left for Vietnam in July 1972.

Those two years in Vietnam were now a distant memory. Being promoted to first lieutenant, captured by the Vietcong, escaping while saving another man’s life — it all seemed so long ago that he was almost able to convince himself that it had never actually happened. Five months after he returned home, the President awarded him the nation’s highest military decoration, the Medal of Honor, but after eighteen months as a prisoner of war in Vietnam he was just happy to be alive and reunited with the woman he loved. And the moment he saw Tara, he fell in love for a second time.

Within a week of returning to the States, Connor began to look for a job. He had already been interviewed for a position at the CIA’s Chicago field office when Captain Jackson, his old company commander, turned up unannounced and invited him to be part of a special unit that was being set up in Washington. Connor was warned that should he agree to join Jackson’s elite team, there would be aspects of the job he could never discuss with anyone, including his wife. When he learned what was expected of him, he told Jackson that he would need a little time to think about it before he came to a decision. He discussed the problem with Father Graham, the family priest, who simply advised him: ‘Never do anything you consider dishonourable, even if it’s in the name of your country.’

When Maggie was offered a job at the Admissions Office at Georgetown University, Connor realised just how determined Jackson was to recruit him. He wrote to his old company commander the following day and said he would be delighted to join ‘Maryland Insurance’ as an executive trainee.

That was when the deception had begun.

A few weeks later Connor, Maggie and Tara moved to Georgetown. They found a small house on Avon Place, the deposit being covered by the Army paycheques Maggie had deposited in Connor’s account, refusing to believe he was dead.

Their only sadness during those early days in Washington was that Maggie suffered two miscarriages, and her gynaecologist advised her to accept that she could have only one child. It took a third miscarriage before Maggie finally accepted his advice.

Although they had now been married for thirty years, Maggie was still able to arouse Connor simply by smiling and running her hand down his back. He knew that when he walked out of customs and saw her waiting for him in the arrivals hall, it would be as if it was for the first time. He smiled at the thought that she would have been at the airport for at least an hour before the plane was scheduled to land.

His case appeared in front of him. He grabbed it from the conveyor and headed towards the exit.

Connor passed through the green channel, confident that even if his luggage was searched, the customs officer wouldn’t be that interested in a wooden springbok marked clearly on the foot ‘Made in South Africa’.

When he stepped out into the arrivals hall, he immediately spotted his wife and daughter standing among the crowd. He quickened his pace and smiled at the woman he adored. Why had she even given him a second look, let alone agreed to be his wife? His smile broadened as he took her in his arms.

‘How are you, my darling?’ he asked.

‘I only come alive again when I know you’re safely back from an assignment,’ she whispered. He tried to ignore the word ‘safely’ as he released her and turned to the other woman in his life. A slightly taller version of the original, with the same long red hair and flashing green eyes, but a calmer temperament. Connor’s only child gave him a huge kiss on the cheek that made him feel ten years younger.

At Tara’s christening, Father Graham had asked the Almighty that the child might be blessed with the looks of Maggie and the brains of — Maggie. As Tara had grown up, her grades in high school, and the turned heads of young men, had proved Father Graham not only to be a priest, but a prophet. Connor had soon given up fighting off the stream of admirers who had knocked on the front door of their little house in Georgetown, or even bothering to answer the phone: it was almost invariably another tongue-tied youth who hoped his daughter might agree to a date.

‘How was South Africa?’ Maggie asked as she linked arms with her husband.

‘It’s become even more precarious since Mandela’s death,’ Connor replied — he’d had a full briefing from Carl Koeter on the problems facing South Africa over their long lunch in Cape Town, supplemented by a week of local papers that he read during the flight to Sydney. ‘The crime rate’s so high in most of the major cities that it’s no longer against the law to drive through a red light after dark. Mbeki is doing his best, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to recommend that the company cut back its investment in that part of the world — at least until we’re confident that the civil war is under control.’

‘“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,”’ Maggie said.

‘I don’t think Yeats ever visited South Africa,’ said Connor.

How often he had wanted to tell Maggie the whole truth, and explain why he had lived a lie for so many years. But it was not that easy. She may have been his mistress, but they were his masters, and he had always accepted the code of total silence. Over the years, he had tried to convince himself that it was in her best interests not to know the whole truth. But when she unthinkingly used words like ‘assignment’ and ‘safely’, he was aware that she knew far more than she ever admitted. Did he talk in his sleep? Soon, though, it would no longer be necessary to continue deceiving her. Maggie didn’t know it yet, but Bogota had been his last mission. During the holiday he would drop a hint about an expected promotion that would mean far less travelling.

‘And the deal?’ Maggie asked. ‘Were you able to settle it?’

‘The deal? Oh, yes, it all went pretty much to plan,’ said Connor. That was the nearest he would get to telling her the truth.

Connor began to think about spending the next two weeks basking in the sun. As they passed a news-stand, a small headline in a right-hand column of the Sydney Morning Herald caught his eye.

Maggie let go of her husband’s arm as they walked out of the Arrivals hall into the warm summer air and headed for the parking lot.

‘Where were you when the bomb went off in Cape Town?’ Tara asked.

Koeter hadn’t mentioned anything about a bomb in Cape Town. Would he ever be able to relax?

Chapter Six

He instructed his driver to take him to the National Gallery.

As the car pulled away from the White House staff entrance, a Secret Service Uniformed Division officer in the guard booth opened the reinforced metal gate and raised a hand to acknowledge him. The driver turned onto State Place, drove between the South Grounds and the Ellipse, and past the Department of Commerce.

Four minutes later, the car drew up outside the gallery’s east entrance. The passenger walked quickly across the cobbled driveway and up the stone steps. When he reached the top step, he glanced back over his shoulder to admire the vast Henry Moore sculpture that dominated the other side of the square, and checked to see if anyone was following him. He couldn’t be sure, but then he wasn’t a professional.

He walked into the building and turned left up the great marble staircase that led to the second-floor galleries where he had spent so many hours in his youth. The large rooms were crowded with schoolchildren, which was not unusual on a weekday morning. As he walked into Gallery 71, he looked around at the familiar Homers, Bellows and Hoppers, and began to feel at home — a sensation he never experienced in the White House. He moved on to Gallery 66, to admire once again August Saint-Gaudens’ Memorial to Shaw and the 54th Massachusetts Regiment. The first time he’d seen the massive life-size frieze he had stood in front of it, mesmerised, for over an hour. Today he could only spare a few moments.

Because he couldn’t stop stopping, it took him another quarter of an hour to reach the rotunda at the centre of the building. He walked quickly past the statue of Mercury and down the stairs, doubled back through the bookstore, ran down another flight of stairs and along the underground concourse before finally emerging in the East Wing. Taking one flight of steps up, he passed below the large Calder mobile hanging from the ceiling, then pushed his way through the revolving doors out of the building onto the cobbled driveway. By now he was confident no one was following him. He jumped into the back of the first taxi in the queue. Glancing out of the window, he saw his car and driver on the far side of the square.

‘A.V.’s, on New York Avenue.’

The taxi turned left on Pennsylvania, then headed north up Sixth Street. He tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of coherent order, grateful that the driver didn’t want to spend the journey offering him his opinions on the Administration or, particularly, on the President.

They swung left onto New York Avenue and the taxi immediately began to slow down. He passed a ten-dollar bill to the driver even before they had come to a halt, then stepped out onto the street and shut the back door of the cab without waiting for the change.

He passed under a red, white and green awning which left no doubt of the proprietor’s origins, and pushed open the door. It took a few moments for his eyes to grow accustomed to the light, or lack of it. When they did, he was relieved to find that the place was empty except for a solitary figure seated at a small table at the far end of the room, toying with a half-empty glass of tomato juice. His smart, well-cut suit gave no indication that he was unemployed. Although the man still had the build of an athlete, his prematurely balding dome made him look older than the age given in his file. Their eyes met, and the man nodded. He walked over and took the seat opposite him.

‘My name is Andy...’ he began.

‘The mystery, Mr Lloyd, is not who you are, but why the President’s Chief of Staff should want to see me in the first place,’ said Chris Jackson.

‘And what is your specialist field?’ Stuart McKenzie asked.

Maggie glanced at her husband, knowing he wouldn’t welcome such an intrusion into his professional life.

Connor realised that Tara couldn’t have warned the latest young man to fall under her spell not to discuss her father’s work.

Until that moment, he couldn’t remember enjoying a lunch more. Fish that must have been caught only hours before they had sat down at the corner table in the little beach café at Cronulla. Fruit that had never seen preservatives or a tin, and a beer he hoped they exported to Washington. Connor took a gulp of coffee before leaning back in his chair and watching the surfers only a hundred yards away — a sport he wished he’d discovered twenty years before. Stuart had been surprised by how fit Tara’s father was when he tried out the surfboard for the first time. Connor bluffed by telling him that he still worked out two or three times a week. Two or three times a day would have been nearer the truth.

Although he would never consider anyone good enough for his daughter, Connor had to admit that over the past few days he had come to enjoy the young lawyer’s company.

‘I’m in the insurance business,’ he replied, aware that his daughter would have told Stuart that much.

‘Yes, Tara said you were a senior executive, but she didn’t go into any details.’

Connor smiled. ‘That’s because I specialise in kidnap and ransom, and have the same attitude to client confidentiality that you take for granted in your profession.’ He wondered if that would stop the young Australian pursuing the subject. It didn’t.

‘Sounds a lot more interesting than most of the run-of-the-mill cases I’m expected to advise on,’ said Stuart, trying to draw him out.

‘Ninety per cent of what I do is fairly routine and boring,’ Connor said. ‘In fact, I suspect I have even more paperwork to deal with than you do.’

‘But I don’t get trips to South Africa.’

Tara glanced anxiously in her father’s direction, knowing that he wouldn’t be pleased that this information had been passed on to a relative stranger. But Connor showed no sign of being annoyed.

‘Yes, I have to admit my job has one or two compensations.’

‘Would it be breaking client confidentiality to take me through a typical case?’

Maggie was about to intervene with a line she had used many times in the past, when Connor volunteered, ‘The company I work for represents several corporate clients who have large overseas interests.’

‘Why don’t those clients use companies from the country involved? Surely they’d have a better feel for the local scene.’

‘Con,’ interrupted Maggie, ‘I think you’re burning. Perhaps we ought to get back to the hotel before you begin to look like a lobster.’

Connor was amused by his wife’s unconvincing intervention, especially as she had made him wear a hat for the past hour.

‘It’s never quite that easy,’ he said to the young lawyer. ‘Take a company like Coca-Cola, for example — whom, I should point out, we don’t represent. They have offices all over the world, employing tens of thousands of staff. In each country they have senior executives, most of whom have families.’

Maggie couldn’t believe that Connor had allowed the conversation to go this far. They were fast approaching the question that always stopped any further enquiry dead in its tracks.

‘But we have people well qualified to carry out such work in Sydney,’ said Stuart, leaning forward to pour Connor some more coffee. ‘After all, kidnap and ransom isn’t unknown even in Australia.’

‘Thank you,’ said Connor. He took another gulp while he considered this statement. Stuart’s scrutiny didn’t falter — like a good prosecuting counsel, he waited patiently in the hope that the witness would at some stage offer an unguarded response.

‘The truth is that I’m never called in unless there are complications.’

‘Complications?’

‘Let’s say, for example, that a company has a large presence in a country where crime is rife and kidnap and ransom fairly common. The chairman of that company — although it’s more likely to be his wife, because she will have far less day-to-day protection — is kidnapped.’

‘That’s when you move in?’

‘No, not necessarily. After all, the local police may well be experienced at handling such problems, and there aren’t many firms that welcome outside interference, especially when it comes from the States. Often I’ll do no more than fly in to the capital city and start carrying out my own private enquiries. If I’ve visited that part of the world before and built up a rapport with the local police, I might make my presence known, but even then I’d still wait for them to ask me for assistance.’

‘What if they don’t?’ asked Tara. Stuart was surprised that she had apparently never asked her father that question before.

‘Then I have to go it alone,’ said Connor, ‘which makes the process all the more precarious.’

‘But if the police aren’t making any headway, why wouldn’t they want to enlist your help? They must be aware of your particular expertise,’ said Stuart.

‘Because it’s not unknown for the police to be involved at some level themselves.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Tara.

‘The local police could be receiving part of the ransom,’ suggested Stuart, ‘so they wouldn’t welcome any outside interference. In any case, they might think the foreign company involved could well afford to pay it.’

Connor nodded. It was quickly becoming clear why Stuart had landed a job with one of the most prestigious criminal practices in Sydney.

‘So what do you do if you think the local police might be taking a cut?’ asked Stuart.

Tara began to wish she had warned Stuart not to push his luck too far, although she was fast coming to the conclusion that Australians had no idea where ‘too far’ was.

‘When that happens you have to consider opening negotiations yourself, because if your client is killed, you can be sure that the ensuing investigation won’t exactly be thorough, and it’s unlikely that the kidnappers will ever be caught.’

‘And once you’ve agreed to negotiate, what’s your opening gambit?’

‘Well, let’s assume that the kidnapper demands a million dollars — kidnappers always ask for a round figure, usually in US dollars. Like any professional negotiator, my primary responsibility is to get the best possible deal. And the most important element of that is making sure that the company’s employee comes to no harm. But I would never allow things to reach the negotiation stage if I felt that my client could be released without the company having to hand over a penny. The more you pay out, the more likely it is that the criminal will repeat the exercise a few months later, sometimes kidnapping exactly the same person.’

‘How often do you reach the negotiating stage?’

‘About 50 per cent of the time. That’s the point when you discover whether or not you’re dealing with professionals. The longer you can stretch out the negotiations, the more likely it is that amateurs will become anxious about being caught. And after a few days they often grow to like the person they’ve kidnapped, which makes it almost impossible for them to carry out their original plan. In the Peruvian Embassy siege, for example, they ended up holding a chess competition, and the terrorists won.’

All three of them laughed, which helped Maggie to relax a little.

‘Is it the pros or the amateurs who send ears through the post?’ asked Stuart with a wry smile.

‘I’m happy to say I didn’t represent the company that negotiated on behalf of Mr Getty’s grandson. But even when I’m dealing with a pro, some of the best cards will still be in my hand.’ Connor hadn’t noticed that his wife and daughter had allowed their coffee to go cold.

‘Please continue,’ said Stuart.

‘Well, the majority of kidnaps are one-off affairs, and although they’re nearly always carried out by a professional criminal, he may have little or no experience of how to negotiate in a situation like that. Professional criminals are almost always over-confident. They imagine they can handle anything. Not unlike a lawyer who thinks he can open a restaurant simply because he eats three meals a day.’

Stuart smiled. ‘So what do they settle for once they realise they’re not going to get the mythical million?’

‘I can only speak from my own experience,’ said Connor. ‘I usually end up handing over around a quarter of the sum demanded — in used, traceable notes. On a few occasions I’ve parted with as much as half. Only once did I agree to hand over the full amount. But in my defence, counsel, on that particular occasion even the island’s Prime Minister was taking a cut.’

‘How many of them get away with it?’

‘Of the cases I’ve handled over the past seventeen years, only three, which works out at roughly 8 per cent.’

‘Not a bad return. And how many clients have you lost?’

They were now entering territory even Maggie hadn’t ventured onto before, and she began to shift uneasily in her chair.

‘If you do lose a client, the company backs you to the hilt,’ said Connor. He paused. ‘But they don’t allow anyone to fail twice.’

Maggie rose from her place, turned to Connor and said, ‘I’m going for a swim. Anyone care to join me?’

‘No, but I’d like another go on the board,’ said Tara, eagerly assisting her mother’s attempt to end the interrogation.

‘How many times did you fall in this morning?’ Connor asked, confirming that he also thought it had gone quite far enough.

‘A dozen or more,’ said Tara. ‘That was the worst one.’ She pointed proudly to a large bruise on her right thigh.

‘Why did you let her go that far, Stuart?’ asked Maggie, sitting back down to take a closer look at the bruise.

‘Because it gave me the chance to rescue her and look heroic.’

‘Be warned, Stuart, she’ll have mastered surfing by the end of the week, and she’ll end up rescuing you,’ said Connor with a laugh.

‘I’m well aware of that,’ Stuart replied. ‘But the moment it happens I plan to introduce her to bungee jumping.’

Maggie turned visibly white, and quickly looked in Connor’s direction.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ Stuart added quickly. ‘You’ll all be back in America long before then.’ None of them wanted to be reminded.

Tara grabbed Stuart by the arm. ‘Let’s go, Superman. It’s time to find another wave you can rescue me from.’

Stuart leapt up. Turning to Connor, he said, ‘If you ever discover your daughter’s been kidnapped, I won’t be demanding a ransom, and I won’t be willing to settle — in US dollars or any other currency.’

Tara blushed. ‘Come on,’ she said, and they ran down the beach towards the breakers.

‘And for the first time, I don’t think I’d try to negotiate,’ Connor said to Maggie, stretching and smiling.

‘He’s a nice young man,’ said Maggie, taking his hand. ‘It’s just a pity he’s not Irish.’

‘It could have been worse,’ said Connor, rising from his chair. ‘He might have been English.’

Maggie smiled as they began walking towards the surf. ‘You know, she didn’t get home until five this morning.’

‘Don’t tell me you still lie awake all night whenever your daughter goes out on a date,’ said Connor with a grin.

‘Keep your voice down, Connor Fitzgerald, and try to remember she’s our only child.’

‘She’s not a child any longer, Maggie,’ he said. ‘She’s a grown woman, and in less than a year she’ll be Dr Fitzgerald.’

‘And you don’t worry about her, of course.’

‘You know I do,’ said Connor, taking her in his arms. ‘But if she’s having an affair with Stuart — which is none of my business — she could have done a lot worse.’

‘I didn’t sleep with you until the day we were married, and even when they told me you were missing in Vietnam, I never looked at another man. And it wasn’t because of a lack of offers.’

‘I know, my darling,’ said Connor. ‘But by then you’d realised I was irreplaceable.’

Connor released his wife and ran towards the waves, making sure he always remained just one stride ahead of her. When she finally caught up with him, she was out of breath.

‘Declan O’Casey proposed to me long before...’

‘I know, my darling,’ he replied, looking down into her green eyes and brushing back a stray wisp of hair. ‘And never a day goes by when I’m not thankful that you waited for me. It was the one thing that kept me alive after I’d been captured in ‘Nam. That and the thought of seeing Tara.’

Connor’s words reminded Maggie of the sadness she had felt at her miscarriages and the knowledge that she couldn’t have any more children. She had been brought up in a large family, and longed to have a brood herself. She could never accept her mother’s simple philosophy — it’s God’s will.

While Connor had been away in Vietnam, she had spent many happy hours with Tara. But the moment he returned the young madam had transferred her affections overnight, and although she remained close to her daughter, Maggie knew that she could never have the same relationship with Tara that Connor enjoyed.

When Connor signed up with Maryland Insurance as a management trainee, Maggie had been puzzled by his decision. She had always thought that, like his father, Connor would want to be involved in law enforcement. That was before he explained who he would really be working for. Although he didn’t go into great detail, he did tell her who his paymaster was, and the significance of being a non-official cover officer, or NOC. She kept his secret loyally over the years, though not being able to discuss her husband’s profession with her friends and colleagues was sometimes a little awkward. But she decided this was a minor inconvenience, compared with what so many other wives were put through by husbands only too happy to discuss their work in endless detail. It was their extracurricular activities they wanted to keep secret.

All she really hoped was that one day her daughter would find someone willing to wait on a park bench all night just to see her draw a curtain.

Chapter Seven

Jackson lit a cigarette, and listened carefully to every word the man from the White House had to say. He made no attempt to interrupt him.

When Lloyd eventually came to the end of his prepared piece, he took a sip of the acqua minerale in front of him and waited to hear what the former Deputy Director of the CIA’s first question would be.

Jackson stubbed out his cigarette. ‘May I ask why you thought I was the right person for this assignment?’

Lloyd was not taken by surprise. He had already decided that if Jackson asked that particular question, he would simply tell the truth. ‘We know that you resigned your post with the CIA because of a... difference of opinion’ — he emphasised the words — ‘with Helen Dexter, despite the fact that your record with the Agency had been exemplary, and until then you were considered her natural successor. But since resigning for reasons that on the face of it seem somewhat bizarre, I believe you have not been able to find a job worthy of your qualifications. We suspect that Dexter also has something to do with that.’

‘It only takes one phone call,’ said Jackson, ‘off the record, of course — and suddenly you find you’ve been removed from any shortlist. I’ve always been wary of speaking ill of the living, but in the case of Helen Dexter, I’m happy to make an exception.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘You see, Dexter believes that Tom Lawrence has the second most important job in America,’ he continued. ‘She is the true defender of the faith, the nation’s last bastion, and to her elected politicians are nothing more than a temporary inconvenience who will, sooner or later, be ejected by the voters.’

‘The President has been made aware of that on more than one occasion,’ Lloyd said, with some feeling.

‘Presidents come and go, Mr Lloyd. My bet is that, like the rest of us, your boss is human, and therefore you can be sure that Dexter will have a file on him which is filled with the reasons why Lawrence isn’t qualified for a second term. And by the way, she’ll have one almost as thick on you.’

‘Then we’ll have to start building up our own file, Mr Jackson. I can think of no one better qualified to carry out the task.’

‘Where would you like me to begin?’

‘By investigating who was behind the assassination of Ricardo Guzman in Bogota last month,’ said Lloyd. ‘We have reason to believe that the CIA might have been involved, directly or indirectly.’

‘Without the President’s knowledge?’ said Jackson in disbelief.

Lloyd nodded, removed a file from his briefcase and slid it across the table. Jackson flicked it open.

‘Take your time,’ said Lloyd, ‘because you’re going to have to memorise everything.’

Jackson began reading, and started making observations even before he had come to the end of the first page.

‘If we assume that it was a lone gunman, trying to get any reliable information will be virtually impossible. That sort of character doesn’t leave a forwarding address.’ Jackson paused. ‘But if it is the CIA we’re dealing with, then Dexter has a ten-day start on us. She’s probably already turned every avenue that might lead to the assassin into a blind alley — unless...’

‘Unless...?’ echoed Lloyd.

‘I’m not the only person that woman has crossed over the years. It’s just possible that there might be someone else based in Bogota who—’ He paused. ‘How long have I got?’

‘The new President of Colombia is making an official visit to Washington in three weeks’ time. It would help if we had something by then.’

‘It’s already beginning to feel like the old days,’ said Jackson as he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Except this time there’s the added pleasure of Dexter being officially on the other side.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Who will I be working for?’

‘Officially you’re freelance, but unofficially you work for me. You’ll be paid at the same level as you were when you left the Agency, your account credited on a monthly basis, although for obvious reasons your name won’t appear on any books. I’ll contact you whenever...’

‘No you won’t, Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson. ‘I’ll contact you whenever I have anything worthwhile to report. Two-way contacts only double the chance of someone stumbling across us. All I’ll need is an untraceable phone number.’

Lloyd wrote down seven figures on a cocktail napkin. ‘This gets straight through to my desk, bypassing even my secretary. After midnight it’s automatically transferred to a phone by the side of my bed. You can call me night or day. You needn’t bother about the time difference when you’re abroad, because I don’t care about being woken up.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Jackson. ‘Because I don’t think Helen Dexter ever sleeps.’

Lloyd smiled. ‘Have we covered everything?’

‘Not quite,’ said Jackson. ‘When you leave, turn right and then take the next right. Don’t look back, and don’t hail a taxi until you’ve walked at least four blocks. From now on you’re going to have to think like Dexter, and be warned, she’s been at it for thirty years. There’s only one person I know who’s better than she is.’

‘I hope that’s you,’ said Lloyd.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Jackson.

‘Don’t tell me he already works for Dexter.’

Jackson nodded. ‘Even though he’s my closest friend, if Dexter ordered him to kill me, there isn’t an insurance company in town that would take out a policy on my life. If you expect me to beat both of them, you’d better hope I haven’t gone rusty over the past eight months.’

The two men rose. ‘Goodbye, Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson as they shook hands. ‘I’m sorry that this will be our first and last meeting.’

‘But I thought we agreed—’ said Lloyd, looking anxiously at his new recruit.

‘To work together, Mr Lloyd, not to meet. You see, Dexter wouldn’t consider two meetings a coincidence.’

Lloyd nodded. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

‘And Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson, ‘don’t visit the National Gallery again, unless it’s for the sole purpose of seeing the paintings.’

Lloyd frowned. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Because the half-asleep guard in Gallery 71 was planted there on the day of your appointment. It’s all in your file. You go there once a week. Is Hopper still your favourite artist?’

Lloyd’s mouth went dry. ‘Then Dexter already knows about this meeting?’

‘No,’ said Jackson. ‘You got lucky this time. It’s the guard’s day off.’

Although Connor had seen his daughter cry many times when she was younger, over a cut leg, a bruised ego or simply not getting her own way, this was quite different. While she clung to Stuart he pretended to be absorbed in a rack of bestselling books at the news-stand, and reflected on one of the most enjoyable holidays he could remember. He’d put on a couple of pounds and had managed to almost master the surfboard, although he had rarely experienced more pride before more falls. During the past fortnight he had come first to like, and later to respect Stuart. And Maggie had even stopped reminding him every morning that Tara hadn’t returned to her room the previous night. He took that to be his wife’s reluctant seal of approval.

Connor picked up the Sydney Morning Herald from the newsstand. He flicked over the pages, only taking in the headlines until he came to the section marked ‘International News’. He glanced towards Maggie, who was paying for some souvenirs that they would never display or even consider giving as presents, and which would undoubtedly end up in Father Graham’s Christmas sale.

Connor lowered his head again. ‘Landslide for Herrera in Colombia’ was the headline running across three columns at the foot of the page. He read about the new President’s one-sided victory over the National Party’s last-minute replacement for Ricardo Guzman. Herrera, the article went on to say, planned to visit America in the near future to discuss with President Lawrence the problems Colombia was currently facing. Among the subjects uppermost...

‘Do you think this would be all right for Joan?’

Connor glanced across at his wife, who was holding up a Ken Done print of Sydney Harbour.

‘A bit modern for her, I would have thought.’

‘Then we’ll have to get her something from duty free once we’re on the plane.’

‘This is the last call for United Airlines Flight 816 to Los Angeles,’ said a voice that echoed around the airport. ‘Will all those who have not yet boarded the aircraft please make their way immediately to Gate 27.’

Connor and Maggie began walking in the direction of the large departure sign, trying to stay a few paces in front of their daughter and Stuart, who were locked together as if they were in a three-legged race. Once they had gone through passport control, Connor hung back, while Maggie carried on towards the departure lounge to tell the gate agent that the last two passengers would be following shortly.

When Tara reluctantly appeared round the corner a few moments later, Connor placed an arm gently around her shoulders. ‘I know it’s not much of a consolation, but your mother and I think he’s...’ Connor hesitated.

‘I know,’ she said between sobs. ‘As soon as I get back to Stanford, I’m going to ask if they’ll allow me to complete my thesis at Sydney University.’ Connor spotted his wife talking to a stewardess by the gate to the aircraft.

‘Is she that afraid of flying?’ the stewardess whispered to Maggie when she saw the young woman sobbing.

‘No. She just had to leave something behind that they wouldn’t let her take through customs.’

Maggie slept almost the entire fourteen-hour flight from Sydney to Los Angeles. Tara always marvelled at how she managed it. She could never do more than doze during a flight, however many pills she took. She held her father’s hand firmly. He smiled at her but didn’t speak.

Tara returned his smile. For as long as she could remember, he had been the centre of her world. It never worried her that she might not meet a man who could take his place; more that when she did, he wouldn’t be able to accept it. Now that it had happened, she was relieved to discover just how supportive he was. If anything, it was her mother who was proving to be the problem.

Tara knew that if her mother had her way, she would still be a virgin, and probably still living at home. It wasn’t until the eleventh grade that she stopped believing that if you kissed a boy you’d become pregnant. That was when a classmate passed on to her a much-thumbed copy of The Joy of Sex. Each night, curled up under the sheets with a torch, Tara would turn the pages.

But it was only after her graduation from Stone Ridge that she lost her virginity — and if everyone else in her class had been telling the truth, she must have been the last. Tara had joined her parents for a long-promised visit to her great-grandfather’s birthplace. She fell in love with Ireland and its people within moments of landing at Dublin. Over dinner in their hotel on the first night, she told her father that she couldn’t understand why so many of the Irish were not content to remain in their homeland, but had to emigrate.

The young waiter who was serving them looked down at her and recited:

‘Walter Savage Landor,’ Maggie said. ‘But do you know the next line?’

The waiter bowed.

Tara blushed, and Connor burst out laughing. The waiter looked puzzled.

‘It’s my name,’ Tara explained.

He bowed again before clearing away the plates. While her father was settling the bill and her mother was collecting her coat, the waiter asked Tara if she would like to join him for a drink at Gallagher’s when he came off duty. Tara happily agreed.

She spent the next couple of hours watching an old movie in her room, before creeping downstairs just after midnight. The pub Liam had suggested was only a few hundred yards down the road, and when Tara walked in she found him waiting at the bar. Liam wasted no time in introducing her to the joys of Guinness. She wasn’t surprised to discover that he had taken the job as a waiter during the holidays before he completed his final year at Trinity College, studying the Irish poets. Liam was surprised, however, to find how well she could quote Yeats, Joyce, Wilde and Synge.

When he took her back to her room a couple of hours later, he kissed her gently on the lips and asked, ‘How long are you staying in Dublin?’

‘Two more days,’ she replied.

‘Then don’t let’s waste a moment of it.’

After three nights during which she hardly slept, Tara departed for Oscar’s birthplace in Kilkenny, feeling qualified to add a footnote or two to The Joy of Sex.

As Liam carried their bags down to the hire car, Connor gave him a large tip and whispered, ‘Thank you.’ Tara blushed.

At Stanford in her sophomore year, Tara had what might have been described as an affair with a medical student. But it wasn’t until he proposed that she realised she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with him. It hadn’t taken her a year to reach a very different conclusion about Stuart.

They had first met when they bumped into each other. It was her fault — she wasn’t looking when she crossed his path as he swooped down the face of a large wave. Both of them went flying. When he lifted her out of the water, Tara waited for a richly deserved tirade of abuse.

Instead he just smiled and said, ‘In future, try and keep out of the fast lane.’ She performed the same trick later that afternoon, but this time on purpose, and he knew it.

He laughed and said, ‘You’ve left me with two choices. Either I start giving you lessons, or we can have a coffee. Otherwise our next meeting might well be in the local hospital. Which would you prefer?’

‘Let’s start with the coffee.’

Tara had wanted to sleep with Stuart that night, and by the time she was due to leave ten days later, she wished she hadn’t made him wait three days. By the end of the week...

‘This is your captain speaking. We’re now beginning our descent into Los Angeles.’

Maggie woke with a start, rubbed her eyes and smiled at her daughter. ‘Did I fall asleep?’ she asked.

‘Not until the plane took off,’ Tara replied.

After they’d collected their luggage, Tara said goodbye to her parents and went off to join her connecting flight to San Francisco. As she disappeared into the crowd of arriving and departing passengers, Connor whispered to Maggie, ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she turned round and took the next plane back to Sydney.’ Maggie nodded.

They headed off in the direction of the domestic terminal, and climbed aboard the ‘red-eye’. This time Maggie was asleep even before the video describing the safety drill had been completed. As they flew across the States, Connor tried to dismiss Tara and Stuart from his thoughts, and to concentrate on what needed to be done once he was back in Washington. In three months’ time he was due to be taken off the active list, and he still had no idea which department they planned to transfer him to. He dreaded the thought of being offered a nine-to-five job at headquarters, which he knew would consist of giving lectures to young NOCs on his experiences in the field. He had already warned Joan that he would resign if they didn’t have anything more interesting to offer him. He wasn’t cut out to be a teacher.

During the past year there had been hints about one or two front-line posts for which he was being considered, but that was before his boss had resigned without explanation. Despite twenty-eight years of service and several commendations, Connor was aware that now Chris Jackson was no longer with the Company, his future might not be quite as secure as he’d imagined.

Chapter Eight

‘Are you certain Jackson can be trusted?’

‘No, Mr President, I’m not. But I am certain of one thing: Jackson loathes — I repeat, loathes — Helen Dexter as much as you do.’

‘Well, that’s as good as a personal recommendation,’ said the President. ‘What else made you pick him? Because if loathing Dexter was the primary qualification for the job, there must have been a fairly large number of candidates.’

‘He also has the other attributes I was looking for. There’s his record, as an officer in Vietnam and as head of counter-intelligence, not to mention his reputation as Deputy Director of the CIA.’

‘Then why did he suddenly resign when he still had such a promising career ahead of him?’

‘I suspect that Dexter felt it was a bit too promising, and he was beginning to look like a serious contender for her post.’

‘If he can prove that she gave the order to assassinate Ricardo Guzman, he still might be. It looks as if you’ve chosen the best man for the job, Andy.’

‘Jackson told me there was one better.’

‘Then let’s recruit him as well,’ said the President.

‘I had the same idea. But it turns out that he’s already working for Dexter.’

‘Well, at least he won’t know Jackson’s working for us. What else did he have to say?’

Lloyd opened the file and began to take the President through the conversation he had had with the former Deputy Director of the CIA.

When he’d finished, Lawrence’s only comment was, ‘Are you telling me I’m expected to just sit around twiddling my thumbs while we wait for Jackson to come up with something?’

‘Those were his conditions, Mr President, if we wanted him to take on the assignment. But I have a feeling that Mr Jackson isn’t the sort of person who sits around twiddling his thumbs.’

‘He’d better not be, because every day Dexter’s at Langley is a day too many for me. Let’s hope Jackson can supply us with enough rope to hang her publicly. And while we’re at it, let’s hold the execution in the Rose Garden.’

The Chief of Staff laughed. ‘That might have the double advantage of getting a few more Republicans to vote with us on the Safe Streets and Crime Reduction Bill’

The President smiled. ‘Who’s next?’ he asked.

Lloyd glanced at his watch. ‘Senator Bedell has been waiting in the lobby for some time.’

‘What does he want now?’

‘He was hoping to talk you through his latest set of proposed amendments to the Arms Reduction Bill’

The President frowned. ‘Did you notice how many points Zerimski has picked up in the latest opinion poll?’

Maggie began dialling the 650 number moments after she had turned the key in the lock of their little house in Georgetown. Connor started to unpack, listening to one end of the conversation between his wife and his daughter.

‘Just phoned to let you know that we’ve arrived back safely,’ Maggie tried as an opener.

Connor smiled at the unconvincing ploy. Tara was far too acute to fall for it, but he knew that she would play along.

‘Thanks for calling, Mom. It’s good to hear you.’

‘Everything all right at your end?’ asked Maggie.

‘Yes, fine,’ Tara said, before spending the next few minutes trying obliquely to assure her mother that she wasn’t about to do something impetuous. When she was convinced that Maggie was convinced, she asked, ‘Is Dad around?’

‘He’s right here.’ She handed the phone across the bed to Connor.

‘Can you do me a favour, Dad?’

‘You bet.’

‘Please explain to Mom that I’m not about to do anything silly. Stuart’s already rung twice since I got back, and as he’s planning to’ — she hesitated — ‘to come over to the States for Christmas, I’m pretty sure I can hang on until then. By the way, Dad, I thought I’d better warn you that I already know what I’d like for Christmas.’

‘And what’s that, my darling?’

‘That you’ll pay for my overseas calls for the next eight months. I have a feeling that might end up being more expensive than buying that used car you promised me if I get my PhD.’

Connor laughed.

‘So you’d better get that promotion you mentioned when we were in Australia. Bye, Dad.’

‘Bye, darling.’

Connor hung up, and gave Maggie a reassuring smile. He was about to tell her for the tenth time to stop worrying, when the phone rang again. He picked up the receiver, assuming it would be Tara again. It wasn’t.

‘Sorry to call the moment you arrive back,’ said Joan, ‘but I’ve just heard from the boss, and it sounds like an emergency. How quickly can you come in?’

Connor checked his watch. ‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes,’ he said, and put the phone down.

‘Who was that?’ asked Maggie, as she continued unpacking.

‘Joan. She just needs me to sign a couple of outstanding contracts. Shouldn’t take too long.’

‘Damn,’ said Maggie. ‘I forgot to get her a present on the plane.’

‘I’ll find her something on the way to the office.’

Connor quickly left the room, and ran down the stairs and out of the house before Maggie could ask any more questions. He climbed into the old family Toyota, but it was some time before he could get the engine to splutter into life. He eventually eased the ‘old tank’, as Tara described it, out onto Twenty-Ninth Street. Fifteen minutes later he turned left on M Street, before taking another left and disappearing down a ramp into an unmarked underground carpark.

As Connor entered the building, the security guard touched the rim of his peaked hat and said, ‘Welcome back, Mr Fitzgerald. I wasn’t expecting to see you until Monday.’

‘That makes two of us,’ said Connor, returning the mock-salute and heading towards the bank of elevators. He took one to the seventh floor. When he stepped out into the corridor, he was greeted by a smile of recognition from the receptionist who sat at a desk below the boldly printed caption ‘Maryland Insurance Company’. The directory on the ground floor stated that the distinguished firm occupied the seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth floors.

‘How nice to see you, Mr Fitzgerald,’ said the receptionist. ‘You have a visitor.’

Connor smiled and nodded before continuing down the corridor. As he turned the corner, he spotted Joan standing by the door of his office. From the expression on her face, he suspected she had been waiting there for some time. Then he remembered Maggie’s words just before he left home — not that Joan looked as if a present was uppermost in her thoughts.

‘The boss arrived a few minutes ago,’ Joan said, holding the door open for him.

Connor strode into his office. Sitting on the other side of his desk was someone he’d never known to take a holiday.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Director,’ he said. ‘I only...’

‘We have a problem,’ was all Helen Dexter said, pushing a file across the desk.

‘Just give me one decent lead, and I’ll do all the groundwork,’ said Jackson.

‘I only wish I could, Chris,’ replied Bogota’s Chief of Police. ‘But it has already been made clear to me by one or two of your former colleagues that you are now persona non grata.’

‘I’ve never thought of you as someone who gave a damn about such niceties,’ said Jackson as he poured the Police Chief another whisky.

‘Chris, you have to understand that when you were a representative of your government, it was all above board.’

‘Including your kickbacks, if I remember correctly.’

‘But of course,’ said the policeman nonchalantly. ‘You’ll be the first to appreciate that expenses still have to be met.’ He took a gulp from his crystal glass. ‘And as you know only too well, Chris, inflation in Colombia remains extremely high. My salary doesn’t cover even my day-to-day expenses.’

‘From that little homily,’ said Jackson, ‘am I to understand that the rate remains the same, even if one is persona non grata?’

The Chief of Police downed his last drop of whisky, wiped his moustache and said, ‘Chris, Presidents come and go in both our countries — but not old friends.’

Jackson gave him a thin smile before removing an envelope from an inside pocket and sliding it under the table. The Chief of Police glanced inside it, unbuttoned a tunic pocket and slipped the envelope out of sight.

‘I see that your new masters have not, alas, allowed you the same degree of latitude when it comes to — expenses.’

‘One decent lead, that’s all I ask,’ repeated Jackson.

The Chief of Police held up his empty glass and waited until the barman had filled it to the brim. He took another long gulp. ‘I have always believed, Chris, that if you’re looking for a bargain, there’s no better place to start than a pawn shop.’ He smiled, drained his glass and rose from the table. ‘And remembering the dilemma you are currently facing, my old friend, I would begin in the San Victorina district, and I wouldn’t bother to do much more than window-shop.’

Once Connor had finished reading the details of the confidential memorandum, he passed the file back to the Director.

Her first question took him by surprise. ‘How long is it before you’re due to retire from the service?’

‘I come off the active list on the first of January next year, but naturally I hope to remain with the Company.’

‘It may not be quite that easy to accommodate your particular talents at the present time,’ Dexter said matter-of-factly. ‘However, I do have a vacancy I would feel able to recommend you for.’ She paused. ‘As director of our Cleveland office.’

‘Cleveland?’

‘Yes.’

‘After twenty-eight years’ service with the Company,’ said Connor, ‘I was rather hoping you might be able to find me something in Washington. I’m sure you know that my wife is the Dean of Admissions at Georgetown. It would be almost impossible for her to find an equivalent post in... Ohio.’

A long silence followed.

‘I’d like to help,’ Dexter said in the same flat tone, ‘but there’s nothing suitable for you at Langley at the present time. If you did feel able to take up the appointment in Cleveland, it might be possible to bring you back in a couple of years.’

Connor stared across the table at the woman he had served for the past twenty-six years, painfully aware that she was now using the same lethal blade on him as she had on so many of his colleagues in the past. But why, when he had always carried out her orders to the letter? He glanced at the file. Had the President demanded that someone should be sacrificed after he had been questioned so closely about the CIA’s activities in Colombia? Was Cleveland to be his reward for all his years of service?

‘Is there any alternative?’ he asked.

The Director didn’t hesitate. ‘You could always opt for early retirement.’ She sounded as if she was suggesting the replacement of a sixty-year-old janitor in her apartment building.

Connor sat in silence, unable to believe what he was hearing. He’d given his whole life to the Company, and like so many of its officers, he’d put that life on the line several times.

Helen Dexter rose from her place. ‘Perhaps you’d let me know when you’ve reached a decision.’ She left the room without another word.

Connor sat alone at his desk for some time, trying to take in the full implications of the Director’s words. He recalled that Chris Jackson had told him of an almost identical conversation he had had with her eight months before. In his case, the position he’d been offered was in Milwaukee. ‘It could never happen to me,’ he remembered telling Chris at the time. ‘After all, I’m a team player, and no one would suspect me of wanting her job.’ But Connor had committed an even graver sin. By carrying out Dexter’s orders, he had unwittingly become the cause of her possible downfall. If he were no longer around to embarrass her, she might survive yet again. How many other good officers had been sacrificed over the years, he wondered, on the altar of her ego?

Connor’s thoughts were interrupted when Joan entered the room. She didn’t need to be told that the meeting had gone badly.

‘Anything I can do?’ she asked quietly.

‘No, not a thing, thanks, Joan.’ After a short silence he added, ‘You know I’m due to come off the active list soon.’

‘On the first of January,’ she said. ‘But with your record, the Company’s certain to offer you a large desk, civilised hours for a change, and perhaps a long-legged secretary thrown in.’

‘It seems not,’ said Connor. ‘The only job the Director had in mind for me was to head up the office in Cleveland, and there certainly wasn’t any mention of a long-legged secretary.’

‘Cleveland?’ repeated Joan incredulously.

Connor nodded.

‘The bitch.’

Connor glanced up at his long-serving secretary, unable to hide a look of surprise. This was the strongest language he had heard her use about anyone in nineteen years, let alone the Director.

Joan looked him in the eye and said, ‘What will you tell Maggie?’

‘I don’t know. But as I’ve been deceiving her for the past twenty-eight years, I’m sure I’ll be able to come up with something.’

As Chris Jackson opened the front door, a bell rang to warn the shopkeeper that someone had entered the premises.

There are more than a hundred pawn shops in Bogota, most of them in the San Victorina district. Jackson hadn’t done so much footwork since he had been a junior agent. He even began to wonder if his old friend the Chief of Police had sent him off on a wild goose chase. But he kept going, because he knew that this particular policeman always made sure there would be another envelope stuffed full of notes at some time in the future.

Escobar looked up from behind his evening paper. The old man reckoned that he could always tell, even before a customer had reached the counter, if he was a buyer or a seller. The look in their eyes, the cut of their clothes, even the way they walked towards him. It took only a glance at this particular gentleman to make him feel pleased that he hadn’t closed early.

‘Good evening, sir,’ Escobar said, rising from his stool. He always added ‘sir’ when he thought it was a buyer. ‘How may I assist you?’

‘The gun in the window...’

‘Ah, yes. I see that you are most discerning. It is indeed a collector’s item.’ Escobar lifted the counter lid and walked across to the window. He removed the case, placed it on the counter, and allowed his customer to have a closer look at its contents.

Jackson only needed a cursory glance at the handcrafted rifle to know its provenance. He wasn’t surprised to find that one of the cartridges had been fired.

‘How much are you asking for it?’

‘Ten thousand dollars,’ replied Escobar, having identified the American accent. ‘I cannot let it go for any less. I have already received so many enquiries.’

After three days of traipsing round the hot and humid city, Jackson was in no mood to bargain. But he didn’t have that amount of cash on him, and he couldn’t just write out a cheque or present a credit card.

‘Can I leave a down-payment,’ he asked, ‘and pick it up first thing in the morning?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Escobar. ‘Although for this particular item, I would require a 10 per cent deposit.’

Jackson nodded, and removed a wallet from his inside pocket. He extracted some used notes and passed them across the counter.

The shopkeeper counted the ten hundred-dollar bills slowly, then placed them in the cash register and wrote out a receipt.

Jackson looked down at the open case, smiled, removed the spent cartridge and put it in his pocket.

The old man was puzzled, not by Jackson’s action, but because he could have sworn that all twelve bullets had been in place when he had bought the rifle.

‘I’d pack up everything and join you tomorrow,’ she said, ‘if it weren’t for my parents.’

‘I’m sure they’d understand,’ said Stuart.

‘Maybe,’ said Tara. ‘But it wouldn’t stop me feeling guilty about all the sacrifices my father’s made over the years so I could finish my PhD. Not to mention my mother. She’d probably have a heart attack.’

‘But you said you’d find out if your Faculty Advisor would allow you to finish off your doctorate in Sydney.’

‘My Faculty Advisor isn’t the problem,’ said Tara. ‘It’s the Dean.’

‘The Dean?’

‘Yes. When my Faculty Advisor discussed the idea with him yesterday, he told her it was out of the question.’ There was a long silence before Tara said, Are you still there, Stuart?’

‘Sure am,’ he said, followed by a sigh that would have done credit to a Shakespearean lover.

‘It’s only another eight months,’ Tara reminded him. ‘In fact I can even tell you how many days. And don’t forget, you’ll be over here for Christmas.’

‘I’m looking forward to that,’ said Stuart. ‘I only hope your parents don’t feel I’m imposing on them. After all, they won’t have seen you for some time.’

‘Don’t be silly. They were delighted when I told them you’d be joining us. Mom adores you, as you well know, and you’re the first man Dad has ever had a good word for.’

‘He’s a remarkable man.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I suspect you know exactly what I mean.’

‘I’d better hang up, or Dad will need a raise just to cover my phone bills. By the way, it’s your turn next time.’

Stuart pretended he hadn’t noticed how suddenly Tara had changed the subject.

‘It always seems strange to me,’ she continued, ‘that you’re still at work while I’m fast asleep.’

‘Well, I can think of one way of changing that,’ said Stuart.

When he opened the door, the alarm went off. A carriage clock in the outer office struck twice as he swept aside the bead curtain and stepped into the shop. He stared across at the stand in the window. The rifle was no longer in its place.

It took him several minutes to find it, hidden under the counter.

He checked each item, and noted that one cartridge was missing, placed the case under his arm and left as quickly as he had entered. Not that he had any anxiety about being caught: the Chief of Police had assured him that the break-in would not be reported for at least thirty minutes. He glanced at the carriage clock before closing the door behind him. It was twelve minutes past two.

The Chief of Police could hardly be blamed if his old friend didn’t have enough cash on him to buy the rifle. And in any case, he did so like being paid twice for the same piece of information. Especially when the currency was dollars.

She poured him a second cup of coffee.

‘Maggie, I’m considering resigning from the company and looking for a job that means I don’t have to travel so much.’ He glanced across the kitchen table and waited to see how his wife would react.

Maggie replaced the coffee pot on the warmer and took a sip from her own cup before she spoke. ‘Why now?’ she asked simply.

‘The Chairman has told me I’m to be taken off kidnap and ransom and replaced by a younger man. It’s company policy at my age.’

‘But there must be plenty of other jobs in the company for someone with your experience.’

‘The Chairman did come up with a suggestion,’ said Connor. ‘She offered me the chance to head up our field office in Cleveland.’

‘Cleveland?’ said Maggie in disbelief. She remained silent for some time, then said quietly, ‘Why is the Chairman suddenly so keen to see the back of you?’

‘Oh, it’s not that bad. After all, if I turn the offer down, I’m still eligible for a full retirement package,’ said Connor, making no attempt to answer her question. ‘In any case, Joan assures me there are several large insurance companies in Washington who would be only too happy to employ someone with my experience.’

‘But not the one you’re currently working for,’ said Maggie, still looking directly at her husband. Connor met her eyes, but couldn’t think of a convincing reply. There followed an even longer silence.

‘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.

Chapter Nine

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. ‘And I look forward to meeting Mrs Thompson, Ben.’

The White House Chief of Staff picked up the red phone, but didn’t immediately recognise the voice.

‘I have some information you might find useful. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.’

Lloyd quickly grabbed a blank yellow pad and flicked the top off a felt-tip pen. He didn’t need to press any buttons — every conversation that took place on that particular phone was automatically recorded.

‘I’ve just returned from ten days in Bogota, and someone down there was making sure that doors were not only slammed in my face, but locked and bolted.’

‘So Dexter must have found out what you were up to,’ said Lloyd.

‘Within minutes of my speaking to the local Chief of Police, would be my bet.’

‘Does that mean she also knows who you’re working for?’

‘No, I covered myself on that front, which is why I’ve taken so long getting back to you. And I can promise you that after the wild goose chase I led one of her junior officers on, she’ll never be able to fathom who I’m reporting back to. Our Cultural Attaché in Bogota is now following up every known drug baron, every junior official in the narcotics department, and half the local police force. His report will fill so many pages it will take them a month just to read it, let alone figure out what the hell I was doing down there.’

‘Did you come up with anything we could pin on Dexter?’ Lloyd asked.

‘Nothing she wouldn’t be able to explain away with the usual smoke and mirrors. But all the evidence suggests that the CIA was behind the assassination.’

We already know that,’ said Lloyd. ‘The President’s problem is that, although our informant’s credentials are impeccable, he could never appear on the stand, because he’s the person who directly benefited from the assassination. Do you have anything that could stand up in court?’

‘Only Bogota’s Chief of Police, and his credentials certainly aren’t impeccable. If he were to stand up in court, you could never be certain which side he’d end up supporting.’

‘Then how can you be so sure the CIA was involved?’

‘I saw the rifle that I’m confident was used to kill Guzman. I even got hold of the spent cartridge of the bullet that hit him. What’s more, I’m fairly sure I know the man who made the gun. He’s the best in the business, and he’s contracted to work for a small number of NOCs.’

‘NOCs?’

‘Non-official cover officers, unattached to any government agency. That way the CIA can deny all knowledge of their activities if anything goes wrong.’

‘So the assassin is a serving officer of the CIA,’ said Lloyd.

‘It looks that way. Unless it turns out to be the one Dexter pensioned off a few days ago.’

‘Well there’s one person we ought to have on our payroll.’

There was a long silence before Jackson finally said, ‘That may be the way you do things at the White House, Mr Lloyd, but this man wouldn’t betray a former employer, however large a bribe you offered him. Threatening him won’t work either: he wouldn’t give you the time of day if you put a gun to his head.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘He served under me in ‘Nam, and even the Vietcong couldn’t get anything out of him. If you really want to know, he’s about the only reason I’m still alive. In any case, Dexter will already have convinced him that her orders came direct from the White House.’

‘We could tell him she was lying,’ said Lloyd.

‘That would only put his own life in danger. No, I have to be able to prove Dexter’s involvement without him finding out what we’re up to. And that won’t be easy.’

‘So how do you intend to do it?’

‘By going to his retirement party.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes, because there’ll be one person there who loves him even more than she loves her country. And she might just be willing to talk. I’ll be in touch.’

The phone went dead.

When Nick Gutenburg, the Deputy Director of the CIA, entered the drawing room of the Fitzgeralds’ home, the first person he saw was his predecessor Chris Jackson, deep in conversation with Joan Bennett. Was he telling her who he’d been working for in Bogota? Gutenburg would have liked to overhear what they were talking about, but first he had to say hello to his host and hostess.

‘I’ll do another nine months with the company,’ Joan was saying. ‘By then I’ll be eligible for my full pension. After that, I’m hoping to join Connor in his new job.’

‘I’ve only just heard about that,’ said Jackson. ‘It sounds ideal. From what Maggie was telling me, he won’t have to spend quite so much time travelling.’

‘That’s right, but his appointment isn’t official yet,’ said Joan. And you know how Connor feels about things being cut and dried. But as the Chairman of Washington Provident has invited him and Maggie to dinner tomorrow night, I think we can assume he’s landed the job. Unless, of course, Mr Thompson simply wants to make up a bridge four.’

‘Good of you to come, Nick,’ said Connor warmly, passing the Deputy Director a glass of Perrier. He didn’t need to be reminded that Gutenburg never allowed alcohol to pass his lips.

Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Connor,’ replied Gutenburg.

Turning to his wife, Connor said, ‘Maggie, this is Nick Gutenburg, a colleague of mine. He works in...’

‘Loss adjustment,’ Gutenburg interjected quickly. ‘We’re all going to miss your husband at Maryland Life, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said.

Well, I’m sure your paths will cross again,’ said Maggie, ‘now that Connor’s taking up another job in the same line of business.’

‘It hasn’t been confirmed yet,’ said Connor. ‘But as soon as it is, Nick, you’ll be the first to hear about it.’

Gutenburg’s eyes returned to Jackson, and when he moved away from Joan Bennett, Gutenburg slipped across the room to join her.

‘I was delighted to hear that you’ll be staying with the company, Joan,’ were his opening words. ‘I thought you might be leaving us to join Connor in his new job.’

‘No, I’ll be remaining with the firm,’ said Joan, uncertain how much the Deputy Director knew.

‘I just thought that as Connor’s continuing in the same line of business...’

You’re on a fishing trip, thought Joan. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said firmly.

‘Who’s Chris Jackson talking to?’ Gutenburg asked.

Joan looked across the room. She would like to have been able to say she had no idea, but she knew she wouldn’t get away with it. ‘That’s Father Graham, the Fitzgeralds’ local parish priest from Chicago, and Tara, Connor’s daughter.’

‘And what does she do?’ asked Gutenburg.

‘She’s completing a PhD at Stanford.’

Gutenburg realised that he was wasting his time trying to get any real information out of Connor’s secretary. After all, she had worked for Fitzgerald for nearly twenty years, so there wasn’t much doubt where her loyalties lay — though there was nothing in her file to suggest that their relationship was anything but professional. And, looking at Miss Bennett, he suspected she might be the last forty-five-year-old virgin left in Washington. When Connor’s daughter went over to the drinks table to refill her glass, Gutenburg left Joan without another word.

‘My name’s Nick Gutenburg,’ he told her, thrusting out his hand. ‘I’m a colleague of your father’s.’

‘I’m Tara,’ she said. ‘Do you work at the downtown office?’

‘No, I’m based in the suburbs,’ said Gutenburg. ‘Are you still on the West Coast doing graduate work?’

‘That’s right,’ Tara replied, looking a little surprised. ‘And what about you? Which branch of the company do you work for?’

‘Loss adjustment. It’s rather boring compared with what your father does, but someone has to stay at home and do the paperwork,’ he said, letting out a little laugh. ‘By the way, I was delighted to hear about your dad’s new appointment.’

‘Yes, Mom was pleased that such a prestigious firm snapped him up so quickly. Although it’s still not official.’

‘Will he be working out of Washington?’ Gutenburg asked, sipping his Perrier.

‘Yes, the company’s based just a couple of blocks from his old office...’ Tara stopped talking when she heard a sharp noise. She turned to see Chris Jackson banging the table to bring the guests to order.

‘Excuse me,’ she whispered. ‘That’s my cue to resume my official duties for the evening.’ She walked quickly away, and Gutenburg turned to listen to his predecessor at Langley.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Chris began. He waited until everyone was silent before he continued. ‘It’s my privilege to propose a toast to two of my oldest friends, Connor and Maggie. Over the years, Connor has consistently proved to be the one man most likely to get me into a scrape.’

The guests laughed. One called out, ‘Only too true,’ and another added, ‘I know the problem.’

‘But once you’re in a scrape, I don’t know anyone better to get you out of it.’ This was greeted by warm applause. ‘We first met...’

Gutenburg felt his pager buzz, and quickly pulled it off his belt. ‘troy asap’, it read. He flicked it off, and slipped out of the room into the hall. He picked up the nearest phone as if he was in his own home and dialled a number that wasn’t in any directory. It hadn’t even rung before a voice said, ‘The Director.’

‘I got your message, but I’m on a non-secure line.’ He didn’t need to announce who he was.

‘What I have to tell you, everyone in the world will know about in a few hours.’

Gutenburg didn’t speak. It wasted time.

‘Yeltsin died of a heart attack seventeen minutes ago,’ said Helen Dexter. ‘Report to my office immediately, and cancel everything you’re doing for the next forty-eight hours.’ The line went dead. No call from a non-secure line to Dexter’s office ever lasted more than forty-five seconds. She kept a stop-watch on her desk.

Gutenburg replaced the phone and slipped out of the front door without bothering to say goodbye to his hostess. He was being driven down the Parkway on his way back to Langley by the time Chris raised his glass and said, ‘To Connor and Maggie, and whatever the future holds for them.’

All the guests raised their glasses. ‘To Connor and Maggie.’

Chapter Ten

‘I’ll tell you exactly where my information came from,’ said Tom Lawrence. ‘From the President of Colombia himself. He thanked me personally for “the role I played in his election”.’

‘That’s hardly proof,’ Helen Dexter said, showing no sign of emotion.

‘Are you doubting my word?’ The President made no attempt to hide his anger.

‘Certainly not, Mr President,’ said Dexter calmly. ‘But if you’re accusing the Agency of carrying out covert operations without your knowledge, I hope it’s not going to be simply on the word of a South American politician.’

The President leaned forward. ‘I suggest that you listen carefully to a recording of a conversation that took place in this office quite recently,’ he said. ‘Because what you’re about to hear struck me as having a ring of truth about it — something I suspect you haven’t had much exposure to in recent years.’

The Director remained impassive, although Nick Gutenburg, seated on her right, shifted uneasily in his seat. The President nodded in the direction of Andy Lloyd, who reached over and pressed a button on a tape recorder that had been placed on the corner of the President’s desk.

‘Would you care to go into greater detail?’

‘Of course, although I’m sure I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. My only real rival, Ricardo Guzman, was conveniently removed from the contest just two weeks before the election.’

‘Surely you’re not suggesting...’ It was Lawrence’s voice.

‘Well, if it wasn’t your people, it certainly wasn’t mine,’ Herrera cut in before the President could finish his sentence.

There followed such a long silence that Gutenburg began to wonder if the conversation had come to an end, but as Lawrence and Lloyd didn’t move, he assumed there was more to follow.

‘Do you have any actual evidence to link the assassination with the CIA?’ asked Lloyd eventually.

‘The bullet that killed him was traced to a rifle that had been sold to a pawn shop before the assassin fled the country. The rifle was later removed from the shop by one of your operatives and shipped back to America via the diplomatic pouch.’

‘How can you be so sure of that?’

‘My Chief of Police is obviously a lot more forthcoming with me than the CIA are with you.’

Andy Lloyd flicked off the tape recorder. Helen Dexter looked up to find the President’s eyes boring into hers.

‘Well?’ Lawrence asked. ‘What simple explanation do you have this time?’

‘From that conversation there is absolutely no proof of any CIA involvement in Guzman’s assassination,’ she said evenly. ‘All it suggests to me is that Herrera is trying to shield the person who carried out his orders.’

‘I assume you’re referring to the “lone assassin” who has since conveniently disappeared somewhere in South Africa,’ said the President sarcastically.

‘The moment he surfaces, Mr President, we’ll find him, and then I’ll be able to supply the proof you’ve asked for.’

‘An innocent man shot in a back street in Johannesburg will not be enough proof for me,’ said Lawrence.

‘Nor me,’ said Dexter. ‘When I produce the man who was responsible for the assassination, there won’t be any doubt about who he was working for.’ There was a slight edge to her voice.

‘If you fail to do so,’ said the President, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if this tape’ — he tapped the recorder — ‘ended up in the hands of a certain reporter at the Washington Post who isn’t exactly known for his love of the CIA. We can leave it to him to decide if Herrera is covering himself, or simply telling the truth. Either way, you’re going to have to answer an awful lot of awkward questions.’

‘If that were ever to happen, you might have to answer one or two yourself, Mr President,’ said Dexter, not flinching.

Lawrence rose angrily from his chair and glared down at her. ‘Let me make it clear that I still require positive proof of the existence of your missing South African. And if you fail to produce it within twenty-eight days, I’ll expect both of your resignations on my desk. Now get out of my office.’

The Director and her Deputy rose to leave the room without another word. Neither of them spoke until they were seated in the back of Dexter’s car. Once they had been driven out of the grounds of the White House, she touched a button on her armrest and a smoked-glass window slid up so that the driver — a senior operative — was unable to hear the conversation taking place behind him.

‘Have you found out which company it was that interviewed Fitzgerald?’

‘Yes,’ replied Gutenburg.

‘Then you’re going to have to give their Chairman a call’

‘My name is Nick Gutenburg. I’m the Deputy Director of the CIA. You may wish to call me back. The switchboard number at the Agency is 703 482 1100. If you give the operator your name, she will put you straight through to my office.’ He put the phone down.

Gutenburg had found over the years that not only were such calls invariably returned, usually in under a minute, but that the little subterfuge nearly always gave him the upper hand.

He sat at his desk, waiting. Two minutes passed, but he wasn’t concerned. He knew that this particular gentleman would want to verify the number. Once he had confirmed that it was the CIA’s switchboard, Gutenburg would be in an even stronger position.

When the phone eventually rang three minutes later, Gutenburg let it continue for some time before answering it. ‘Good morning, Mr Thompson,’ he said, not waiting to hear who it was. ‘I’m grateful to you for calling back so promptly.’

‘My pleasure, Mr Gutenburg,’ said the Chairman of Washington Provident.

‘I fear it’s a delicate matter that I need to speak to you about, Mr Thompson. I wouldn’t be making such a call unless I felt it was in your best interests.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Thompson. ‘How can I help?’

‘You have recently been interviewing candidates to head up your kidnap and ransom department. A post that demands the highest standards of integrity.’

‘Of course,’ said Thompson. ‘But I think we’ve found the ideal person for the position.’

‘I have no idea who you’ve selected for the job, but I should let you know that we are currently investigating one of the applicants, and should the case end up in court, it might not reflect too well on your firm. However, Mr Thompson, if you are confident that you have found the right man, the CIA certainly has no desire to stand in his way.’

‘Now wait a moment, Mr Gutenburg. If you’re aware of something I should know about, I’ll be only too happy to listen.’

Gutenburg paused before saying, ‘May I ask, in the strictest confidence, the name of the candidate to whom you are thinking of offering this position?’

‘You most certainly can, because I’m in no doubt about his reputation, background or propriety. We are about to sign a contract with a Mr Connor Fitzgerald.’ There was a long silence before Thompson said, ‘Are you still there, Mr Gutenburg?’

‘I am, Mr Thompson. I wonder if you could find the time to visit me at Langley? I think I should brief you more fully on the fraud investigation we are presently undertaking. You might also want to examine some confidential papers that have come into our possession.’

This time it was Thompson’s turn to remain silent. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. I don’t think a visit will be necessary,’ said the Chairman quietly. ‘He seemed like such a good man.’

‘I’m equally distressed to have had to make this call in the first place, Mr Thompson. But you would have been more angry with me if I hadn’t, and the whole sorry affair had ended up on the front page of the Washington Post.’

‘I can’t disagree with that,’ said Thompson.

‘May I add,’ said the Deputy Director, ‘though of course it’s not pertinent to the case we’re investigating, that I’ve been a policyholder with Washington Provident since the day I began working for the CIA.’

‘I’m glad to hear that, Mr Gutenburg. I’d just like to say how much I appreciate the thoroughness with which you people carry out your job.’

‘I only hope I’ve been of some service, Mr Thompson. Goodbye, sir.’

Gutenburg replaced the receiver, and immediately pressed ‘1’ on the phone nearest to him.

‘Yes?’ said a voice.

‘I don’t think Washington Provident will be offering Fitzgerald a job after all’

‘Good. Why don’t we leave it for three days, then you can tell him about his new assignment.’

‘Why wait three days?’

‘You’ve obviously never read Freud’s paper on maximum vulnerability.’

We are sorry to inform you...

Connor was reading the letter for the third time when the phone on his desk rang. He felt numb with disbelief. What could possibly have gone wrong? The dinner at the Thompsons’ home couldn’t have been more agreeable. When he and Maggie left a few minutes before midnight, Ben had suggested a round of golf at Burning Tree the following weekend, and Elizabeth Thompson had asked Maggie to drop by for coffee while the men were out chasing little white balls. The next day his lawyer had rung to say that the contract Washington Provident had sent for his approval needed no more than a few minor adjustments.

Connor picked up the phone.

‘Yes, Joan.’

‘I have the Deputy Director on the line.’

‘Put him through,’ he said wearily.

‘Connor?’ said a voice he had never trusted. ‘Something important has come up, and the Director’s asked me to brief you immediately.’

‘Of course,’ said Connor, not really taking in Gutenburg’s words.

‘Shall we make it three o’clock, the usual place?’

‘Of course,’ Connor repeated. He was still holding the phone long after he had heard the click. He read the letter for a fourth time, and decided not to tell Maggie about it until he had been shortlisted for another job.

Connor was the first to arrive in Lafayette Square. He sat down on a bench facing the White House. A few minutes later Nick Gutenburg took a seat on the other end of the bench. Connor took care not to even glance in his direction.

‘The President himself requested that you should take on this assignment,’ murmured Gutenburg, looking fixedly in the direction of the White House. ‘He wanted our best man.’

‘But I’m due to leave the Company in ten days’ time,’ said Connor.

‘Yes, the Director told him. But the President insisted that we do everything in our power to convince you to stay until this assignment has been completed.’

Connor remained silent.

‘Connor, the outcome of the elections in Russia could affect the future of the free world. If that lunatic Zerimski is elected, it would mean a return to the Cold War overnight. The President could forget his Arms Reduction Bill, and Congress would be demanding an increase in the defence budget that could bankrupt us.’

‘But Zerimski’s still way behind in the polls,’ said Connor. ‘Isn’t Chernopov expected to win comfortably?’

‘That’s how it may look right now,’ said Gutenburg. ‘But there are still three weeks to go, and the President’ — he emphasised the word while continuing to stare at the White House — ‘feels that with an electorate that volatile, anything could happen. He’d be a lot happier knowing you were out there, just in case your particular expertise is needed.’

Connor didn’t respond.

‘If it’s your new job you’re worrying about,’ continued Gutenburg, ‘I’d be happy to have a word with the Chairman of the company you’re joining and explain to him that it’s only a short-term assignment.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Connor. ‘But I’ll need a little time to think about it.’

‘Of course,’ said Gutenburg. ‘When you’ve made up your mind, please call the Director and let her know your decision.’ He rose and walked away in the direction of Farragut Square.

Three minutes later, Connor strolled off in the opposite direction.

Andy Lloyd picked up the red phone. This time he recognised the voice immediately.

‘I’m almost certain I know who carried out the assignment in Bogota,’ said Jackson.

Was he working for the CIA?’ Lloyd asked.

‘Yes, he was.’

‘Do you have enough proof to convince the Congressional Select Committees on Intelligence?’

‘No, I don’t. Almost all the evidence I have would be thrown out as circumstantial. But when it’s all put together, there are far too many coincidences for my liking.’

‘For example?’

‘The agent who I suspect pulled the trigger was sacked shortly after the President saw Dexter in the Oval Office and demanded to know who was responsible for Guzman’s assassination.’

‘Not even admissible as evidence.’

‘Perhaps not. But the same agent was about to take up a new appointment with Washington Provident as head of their kidnap and ransom department when suddenly, without any explanation, the job offer was withdrawn.’

‘A second coincidence.’

‘There’s a third. Three days later, Gutenburg met the agent in question on a park bench in Lafayette Square.’

‘Why would they want to take him back?’

‘To carry out a one-off assignment.’

‘Do we have any idea what that assignment is?’

‘No. But don’t be surprised if it takes him a long way from Washington.’

‘Have you any way of finding out where?’

‘Not at the moment. Even his wife doesn’t know.’

‘OK, let’s look at it from their point of view,’ said Lloyd. ‘What do you think Dexter will be doing right now to make sure her ass is covered?’

‘Before I could begin to answer that I’d need to know the outcome of her last meeting with the President,’ said Jackson.

‘He gave her and Gutenburg twenty-eight days to prove that the Agency wasn’t involved in the assassination of Guzman, and to provide cast-iron proof of who did kill him. He also left them in no doubt that if they fail, he’ll demand their resignations and release all the evidence in his possession to the Washington Post.’

There was a long silence before Jackson said, ‘That means the agent in question has less than a month to live.’

‘She’d never eliminate one of her own people,’ said Lloyd in disbelief.

‘Don’t forget that he’s an NOC. The section of the CIA he works for doesn’t even exist officially, Mr Lloyd.’

‘This guy’s a good friend of yours, isn’t he?’ said Lloyd.

‘Yes,’ replied Jackson quietly.

‘Then you’d better make sure he stays alive.’

‘Good afternoon, Director. It’s Connor Fitzgerald.’

‘Good afternoon, Connor. How nice to hear from you,’ Dexter said in a warmer tone than the one she had adopted at their previous meeting.

‘The Deputy Director asked me to call you once I’d come to a decision on the matter he and I discussed on Monday.’

‘Yes,’ said Dexter, reverting to her normal clipped style.

‘I’m willing to take the assignment.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’

‘On one condition.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I will require proof that the operation has been sanctioned by the President.’

There was a long silence before Dexter said, ‘I’ll inform the President of your request.’

‘So how does it work?’ asked the Director. She couldn’t remember when she had last visited the OTS lab at Langley.

‘It’s quite simple really,’ said Professor Ziegler, the CIA’s Director of Technical Services. He turned to a bank of computers and pressed some keys. Tom Lawrence’s face appeared on the screen.

After Dexter and Nick Gutenburg had listened to the words of the President for a few moments, she said, ‘What’s so remarkable about that? We’ve all heard Lawrence making a speech before.’

‘Maybe, but you’ve never heard him make that particular speech,’ said Ziegler.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Gutenburg.

An almost childlike smile of satisfaction spread across the professor’s face. ‘I have stored in my computer — codename “Tommy” — over a thousand speeches, television and radio interviews and telephone conversations the President has given or taken part in during the past two years. Every word or phrase he has used in that time is stored in this memory bank. That means I can make him deliver a speech on any subject you choose. I can even decide what his position is on any given issue.’

Dexter began to consider the possibilities. ‘If Tommy were to be asked a question, could he give a convincing reply?’ she asked.

‘Not spontaneously,’ admitted Ziegler. ‘But if you had some idea of the questions he might be expected to answer, I believe I could fool Lawrence’s own mother.’

‘So all we have to do,’ said Gutenburg, ‘is anticipate what the other party is likely to say.’

‘Which may not be as difficult as you might think,’ said Ziegler. ‘After all, if you were to receive a call from the President, you’d be unlikely to ask him about the strength of the dollar, or what he had for breakfast, would you? In most cases you’d know the reason he was calling. I have no idea why you might need Tommy, but if you were to prepare opening and closing remarks, as well as — say — the fifty questions or statements he was most likely to have to respond to, I could almost guarantee he could conduct a plausible conversation.’

‘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.’

Chapter Eleven

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 arriving on schedule.

Back in the terminal, a young man in a dark blue suit dialled a number on his cellphone.

‘Yes?’ said a voice.

Agent Sullivan calling from “Coach House”. The bird has flown.’

‘Good. Report in again as soon as you’ve carried out the rest of your assignment.’ The line went dead.

The young man switched off his phone and took the escalator to the ground floor. He walked over to a car in the far corner of the long-term carpark, unlocked it, drove out of the lot, paid the parking ticket, and headed east.

Thirty minutes later he returned the keys to the car pool and signed the daily log. It showed that the vehicle had been checked out in his name and returned in his name.

‘Can you be absolutely sure there’ll be no trace of his ever having existed?’ asked the Director.

‘No trace whatsoever,’ said Gutenburg. ‘Don’t forget that as an NOC he was never on the Company’s books in the first place.’

‘But what about his wife?’

‘Why should she suspect anything? His monthly pay-cheque has been paid into their joint account. She won’t give it a second thought. As far as she’s concerned, he’s resigned from his present position and will be joining Washington Provident on the first of January.’

‘There’s still his former secretary.’

‘I’ve had her transferred to Langley so I can keep an eye on her.’

‘What division?’

‘Middle East.’

‘Why Middle East?’

‘Because she’ll have to be at the office during their working hours, from six in the evening until three in the morning. And for the next eight months I’m going to work her so hard that she’ll be too tired to think about anything other than what she’s going to do once she retires.’

‘Good. Where’s Fitzgerald at this moment?’

Gutenburg checked his watch. ‘Halfway across the Atlantic. He’ll be landing at London Heathrow in about four hours.’

And the car?’

‘Has already been returned to the pool. It’s currently being resprayed and given a new set of plates.’

What about his office on M Street?’

‘It will be stripped overnight, and that floor will be placed in the hands of real estate agents on Monday.’

‘You seem to have thought of everything except what happens when he returns to Washington,’ said the Director.

‘He isn’t going to return to Washington,’ replied Gutenburg.

Connor joined the long queue waiting to go through passport control. When he eventually reached the front, an official checked his passport and said, ‘I hope you have an enjoyable fortnight in Britain, Mr Perry.’

In the little box asking ‘How long do you intend to stay in the United Kingdom?’ Mr Perry had written ‘Fourteen days.’ But then, it would be Mr Lilystrand who returned to the airport the following morning.

Two men watched him as he left Terminal Three and boarded the bus for Victoria Coach Station. Forty-two minutes later, the same two men saw him join the queue at a taxi rank. Separately they followed the black cab to the Kensington Park Hotel, where one of them had already left a package for him in reception.

‘Any messages for me?’ Connor asked as he signed the registration form.

‘Yes, Mr Lilystrand,’ said the concierge. ‘A gentleman left this for you this morning.’ He handed Connor an enormous brown envelope. ‘Your room number is 211. The porter will bring up your luggage.’

‘I can manage it myself, thank you,’ he said.

As soon as Connor entered the room, he tore open the envelope. Inside was a ticket to Geneva in the name of Theodore Lilystrand, and a hundred Swiss francs. He slipped off his jacket and lay down on the bed, but despite being exhausted he was unable to sleep. He turned on the television and flicked through endless programmes — what Tara called channel surfing — but it didn’t help.

He had always disliked the waiting game. That was the only time doubts ever set in. He kept reminding himself that this would be his last mission. He began to think about Christmas with Maggie and Tara — and, yes, Stuart. He disliked not being allowed to carry photographs with him, always having to visualise them in his mind. Most of all, he hated not being able to just pick up a phone and talk to either of them whenever he felt like it.

Connor didn’t stir from his bed until it was dark. Then he emerged from his overnight prison cell to go in search of a meal. He bought an Evening Standard from a corner news-vendor and strolled into a small Italian restaurant on High Street, Kensington that was only half full.

The waiter showed him to a quiet table in the corner. The light was barely strong enough for him to read the paper. He ordered a Diet Coke with lots of ice. The British would never understand the meaning of ‘lots of ice’, and he was not surprised when the waiter returned a few minutes later bearing a long glass with three small ice cubes floating in it, and a tiny piece of lemon.

He ordered cannelloni and a side salad. Funny how he picked Maggie’s favourite dishes whenever he was abroad. Anything to remind him of her.

‘The one thing you have to do before you start your new job is find a decent tailor,’ Tara had said to him when they last spoke. ‘And I want to come with you so I can pick your shirts and ties.’

‘Your new job.’ Once again he thought about that letter. I am sorry to have to inform you... However many times he went over it, he still couldn’t think of a reason for Thompson to have changed his mind. It simply didn’t add up.

He began to read the front page of the paper: nine candidates were contesting an election to be the first Mayor of London. That’s odd, thought Connor: haven’t they always had a Mayor — what about Dick Whittington? He looked at the photographs of the contenders and their names, but they meant nothing to him. One of them would be running England’s capital in a couple of weeks’ time. He wondered where he would be then.

He paid the bill in cash and left a tip that would not give the waiter any reason to remember him. When he was back in his hotel room he switched on the television and watched a few minutes of a comedy that didn’t make him laugh. After trying a couple of movies, he slept intermittently. But he was comforted by the thought that at least he was better off than the two men stationed outside on the pavement, who wouldn’t sleep at all. He had spotted them within moments of landing at Heathrow.

He checked his watch. A few minutes after midnight — a few minutes after seven in Washington. He wondered what Maggie would be doing that evening.

‘And how’s Stuart?’ Maggie asked.

‘Still hanging in there,’ Tara replied. ‘He arrives in LA in fifteen days. I can’t wait.’

Will you both be flying straight here?’

‘No, Mom,’ said Tara, trying not to sound exasperated. As I’ve told you several times already, we’re going to rent a car and drive up the West Coast. Stuart’s never been to America, and he wants to see LA and San Francisco. Remember?’

‘Do drive carefully, won’t you?’

‘Mother, I’ve been driving for nine years without even a ticket, which is more than can be said for you or Dad. Now, will you stop worrying and tell me what you’re doing this evening?’

‘I’m going to hear Placido Domingo in La Boheme. I decided to wait until your father was out of town before I went, because I know he’d fall asleep before the first act was over.’

Are you going on your own?’

‘Yes.’

Well, be careful, Mother, and make sure you don’t sit in the first six rows.’

Why not?’ asked Maggie innocently.

‘Because some rich, handsome man might leap out of one of the boxes and ravish you.’

Maggie laughed. ‘I consider myself properly chastised.’

Why don’t you ask Joan to go with you? Then you can both talk about Dad all night.’

‘I called her at the office, but the number seems to be out of order. I’ll try her at home later.’

‘Bye, Mom, talk to you tomorrow,’ said Tara. She knew her mother would call every day while Connor was away.

Whenever Connor travelled abroad or took an evening off to partner Father Graham at the bridge club, Maggie would catch up with some of her university activities. Anything from GULP, the Georgetown University Litter Patrol, of which she was a founder member, to the Alive Women’s Poetry Society and the Irish dance class, where she gave lessons. The sight of the young students dancing, their backs straight, their feet tapping away, brought back memories of Declan O’Casey. He was now a distinguished professor, with a chair at the University of Chicago. He had never married, and still sent her a card every Christmas, and an unsigned one on Valentine’s Day. The old typewriter with the crooked ‘e’ always gave away his identity.

She picked up the phone again and dialled Joan’s home number, but there was no reply. She fixed herself a light salad, which she ate alone in the kitchen. After she had put the plate in the dishwasher she rang Joan again. There was still no answer, so she set off for the Kennedy Center. A single ticket was always easy to come by, however celebrated the guest tenor happened to be.

Maggie was transfixed by the first act of La Boheme, and only wished she had someone with whom to share the experience. When the curtain came down, she joined the throng heading for the foyer. As she approached the crowded bar, Maggie thought she caught a glimpse of Elizabeth Thompson. She remembered that she had invited her for coffee, but had never followed it up. She had been surprised, because the offer had sounded so genuine at the time.

When Ben Thompson turned and caught her eye, Maggie smiled and walked over to join them.

‘How nice to see you, Ben,’ she said.

‘And you too, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he replied, but not in the warm voice she remembered from dinner a fortnight before. And why hadn’t he called her Maggie?

Undaunted, she ploughed on. ‘Domingo is magnificent, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, and we were extremely lucky to lure Leonard Slatkin from St Louis,’ said Ben Thompson. Maggie was surprised that he didn’t offer to buy her a drink, and when she finally ordered an orange juice, she was even more puzzled when he made no attempt to pay for it.

‘Connor is so looking forward to joining you all at Washington Provident,’ she said, taking a sip of her juice. Elizabeth Thompson appeared surprised, but didn’t comment.

‘He’s particularly grateful to you, Ben, for allowing him to put it off for a month so he could complete that unfinished contract for his old firm.’

Elizabeth was just about to say something when the three-minute bell sounded.

Well, we’d better get back to our seats,’ said Ben Thompson, although his wife had only half-finished her drink. ‘Nice to have seen you again, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ He took his wife firmly by the arm and guided her towards the auditorium. ‘I hope you enjoy the second act.’

Maggie didn’t enjoy the second act. She couldn’t concentrate, as the conversation that had just taken place in the foyer kept running through her mind. But however many times she went over it, she couldn’t reconcile his attitude with what had taken place at the Thompsons’ only a fortnight before. If she had known how to get in touch with Connor, she would have broken the rule of a lifetime and phoned him. So she did the next best thing. The moment she arrived home, she called Joan Bennett again.

The phone rang and rang.

The following morning Connor rose early. He had settled his bill in cash, hailed a taxi and was on his way to Heathrow before the duty porter even realised he’d left. At seven forty he boarded Swissair Flight 839 to Geneva. The flight took just under two hours, and he readjusted his watch to ten thirty as the wheels of the aircraft touched the ground.

During the stopover he took advantage of Swissair’s offer to take a shower. He entered the ‘exclusive facility’ — the description in their in-flight magazine — as Theodore Lilystrand, an investment banker from Stockholm, and emerged forty minutes later as Piet de Villiers, a reporter with the Johannesburg Mercury.

Even though he still had over an hour to kill, Connor did not browse in any of the duty-free shops, buying only a croissant and a cup of coffee from one of the most expensive restaurants in the world.

Eventually he walked across to Gate 23. There wasn’t a long queue for the Aeroflot flight to St Petersburg. When the passengers were called a few minutes later, he made his way to the back of the aircraft. He began to think about what needed to be done the following morning, once the train had pulled in to Moscow’s Raveltay station. He went over the Deputy Director’s final briefing again, wondering why Gutenburg had repeated the words, ‘Don’t get caught. But if you are, deny absolutely that you have anything to do with the CIA. Don’t worry — the Company will always take care of you.’

Only raw recruits were ever reminded of the Eleventh Commandment.

‘The flight to St Petersburg has just taken off, and our package is on board.’

‘Good,’ said Gutenburg. Anything else to report?’

‘I don’t think so,’ replied the young CIA agent. He hesitated. ‘Except...’

‘Except what? Come on, spit it out.’

‘It’s just that I thought I recognised someone else who boarded the plane.’

‘Who was it?’ snapped Gutenburg.

‘I can’t remember his name, and I’m not that certain it was him. I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off Fitzgerald for more than a few seconds.’

‘If you remember who it was, call me immediately.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The young man switched off his phone and made his way to Gate 9. In a few hours he would be back behind his desk in Berne, resuming his role as Cultural Attaché at the American Embassy.

‘Good morning. This is Helen Dexter.’

‘Good morning, Director,’ replied the White House Chief of Staff stiffly.

‘I thought the President would want to know immediately that the man he asked us to track down in South Africa is on the move again.’

‘I’m not sure I follow you,’ said Lloyd.

‘The head of our Johannesburg office has just informed me that Guzman’s killer boarded a South African Airways flight to London two days ago. He was carrying a passport in the name of Martin Perry. He only stayed in London overnight. The following morning he took a Swissair flight to Geneva, using a Swedish passport in the name of Theodore Lilystrand.’

Lloyd didn’t interrupt her this time. After all, he could play the tape back if the President wanted to hear exactly what she had said.

At Geneva he boarded an Aeroflot flight to St Petersburg. This time he was carrying a South African passport in the name of Piet de Villiers. From St Petersburg, he took the overnight train to Moscow.’

‘Moscow? Why Moscow?’ asked Lloyd.

‘If I recall correctly,’ said Dexter, ‘an election is about to take place in Russia.’

When the plane landed in St Petersburg, Connor’s watch claimed that it was five fifty. He yawned, stretched and waited for the aircraft to taxi to a halt before altering the hands to local time. He looked out of the window at an airport that was in semi-darkness because half the lightbulbs were missing. Light snow was falling, but didn’t settle. The hundred weary passengers had to wait another twenty minutes before a bus arrived to transport them to the terminal. Some things simply didn’t change, whether the KGB or organised criminals were in charge. Americans had come to refer to them as the Mafya, to avoid confusion with the Italian version.

Connor was the last to leave the aircraft, and the last to get off the bus.

A man who had travelled first class on the same flight rushed to the front of the queue to be sure of being the first through immigration and customs. He was grateful that Connor followed the textbook routine. Once the man had stepped off the bus, he never looked back. He knew Connor’s eyes would always be moving.

When Connor walked out of the airport onto the pot-holed road thirty minutes later, he hailed the first available taxi and asked to be taken to Protsky station.

The first-class traveller followed Connor into the booking hall, which looked more like an opera house than a railway station. He watched closely to see which train he would be boarding. But there was another man standing in the shadows who even knew the number of the sleeping compartment he would be occupying.

The American Cultural Attaché in St Petersburg had passed up an invitation to the Kirov Ballet that evening so he could inform Gutenburg when Fitzgerald had boarded the overnight train to Moscow. It wouldn’t be necessary to accompany him on the journey, as Ashley Mitchell, his colleague in the capital, would be waiting on Platform 4 the following morning to confirm that Fitzgerald had reached his destination. It had been made clear to the Attaché that this was Mitchell’s operation.

‘One first-class sleeper to Moscow,’ said Connor in English to the booking clerk.

The man pushed a ticket across the wooden counter, and was disappointed when the customer handed over a ten-thousand-rouble note. He had been hoping that this passenger would give him an opportunity to make a small turn on the exchange rate — his second that night.

Connor checked his ticket before making his way towards the Moscow express. He walked down the crowded platform, passing several old green carriages that looked as if they predated the 1917 Revolution, stopped at Coach K and presented his ticket to a woman standing by the open door. She clipped it and stood aside to allow him to climb aboard. Connor strolled down the corridor, looking for booth Number 8. Once he had found it, he switched on the light and locked himself in; not because he was afraid of being robbed by bandits, as was so often reported in the American press, but because he needed to change his identity once again.

He had seen the fresh-faced youth standing under the arrivals board at Geneva airport, and had wondered where they were recruiting them from these days. He didn’t bother trying to spot the agent in St Petersburg: he knew someone would be there to check on his arrival, and someone else would be waiting on the platform in Moscow. Gutenburg had already briefed him fully on Agent Mitchell, who he had described as fairly raw, and unaware of Fitzgerald’s status as an NOC.

The train left St Petersburg at exactly one minute to midnight, and the gentle, rhythmic sound of the carriage wheels clattering over the tracks soon made Connor feel drowsy. He woke with a start, and checked his watch: four thirty-seven. The most sleep he’d managed in the past three nights.

Then he recalled his dream. He had been sitting on a bench in Lafayette Square, facing the White House and talking with someone who never once looked in his direction. The meeting he’d had with the Deputy Director the previous week was being replayed word for word, but he couldn’t recall what it was about the conversation that continued to nag away at him. Just as Gutenburg came to the sentence he wanted to hear repeated, he had woken up.

He was no nearer to solving the problem when the train pulled in to Raveltay station at eight thirty-three that morning.

‘Where are you?’ asked Andy Lloyd.

A phone booth in Moscow,’ Jackson replied. ‘Via London, Geneva and St Petersburg. As soon as he got off the train he led us all on a wild goose chase. He managed to lose our man in Moscow in less than ten minutes. If it hadn’t been me who taught him the doubling-back technique in the first place, he would have shaken me off as well.’

‘Where did he end up?’ asked Lloyd.

‘He checked into a small hotel on the north side of the city.’

‘Is he still there?’

‘No, he left about an hour later, but he was so well disguised that I nearly missed him myself. If it hadn’t been for the walk, he might have given me the slip.’

‘Where did he go?’ asked Lloyd.

‘He took another circuitous route, and ended up at the campaign headquarters of Victor Zerimski.’

‘Why Zerimski?’

‘I don’t know yet, but he came out of the building carrying all Zerimski’s campaign literature. Then he bought a map from a news-stand and had lunch in a nearby restaurant. In the afternoon, he hired a small car and returned to his hotel. He hasn’t left the building since.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Lloyd suddenly. ‘It’s going to be Zerimski this time.’

There was a long pause at the other end of the line before Jackson said, ‘No, Mr Lloyd, that’s not possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’d never agree to carry out such a sensitive assignment unless the order had come directly from the White House. I’ve known him long enough to be certain of that.’

‘Try not to forget that your friend carried out exactly the same assignment in Colombia. No doubt Dexter was able to convince him that that operation had also been sanctioned by the President.’

‘There could be an alternative scenario,’ said Jackson quietly.

‘Namely?’

‘That it’s not Zerimski they’re planning to kill, but Connor.’

Lloyd wrote the name down on his yellow pad.