The Eleventh Commandment

Chapter Twelve

‘American?’

‘Yes,’ said Jackson, not looking down at the source of the piping voice.

‘You need anything?’

‘No thanks,’ he said, still not taking his eyes off the front door of the hotel.

‘You must need something. Americans always need something.’

‘I don’t need anything. Now go away,’ said Jackson firmly.

‘Caviar? Russian dolls? General’s uniform? Fur hat? Woman?’

Jackson looked down at the boy for the first time. He was draped from head to toe in a sheepskin jacket three sizes too large for him. On his head he wore a cap made out of rabbitskin that Jackson felt he needed more every minute. The boy’s smile revealed two missing teeth.

‘A woman? At five o’clock in the morning?’

‘Good time for woman. But perhaps you prefer man?’

‘How much do you charge for your services?’

‘What type of services?’ asked the boy, looking suspicious.

‘As a runner.’

‘Runner?’

‘Helper, then.’

‘Helper?’

‘Assistant.’

‘Ah, you mean partner, like in American movies.’

‘OK, so now we’ve agreed on your job description, wiseguy, how much do you charge?’

‘Per day? Per week? Per month?’

‘Per hour.’

‘How much you offer?’

‘Quite the little entrepreneur, aren’t we?’

‘We learn from Americans,’ said the boy, with a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

‘One dollar,’ said Jackson.

The boy began laughing. ‘I may be wiseguy, but you are comedian. Ten dollars.’

‘That’s nothing less than extortion.’

The boy looked puzzled for the first time.

‘I’ll give you two.’

‘Six.’

‘Four.’

‘Five.’

‘Agreed,’ said Jackson.

The boy raised the palm of his right hand high in the air, something else he’d seen in American movies. Jackson slapped it. The deal was struck. The boy immediately checked the time on his Rolex watch.

‘So, what’s your name?’ Jackson asked.

‘Sergei,’ replied the boy. ‘And yours?’

‘Jackson. How old are you, Sergei?’

‘How old you want me to be?’

‘Cut the crap and tell me your age.’

‘Fourteen.’

‘You’re not a day over nine.’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Ten.’

‘Eleven.’

‘OK,’ said Jackson. ‘I’ll settle for eleven.’

‘And how old are you?’ demanded the boy.

‘Fifty-four.’

‘I’ll settle for fifty-four,’ said Sergei.

Jackson laughed for the first time in days. ‘How come your English is so good?’ he asked, still keeping an eye on the hotel door.

‘My mother live with American for long time. He return to States last year, but not take us.’

This time Jackson believed he was telling the truth.

‘So what’s the job, partner?’ asked Sergei.

‘We’re keeping an eye on someone who’s staying at that hotel’

‘Is a friend or enemy?’

‘Friend.’

‘Mafya?’

‘No, he works for the good guys.’

‘Don’t treat me like child,’ said Sergei, with an edge to his voice. ‘We’re partners, remember.’

‘OK, Sergei. He’s a friend,’ said Jackson, just as Connor appeared in the doorway. ‘Don’t move.’ He placed a hand firmly on the boy’s shoulder.

‘Is that him?’ asked Sergei.

‘Yes, that’s him.’

‘He has kind face. Maybe better I work for him.’

Victor Zerimski’s day hadn’t begun well, and it was still only a few minutes past eight a.m. He was chairing a meeting of the Central Council of the Communist Party which was being briefed by Dmitri Titov, his Chief of Staff.

‘An international body of observers has arrived in Moscow to monitor the electoral process,’ Titov was telling them. ‘They are looking principally for any suggestion of ballot-rigging, but their chairman has already admitted that with an electorate so vast and so widespread, there is no way they can spot every irregularity.’ Titov ended his report by saying that now that Comrade Zerimski had climbed to second place in the polls, the Mafya were pouring even more money into Chernopov’s campaign.

Zerimski stroked his thick moustache as he looked in turn at each of the men seated round the table. ‘When I am President,’ he said, rising from his place at the head of the table, ‘I’ll throw those Mafya bastards in jail one by one. Then the only thing they’ll count for the rest of their lives will be rocks.’ The members of the Central Council had heard their leader lambast the Mafya many times before, though he never mentioned them by name in public.

The short, muscle-bound man thumped the table. ‘Russia needs to return to the old-fashioned values the rest of the world used to respect us for.’ The twenty-one men facing him nodded, despite having heard these words repeatedly over the past few months.

‘For ten years we have done nothing but import the worst America has to offer.’

They continued to nod, and kept their eyes firmly fixed on him.

Zerimski ran a hand through his thick black hair, sighed, and slumped back into his chair. He looked across at his Chief of Staff. ‘What am I doing this morning?’

‘You’re paying a visit to the Pushkin Museum,’ said Titov. ‘They’re expecting you at ten o’clock.’

‘Cancel it. A complete waste of time when there are only eight days until the election.’ He banged the table again. ‘I should be out on the streets where the people can see me.’

‘But the director of the museum has applied for a grant from the government to restore the works of leading Russian artists,’ said Titov.

‘A waste of the people’s money,’ said Zerimski.

‘And Chernopov has been criticised for cutting the arts subsidy,’ continued the Chief of Staff.

‘All right. I’ll give them fifteen minutes.’

‘Twenty thousand Russians visit the Pushkin every week,’ Titov added, looking down at the typewritten notes in front of him.

‘Make it thirty minutes.’

‘And Chernopov accused you on television last week of being an uneducated thug.’

‘He did what?’ bellowed Zerimski. ‘I was studying law at Moscow University when Chernopov was still a farm labourer.’

‘That is of course true, Chairman,’ said Titov, ‘but our internal polls show that it is not the public perception, and that Chernopov is getting his message across.’

‘Internal polls? Something else we have to thank the Americans for.’

‘They put Tom Lawrence in office.’

‘Once I’m elected, I won’t need polls to keep me in office.’

Connor’s love of art had begun when Maggie had dragged him around galleries while they were still at college. At first he had gone along just so he could spend more time in her company, but within weeks he became a convert. Whenever they travelled out of town together he would happily accompany her to any gallery she chose, and as soon as they moved to Washington they had become Friends of the Corcoran and Members of the Phillips. While Zerimski was being guided around the Pushkin by its director, Connor had to be careful not to become distracted by the many masterpieces, and to concentrate on observing the Communist leader.

When Connor had first been sent to Russia back in the 1980s, the nearest any senior politician got to the people was to stare down at them from the Praesidium during May Day parades. But now that the masses could make a choice on a ballot paper, it had suddenly become necessary for those who hoped to be elected to move among them, even to listen to their views.

The gallery was as crowded as Cooke Stadium for a Redskins game, and wherever Zerimski appeared, the crowds parted as if he were Moses approaching the Red Sea. The candidate moved slowly among the Muscovites, ignoring the paintings and sculptures in favour of their outstretched hands.

Zerimski was shorter than he looked in his photographs, and had surrounded himself with an entourage of even smaller aides so as not to emphasise the fact. Connor recalled President Truman’s comment about size: ‘When it comes down to inches, my boy, you should only consider the forehead,’ he once told a Missouri student. ‘Better to have a spare inch between the top of your nose and the hairline than between the ankle and the kneecap.’ Connor noticed that Zerimski’s vanity hadn’t affected his dress-sense. His suit was badly cut, and his shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs. Connor wondered if it was wise for the director of the Pushkin to be wearing a hand-tailored suit that obviously hadn’t been made in Moscow.

Although Connor was aware that Victor Zerimski was a shrewd and educated man, it soon became clear that his visits to art galleries over the years must have been infrequent. As he bustled through the crowd he occasionally jabbed a finger in the direction of a canvas and informed the onlookers of the name of the artist in a loud voice. He managed to get it wrong on several occasions, but the crowd still nodded their agreement. He ignored a magnificent Rubens, showing more interest in a mother standing in the crowd clinging to her child than in the genius with which the same scene was depicted behind her. When he picked up the child and posed for a picture with the mother, Titov suggested he should take a pace to the right. That way they would get the Virgin Mary into the photograph as well. No front page would be able to resist it.

Once he had walked through half a dozen galleries, and was sure that everyone visiting the Pushkin was aware of his presence, Zerimski became bored and switched his attention to the journalists following closely behind him. On the first-floor landing he began to hold an impromptu press conference.

‘Go on, ask me anything you like,’ he said, glowering at the pack.

‘What is your reaction to the latest opinion polls, Mr Zerimski?’ asked the Moscow correspondent of The Times.

‘Heading in the right direction.’

‘You now appear to be in second place, and therefore Mr Chernopov’s only real rival,’ shouted another journalist.

‘By election day he will be my only real rival,’ said Zerimski. His entourage laughed dutifully.

‘Do you think Russia should return to being a Communist state, Mr Zerimski?’ came the inevitable question, delivered with an American accent.

The wily politician was far too alert to fall into that trap. ‘If by that you mean a return to higher employment, lower inflation, and a better standard of living, the answer must be yes.’ He sounded not unlike a Republican candidate during an American primary.

‘But that’s exactly what Chernopov claims is the government’s present policy.’

‘The government’s present policy,’ said Zerimski, ‘is to make sure that the Prime Minister keeps his Swiss bank account overflowing with dollars. That money belongs to the Russian people, which is why he is not fit to be our next President. I’m told that when Fortune magazine next publishes its list of the ten richest people in the world, Chernopov will be in seventh place. Elect him as President and within five years he’ll knock Bill Gates off the top spot. No, my friend,’ he added. ‘You are about to learn that the Russian people will vote resoundingly for a return to those days when we were the most respected nation on earth.’

‘And the most feared?’ suggested another journalist.

‘I’d rather that than continue the present situation, where we are simply ignored by the rest of the world,’ said Zerimski. Now the journalists were writing down his every word.

‘Why is your friend so interested in Victor Zerimski?’ whispered Sergei at the other end of the gallery.

‘You ask too many questions,’ said Jackson.

‘Zerimski bad man.’

‘Why?’ asked Jackson, his eyes fixed on Connor.

‘If elected, he put people like me in jail and we all go back to “the good old days”, while he’s in Kremlin eating caviar and drinking vodka.’

Zerimski began striding towards the gallery’s exit, with the director and his entourage trying to keep up with him. The candidate stopped on the bottom step to be photographed in front of Goya’s vast Christ Descending from the Cross. Connor was so moved by the painting that he was almost knocked over by the pursuing crowd.

‘You like Goya, Jackson?’ whispered Sergei.

‘I haven’t seen that many,’ admitted the American. ‘But yes,’ he said, ‘it’s quite magnificent.’

‘They have several more in the basement,’ said Sergei. ‘I could always arrange for one...’ he rubbed his thumb against his fingers.

Jackson would have cuffed the boy if it wouldn’t have drawn attention to them.

‘Your man’s on the move again,’ said Sergei suddenly. Jackson looked up to see Connor disappearing out of a side entrance of the gallery with Ashley Mitchell in pursuit.

Connor sat alone in a Greek restaurant on the Prechinstenka and considered what he had seen that morning. Although Zerimski was always surrounded by a bunch of thugs, their eyes staring in every direction, he was still not as well protected as most Western leaders. Several of his strong-arm men might be brave and resourceful, but only three of them appeared to have any previous experience of protecting a world statesman. And they couldn’t be on duty all the time.

He tried to digest a rather bad moussaka as he went over the rest of Zerimski’s itinerary, right through to election day. The candidate would be seen in public on twenty-seven different occasions during the next eight days. By the time a waiter had placed a black coffee in front of him, Connor had shortlisted the only three locations worth considering if Zerimski’s name needed to be removed from the ballot paper.

He checked his watch. That evening the candidate would address a Party gathering in Moscow. The following morning he would travel by train to Yaroslavl, where he would open a factory before returning to the capital to attend a performance by the Bolshoi Ballet. From there he would take the midnight train to St Petersburg. Connor had already decided to shadow Zerimski in Yaroslavl. He had also booked tickets for the ballet and the train to St Petersburg.

As he sipped his coffee he thought about Ashley Mitchell at the Pushkin, slipping behind the nearest pillar whenever Connor had glanced in his direction, and tried not to laugh. He had decided that he would allow Mitchell to follow him during the day — he might prove useful at some point — but he wouldn’t let him find out where he slept at night. He glanced out of the window to see the Cultural Attaché seated on a bench, reading a copy of Pravda. He smiled. A professional should always be able to watch his prey without being seen.

Jackson removed a wallet from inside his jacket, extracted a hundred-rouble note and passed it to the boy.

‘Get us both something to eat, but don’t go anywhere near that restaurant,’ he said, nodding across the road.

‘I’ve never been inside a restaurant. What would you like?’

‘I’ll have the same as you.’

‘You catching on fast, Jackson,’ said Sergei as he scurried away.

Jackson checked up and down the road. The man seated on the bench reading a copy of Pravda wasn’t wearing an overcoat. He had obviously assumed that surveillance was only carried out in warm, comfortable surroundings, but having lost Fitzgerald the previous day, there was clearly no way he could risk moving. His ears were bright red, his face flushed with the cold, and he had no one to fetch him something to eat. Jackson doubted if they would be seeing him tomorrow.

Sergei returned a few minutes later, carrying two paper bags. He passed one up to Jackson. ‘A big Mac with French fries and ketchup.’

Why do I have a feeling that if Zerimski becomes President, he’ll close down McDonald’s?’ said Jackson. He took a bite of the hamburger.

And I thought you might need this,’ said Sergei, handing him an officer’s hat made of rabbit’s fur.

‘Did a hundred roubles cover all this?’ asked Jackson.

‘No, I stole the hat,’ said Sergei matter-of-factly. ‘I thought your need was greater than his.’

‘You could get us both arrested.’

‘Not likely,’ said Sergei. ‘There are over two million soldiers in Russia. Half of them haven’t been paid for months, and most would sell you their sister for a hundred roubles.’

Jackson tried on the hat — it fitted perfectly. Neither of them spoke while they devoured their lunch, their eyes pinned on the restaurant.

‘See that man sitting on the bench reading Pravda, Jackson?’

‘Yes,’ said Jackson between bites.

‘He was at the gallery this morning.’

‘You also catch on fast,’ said Jackson.

‘Don’t forget that I have a Russian mother,’ replied Sergei. ‘By the way, which side is the bench man on?’

‘I know who’s paying him,’ said Jackson, ‘but I don’t know which side he’s on.’

Chapter Thirteen

Connor was among the last to arrive at the Lenin Memorial Hall. He took a seat at the back of the room in the section reserved for the press and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He couldn’t help remembering the last time he’d attended a political meeting in Russia. On that occasion he had also come to listen to the Communist candidate, but that was in the days when there was only one name on the ballot paper. Which was possibly why the turnout on election day had been only 17 per cent.

Connor glanced around the hall. Although there was another fifteen minutes to go before the candidate was due to arrive, every seat had already been taken, and the gangways were almost full. At the front of the hall, a few officials were milling around on the stage, making sure everything would be as the leader expected it. An old man was placing a grandiose chair towards the back of the stage.

The gathering of Party faithful couldn’t have been in greater contrast to an American political convention. The delegates, if that was what they were, were dressed in drab clothes. They looked undernourished, and sat in silence as they waited for Zerimski to appear.

Connor lowered his head and began scribbling some notes on his pad; he had no desire to get involved in a conversation with the journalist on his left. She had already told the correspondent on the other side of her that she represented the Istanbul News, the sole English-language paper in Turkey, and that her editor thought it would be a disaster if Zerimski were ever to become President. She went on to say she had recently reported that the Communist candidate might just pull it off. If she had asked Connor’s opinion, he would have had to agree. The odds on his being required to carry out his assignment were shortening by the hour.

A few moments later, the Turkish journalist began sketching a portrait of Zerimski. Her paper obviously couldn’t afford the luxury of a photographer, and was probably relying on wire services and whatever she came up with. He had to admit that the drawing was a good likeness.

Connor checked the room again. Would it be possible to assassinate someone in a room as crowded as this? Not if you hoped to escape. Getting at Zerimski while he was in his car was another option, although it was certain to be well protected. No professional would consider a bomb, which often ended up killing innocent people while failing to eliminate the target. If he was to have any chance of escaping, he would have to rely on a high-powered rifle in an open space. Nick Gutenburg had assured him that a customised Remington 700 would be safely in the US Embassy long before he arrived in Moscow — another misuse of the diplomatic pouch. If Lawrence gave the order, they would leave him to decide the time and place.

Now that he’d studied Zerimski’s itinerary in detail, Connor had decided that his first choice would be Severodvinsk, where the Communist leader was addressing a rally in a shipyard two days before the election. Connor had already begun to study the various cranes which operated at Russian docks, and the possibility of remaining hidden inside one for a long period of time.

Heads were beginning to turn towards the back of the room, and Connor looked around. A group of men in badly cut suits with bulges under their arms were filling the back of the hall, scanning the room before their leader made his entrance.

Connor could see that their methods were primitive and ineffective, but like all security forces they probably hoped that their presence and sheer weight of numbers would make anyone think twice before trying anything. He checked the faces — all three of the professionals were back on duty.

Suddenly loud applause burst from the rear of the hall, followed by cheering. As Zerimski entered, the Party members rose as one to acclaim their leader. Even the journalists were forced to stand to catch a glimpse of him. Zerimski’s progress toward the stage was continually held up as he stopped to clasp outstretched hands. When he finally reached the platform, the noise became almost deafening.

The elderly chairman who had been waiting patiently at the front of the hall led Zerimski up the steps and onto the stage, guiding him towards the large chair. Once Zerimski had sat down, he walked slowly forward to the microphone. The audience resumed their places and fell silent.

He didn’t do a good job of introducing ‘the next President of Russia’, and the longer he spoke, the more restless the audience became. Zerimski’s entourage, who were standing behind him, began to fidget and look annoyed. The old man’s final flourish was to describe the speaker as ‘the natural successor to Comrade Vladimir Ilyich Lenin’. He stood aside to make way for his leader, who didn’t look at all certain that Lenin was the most fortunate comparison that could have been chosen.

As Zerimski rose from his place at the back of the stage and walked slowly forward, the crowd began to come alive again. He threw his arms high in the air, and they cheered more loudly than ever.

Connor’s eyes never left Zerimski. He carefully noted his every movement, the stances he took, the poses he struck. Like all energetic men, he hardly remained still for a moment.

After Zerimski felt the cheering had gone on for long enough, he waved his audience back down into their seats. Connor noted that the whole process from start to finish had taken a little over three minutes.

Zerimski didn’t begin to speak until everyone had resumed their places and he had complete silence.

‘Comrades,’ he began in a firm voice, ‘it is a great honour for me to stand before you as your candidate. As each day passes, I become more and more aware that the Russian people are demanding a fresh start. Although few of our citizens wish to return to the old totalitarian regime of the past, the majority want to see a fairer distribution of the wealth that has been created by their skills and hard work.’

The audience began clapping again.

‘Let us never forget,’ Zerimski continued, ‘that Russia can once again become the most respected nation on earth. If other countries entertain any doubt about that, under my presidency they will do so at their peril.’

The journalists scribbled away furiously, and the audience cheered even more loudly. Nearly twenty seconds passed before Zerimski was able to speak again.

‘Look at the streets of Moscow, comrades. Yes, you will see Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars, but who is driving them? Just a privileged few. And it is those few who are hoping that Chernopov will be elected so they can continue to enjoy a lifestyle no one in this room can ever hope to emulate. The time has come, my friends, for this wealth — your wealth — to be shared among the many, not the few. I look forward to the day when Russia no longer has more limousines than family cars, more yachts than fishing boats, and more secret Swiss bank accounts than hospitals.’

Once again the audience greeted his words with prolonged applause.

When the noise eventually died down, Zerimski dropped his voice, but every word still carried to the back of the hall. ‘When I become your President, I shall not be opening bank accounts in Switzerland, but factories all over Russia. I shall not be spending my time relaxing in a luxurious dacha, but working night and day in my office. I shall be dedicating myself to your service, and be more than satisfied with the salary of a President, rather than taking bribes from dishonest businessmen whose only interest is in pillaging the nation’s assets.’

This time the applause was so enthusiastic that it was over a minute before Zerimski was able to continue.

‘At the back of the room,’ he said, pointing a stubby finger at the assembled journalists, ‘are the representatives of the world’s press.’ He paused, curled his lip and added, ‘And may I say how welcome they are.’

No applause followed this particular remark.

‘However, let me remind them that when I am President, they’ll need to be in Moscow not only during the run-up to an election, but permanently. Because then Russia will not be hoping for handouts whenever the Group of Seven meet, but will once again be a major participant in world affairs. If Chernopov were elected, the Americans would be more concerned about the views of Mexico than those of Russia. In future, President Lawrence will have to listen to what you are saying, and not just soft-talk the world’s press by telling them how much he likes Boris.’

Laughter spread around the hall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What do we do next?’ asked Sergei.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Fourteen

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’ve already decided,’ Joan said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I look forward to that,’ said Joan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Don’t worry. Connor would have let me know the moment he’d got another interview, and then told me it was a far better job than the one he’d been offered at Washington Provident.’

‘How well you know him,’ said Joan.

‘Sometimes I wonder if I know him at all,’ said Maggie. ‘Right now I have no idea where he is or what he’s up to.’

‘I don’t know much more than you do,’ said Joan. ‘For the first time in nineteen years, he didn’t brief me before he left.’

‘It’s different this time, isn’t it, Joan?’ said Maggie, looking straight at her.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He told me he was going abroad, but left without his passport. My guess is that he’s still in America. But why...’

‘Not taking his passport doesn’t prove he isn’t abroad,’ said Joan.

‘Possibly not,’ said Maggie. ‘But this is the first time he’s hidden it where he knew I would find it.’

A few minutes later, the waiter reappeared and whisked away their plates.

‘Would either of you care for dessert?’ he asked.

‘Not for me,’ said Joan. ‘Just coffee.’

‘Me too,’ said Maggie. ‘Black, no sugar.’ She checked her watch. She only had sixteen minutes left. She bit her lip. ‘Joan, I’ve never asked you to break a confidence before, but there’s something I have to know.’

Joan looked out of the window and glanced at the good-looking young man who had been leaning against the wall on the far side of the street for the past forty minutes. She thought she had seen him somewhere before.

When Maggie left the restaurant at seven minutes to two, she didn’t notice the same young man take out a mobile phone and dial an unlisted number.

‘Yes?’ said Nick Gutenburg.

‘Mrs Fitzgerald has just finished lunch with Joan Bennett at Café Milano on Prospect. They were together for forty-seven minutes. I’ve recorded every word of their conversation.’

‘Good. Bring the tape in to my office immediately.’

As Maggie ran up the steps to the Admissions Office, the clock in the university courtyard was showing one minute to two.

It was one minute to ten in Moscow. Connor was enjoying the finale of Giselle, performed by the Bolshoi Ballet. But unlike most of the audience, he didn’t keep his opera glasses trained on the prima ballerina’s virtuoso performance. From time to time he would glance down to the right and check that Zerimski was still in his box. Connor knew how much Maggie would have enjoyed the Dance of the Wilis, the spirits of thirty-six young brides dressed in their wedding gowns, pirouetting in the moonlight. He tried not to be mesmerised by their plies and arabesques, and to concentrate on what was going on in Zerimski’s box. Maggie often went to the ballet when he was out of town, and she would have been amused to know that the Russian Communist leader had achieved in a single evening what she had failed to do in thirty years.

Connor studied the men in the box. On Zerimski’s right was Dmitri Titov, his Chief of Staff. On his left sat the elderly man who had introduced him before he gave his speech the previous evening. Behind him in the shadows stood three guards. Connor assumed that there would be at least another dozen in the corridor outside.

The vast theatre, with its beautiful tiered balconies and its stalls filled with gilt chairs covered in red velvet plush, was always sold out for weeks in advance. But the Maggie theory had also applied in Moscow — you can always pick up a single ticket, even at the last minute.

Moments before the conductor was due to arrive in the orchestra pit, a section of the crowd began to applaud. Connor had looked up from his programme to see one or two people pointing towards a box on the second tier. Zerimski had timed his entrance to perfection. He stood at the front of the box, waving and smiling. A little under half the audience rose and cheered loudly, while the rest remained seated, some clapping politely, others continuing their conversations as if he wasn’t there. This seemed to confirm the accuracy of the opinion polls — that Chernopov was now leading his rival by only a few percentage points.

Once the curtain had risen, Connor quickly discovered that Zerimski showed about as much interest in ballet as he did in art. It had been another long day for the candidate, and Connor was not surprised to see him stifling the occasional yawn. His train had left for Yaroslavl early that morning, and he had immediately begun his programme with a visit to a clothes factory on the outskirts of the town. When he left the union officials an hour later, he had grabbed a sandwich before dropping in to a fruit market, then a school, a police station and a hospital, followed by an unscheduled walkabout in the town square. Finally he had been driven back to the station at speed and jumped onto a train that had been held up for him.

The dogma Zerimski proclaimed to anyone who cared to listen hadn’t changed a great deal from the previous day, except that ‘Moscow’ had been replaced with ‘Yaroslavl’. The thugs who surrounded him as he toured the factory looked even more amateurish than those who had been with him when he delivered his speech at the Lenin Memorial Hall. It was clear that the locals were not going to allow any Muscovites onto their territory. Connor concluded that an attempt on Zerimski’s life would have a far better chance of succeeding outside the capital. It would need to be in a city that was large enough to disappear in, and proud enough not to allow the three professionals from Moscow to call the tune.

Zerimski’s visit to the shipyard in Severodvinsk in a few days’ time still looked his best bet.

Even on the train back to Moscow, Zerimski didn’t rest. He called the foreign journalists into his carriage for another press conference. But before anyone could ask a question, he said, ‘Have you seen the latest opinion polls, which show me running well ahead of General Borodin and now trailing Chernopov by only one point?’

‘But you’ve always told us in the past to ignore the polls,’ said one of the journalists bravely. Zerimski scowled.

Connor stood at the back of the melee and continued to study the would-be President. He knew he had to anticipate Zerimski’s every expression, movement and mannerism, as well as be able to deliver his speech verbatim.

When the train pulled into Protsky station four hours later, Connor had a sense that someone on board was watching him, other than Mitchell. After twenty-eight years, he was rarely wrong about these things. He was beginning to wonder if Mitchell wasn’t just a little too obvious, and if there might be someone more professional out there. If there was, what did they want? Earlier in the day, he’d had a feeling that someone or something had flitted across his path that he’d noticed before. He disapproved of paranoia, but like all professionals, he didn’t believe in coincidences.

He left the station and doubled back to his hotel, confident that no one had followed him. But then, they wouldn’t need to if they knew where he was staying. He tried to dismiss these thoughts from his mind as he packed his bag. Tonight he would lose whoever was trailing him — unless, of course, they already knew exactly where he was going. After all, if they knew why he was in Russia, they had only to follow Zerimski’s itinerary. He checked out of the hotel a few minutes later, paying his bill in cash.

He had changed taxis five times before allowing the last one to drop him outside the theatre. He checked his bag in with an old woman seated behind a counter in the basement, and rented a pair of opera glasses. Leaving the bag gave the management confidence that the glasses would be returned.

When the curtain was finally lowered at the end of the performance, Zerimski rose and waved to the audience once again. The response was not quite so enthusiastic as before, but Connor thought he must have left feeling that his visit to the Bolshoi had been worthwhile. As he strode down the steps of the theatre he loudly informed the departing audience how much he had enjoyed the magnificent performance of Ekaterina Maximova. A line of cars awaited him and his entourage, and he slipped into the back of the third. The motorcade and its police escort whisked him off to another train waiting at another station. Connor noted that the number of motorcycle outriders had been increased from two to four.

Other people were obviously beginning to think he might be the next President.

Connor arrived at the station a few minutes after Zerimski. He showed a security guard his press pass before purchasing a ticket for the eleven fifty-nine to St Petersburg.

Once he was inside his sleeping compartment he locked the door, switched on the light over his bunk and began to study the itinerary for Zerimski’s visit to St Petersburg.

In a carriage at the other end of the train, the candidate was also going over the itinerary, with his Chief of Staff

Another first-thing-in-the-morning-to-last-thing-at-night sort of day,’ he was grumbling. And that was before Titov had added a visit to the Hermitage.

‘Why should I bother to go to the Hermitage when I’m only in St Petersburg for a few hours?’

‘Because you went to the Pushkin, and not to go to Russia’s most famous museum would be an insult to the citizens of St Petersburg.’

‘Let’s be thankful that we leave before the curtain goes up at the Kirov.’

Zerimski knew that by far the most important meeting of the day would be with General Borodin and the military high command at Kelskow Barracks. If he could persuade the General to withdraw from the presidential race and back him, then the military — almost two and a half million of them — would surely swing behind him, and the prize would be his. He had planned to offer Borodin the position of Defence Secretary until he discovered that Chernopov had already promised him the same post. He knew that Chernopov had been to see the General the previous Monday, and had left empty-handed. Zerimski took this as a good sign. He intended to offer Borodin something he would find irresistible.

Connor also realised that tomorrow’s meeting with the military leader might decide Zerimski’s fate. He switched off the light above his bunk a few minutes after two a.m., and fell asleep.

Mitchell had turned off his light the moment the train had pulled out of the station, but he didn’t sleep.

Sergei had been unable to hide his excitement at the thought of travelling on the Protsky express. He had followed his partner to their compartment like a contented puppy. When Jackson pulled open the door, Sergei announced, ‘It’s bigger than my flat.’ He leapt onto one of the bunks, kicked off his shoes and pulled the blankets over him without bothering to take off any clothes. ‘Saves washing and changing,’ he explained as Jackson hung his jacket and trousers on the flimsiest wire hanger he’d ever seen.

As the American prepared for bed, Sergei rubbed the steamed-up window with an elbow, making a circle he could peer through. He didn’t say another word until the train began to move slowly out of the station.

Jackson climbed into his bunk and switched his light off.

‘How many kilometres to St Petersburg, Jackson?’

‘Six hundred and thirty.’

‘And how long will it take us to get there?’

‘Eight and a half hours. We’ve got another long day ahead of us, so try to get some sleep.’

Sergei switched off his light, but Jackson remained awake. He was now certain that he knew why his friend had been despatched to Russia. Helen Dexter obviously wanted Connor out of the way, but Jackson still didn’t know how far she would go to save her own skin.

He had attempted to ring Andy Lloyd earlier that afternoon on his cellphone, but hadn’t been able to get through. He didn’t want to risk calling from the hotel, so he decided to try again after Zerimski had delivered his speech in Freedom Square the following day, by which time Washington would have woken up. Once Lloyd knew what was going on, Jackson was sure he would be given the authority to abort the whole operation before it was too late. He closed his eyes.

‘Are you married, Jackson?’

‘No, divorced,’ he replied.

‘There are now more divorces each year in Russia than in the States. Did you know that, Jackson?’

‘No. But I’ve come to realise over the past couple of days that that’s just the sort of useless information you carry around in that head of yours.’

‘What about children? You have any?’

‘None,’ said Jackson. ‘I lost...’

‘Why don’t you adopt me? Then I go back to America with you.’

‘I don’t think Ted Turner could afford to adopt you. Now go to sleep, Sergei.’

There was another long silence.

‘One more question, Jackson?’

‘Tell me how I’m going to stop you.’

‘Why is this man so important to you?’

Jackson waited some time before answering. ‘Twenty-nine years ago he saved my life in Vietnam, so I guess you could say I owe him for those years. Does that make any sense?’

Sergei would have replied, but he’d fallen fast asleep.

Chapter Fifteen

Vladimir Bolchenkov, St Petersburg’s Chief of Police, had enough on his mind without having to worry about four mysterious phone calls. Chernopov had visited the city on Monday, and had brought the traffic to a standstill by demanding that his motorcade should be the same size as the late President’s.

Borodin was refusing to allow his men to leave their barracks until they were paid, and now that it looked as if he was out of the race for President, rumours of a military coup were beginning to surface once again. ‘It’s not hard to work out which city Borodin will want to take over first,’ Bolchenkov had warned the Mayor. He had set up a whole department to deal with the threat of terrorism during the election campaign. If any of the candidates were going to be assassinated, it wouldn’t be on his territory. That week alone, the department had received twenty-seven threats on Zerimski’s life. The Chief had dismissed them as the usual assortment of weirdos and lunatics — until a young lieutenant had rushed into his office earlier that morning, white-faced and talking far too quickly.

The Chief sat and listened to the recording the Lieutenant had made moments before. The first call had come through at nine twenty-four, fifty-one minutes after Zerimski had arrived in the city.

‘There will be an attempt on Zerimski’s life this afternoon,’ said a male voice with an accent that Bolchenkov couldn’t quite place. Mid-European, perhaps; certainly not Russian.

‘While Zerimski is addressing the rally in Freedom Square, a lone gunman hired by the Mafya will make the attempt. I will call back with more details in a few minutes’ time, but I will speak only to Bolchenkov.’ The line went dead. The brevity of the call meant there was no possibility of tracing it. Bolchenkov knew immediately that they were dealing with a professional.

Eleven minutes later the second call came through. The Lieutenant bluffed for as long as he could, claiming they were trying to find the Chief, but all the caller said was, ‘I will phone again in a few minutes’ time. Just be sure Bolchenkov is standing by the phone. It’s your time that’s being wasted, not mine.’

That was when the Lieutenant had burst into the Chief’s office. Bolchenkov had been explaining to one of Zerimski’s sidekicks why his motorcade couldn’t be allocated the same number of police outriders as Chernopov’s. He immediately stubbed out his cigarette and went to join his team in the terrorism unit. It was another nine minutes before the caller phoned again.

‘Is Bolchenkov there?’

‘This is Bolchenkov speaking.’

‘The man you are looking for will be posing as a foreign journalist, representing a South African newspaper that doesn’t exist. He arrived in St Petersburg on the express from Moscow this morning. He is working alone. I will call you again in three minutes.’

Three minutes later the whole department was assembled to listen to him.

‘I’m sure that by now the entire anti-terrorism division of the St Petersburg Police are hanging on my every word,’ was the caller’s opening salvo. ‘So allow me to give you a helping hand. The assassin is six foot one, has blue eyes and thick sandy hair. But he’ll probably be disguised. I don’t know what he will be wearing, but then you must do something to earn your wages.’ The line went dead.

The whole unit listened to the tapes again and again over the next half-hour. Suddenly the Chief stubbed out another cigarette and said, ‘Play the third tape again.’ The young Lieutenant pressed a button, wondering what his boss had picked up that the rest of them had missed. They all listened intently.

‘Stop,’ said the Chief after only a few seconds. ‘I thought so. Go back and start counting.’

Count what? the Lieutenant wanted to ask as he pressed the playback button. This time he heard the faint chime of a carriage clock in the background.

He rewound the tape and they listened once again. ‘Two chimes,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘If it was two in the afternoon, our informant was calling from the Far East.’

The Chief smiled. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It’s more likely that the call was made at two in the morning, from the east coast of America.’

Maggie picked up the phone by her bed and dialled a 650 number. It only rang a couple of times before it was picked up.

‘Tara Fitzgerald,’ said a brisk voice. No ‘Hello, good evening,’ or confirmation that the caller had dialled the correct number. Just the bold announcement of her name, so no one needed to waste any time. How like her father, Maggie thought.

‘It’s Mom, honey.’

‘Hi, Mom. Has the car broken down again, or is it something serious?’

‘Nothing, honey, I’m just missing your father,’ she replied, laughing. ‘I hoped you’d have time for a chat.’

Well, at least you’re only missing one man,’ said Tara, trying to lighten the tone. ‘I’m missing two.’

‘Maybe, but at least you know where Stuart is, and can give him a call whenever you want to. My problem is that I haven’t a clue where your father is.’

‘There’s nothing new about that, Mom. We all know the rules when Dad’s away. The womenfolk are expected to sit at home dutifully waiting for their master to return. Typically Irish...’

‘Yes, I know. But I have an uneasy feeling about this particular trip,’ said Maggie.

‘I’m sure there’s no need to be anxious, Mother. After all, he’s only been away for a week. Remember how many times in the past he’s turned up when you least expected it. I’ve always assumed it was a dastardly plot to make sure you don’t have a lover on the side.’

Maggie laughed unconvincingly.

‘Something else is worrying you, isn’t it, Mom?’ said Tara quietly. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

‘I discovered an envelope addressed to me hidden in one of his drawers.’

‘The old romantic,’ said Tara. ‘What did he have to say?’

‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t opened it.’

‘Why not, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Because he’s written clearly on the outside, “Not to be opened before 17 December”.’

‘Mom, it’s probably just a Christmas card,’ said Tara lightly.

‘I doubt it,’ said Maggie. ‘I don’t know many husbands who give their wives Christmas cards, and certainly not in a brown envelope hidden in a drawer.’

‘If you’re that anxious about it, Mom, I’m sure Dad would want you to open it. Then you might find out you’ve been worrying about nothing.’

‘Not until 17 December,’ said Maggie quietly. ‘If Connor arrived home before then and discovered I’d opened it, he’d...’

‘When did you find it?’

‘This morning. It was among his sports clothes, in a drawer I hardly ever open.’

‘I’d have opened it straight away if it had been addressed to me,’ said Tara.

‘I know you would,’ said Maggie, ‘but I still think I’d better leave it for a few more days before I do anything. I’ll put it back in the drawer in case he suddenly turns up. Then he’ll never know I’d even come across it.’

‘Perhaps I should fly back to Washington.’

‘Why?’ asked Maggie.

‘To help you open it.’

‘Stop being silly, Tara.’

‘No sillier than you just sitting there on your own fretting about what might be inside.’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’

‘If you’re so uncertain, Mother, why don’t you give Joan a call and ask her advice?’

‘I already have.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘Open it.’

Bolchenkov sat on the desk at the front of the operations room and looked down at the twenty hand-picked men. He struck a match and lit his seventh cigarette of the morning.

‘How many people are we expecting in the square this afternoon?’ he asked.

‘It’s only a guess, Chief,’ said the most senior uniformed officer present, ‘but it could be as many as a hundred thousand.’

A murmur of whispered conversations broke out.

‘Quiet,’ said the Chief sharply. ‘Why so many, Captain? Chernopov only managed seventy thousand.’

‘Zerimski’s a far more charismatic figure, and now that the polls are moving in his direction, I predict he’ll prove a much bigger draw.’

‘How many officers can you spare me on the ground?’

‘Every available man will be in the square, Chief, and I’ve cancelled all leave. I’ve already issued the man’s description, in the hope that we can pick him up before he even reaches the square. But not many of them have any experience of something this big.’

‘If there are really going to be a hundred thousand people in the square,’ said Bolchenkov, ‘it will be a first for me as well. Have all your officers been issued with the description?’

‘Yes, but he may be in disguise. In any case, there are a lot of tall foreigners with blue eyes and sandy hair out there. And don’t forget, they haven’t been told why he’s wanted for questioning. We don’t need a panic on our hands.’

Agreed. But I don’t want to frighten him off now, just to give him a second chance later. Has anyone picked up any more information?’

‘Yes, Chief,’ replied a younger man leaning against the back wall. The Chief stubbed out his cigarette and nodded.

‘There are three South African journalists officially covering the election. From the description given to us by our informant, I’m fairly confident it’s the one who calls himself Piet de Villiers.’

‘Anything on the computer about him?’

‘No,’ said the young officer. ‘But the police in Johannesburg were extremely cooperative. They have three men on their files answering to that name, with crimes ranging from petty theft to bigamy, but none of them fitted the description, and in any case two of them are currently locked up. They’ve no idea of the whereabouts of the third. They also mentioned a Colombian connection.’

‘What Colombian connection?’

‘A few weeks ago the CIA circulated a confidential memo giving details about the murder of a presidential candidate in Bogota. It seems they traced the assassin to South Africa, then lost him. I called my contact at the CIA, but all he could tell me was that they knew the man was on the move again, and that he was last seen boarding a plane for Geneva.’

‘That’s all I need,’ said the Chief. ‘I don’t suppose there was any sign of de Villiers when Zerimski visited the Hermitage this morning?’

‘No, Chief,’ said another voice, ‘not if he was with the press corps. There were twenty-three journalists there, and only two of them vaguely fitted the description. One was Clifford Symonds, an anchor with CNN, and the other I’ve known for years. I play chess with him.’ Everyone in the room laughed, helping to break the tension.

‘Rooftops and buildings?’ said the Chief.

‘I have a dozen men detailed to cover the rooftops around the square,’ said the head of the small-arms unit. ‘Most of the buildings are public offices, so I’ll station plain-clothes officers at every entrance and exit. If anyone fitting the description tries to enter the square, or any of the buildings overlooking it, he’ll be arrested on the spot.’

‘Be careful you don’t arrest some foreign dignitary and get us into even worse trouble. Any questions?’

‘Yes, Chief. Have you considered calling off the rally?’ asked a voice from the back.

‘I have, and I decided against it. If I were to cancel a meeting every time I received a threat to a public figure, our telephone lines would be blocked with calls from every half-baked radical with nothing better to do than cause mayhem. In any case, it could still be a false alarm. And even if de Villiers is roaming around the city, when he sees our presence on the ground he might have second thoughts. Any more questions?’

No one stirred.

‘If any of you picks up anything, and I mean anything, I want to know immediately. Heaven help the man who tells me afterwards, “I didn’t mention it, Chief, because I didn’t think it was important at the time.”’

Connor kept the television on while he shaved. Hillary Bowker was bringing viewers up to date with what was happening in the States. The Arms Reduction Bill had passed the House, squeaking home by a mere three votes. Tom Lawrence was nevertheless claiming the result as a triumph for common sense. The pundits, on the other hand, were already warning that the Bill would face a far tougher passage once it reached the floor of the Senate.

‘Not at all,’ the President had assured the assembled journalists at his morning press briefing. Connor smiled. ‘The House was simply carrying out the will of the people, and I’m confident that the Senate will want to do exactly the same.’

The President was replaced by a pretty girl with bright red hair who reminded Connor of Maggie. In my line of work I should have married a newscaster, he had once told her.

And now, to find out more about the upcoming elections in Russia, we go over to Clifford Symonds, our correspondent in St Petersburg.’

Connor stopped shaving and stared at the screen.

‘The opinion polls show that the two leading candidates, Prime Minister Grigory Chernopov and Communist Party leader Victor Zerimski, are now running neck and neck. The Communist candidate will be addressing a rally in Freedom Square this afternoon that the police are predicting could be attended by as many as a hundred thousand people. This morning Mr Zerimski will have a private meeting with General Borodin, who is expected shortly to announce his withdrawal from the race following his poor showing in the latest opinion polls. Uncertainty remains as to which of the two front-runners he will support, and on that decision could hang the result of the election. This is Clifford Symonds, CNN International, St Petersburg.’

Hillary Bowker’s face reappeared on the screen. ‘And now for the weather,’ she said with a broad smile.

Connor flicked off the television, as he had no interest in being told the temperature in Florida. He rubbed some more lather into his stubble and continued shaving. He had already decided that he wasn’t going to attend Zerimski’s morning press conference, which would be nothing more than a panegyric from his press secretary about what his boss had achieved even before breakfast, or go to the Hermitage and spend most of his time avoiding Mitchell. He would concentrate on Zerimski’s main public appearance that day. He had already found a convenient restaurant on the west side of the square. It wasn’t known for its cuisine, but it did have the advantage of being on the second floor, and overlooking Freedom Square. More important, it had a rear door, so he wouldn’t have to enter the square before it was necessary.

Once he had left his hotel, he called the restaurant from the nearest public phonebox and booked a corner table by the window for twelve o’clock. He then went in search of a rented car, which was even harder to find in St Petersburg than it had been in Moscow. Forty minutes later he drove into the centre of the city and left the vehicle in an underground carpark only a couple of hundred yards from Freedom Square. He had decided to drive back to Moscow after the speech. That way he would soon find out if anyone was following him. He walked up into the street, strolled into the nearest hotel and slipped the head porter a twenty-dollar bill, explaining that he needed a room for about an hour so that he could take a shower and change his clothes.

When he came back down in the lift a few minutes before twelve, the head porter didn’t recognise him. Connor left a duffle bag with him and said he would be back to pick it up around four. When the porter placed the bag under the counter he noticed the briefcase for the first time. As each bore a label with the same name, he put them together.

Connor walked slowly up the side street next to Freedom Square. He passed two policemen who were questioning a tall, sandy-haired foreigner. They didn’t give him a second glance as he slipped inside and took the lift to the second-floor restaurant. He gave the head waiter his name, and was immediately directed to a corner table. He sat so that he was shielded from most of the other diners, but still had a bird’s-eye view of the square below.

He was thinking about Tom Lawrence, and wondering how late he would leave it before he made up his mind, when a waiter appeared by his side and handed him the menu. Connor glanced out of the window, and was surprised to find that the square was already filling up, although there were still two hours to go before Zerimski was due to deliver his speech. Among the crowd he spotted several plain-clothes policemen. One or two of the younger ones were already clinging to statues and checking carefully around the square. But what were they looking for? Was the Chief of Police being over-cautious, or did he fear there might be some form of demonstration during Zerimski’s speech?

The head waiter returned. ‘Could I please take your order, sir? The police have instructed us to close the restaurant before two o’clock.’

‘Then I’d better have the minute steak,’ said Connor.

Chapter Sixteen

‘Where do you think he is right now?’ asked Sergei.

‘He’ll be out there somewhere, but if I know him he’ll be damn near impossible to find in this crowd,’ said Jackson. ‘It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘Who ever lost a needle in a haystack?’

‘Stop making smart-assed remarks and do what you’re being paid for,’ said Jackson. ‘I’ll give you a ten-dollar bonus if you can spot him. Remember, he’s likely to be well disguised.’

Sergei suddenly took a far greater interest in the crowd milling around in the square. ‘See that man on the top step in the north corner?’ he said. ‘Talking to a policeman.’

‘Yes,’ replied Jackson.

‘That’s Vladimir Bolchenkov, the Chief of Police. A fair man, even though he’s the second most powerful person in St Petersburg.’

‘Who’s the first?’ asked Jackson. ‘The Mayor?’

‘No, his brother Joseph. He’s the city’s Mafya boss.’

‘Doesn’t that cause a slight conflict of interest?’

‘No. You only get arrested in St Petersburg if you’re not Mafya.’

‘Where do you get all your information?’ asked Jackson.

‘My mother. She’s slept with both of them.’

Jackson laughed as they continued to watch the Chief talking to the uniformed officer. He would have liked to overhear their conversation. If it had been taking place in Washington, the CIA would have been able to play back every word that passed between them.

‘You see the young men draped around the statues?’ said the senior police officer standing next to Bolchenkov.

What about them?’ said the Chief.

‘Just in case you were wondering why I haven’t arrested them, they’re all members of my team, and have a better view of the crowd than anyone. Look behind you, Chief: the hotdog salesman, the two men on the flower barrows and the four news-vendors are also mine. And I’ve got twelve busloads of uniformed police less than a block away, who can be pulled in at a moment’s notice. There will also be another hundred plain-clothes men drifting in and out of the square during the next hour. Every exit is covered, and anyone who has a view of the square will have one of my men within a few feet of him.’

‘If he’s as good as I think he is,’ said the Chief, ‘he’ll have found somewhere you haven’t thought of.’

Connor ordered a cup of coffee and continued to watch the activity taking place in the square below. Although there were still thirty minutes to go before the candidate was due to arrive, the square was already packed with everyone from Zerimski-worshippers to the simply curious. He was amused by how hard the hotdog vendor was trying to disguise the fact that he was a policeman. The poor man had just received another voluble complaint — probably forgotten the ketchup. Connor turned his attention to the far side of the square. The little stand erected for the press was now the only area that remained unoccupied. He wondered why so many plain-clothes detectives were milling around, far more than was necessary to keep a casual passer-by from straying into a reserved area. Something didn’t add up. He was distracted by a hot coffee being placed in front of him. He checked his watch. Zerimski should have finished his meeting with General Borodin by now. The outcome would lead the news on all the networks that evening. Connor wondered if he would be able to tell from Zerimski’s manner if a deal had been struck.

He called for the bill, and while he waited he concentrated on the scene below him for the last time. No professional would ever have considered Freedom Square a suitable target area. Besides all the problems he had already identified, the Chief of Police’s thoroughness was evident for anyone to see. Despite this, Connor felt that the sheer size of the crowd would give him his best opportunity yet to study Zerimski at close quarters, which was why he had decided not to sit among the press on this occasion.

He paid his bill in cash, walked slowly over to the girl seated in the little booth and passed her a ticket. She handed him his hat and coat, and he gave her a five-rouble note. Old people always leave small tips, he’d read somewhere.

He joined a large group of workers streaming out of offices on the first floor, who had obviously been given time off to attend the rally. Any managers within a mile of the square had probably accepted that not much work was going to be done that afternoon. Two plain-clothes policemen standing a few yards from the door were scrutinising the group of workers, but because of the freezing air they were revealing as little of themselves as possible. Connor found himself being borne along by the crowd as it flowed out onto the pavement.

Freedom Square was already packed as Connor tried to squeeze between the bodies and make his way towards the podium. The crowd must be well over seventy thousand strong. He knew that the Chief of Police would have been praying for a thunderstorm, but it was a typical winter’s day in St Petersburg — cold, sharp and clear. He looked towards the roped-off press enclosure, which still seemed to have a considerable amount of activity going on around it. He smiled when he spotted Mitchell in his usual place, about ten feet from where he himself would normally have been seated. Not today, my friend. At least this time Mitchell was wearing a warm overcoat and the appropriate headgear.

‘Good day for pickpockets,’ said Sergei, scanning the crowd.

‘Would they risk it with this sort of police presence?’ asked Jackson.

‘You can always find a cop when you don’t need one,’ said Sergei. ‘I’ve already seen some old lags leaving with wallets. But the police don’t seem interested.’

‘Perhaps they’ve got enough problems on their hands, what with a crowd of nearly a hundred thousand and Zerimski expected to arrive at any moment.’

Sergei’s eyes settled on the Chief of Police. ‘Where is he?’ Bolchenkov was asking a sergeant with a walkie-talkie.

‘He left the meeting with Borodin eighteen minutes ago, and is being driven down Preyti Street. He should be with us in about seven minutes.’

‘Then in seven minutes our problems begin,’ said the Chief, checking his watch.

‘Don’t you think it’s possible our man might just try taking a shot at Zerimski while he’s in the car?’

‘Not a chance,’ said the Chief. ‘We’re dealing with a pro. He wouldn’t consider a moving target, especially one in a bulletproof car. In any case, he couldn’t be certain which vehicle Zerimski was in. No, our man’s out there in that crowd somewhere, I feel it in my bones. Don’t forget, the last time he tried something like this, it was a standing target in the open. That way it’s almost impossible to hit the wrong person; and with a big crowd you have a better chance of escaping.’

Connor was still edging his way slowly towards the platform. He cast an eye round the crowd, and identified several more plain-clothes policemen. Zerimski wouldn’t mind, as they would only add to the numbers. All he would care about was having a larger turnout than Chernopov.

Connor checked the roofs. A dozen or so marksmen were scanning the crowd with binoculars. They couldn’t have been more obvious if they’d been wearing yellow tracksuits. There were also at least a couple of hundred uniformed police standing around the perimeter of the square. The Chief obviously believed in the value of deterrence.

The windows of the buildings around the square were crammed with office-workers trying to get the best possible view of what was going on below them. Once again Connor glanced towards the roped-off press enclosure, which was now beginning to fill up. The police were checking everyone’s credentials carefully — nothing unusual about that, except that some of the journalists were being asked to remove their headgear. Connor watched for a few moments. Everyone being challenged had two things in common: they were male, and they were tall. It caused him to stop in his tracks. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Mitchell a few paces away from him in the crowd. He frowned. How had the young agent recognised him?

Suddenly, without warning, a loud roar came from behind him, as if a rock star had arrived on stage. He turned and watched Zerimski’s motorcade make its slow progress around three sides of the square, coming to a halt in the north-west corner. The crowd was applauding enthusiastically, although they couldn’t possibly see the candidate, as the windows of all the cars were black. The doors of the Zil limousines were opened, but there was no way of knowing if Zerimski was among those who had stepped out, as he was surrounded by so many burly bodyguards.

When the candidate finally mounted the steps a few moments later, the crowd began cheering even louder, reaching a climax as he walked to the front of the stage. He stopped and waved first in one direction and then another. By now Connor could have told you how many paces he would take before he turned and waved again.

People were leaping up and down to get a better view, but Connor ignored the bedlam all around him. He kept his eye on the police, most of whom were looking away from the stage. They were searching for something, or someone, in particular. A thought flashed across his mind, but he dismissed it at once. No, it wasn’t possible. Paranoia setting in. He’d once been told by a veteran agent that it was always at its worst on your last assignment.

But if you were in any doubt, the rule was always the same: get yourself out of the danger area. He looked around the square, quickly weighing up which exit he should take. The crowd was beginning to calm down as they waited for Zerimski to speak. Connor decided he would start moving towards the north end of the square the moment there was a burst of prolonged applause. That way it was less likely that he’d be noticed slipping through the crowd. He glanced, almost as a reflex action, to see where Mitchell was. He was still standing a few yards to his right, if anything a little closer than when he had first spotted him.

Zerimski approached the microphone with his hands raised, to let the crowd know that he was about to begin his speech.

‘I’ve seen the needle,’ said Sergei.

‘Where?’ demanded Jackson.

‘There, about twenty paces from stage. He has different-coloured hair and walks like an old man. You owe me ten dollars.’

‘How did you pick him out from this distance?’ asked Jackson.

‘He is the only one trying to leave the square.’

Jackson passed over a ten-dollar bill as Zerimski stopped in front of the microphone. The old man who had introduced him in Moscow sat alone at the back of the stage. Zerimski didn’t allow that kind of mistake to happen a second time.

‘Comrades,’ he began resonantly, ‘it is a great honour for me to stand before you as your candidate. As each day passes, I become more and more aware...’

As Connor scanned the crowd, he once again caught sight of Mitchell. He’d taken another step towards him.

‘Although few of our citizens wish to return to the old totalitarian days of the past, the vast majority...’

Just the odd word change here and there, thought Connor. He noticed that Mitchell had taken another step towards him.

‘...want to see a fairer distribution of the wealth that has been created by their skills and hard work.’ As the crowd began to cheer, Connor quickly moved a few paces to his right. When the applause died down, he froze, not moving a muscle.

‘Why is the man on the bench following your friend?’ asked Sergei.

‘Because he’s an amateur,’ said Jackson.

‘Or a professional who knows exactly what he’s doing?’ suggested Sergei.

‘My God, don’t tell me I’m losing my touch,’ said Jackson.

‘So far he’s done everything but kiss him,’ said Sergei.

‘Look at the streets of St Petersburg, comrades,’ continued Zerimski. ‘Yes, you will see Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars, but who is driving them? Only the privileged few...’

When the crowd burst into applause again, Connor took a few more steps towards the north end of the square.

‘I look forward to the day when this is not the only country on earth where limousines outnumber family cars...’

Connor glanced back to find that Mitchell had taken two or three more steps in his direction. What was he playing at?

‘...and where there are more Swiss bank accounts than hospitals.’

He would have to lose him during the next burst of applause. He concentrated on Zerimski’s words, to anticipate exactly when he would make his move.

‘I think I’ve spotted him,’ said a plain-clothes policeman who was sweeping the crowd through a pair of binoculars.

‘Where, where?’ demanded Bolchenkov, grabbing the glasses.

‘Twelve o’clock, fifty yards back, not moving a muscle. He’s in front of a woman wearing a red scarf. He doesn’t look like his photograph, but whenever there’s a burst of applause he moves too quickly for a man of that age.’

Bolchenkov began focusing the glasses. ‘Got him,’ he said. After a few seconds he added, ‘Yes, it might just be him. Brief those two at one o’clock to move in and arrest him, and tell the pair twenty yards in front of him to cover them. Let’s get it over with as quickly as possible.’ The young officer looked anxious. ‘If we’ve made a mistake,’ said the Chief, ‘I’ll take the responsibility.’

‘Let us never forget,’ continued Zerimski, ‘that Russia can once again be the greatest nation on earth...’

Mitchell was now only a pace away from Connor, who was studiously ignoring him. In just a few more seconds there would be an extended ovation when Zerimski told the crowd what he intended to do when he became President. No bank accounts supplied by the bribes of dishonest businessmen — that always got the loudest cheer of all. Then he’d be clean away, and would make sure that Mitchell was transferred to a desk job in some mosquito-infested backwater.

‘...I shall be dedicating myself to your service, and be more than satisfied with the salary of a President, rather than taking bribes from dishonest businessmen whose only interest is in pillaging the nation’s assets.’

The crowd erupted into cheers. Connor turned suddenly and began moving to his right. He had taken almost three strides when the first policeman grabbed his left arm. A second later another came at him from the right. He was thrown to the ground, but made no attempt to resist. Rule one: when you’ve nothing to hide, don’t resist arrest. His hands were wrenched behind his back and a pair of handcuffs snapped around his wrists. The crowd began to form a little circle around the three men on the ground. They were now far more interested in the sideshow than in Zerimski’s words. Mitchell hung back slightly, and waited for the inevitable ‘Who is he?’

‘Mafya hitman,’ he whispered into the ears of those nearest him. He moved back towards the press enclosure, muttering the words ‘Mafya hitman’ periodically.

‘Let me leave you good citizens in no doubt that if I were to be elected President, you can be sure of one thing...’

‘You’re under arrest,’ said a third man whom Connor couldn’t see because his nose was being pressed firmly against the ground.

‘Take him away,’ said the same authoritative voice, and Connor was bundled off towards the north end of the square.

Zerimski had spotted the disturbance in the crowd, but like an old pro he ignored it. ‘If Chernopov were to be elected, the Americans would be more concerned about the views of Mexico than those of Russia,’ he continued unfalteringly.

Jackson never took his eyes off Connor as the crowd quickly divided, making a path to allow the police through.

‘My friends, there are only six days to go before the people decide...’

Mitchell walked quickly away from the commotion and headed towards the press stand.

‘Don’t do it for me. Don’t even do it for the Communist Party. Do it for the next generation of Russians...’

The police car, surrounded by four motorcycles, began to make its way out of the square.

‘...who will then be able to play their part as citizens of the greatest nation on earth. I ask for only one thing — the privilege of being allowed to lead those people.’ This time he was silent until he was sure he had the attention of everyone in the square, before ending softly with the words, ‘Comrades, I offer myself as your servant.’

He stood back, and suddenly the noise of the police sirens was obliterated by the roar of a hundred thousand voices.

Jackson looked towards the press enclosure. He could see that the journalists were far more interested in the disappearing police car than in Zerimski’s frequently repeated words.

‘Mafya hitman,’ the Turkish journalist was informing a colleague — a ‘fact’ that she had picked up from someone in the crowd, whom she would later quote as ‘an authoritative source’.

Mitchell was looking up at a row of television cameramen who were following the progress of the police car as it disappeared out of sight, its blue lamp flashing. His eyes settled on the one person he needed to speak to. He waited patiently for Clifford Symonds to look in his direction, and when he eventually did, Mitchell waved his arms to indicate that he needed to speak to him urgently. The CNN reporter quickly joined the American Cultural Attaché among the cheering throng.

Zerimski remained in the centre of the platform, soaking up the adulation of the crowd. He had no intention of leaving while they were still howling their approval.

Symonds listened carefully to what Mitchell had to tell him. He was due on air in twelve minutes. The smile on his face became broader by the second.

‘Are you absolutely certain?’ he asked, when Mitchell had finished speaking.

‘Have I ever let you down in the past?’ Mitchell asked, trying to sound offended.

‘No,’ said Symonds apologetically. ‘You never have.’

‘But you must keep this piece of information a million miles away from the Embassy.’

‘Of course. But who shall I say is my source?’

‘A resourceful and diligent police force. That’s the last thing the Chief of Police is going to deny.’

Symonds laughed. ‘I’d better get back to my producer if I’m going to lead on this for the morning newscast.’

‘OK,’ said Mitchell. ‘Just remember — make sure it can’t be traced back to me.’

‘Have I ever let you down in the past?’ retorted Symonds. He turned and dashed back towards the press enclosure.

Mitchell slipped away in the opposite direction. There was still one more receptive ear in which he needed to plant the story, and it would have to be done before Zerimski left the stage.

A protective line of bodyguards was barring any over-enthusiastic supporters from getting near the candidate. Mitchell could see his press secretary only a few yards away, basking in the cheers his leader was receiving.

Mitchell told one of the guards in perfect Russian who he needed to speak to. The thug turned around and shouted at the press secretary. If Zerimski was elected, thought Mitchell, it wasn’t exactly going to be a subtle administration. The press secretary made an immediate sign to let the American through, and he entered the cordoned-off area and joined another of his chess partners. He briefed him quickly, telling him that de Villiers had been disguised as an old man, and which hotel he’d been seen leaving just before he’d entered the restaurant.

By the end of the day, it would have dawned on Fitzgerald and Jackson that they had both been dealing with a real professional.

Chapter Seventeen

The President and his Chief of Staff sat alone in the Oval Office, watching the early-morning news. Neither of them spoke as Clifford Symonds presented his report.

‘An international terrorist was arrested in Freedom Square this afternoon during a speech given by the Communist leader Victor Zerimski. The as-yet unnamed man is being held in the notorious Crucifix Prison in the centre of St Petersburg. The local police are not ruling out the possibility that this may be the same man who was recently linked with the assassination of Ricardo Guzman, a presidential candidate in Colombia. The man who police have arrested is thought to have been following Zerimski for several days while he was campaigning around the country. Only last week he was described in Time magazine as the most expensive hired gun in the west. He is thought to have been offered a million dollars by the Russian Mafya to remove Zerimski from the presidential race. When the police tried to arrest him, it took four of them just to hold him down.’

Some footage followed of a man being arrested in the crowd and hustled away, but the best shot they had managed was the back of a head covered in a fur hat. Symonds’ face reappeared on the screen.

‘The Communist candidate continued to deliver his speech, although the arrest took place only a few yards in front of the platform. Zerimski later praised the St Petersburg police for their diligence and professionalism, and vowed that however many attempts were made on his life, nothing would deter him from his fight against organised crime. Zerimski is currently running neck and neck with Prime Minister Chernopov in the opinion polls, but many observers feel that today’s incident will give a boost to his popularity in the final run-up to the election.

‘A few hours before Zerimski addressed the rally, he held a private meeting with General Borodin at his headquarters on the north side of the city. No one knows the outcome of those talks, but the General’s spokesmen are not denying that he will soon be making a statement about whether he intends to continue his campaign for President, and perhaps more importantly, which of the two remaining candidates he would pledge to support were he to withdraw. The election has suddenly been thrown wide open. This is Clifford Symonds, CNN International, in Freedom Square, St Petersburg.’

‘On Monday the Senate will continue to debate the Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction...’

The President pressed a button on his remote control, and the screen went blank.

‘And you’re telling me that the man they’ve arrested has no connection with the Russian Mafya, but is a CIA agent?’

‘Yes. I’m waiting for Jackson to call in and confirm that it’s the same man who killed Guzman.’

‘What do I say to the press if they question me about this?’

‘You’ll have to bluff, because we don’t need anyone to know that the man they’re holding is one of ours.’

‘But it would finish off Dexter and her little shit of a Deputy once and for all.’

‘Not if you claimed you knew nothing about it, because then half the population would dismiss you as a CIA dupe. But if you admit you did know, the other half would want you impeached. So for now I suggest you confine yourself to saying that you are awaiting the result of the Russian elections with interest.’

‘You bet I am,’ said Lawrence. ‘The last thing I need is for that evil little fascist Zerimski to become President. We’d be back to Star Wars overnight.’

‘I expect that’s exactly why the Senate is holding out on your Arms Reduction Bill. They won’t want to make a final decision until they know the outcome of the election.’

Lawrence nodded. ‘If it’s one of ours they’ve got holed up in that goddamn jail, we’ve got to do something about it, and quickly. Because if Zerimski does become President, then God help him. I certainly wouldn’t be able to.’

Connor didn’t speak. He was wedged between two officers in the back of the police car. He knew these young men had neither the rank nor the authority to question him. That would come later, and from someone with a lot more braid on his lapel.

As they drove through the vast wooden gates of the Crucifix prison and into a cobbled yard, the first thing Connor saw was the reception party. Three massive men in prisoners’ garb stepped forward, almost pulled the car’s back door off its hinges and dragged him out. The young policemen who had been sitting on either side of him looked terrified.

The three thugs quickly bundled the new prisoner across the yard and into a long, bleak corridor. That was when the kicking and punching began. Connor would have protested, but their vocabulary seemed to consist only of grunts. When they reached the far end of the corridor, one of them pulled open a heavy steel door and the other two threw him into a tiny cell. He made no effort to struggle when they removed first his shoes, then his watch, wedding ring and wallet — from which they would learn nothing. They left, slamming the cell door closed behind them.

Connor rose slowly to his feet and warily stretched his limbs, trying to discover if any bones had been broken. There didn’t seem to be any permanent damage, he decided, although the bruises were already beginning to appear. He looked around the room, which wasn’t much larger than the sleeping compartment he’d travelled in from Moscow. The green brick walls looked as if they hadn’t seen a splash of paint since the turn of the century.

Connor had spent eighteen months in a far more restricted space in Vietnam. Then his orders had been clear: when questioned by the enemy, give only your name, rank and serial number. The same rules did not apply to those who lived by the Eleventh Commandment:

Connor realised that in his case he could forget ‘the usual diplomatic channels’, despite Gutenburg’s reassurances. Lying on the bunk in his tiny cell, it now all fell so neatly into place.

He hadn’t been asked to sign for the cash, or for the car. And he now remembered the sentence he’d been trying to recall from the recesses of his mind. He went over it word by word:

‘If it’s your new job you’re worrying about, 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.’

How did Gutenburg know he’d been interviewed for a new job, and that he was dealing directly with the Chairman of the company? He knew because he’d already spoken to Ben Thompson. That was the reason they had withdrawn their offer. ‘I’m sorry to inform you...’

As for Mitchell, he should have seen through that angelic choirboy facade. But he was still puzzled by the phone call from the President. Why had Lawrence never once referred to him by name? And the sentences had been a little disjointed, the laugh a little too loud.

Even now he found it hard to believe the lengths to which Helen Dexter was willing to go to save her own skin. He stared up at the ceiling. If the President had never made the phone call in the first place, he realised he had no hope of being released from the Crucifix. Dexter had successfully removed the one person who might expose her, and Lawrence could do nothing about it.

Connor’s unquestioning acceptance of the CIA operative’s code had made him a willing pawn in her survival plan. No Ambassador would be making diplomatic protests on his behalf. There would be no food parcels. He would have to take care of himself, just as he had in Vietnam. And he had already been told by one of the young officers who’d arrested him of another problem he would face this time: no one had escaped from the Crucifix in eighty-four years.

The cell door suddenly swung open, and a man dressed in a light blue uniform covered in gold braid walked in. He took his time lighting a cigarette. His fifteenth that day.

Jackson remained in the square until the police car was out of sight. He was furious with himself. He finally turned and marched off, leaving the cheering mob behind him, walking so quickly that Sergei had to run to keep up with him. The young Russian had already decided that this was not a time to be asking questions. The word ‘Mafya’ was on the lips of everyone they passed in the street. Sergei was relieved when Jackson stopped and hailed a taxi.

Jackson could only admire how well Mitchell — no doubt guided by Dexter and Gutenburg — had carried out the whole operation. It was a classic CIA sting, but with a difference: this time it was one of their own they had ruthlessly left languishing in a foreign jail.

He tried not to think about what they would be putting Connor through. Instead he concentrated on the report he was about to make to Andy Lloyd. If only he had been able to contact him the previous night, he might have got the go-ahead to pull Connor out. His cellphone still wasn’t working, so he was going to have to risk using the phone in his hotel room. After twenty-nine years, he had been given one chance to balance the books. And he had been found wanting.

The taxi stopped outside Jackson’s hotel. He paid the fare and ran inside. Not bothering to wait for the elevator, he leapt up the stairs until he reached the first floor and then sprinted down the corridor to Room 132. Sergei had only just caught up with him by the time he had turned the key and opened the door.

The young Russian sat on the floor in the corner of the room and listened to one half of a conversation Jackson had with someone called Lloyd. When he eventually put the phone down, Jackson was white and trembling with rage.

Sergei spoke for the first time since they had left the square: ‘Maybe it’s time I called one of my mother’s customers.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Dexter the moment Gutenburg entered her office. The Deputy Director smiled as he took the seat opposite his boss and placed a folder on her desk.

‘I’ve just been watching the headlines on ABC and CBS,’ she said. ‘They’ve both run with Symonds’ version of what took place in Freedom Square. Is there any feel yet as to how big the press are going to play the story tomorrow?’

‘They’re already losing interest. Not a shot was fired, not even a punch was thrown, and the suspect turned out to be unarmed. And no one’s suggesting that the man they’ve arrested might be an American. By this time tomorrow, the story will only be making the front pages in Russia.’

‘How are we responding to any press enquiries?’

‘We’re saying that it’s an internal problem for the Russians, and that in St Petersburg hired gunmen come cheaper than a decent wristwatch. I tell them they only have to read Time’s piece on the Russian Godfather last month to appreciate the problems they’re facing. If they push me, I point them in the direction of Colombia. If they keep on pushing, I throw in South Africa. That gives them several column inches to feed their hungry editors.’

‘Did any of the networks show footage of Fitzgerald after he’d been arrested?’

‘Only the back of his head, and even then he was surrounded by police. Otherwise you can be sure they’d have run it over and over.’

‘What chance is there of him appearing in public and making a statement that would compromise us, and that the press might follow up?’

‘Virtually none. If they ever do hold a trial, the foreign press will certainly be excluded. And if Zerimski’s elected, Fitzgerald will never set foot outside the Crucifix again.’

‘Have you prepared a report for Lawrence?’ asked Dexter. ‘Because you can be sure he’ll be trying to make two and two equal six.’

Gutenburg leant forward and tapped the file he had placed on the Director’s desk.

She flicked it open and began reading, showing no sign of emotion as she turned the pages. When she reached the end, she closed the file and allowed a flicker of a smile to cross her face before passing it back across the table.

‘See that it’s signed in your name and sent over to the White House immediately,’ she said. ‘Because whatever doubts the President may have at this moment, if Zerimski becomes President, he will never want to refer to the subject again.’

Gutenburg nodded his agreement.

Helen Dexter looked across the desk at her deputy. ‘It’s a pity we had to sacrifice Fitzgerald,’ she said. ‘But if it helps to get Zerimski elected, it will have served a double purpose. Lawrence’s Arms Reduction Bill will be rejected by Congress, and the CIA will have far less interference from the White House.’

Connor swung his legs off the bunk, placed his bare feet on the stone floor and faced his visitor. The Chief took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke high into the air. ‘Filthy habit,’ he said, in flawless English. ‘My wife never stops telling me to give it up.’

Connor showed no emotion.

‘My name is Vladimir Bolchenkov. I am the Chief of Police of this city, and I thought we might have a little chat before we think about putting anything on the record.’

‘My name is Piet de Villiers. I am a South African citizen working for the Johannesburg Journal, and I wish to see my Ambassador.’

‘Now there’s my first problem,’ said Bolchenkov, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. ‘You see, I don’t believe your name is Piet de Villiers, I’m fairly sure you’re not South African, and I know for certain that you don’t work for the Johannesburg Journal, because there’s no such paper. And just so we don’t waste too much of each other’s time, I have it on the highest authority that you were not hired by the Mafya. Now, I admit that I don’t yet know who you are, or even which country you come from. But whoever it is that sent you has, to use a modern colloquialism, dropped you in deep shit. And, if I may say so, from a very great height.’

Connor didn’t even blink.

‘But I can assure you that they are not going to do the same thing to me. So if you feel unable to assist with my enquiries, there is nothing I can do except leave you here to rot, while I continue to bask in the glory that is currently being undeservedly heaped upon me.’

Connor still didn’t react.

‘I see that I’m not getting through to you,’ said the Chief. ‘I feel it’s my duty to point out that this isn’t Colombia, and that I will not be switching my allegiance according to who I’ve spoken to most recently, or who offers me the thickest wad of dollars.’ He paused and drew on his cigarette again before adding, ‘I suspect that’s one of the many things we have in common.’

He turned and began walking towards the cell door, then stopped. ‘I’ll leave you to think it over. But if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t wait too long.’

He banged on the door. ‘Let me assure you, whoever you are,’ he added as the door was opened, ‘there will be no thumbscrews, no rack, or any other, more sophisticated forms of torment while I’m St Petersburg’s Chief of Police. I don’t believe in torture; it’s not my style. But I cannot promise you everything will be quite so friendly if Victor Zerimski is elected as our next President.’

The Chief slammed the cell door closed, and Connor heard a key turn in the lock.

Chapter Eighteen

Three white BMWs drew up outside the hotel. The man seated next to the driver in each car leapt out onto the pavement and checked up and down the road. Once they were satisfied, the back door of the middle car was opened to allow Alexei Romanov to step out. The tall young man was wearing a long black cashmere coat, and didn’t look to either side as he walked quickly into the hotel. The other three men followed, forming a semi-circle around him.

From the description he had been given over the phone, Romanov immediately recognised the tall American standing in the middle of the hall, looking as if he was waiting for someone.

‘Mr Jackson?’ enquired Romanov in a guttural accent.

‘Yes,’ Jackson replied. He would have shaken hands if Romanov had not simply turned round and headed straight back towards the entrance.

The three cars’ engines were running and their doors were still open when Jackson stepped out onto the street. He was ushered towards the back door of the centre vehicle, and sat between the man who hadn’t been willing to shake hands with him and another equally silent but more heavily built man.

The three cars slipped into the centre lane, and as if by magic every other vehicle moved out of their path. Only the traffic lights didn’t seem to know who they were.

As the little motorcade swept through the city, Jackson cursed himself again. None of this would have been necessary if he had been able to get through to Lloyd twenty-four hours earlier. But that was hindsight, he thought — a gift only politicians are born with.

‘You need to meet Nicolai Romanov,’ Sergei had said. He had dialled his mother’s number, and when the phone was eventually answered, he behaved in a way Jackson had not witnessed before. He was respectful, listened attentively, and never once interrupted. Twenty minutes later he put the phone down.

‘I think she’ll make the call,’ he said. ‘The problem is that you can’t become a member of the “Thieves in Law” — or the Mafya, as you call them — until you’re fourteen. It was the same even for Alexei, the Czar’s only son.’

Sergei went on to explain that he had asked that Jackson should be granted a meeting with the Czar, the leader of the Thieves in Law. The organisation had been founded at the time when Russia was ruled by a real Czar, and had survived to become the most feared and respected criminal organisation in the world.

‘My mother is one of the few women the Czar will talk to. She will ask him to grant you an audience,’ said Sergei.

The phone rang, and he immediately picked it up. As he listened carefully to what his mother had to say, he turned white and began to tremble. He hesitated for some time, but finally agreed to whatever she was suggesting. His hand was still shaking when he put the receiver down.

‘Has he agreed to see me?’ asked Jackson.

‘Yes,’ said Sergei quietly. ‘Two men come to pick you up tomorrow morning: Alexei Romanov, the Czar’s son, who will succeed him when he dies, and Stefan Ivanitsky, Alexei’s cousin, who is third in command.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

As they do not know you, they make one condition.’

And what’s that?’

‘If the Czar thinks you waste his time, the two men will come back and break one of my legs, to remind me not to bother them again.’

‘Then you’d better make sure you’re not around when I get back.’

‘If I’m not here they pay a call on my mother and break her leg. And when they catch me, they break both my legs. It is the unwritten code of the Mafya.’

Jackson wondered if he should cancel the meeting. He didn’t want to be responsible for Sergei ending up on crutches. But the boy told him it was too late. He had already accepted their terms.

One glance at Stefan Ivanitsky, the Czar’s nephew, who was seated on his right, was enough to convince Jackson that breaking a leg would take him only a moment, and would be forgotten even more quickly.

Once the BMWs had passed the city boundaries, the little motorcade quickly accelerated to sixty miles per hour. As they climbed the winding roads up into the hills, they met few other vehicles. They sped past peasants on the side of the road with their heads bowed, and no sign in their faces that they cared about either the past or the future. Jackson began to understand why Zerimski’s words might excite any last flicker of hope left in them.

Without warning, the leading car suddenly swung left and stopped outside a massive wrought-iron gate dominated by a crest with a black falcon’s outstretched wings. Two men holding Kalashnikovs stepped forward, and the first driver lowered a smoked-glass window to allow them to peer in. It reminded Jackson of arriving outside the CIA’s headquarters — except that at Langley the guards had to be satisfied with side-arms that remained in their holsters.

After all three cars had been inspected, one of the guards nodded and the wings of the falcon split open. The motorcade proceeded at a more stately pace along a gravel drive that wound through a thick forest. It was another five minutes before Jackson caught his first glimpse of the house — though house it was not. A century before it had been the palace of an Emperor’s first-born. It was now inhabited by a remote descendant who also believed in his hereditary position.

‘Don’t speak to the Czar unless he speaks first,’ Sergei had warned him. ‘And always treat him like his imperial ancestors.’ Jackson preferred not to tell Sergei that he had no idea how to treat a member of the Russian Royal Family.

The cars crunched to a halt outside the front door. A tall, elegant man in a long black tailcoat, white shirt and bow tie stood waiting on the top step. He bowed to Jackson, who tried to look as if he was used to this sort of treatment. After all, he had once met Richard Nixon.

‘Welcome to the Winter Palace, Mr Jackson,’ said the butler. ‘Mr Romanov awaits you in the Blue Gallery.’

Alexei Romanov and Stefan Ivanitsky accompanied Jackson through the open door. Jackson and the young Romanov followed the butler down a long marble corridor, while Ivanitsky remained standing by the entrance. Jackson would have liked to stop and admire the paintings and statues that would have graced any museum in the world, but the steady pace of the butler did not allow it. The butler stopped when he reached two white doors at the end of the corridor that stretched almost to the ceiling. He knocked, opened one of the doors, and stood aside to allow Jackson to enter.

‘Mr Jackson,’ he announced, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Jackson stepped into a vast, lavishly furnished drawing room. The floor was covered by a single carpet a Turk would have traded his life for. From a Louis XIV winged chair of red velvet rose an elderly man in a blue pin-striped suit. His hair was silver, and the pallor of his skin suggested that he had suffered a long illness. His thin body was slightly stooped as he took a step forward to shake hands with his guest.

‘It is kind of you to come all this way to see me, Mr Jackson,’ he said. ‘You must forgive me, but my English is a little rusty. I was forced to leave Oxford in 1939, soon after the war broke out, although I was only in my second year. You see, the British never really trusted the Russians, even though we were later to become allies.’ He smiled sweetly. ‘I’m sure they show much the same attitude when dealing with the Americans.’

Jackson wasn’t sure how to react.

‘Do have a seat, Mr Jackson,’ said the old man, gesturing towards the twin of the chair he had been sitting in.

‘Thank you,’ said Jackson. They were the first words he had spoken since leaving the hotel.

‘Now, Mr Jackson,’ said Romanov, lowering himself slowly into his chair, ‘if I ask you a question, be sure to answer it accurately. If you are in any doubt, take your time before replying. Because should you decide to lie to me — how shall I put it? — you will find that it’s not only this meeting that will be terminated.’

Jackson would have walked out there and then, but he knew that the old man was probably the one person on earth who could get Connor out of the Crucifix prison alive. He gave a curt nod to show that he understood.

‘Good,’ said Romanov. ‘And now I should like to learn a little more about you, Mr Jackson. I can tell at a glance that you work for a law enforcement agency, and as you are in my country’ — he emphasised the word my — ‘I assume it has to be the CIA rather than the FBI. Am I right?’

‘I worked for the CIA for twenty-eight years, until quite recently when I was — replaced.’ Jackson chose his words carefully.

‘It’s against the rules of nature to have a woman as your boss,’ commented Romanov, without even the suggestion of a smile. ‘The organisation I control would never indulge in such stupidity.’

The old man leant across to a table on his left and picked up a small glass full of a colourless liquid that Jackson hadn’t noticed until that moment. He took a sip, and replaced the glass on the table before asking his next question.

‘Are you currently working for another law enforcement agency?’

‘No,’ said Jackson firmly.

‘So you have gone freelance?’ suggested the old man.

Jackson didn’t reply.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘From your silence I am bound to deduce that you are not the only person who doesn’t trust Helen Dexter.’

Again Jackson said nothing. But he was quickly learning why it wouldn’t pay to lie to Romanov.

‘Why did you want to see me, Mr Jackson?’

Jackson suspected that the old man knew exactly why, but played along with the charade. ‘I came on behalf of a friend of mine who, because of my stupidity, has been arrested and is currently locked up in the Crucifix Prison.’

‘An establishment that isn’t known for its humanitarian record, especially when it comes to considering appeals or granting parole.’

Jackson nodded his agreement.

‘I am aware that it was not your friend who was responsible for informing the press that my organisation had offered him a million dollars to remove Zerimski from the presidential race. Had that been the case, he would have been found hanging in his cell long before now. No, I suspect that the person peddling that particular piece of misinformation,’ Romanov continued, ‘is one of Helen Dexter’s minions. If only you had come to me a little earlier, Mr Jackson, I could have warned you about Mitchell.’ He took another sip from his glass and added, ‘One of the few of your countrymen I would consider recruiting into my organisation. I see you are surprised by the extent of my knowledge.’

Jackson thought he hadn’t moved a muscle.

‘Mr Jackson, surely you wouldn’t be shocked to learn that I have my own people well placed in the upper echelons of both the CIA and the FBI?’ The thin smile returned to his face. ‘And if I thought it would prove useful, I would also have someone working for me in the White House. But as President Lawrence will reveal anything he is asked at his weekly news conference, it’s hardly necessary. Which leads on to my next question. Your friend works for the CIA?’

Jackson didn’t reply.

‘Ah, I see. Just as I thought. Well, I think he can be confident that Helen Dexter will not be riding to his rescue on this occasion.’

Jackson still said nothing.

‘Good,’ said the old man. ‘So now I know exactly what you expect of me.’ He paused. ‘But I am at a loss to understand what you have to offer in return.’

‘I have no idea what the going rate is,’ said Jackson.

The old man began laughing. ‘You can’t believe for one moment, Mr Jackson, that I dragged you out here to discuss money, can you? Look around and you will see that however much you have to offer, it wouldn’t be enough. Time was well short of the mark when it speculated on the extent of my power and wealth. Last year alone my organisation had a turnover of $187 billion, more than the economy of Belgium or Sweden. We now have fully operational branches in 142 countries. A new one opens every month, to paraphrase McDonald’s slogan. No, Mr Jackson, I do not have enough days left on earth to waste any of them discussing money with a penniless man.’

‘Then why did you agree to see me in the first place?’ asked Jackson.

‘You don’t ask questions, Mr Jackson,’ said Romanov sharply. ‘You only answer them. I’m surprised that you don’t appear to have been properly briefed.’

The old man took a further sip of the colourless liquid before spelling out exactly what he expected in return for assisting Connor to escape. Jackson knew he didn’t have the authority to accept Romanov’s terms on Connor’s behalf, but as he had been instructed not to ask questions, he remained silent.

‘You may need a little time to think over my proposition, Mr Jackson,’ continued the old man. ‘But should your friend agree to my terms and then fail to carry out his side of the bargain, he must be made fully aware of the consequences of his actions.’ He paused to draw breath. ‘I do hope, Mr Jackson, that he’s not the sort of person who, having signed an agreement, then relies on some clever lawyer to identify a loophole that will get him out of honouring it. You see, in this court I am both judge and jury, and I shall be appointing my son Alexei as prosecuting counsel. I have made it his personal responsibility to see that this particular contract is carried out to the letter. I have already given orders that he will accompany you both back to the United States, and he will not return until the agreement has been honoured. I hope I make myself clear, Mr Jackson.’

Zerimski’s office could not have been in greater contrast to the Czar’s country palace. The Communist leader occupied the third floor of a dilapidated building in a northern suburb of Moscow — although anyone who was invited to stay at his dacha on the Volga quickly became aware that Zerimski was no stranger to luxury.

The last vote had been cast at ten o’clock the previous evening. Now all Zerimski could do was sit and wait for the officials from the Baltic to the Pacific to count the ballot papers. He knew only too well that in some districts people would have voted several times. In others the ballot boxes would simply never reach the town hall. But he was confident that once he had agreed terms with Borodin, and the General had withdrawn from the race, he was in with a real chance of winning. But he was enough of a realist to know that, with the Mafya backing Chernopov, he would need to poll well over half of the votes cast to have the slightest chance of being declared the winner. For that reason he had decided to make an ally in the Czar’s camp.

The result of the election would not be known for a couple of days, as they still tallied the votes by hand in most parts of the country. He didn’t need to be reminded of Stalin’s oft-quoted remark that it doesn’t matter how many people vote, only who counts them.

Zerimski’s inner circle were working the phones as they tried to keep track of what was happening across the vast nation. But all the state chairmen were willing to say was that it looked too close to call. The Communist leader thumped the table more times that day than he had during the past week, and remained closeted in his room for long periods of time making private calls.

‘That’s good news, Stefan,’ Zerimski was saying. ‘As long as you can take care of the problem of your cousin.’ He was listening to Ivanitsky’s response when there was a knock on the door. He put the phone down the moment he saw his Chief of Staff enter the room. He had no desire for Titov to find out who he had been talking to.

‘The press are wondering if you’ll speak to them,’ said Titov, hoping it might keep his master occupied for a few minutes. The last time Zerimski had seen the vultures, as he referred to them, was the previous morning, when they had all turned out to watch him cast his vote in Koski, the district of Moscow in which he was born. It would have been no different if he had been running for President of the United States.

Zerimski nodded reluctantly, and followed Titov down the stairs and out onto the street. He had instructed his staff never to allow a member of the press to enter the building, for fear that they would discover just how inefficient and understaffed his organisation was. That was something else which would change once he got his hands on the state coffers. He hadn’t told even his Chief of Staff that if he won, this would be the last election the Russian people would vote in while he was alive. And he didn’t give a damn how many protests there were in foreign newspapers and magazines. In a very short time they would have a zero circulation east of Germany.

When Zerimski stepped out onto the pavement, he was met by the largest gathering of journalists he’d seen since the campaign had begun.

‘How confident are you of victory, Mr Zerimski?’ someone shouted, before he even had a chance to say good afternoon.

‘If the winner is the man who the most people have voted for, I will be the next President of Russia.’

‘But the chairman of the international panel of observers says that this has been the most democratic election in the history of Russia. Do you not accept that judgement?’

‘I will if I’m declared victor,’ replied Zerimski. The journalists laughed politely at his little pun.

‘If elected, how long will it be before you visit President Lawrence in Washington?’

‘Soon after he has visited me in Moscow,’ came back the immediate reply.

‘If you become President, what will happen to the man who was arrested in Freedom Square and accused of plotting to assassinate you?’

‘That will be a decision for the courts. But you can be sure he will receive a fair trial.’

Zerimski suddenly became bored. Without warning he turned and disappeared back into the building, ignoring the questions shouted at his retreating back.

‘Have you offered Borodin a post in your cabinet?’

‘What will you do about Chechnya?’

‘Will the Mafya be your first target?’

As he wearily climbed the worn stone stairs to the third floor he decided that, win or lose, that was the last occasion he would ever speak to the press. He didn’t envy Lawrence trying to run a country where journalists expected to be treated as equals. When he reached his office he slumped into the only comfortable chair in the room, and slept for the first time in days.

The key turned in the lock, and the cell door swung open. Bolchenkov entered, carrying a large duffel bag and a battered leather briefcase.

‘As you see, I have returned,’ said St Petersburg’s Chief of Police, sitting down opposite Connor. ‘From which you can assume that I want another off-the-record chat. Though I am bound to say I hope it will be a little more productive than our last encounter.’

The Chief stared down at the man sitting on the bunk. Connor looked as if he had lost several pounds in the past five days.

‘I see that you haven’t yet become accustomed to our nouvelle cuisine,’ said Bolchenkov, lighting a cigarette. ‘I must confess that it does take a few days even for the low life of St Petersburg to fully appreciate the Crucifix’s menu. But they come round to it once they realise that they’re here for the rest of their lives, and that there is no a la carte alternative.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nose.

‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘you may have read in the press quite recently that one of our inmates ate a fellow prisoner. But what with the food shortage and the problem of overcrowding, we didn’t think it worth making a fuss about.’

Connor smiled.

‘Ah, I see you are alive after all,’ said the Chief. ‘Now, I have to tell you that there have been one or two interesting developments since our last meeting, which I have a feeling you will want to know about.’

He placed the duffel bag and the briefcase on the floor. ‘These two pieces of luggage were reported as unclaimed by the head porter of the National Hotel.’

Connor raised an eyebrow.

‘Just as I thought,’ said the Chief. ‘And to be fair, when we showed him your photograph, the porter confirmed that although he remembered a man fitting your description leaving the bag, he couldn’t recall the briefcase. Nevertheless, I suspect you won’t need to have its contents described to you.’

The Chief flicked up the knobs of the case and lifted the lid to reveal a Remington 700. Connor stared straight ahead, feigning indifference.

‘Although I’m sure you have handled this type of weapon before, I’m confident that you have never seen this particular rifle, despite the initials P.D.V. being so conveniently printed on the case. Even a raw recruit could work out that you have been set up.’

Bolchenkov drew deeply on his cigarette.

‘The CIA must think we have the dumbest police force on earth. Did they imagine for a moment that we don’t know what Mitchell’s real job is? Cultural Attaché!’ he snorted. ‘He probably thinks the Hermitage is a department store. Before you say anything, I have another piece of news that might be of interest to you.’ He inhaled again, allowing the nicotine to reach down into his lungs. ‘Victor Zerimski has won the election, and will be installed as President on Monday.’

Connor smiled weakly.

‘And as I can’t imagine that he’ll be offering you a front-row seat for the inauguration,’ said the Chief, ‘perhaps the time has come for you to tell us your side of the story, Mr Fitzgerald.’

Chapter Nineteen

President Zerimski swaggered into the room. His colleagues immediately rose from their places around the long oak table and applauded until he had taken his seat below a portrait of Stalin, resurrected from the basement of the Pushkin where it had languished since 1956.

Zerimski was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and red silk tie. He looked quite different from the other men seated round the table, who were still garbed in the ill-fitting clothes they had worn throughout the election campaign. The message was clear — they should all visit a tailor as soon as possible.

Zerimski allowed the applause to continue for some time before waving down his colleagues as if they were just another adoring crowd.

‘Although I do not officially take office until next Monday,’ he began, ‘there are one or two areas where I intend to make some immediate changes.’ The President looked around at those supporters who had stood by him through the lean years, and were about to be rewarded for their loyalty. Many of them had waited half a lifetime for this moment.

He turned his attention to a short, squat man who was staring blankly in front of him. Joseph Pleskov had been promoted from Zerimski’s bodyguard to a full member of the Politburo the day after he had shot three men who had tried to assassinate his boss while he was on a visit to Odessa. Pleskov had one great virtue, which Zerimski would require of any cabinet minister: as long as he understood his orders, he would carry them out.

‘Joseph, my old friend,’ Zerimski said. ‘You are to be my Minister of the Interior.’ Several faces around the table tried not to show surprise or disappointment; most of them knew they were far better qualified to do the job than the former docker from the Ukraine, and some suspected he couldn’t even spell ‘interior’. The short, thickset man beamed at his leader like a child who had been given an unexpected toy.

‘Your first responsibility, Joseph, will be to deal with organised crime. I can think of no better way of setting about that task than by arresting Nicolai Romanov, the so-called Czar. Because there will be no room for Czars, imperial or otherwise, while I am President.’

One or two of the faces that had looked sullen only a moment before suddenly cheered up. Few of them would have been willing to take on Nicolai Romanov, and none of them believed Pleskov was up to it.

‘What shall I charge him with?’ asked Pleskov innocently.

‘Anything you like, from fraud to murder,’ said Zerimski. ‘Just be sure it sticks.’

Pleskov was already looking a little apprehensive. It would have been easier if the boss had simply ordered him to kill the man.

Zerimski’s eye circled the table. ‘Lev,’ he said, turning to another man who had remained blindly loyal to him. ‘I shall give you responsibility for the other half of my law and order programme.’

Lev Shulov looked nervous, unsure if he should be grateful for what he was about to receive.

‘You are to be my new Justice Minister.’

Shulov smiled.

‘Let me make it clear that there is far too much of a logjam in the courts at present. Appoint a dozen or so new judges. Be sure they are all long-standing Party members. Begin by explaining to them that I have only two policies when it comes to law and order: shorter trials and longer sentences. And I am keen to make an example of someone newsworthy in the first few days of my presidency, to leave no doubt about the fate of those who cross me.’

‘Did you have anyone in mind, Mr President?’

‘Yes,’ replied Zerimski. ‘You will remember...’ There was a quiet knock on the door. Everyone turned to see who dared to interrupt the new President’s first cabinet meeting. Dmitri Titov entered noiselessly, gambling that Zerimski would have been even more annoyed not to be interrupted. The President drummed his fingers on the table as Titov walked the length of the room, then bent down and whispered in his ear.

Zerimski immediately burst out laughing. The rest of them wanted to join in, but were unwilling to until they had heard the joke. He looked up at his colleagues. ‘The President of the United States is on the line. It seems that he wishes to congratulate me.’ Now they all felt able to join in the laughter.

‘My next decision as your leader is whether I should put him on hold — for another three years...’ They all laughed even louder, except for Titov, ‘...or whether I should take the call.’

No one offered an opinion.

‘Shall we find out what the man wants?’ asked Zerimski. They all nodded. Titov picked up the phone by his side and handed it to his boss.

‘Mr President,’ said Zerimski.

‘No, sir,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘My name is Andy Lloyd. I am the White House Chief of Staff. May I put you through to President Lawrence?’

‘No, you may not,’ said Zerimski angrily. ‘Tell your President next time he calls to be on the end of the line himself, because I don’t deal with messenger boys.’ He slammed the phone down, and they all laughed again.

‘Now, what was I saying?’

Shulov volunteered. ‘You were about to tell us, Mr President, who should be made an example of in order to demonstrate the new discipline of the Justice Department.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Zerimski, the smile returning to his lips just as the phone rang again.

Zerimski pointed at his Chief of Staff, who picked up the receiver.

‘Would it be possible,’ a voice enquired, ‘to speak to President Zerimski?’

‘Who’s calling him?’ asked Titov.

‘Tom Lawrence.’

Titov handed the receiver to his boss. ‘The President of the United States,’ was all he said. Zerimski nodded and took the phone.

‘Is that you, Victor?’

‘This is President Zerimski. Who am I addressing?’

‘Tom Lawrence,’ said the President, raising an eyebrow to the Secretary of State and the White House Chief of Staff, who were listening in on their extensions.

‘Good morning. What can I do for you?’

‘I was just calling to add my congratulations to all the others you must be receiving after your impressive’ — Lawrence had wanted say ‘unexpected’, but the State Department had counselled against it — ‘victory. A very close-run thing. But everyone in politics experiences that problem from time to time.’

‘It’s not a problem I will experience again,’ said Zerimski. Lawrence laughed, assuming this was meant to be funny. He wouldn’t have done so if he could have seen the stony-faced looks of those seated around the cabinet table in the Kremlin.

Lloyd whispered, ‘Keep going.’

‘The first thing I’d like to do is get to know you a little better, Victor.’

‘Then you will have to start by understanding that only my mother calls me by my first name.’

Lawrence looked down at the notes spread across his desk. His eye settled on Zerimski’s full name, Victor Leonidovich. He underlined ‘Leonidovich’, but Larry Harrington shook his head.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lawrence. ‘How would you like me to address you?’

‘The same way you would expect anyone you don’t know to address you.’

Though they could hear only one side of it, those seated around the table in Moscow were enjoying the first encounter between the two leaders. Those in the Oval Office were not.

‘Try a different tack, Mr President,’ suggested the Secretary of State, cupping a hand over his phone.

Tom Lawrence glanced down at Andy Lloyd’s prepared questions and skipped a page. ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t be too long before we could find an opportunity to meet. Come to think of it,’ he added, ‘it’s rather surprising that we haven’t bumped into each other before now.’

‘It’s not all that surprising,’ said Zerimski. ‘When you last visited Moscow, in June, your Embassy failed to issue me or any of my colleagues with an invitation to the dinner that was held for you.’ There were murmurs of support from around the table.

‘Well, I’m sure you know only too well that on overseas trips one is very much in the hands of one’s local officials...’

‘I shall be interested to see which of those local officials you feel need replacing after such a fundamental miscalculation.’ Zerimski paused. ‘Starting with your Ambassador, perhaps.’

There followed another long silence while the three men in the Oval Office checked through the questions they had assiduously prepared. So far they had not anticipated one of Zerimski’s replies.

‘I can assure you,’ Zerimski added, ‘that I will not be allowing any of my officials, local or otherwise, to overrule my personal wishes.’

‘Lucky man,’ said Lawrence, giving up bothering with any of the prepared answers.

‘Luck is not a factor I ever take into consideration,’ said Zerimski. ‘Especially when it comes to dealing with my opponents.’

Larry Harrington was beginning to look desperate, but Andy Lloyd scribbled a question on a pad and pushed it under the President’s nose. Lawrence nodded.

‘Perhaps we should try to arrange an early meeting so that we can get to know each other a little better?’

The White House trio sat waiting for the offer to be robustly rejected.

‘I’ll give that my serious consideration,’ said Zerimski, to everyone’s surprise, at both ends. ‘Why don’t you tell Mr Lloyd to get in touch with Comrade Titov, who is responsible for organising my meetings with foreign leaders.’

‘I certainly will,’ said Lawrence, feeling relieved. ‘I’ll ask Andy Lloyd to call Mr Titov in the next couple of days.’ Lloyd scribbled another note, and handed it to him. It read: ‘And of course I would be happy to visit Moscow.’

‘Goodbye, Mr President,’ said Zerimski.

‘Goodbye — Mr President,’ Lawrence replied.

As Zerimski put the phone down, he stalled the inevitable round of applause by quickly turning to his Chief of Staff and saying, ‘When Lloyd rings, he will propose that I visit Washington. Accept the offer.’

His Chief of Staff looked surprised.

‘I am determined,’ said the President, turning back to his colleagues, ‘that Lawrence should realise as soon as possible what sort of man he is dealing with. More importantly, I wish the American public to find out for themselves.’ He placed his fingers together. ‘I intend to begin by making sure that Lawrence’s Arms Reduction Bill is defeated on the floor of the Senate. I can’t think of a more appropriate Christmas present to give... Tom.’

This time he allowed them to applaud him briefly, before silencing them with another wave of his hand.

‘But we must return for the moment to our domestic problems, which are far more pressing. You see, I believe it is important that our own citizens are also made aware of the mettle of their new leader. I wish to provide them with an example that will leave no one in any doubt about how I intend to deal with those who consider opposing me.’ They all waited to see who Zerimski had selected for this honour.

He turned his gaze to the newly appointed Justice Minister. ‘Where is that Mafya hitman who tried to assassinate me?’

‘He’s locked up in the Crucifix,’ said Shulov. ‘Where I assume you’ll want him to remain for the rest of his life.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Zerimski. ‘Life imprisonment is far too lenient a sentence for such a barbarous criminal. This is the ideal person to put on trial. We will make him our first public example.’

‘I’m afraid the police haven’t been able to come up with any proof that he...’

‘Then manufacture it,’ said Zerimski. ‘His trial isn’t going to be witnessed by anyone except loyal Party members.’

‘I understand, Mr President,’ said the new Justice Minister. He hesitated. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘A quick trial, with one of our new judges presiding and a jury made up exclusively of Party officials.’

‘And the sentence, Mr President?’

‘The death penalty, of course. Once the sentence has been passed, you will inform the press that I shall be attending the execution.’

‘And when will that be?’ asked the Justice Minister, writing down Zerimski’s every word.

The President flicked over the pages of his diary and began searching for a fifteen-minute gap. ‘Eight o’clock next Friday morning. Now, something far more important — my plans for the future of the armed forces.’ He smiled at General Borodin, who was seated on his right, and who hadn’t yet opened his mouth.

‘For you, Deputy President, the greatest prize of all...’

Chapter Twenty

As a prisoner in the Nan Dinh camp, Connor had developed a system for counting the days he’d been in captivity.

At five every morning a Vietcong guard would appear carrying a bowl of rice swimming in water — his only meal of the day. Connor would remove a single grain and place it inside one of the seven bamboo poles that made up his mattress. Every week he would transfer one of the seven grains to the beam above his bed, and then eat the other six. Every four weeks he would remove one of the grains from the beam above his bed and put it between the floorboards under his bed. The day he and Chris Jackson escaped from the camp, Connor knew he had been in captivity for one year, five months and two days.

But lying on a bunk in a windowless cell in the Crucifix, even he couldn’t come up with a system to record how long he had been there. The Chief of Police had now visited him twice, and left with nothing. Connor began to wonder how much longer it would be before he became impatient with his simply repeating his name and nationality, and demanding to see his Ambassador. He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Only moments after Bolchenkov had left the room the second time, the three men who had greeted him on the afternoon of his arrival came charging into his cell.

Two of them dragged him off the bunk and threw him into the chair recently occupied by the Chief. They wrenched his arms behind his back and handcuffed him.

That was when Connor first saw the cut-throat razor. While two of them held him down, the third took just fourteen strokes of the rusty blade to shave every hair off his head, along with a considerable amount of skin. He hadn’t wasted any time applying soap and water. The blood continued to run down Connor’s face and soak his shirt long after they had left him slumped in the chair.

He recalled the words of the Chief when they had first met: ‘I don’t believe in torture; it’s not my style.’ But that was before Zerimski had become President.

He eventually slept, but for how long he could not tell. The next thing he remembered was being pulled up off the floor, hurled back into the chair and held down for a second time.

The third man had replaced his razor with a long, thick needle, and used the same degree of delicacy he had shown as a barber to tattoo the number ‘12995’ on the prisoner’s left wrist. They obviously didn’t believe in names when you booked in for room and board at the Crucifix.

When they returned a third time, they yanked him up off the floor and pushed him out of the cell into a long, dark corridor. It was at times like this that he wished he lacked any imagination. He tried not to think about what they might have in mind for him. The citation for his Medal of Honor had described how Lieutenant Fitzgerald had been fearless in leading his men, had rescued a brother officer, and had made a remarkable escape from a North Vietnamese prisoner of war camp. But Connor knew he had never come across a man who was fearless. In Nan Dinh he had held out for one year, five months and two days — but then he was only twenty-two, and at twenty-two you believe you’re immortal.

When they hurled him out of the corridor and into the morning sun, the first thing Connor saw was a group of prisoners erecting a scaffold. He was fifty-one now. No one needed to tell him he wasn’t immortal.

When Joan Bennett checked in for work at Langley that Monday, she knew exactly how many days she had served of her eight-month sentence, because every evening, just before she left home, she would feed the cat and cross off one more date on the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall.

She left her car in the west parking lot, and headed straight for the library. Once she had signed in, she took the metal staircase down to the reference section. For the next nine hours, with only a break for a meal at midnight, she would read through the latest batch of e-mailed newspaper extracts from the Middle East. Her main task was to search for any mention of the United States and, if it was critical, electronically copy it, collate it and e-mail it to her boss on the third floor, who would consider its consequences at a more civilised hour later that morning. It was tedious, mind-deadening work. She had considered resigning on several occasions, but was determined not to give Gutenburg that satisfaction.

It was just before her midnight meal-break that Joan spotted a headline in the Istanbul News: ‘Mafya Killer to go on Trial’. She could still only think of the Mafia as being Italian, and was surprised to discover that the article concerned a South African terrorist on trial for the attempted murder of the new President of Russia. She would have taken no further interest if she hadn’t seen the line drawing of the accused man.

Joan’s heart began to thump as she carefully read through the lengthy article by Fatima Kusmann, the Istanbul News’s Eastern European correspondent, in which she claimed to have sat next to the professional killer during a rally in Moscow which Zerimski had addressed.

Midnight passed, but Joan remained at her desk.

As Connor stood in the prison courtyard and stared up at the half-constructed scaffold, a police car drew up and one of the thugs shoved him into the back seat. He was surprised to find the Chief of Police waiting for him. Bolchenkov hardly recognised the gaunt, crop-headed man.

Neither of them spoke as the car made its way through the gates and out of the prison. The driver turned right and drove along the banks of the Neva at exactly fifty kilometres an hour. They passed three bridges before swinging left and crossing a fourth that would take them into the centre of the city. As they crossed the river, Connor stared out of the side window at the pale green palace of the Hermitage. It couldn’t have been in greater contrast to the prison he had just left. He looked up at the clear blue sky, and back down at the citizens walking up and down the streets. How quickly he had been made aware of how much he valued his freedom. Once they were on the south side of the river the driver swung right, and after a few hundred yards pulled up in front of the Palace of Justice. The car door was opened by a waiting policeman. If Connor had any thoughts of escape, the other fifty officers on the pavement would have caused him to think again. They formed a long reception line as he climbed the steps into the huge stone building.

He was marched to the front desk, where an officer pinned his left arm to the counter, studied his wrist and entered the number ‘12995’ on the charge sheet. He was then taken down a marble corridor towards two massive oak doors. When he was a few paces away the doors suddenly swung open, and he entered a packed courtroom.

He looked around at the sea of faces, and it was obvious they had been waiting for him.

Joan typed a search string into the computer: attempt on Zerimski’s life. What press reports there were all seemed to agree on one thing: that the man who had been arrested in Freedom Square was Piet de Villiers, a South African hitman hired by the Russian Mafya to assassinate Zerimski. A rifle discovered among his belongings was identified as identical to that which had been used to assassinate Ricardo Guzman, a presidential candidate in Colombia, two months earlier.

Joan scanned the Turkish newspaper’s line drawing of de Villiers into her computer, and enlarged it until it filled the entire screen. She then zoomed in on the eyes, and blew them up to life size. She was now certain of the true identity of the man about to go on trial in St Petersburg.

Joan checked her watch. It was a few minutes past two. She picked up the phone by her side and dialled a number she knew by heart. It rang for some time before a sleepy voice answered, ‘Who’s this?’

Joan said only, ‘It’s important that I see you. I’ll be at your place in a little over an hour,’ and replaced the phone.

A few moments later, someone else was woken by a ringing telephone. He listened carefully before saying, ‘We’ll just have to advance our original schedule by a few days.’

Connor stood in the dock, and looked around the courtroom. His eyes first settled on the jury. Twelve good men and true? Unlikely. Not one of them even glanced in his direction. He suspected that it hadn’t taken long to swear them in, and that there wouldn’t have been any requests for alternatives.

Everyone in the courtroom rose as a man in a long black gown emerged from a side door. He sat down in the large leather chair in the centre of the raised dais, below a full-length portrait of President Zerimski. The clerk of the court rose from his place and read out the charge, in Russian. Connor was barely able to follow the proceedings, and he certainly wasn’t asked how he wished to plead. The clerk resumed his seat, and a tall, sombre-looking middle-aged man rose from the bench directly below the judge and began to address the jury.

Holding the lapels of his jacket, the prosecutor spent the rest of the morning describing the events that had led up to the arrest of the defendant. He told the jury how de Villiers had been seen stalking Zerimski for several days before he was apprehended in Freedom Square. And how the rifle with which the defendant had intended to assassinate their beloved President had been discovered among his personal belongings in a hotel lobby. ‘Vanity got the better of the accused,’ the prosecutor said. ‘The case that contained the weapon had his initials clearly printed on it.’ The judge allowed the rifle and the briefcase to be examined by the jury.

‘Even more damning, a slip of paper was found secreted in the accused’s spongebag,’ continued the prosecutor, ‘which confirmed the transfer of one million US dollars to a numbered bank account in Geneva.’ Again, the jury was given the chance to study this piece of evidence. The prosecutor went on to praise the diligence and resourcefulness of the St Petersburg police force for preventing this heinous act, and its professionalism in catching the criminal who had intended to perpetrate it. He added that the nation owed a considerable debt of gratitude to Vladimir Bolchenkov, the city’s Chief of Police. Several members of the jury nodded their agreement.

The prosecutor completed his monologue by informing the jury that whenever the defendant had been asked if he had been hired to carry out the killing on behalf of the Mafya, he had refused to answer. ‘You must make what you will of his silence,’ he said. ‘My own conclusion is that having heard the evidence, there can only be one verdict, and one sentence.’ He smiled thinly at the judge and resumed his seat.

Connor looked around the courtroom to see who had been appointed to defend him. He wondered how his counsel would go about the task when they hadn’t even met.

The judge nodded towards the other end of the bench, and a young man who looked as if he hadn’t long been out of law school rose to address the court. He did not clasp the lapels of his jacket as he looked up towards the bench, or smile at the judge, or even address the jury. He simply said, ‘My client offers no defence,’ and resumed his seat.

The judge nodded, then turned his attention to the foreman of the jury, a grave-looking man who knew exactly what was expected of him. He rose from his place on cue.

‘Having listened to the evidence in this case, Mr Foreman, how do you find the defendant?’

‘Guilty,’ said the man, delivering his one-word script without needing to be prompted or to consult any other member of the jury.

The judge looked at Connor for the first time. ‘As the jury has reached a unanimous verdict, all that is left for me to do is pass sentence. And, by statute, there is only one penalty for your crime.’ He paused, stared impassively at Connor and said, ‘I sentence you to death by hanging.’ The judge turned to the defence counsel. ‘Do you wish to appeal against the sentence?’ he asked rhetorically.

‘No, sir,’ came back the immediate response.

‘The execution will take place at eight a.m. on Friday.’

Connor was surprised only that they were waiting until Friday to hang him.

Before she left, Joan checked over several of the articles again. The dates exactly matched Connor’s absences abroad. First the trip to Colombia, then the visit to St Petersburg. There were, to quote one of Connor’s favourite maxims, just too many coincidences.

By three o’clock, Joan felt drained and exhausted. She didn’t look forward to telling Maggie the results of her detective work. And if it really was Connor on trial in St Petersburg, there wasn’t a moment to waste, because the Turkish papers were already a couple of days old.

Joan shut down her computer, locked her desk and hoped her boss wouldn’t notice that his e-mail in-box was almost empty. She walked up the old staircase to the ground floor, inserted her electric pass-key in the exit security control, and passed the trickle of workers arriving for the early-morning shift.

Joan switched on her headlights and drove her brand-new car out of the parking lot and through the gate, turning east onto the George Washington Parkway. The road was still covered with patchy ice from the previous evening’s storm, and highway crews were working to clear it before the morning rush-hour. Normally she enjoyed driving through Washington’s deserted early-morning streets, past the magnificent monuments that commemorated the nation’s history. At school in St Paul she had sat silently at the front of the class while her teacher regaled them with tales of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt. It was her admiration for these heroic figures that had fuelled her ambition to work in the public service.

After studying government at the University of Minnesota, she had filled in application forms for the FBI and the CIA. Both had asked to interview her, but once she had seen Connor Fitzgerald she had cancelled her appointment with the FBI. Here was a man who had returned from a futile war with a medal he never mentioned, and who continued to serve his country without fanfare or recognition. If she ever expressed these thoughts to Connor, he only laughed and told her she was being sentimental. But Tom Lawrence had been right when he had described Connor as one of the nation’s unsung heroes. Joan would suggest to Maggie that she contact the White House immediately, as it was Lawrence who had asked Connor to take on this assignment in the first place.

Joan was trying to put her thoughts into some logical order when a large green sanding truck passed her on the outside and began moving across into her lane moments before it had fully overtaken her. She flashed her lights, but the truck didn’t pull away as she expected. She checked her rear-view mirror and eased into the centre lane. The truck immediately began to drift across into her path, forcing her to veer sharply into the left-hand lane.

Joan had to decide in an instant whether to slam on her brakes or to try to accelerate past the thoughtless driver. Once again she checked her rear-view mirror, but this time she was horrified to see a large black Mercedes coming up fast behind her. She slammed her foot down on the accelerator as the highway banked steeply to the left near Spout Run. The little Golf responded immediately, but the sanding truck also accelerated, and she couldn’t pick up enough speed to pass it.

Joan had no choice but to move further to her left, almost into the median strip. She looked into her rearview mirror and saw that the Mercedes had also drifted across, and was now close to her rear bumper. She could feel her heart pounding. Were the truck and the car working together? She tried to slow down, but the Mercedes just moved closer and closer to her rear bumper. Joan slammed her foot down on the accelerator again and her car leapt forward. Sweat was running down her forehead and into her eyes as she drew level with the front of the sanding truck, but even with her foot flat on the floor she just couldn’t overtake it. She stared up into the cab and tried to attract the driver’s attention, but he ignored her waving hand, and went on implacably easing the truck inch by inch further to his left, forcing her to slow down and fall in behind him. She checked her rear-view mirror: the Mercedes was, if anything, even closer to her bumper.

As she looked forward the truck’s tailplate rose, and its load of sand began to pour out onto the road. Instinctively Joan slammed on her brakes, but the little car careered out of control, skidded across the ice-encrusted median strip and hurtled down the grass embankment towards the river. It hit the water like a flat stone, and after floating for a moment, disappeared out of sight. All that was left were the skidmarks on the bank and a few bubbles. The sanding truck moved back into the centre lane and continued its journey in the direction of Washington. A moment later the Mercedes flashed its lights, overtook the truck and accelerated away.

Two cars that were heading towards Dulles Airport came to a halt on the median strip. One of the drivers leapt out and slid down the bank towards the river to see if he could help, but by the time he reached the water there was no sign of the car. All that remained were the skidmarks on the snowy bank and a few bubbles. The other driver scribbled down the sanding truck’s licence number. He handed it to the first cop to arrive on the scene, who punched it into his dashboard computer. After a few seconds he frowned. ‘Are you sure you wrote down the correct number, sir?’ he asked. ‘The Washington Highway Department has no record of such a vehicle.’

When Connor was bundled into the back of the car, he found the Chief of Police waiting for him once again. As the driver began the return journey to the Crucifix, Connor couldn’t resist asking Bolchenkov a question.

‘I’m puzzled to know why they’re waiting until Friday to hang me.’

‘Bit of luck, really,’ said the Chief. ‘It seems our beloved President insisted on witnessing the execution.’ Bolchenkov inhaled deeply on his cigarette. ‘And he doesn’t have a spare fifteen minutes in his schedule before Friday morning.’

Connor gave a wry smile.

‘I’m glad you’ve found your tongue at last, Mr Fitzgerald,’ continued the Chief. ‘Because I think the time has come to let you know that there is an alternative.’

Chapter Twenty-One

Mark Twain once said of a friend, ‘If he didn’t turn up on time, you would know he was dead.’

Once four o’clock had come and gone, Maggie started checking her watch every few minutes. By four thirty she began to wonder if she had been so sleepy when Joan called that she might have misunderstood what she had said.

At five o’clock, Maggie decided it was time to give Joan a call at home. No answer, just a continual ringing tone. Next she tried her car phone, and this time she did get a message: ‘This number is temporarily out of order. Please try again later.’

Maggie began pacing round the kitchen table, feeling sure that Joan must have some news of Connor. It had to be important, otherwise why would she have woken her at two in the morning? Had he been in contact with her? Did she know where he was? Would she be able to tell her when he was coming home? By six, Maggie had decided it was now an emergency. She switched on the television to check the exact time. Charlie Gibson’s face appeared on the screen. ‘In the next hour we’ll talk about Christmas decorations that even the kids can help you with. But first we’ll go over to Kevin Newman for this morning’s news.’

Maggie began pacing round the kitchen as a reporter predicted that the President’s Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction Bill was almost certain to be voted down in the Senate now that Zerimski had been elected as the Russian leader.

She was wondering if she should break a lifetime’s rule and try to ring Joan at Langley when a trailer appeared under Kevin Newman’s image: ‘GW Parkway crash involves sanding truck and Volkswagen — driver of car presumed drowned. Details on Eyewitness News at 6.30.’ The words crawled across the screen and disappeared.

Maggie tried to eat a bowl of cornflakes while the early-morning bulletin continued. Andy Lloyd appeared on the screen, announcing that President Zerimski would be making an official visit to Washington just before Christmas. ‘The President welcomed the news,’ said a reporter, ‘and hoped it would go some way to convincing Senate leaders that the new Russian President wished to remain on friendly terms with America. However, the majority leader of the Senate said he would wait until Zerimski had addressed...’

When Maggie heard the little thud on the mat, she went out into the hall, picked up the seven envelopes lying on the floor and checked through them as she walked back into the kitchen. Four were for Connor; she never opened his letters while he was away. One was a Pepco bill; another was postmarked Chicago, and the letter ‘e’ on ‘Maggie’ was at an angle, so it could only have been Declan O’Casey’s annual Christmas card. The last letter bore the distinctive handwriting of her daughter. She tossed the others to one side and tore it open.

Maggie smiled.

Maggie frowned.

Maggie read the sentence a second time before her hand began trembling. ‘Oh my God, no!’ she said out loud. She checked her watch — six twenty. On the television, Lisa McRee was holding up a paperchain of holly and berries. ‘Festive Christmas decorations the children can help with,’ she declared brightly. ‘Now we turn to the topic of Christmas trees.’

Maggie flicked over to Channel 5. Another newscaster was speculating about whether Zerimski’s planned visit would influence Senate leaders before they cast their vote on the Arms Reduction Bill.

‘Come on, come on,’ said Maggie.

Finally the newscaster said, ‘And now we have more on that accident on the George Washington Parkway. We go live to our on-the-spot correspondent, Liz Fullerton.’

‘Thank you, Julie. I’m standing on the median of the George Washington Parkway, where the tragic accident took place at approximately three fifteen this morning. Earlier I interviewed an eye-witness who told Channel 5 what he had seen.’

The camera focused on a man who clearly hadn’t expected to be on television that morning.

‘I was headed into Washington,’ he told the reporter, ‘when this sanding truck deposited its load on the highway, causing the car behind to swerve and run out of control. The car skidded right across the road, down the bank and into the Potomac.’ The camera swung across to show a wide angle of the river, focusing on a group of police divers before returning to the reporter.

‘No one seems to be quite sure exactly what happened,’ she continued. ‘It’s even possible that the driver of the sanding truck, sitting high up in his cab, continued on his journey unaware that an accident had taken place.’

‘No! No!’ screamed Maggie. ‘Don’t let it be her!’

‘Behind me you can see police divers, who have already located the vehicle, apparently a Volkswagen Golf. They hope to bring it to the surface within the next hour. The identity of the driver is still unknown.’

‘No, no, no,’ repeated Maggie. ‘Please, God, not Joan.’

‘The police are requesting that the driver of a black Mercedes who may have witnessed the accident should come forward to help with their enquiries. We hope to bring you more news on the hour, so until then...’

Maggie ran into the hall, grabbed her coat and rushed out of the front door. She leapt into her car, and was relieved when the old Toyota spluttered into life almost immediately. She eased it slowly out onto Avon Place, before accelerating down Twenty-Ninth Street and east on M Street in the direction of the Parkway.

If she had checked her rear-view mirror, she would have seen a small blue Ford making a three-point turn before chasing after her. The passenger in the front seat was dialling an unlisted number.

‘Mr Jackson, it is so good of you to come and see me again.’

Jackson was amused by Nicolai Romanov’s elaborate courtesy, especially as it carried with it the pretence that he might have had some choice in the matter.

The first meeting had been at Jackson’s request, and obviously hadn’t been considered ‘a waste of time’, as Sergei was still running around on both legs. Each subsequent meeting had followed a summons from Romanov to bring Jackson up to date with the latest plans.

The Czar sank back in his winged chair, and Jackson noticed the usual glass of colourless liquid on the table by his side. He remembered the old man’s reaction on the one occasion he had asked a question, and waited for him to speak.

‘You’ll be glad to hear, Mr Jackson, that with the exception of a single problem that still needs to be resolved, everything required to make good your colleague’s escape has been arranged. All we need now is for Mr Fitzgerald to agree our terms. Should he find himself unable to do so, I can do nothing to prevent him from being hanged at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’ Romanov spoke without feeling. ‘Allow me to take you through what we have planned so far, should he decide to go ahead. I am certain that, as a former Deputy Director of the CIA, your observations will prove useful.’

The old man pressed a button in the armrest of his chair, and the doors at the far end of the drawing room opened immediately. Alexei Romanov entered the room.

‘I believe you know my son,’ said the Czar.

Jackson glanced in the direction of the man who always accompanied him on his journeys to the Winter Palace, but rarely spoke. He nodded.

The young man pushed aside an exquisite fourteenth-century tapestry depicting the Battle of Flanders. Behind it was concealed a large television set. The flat silver screen looked somewhat incongruous in such magnificent surroundings, but no more so, Jackson thought, than its owner and his acolytes.

The first image to come up on the screen was an exterior shot of the Crucifix prison.

Alexei Romanov pointed to the entrance. ‘Zerimski is expected to arrive at the jail at seven fifty. He will be in the third of seven cars, and will enter through a side gate situated here.’ His finger moved across the screen. ‘He will be met by Vladimir Bolchenkov, who will accompany him into the main courtyard, where the execution will take place. At seven fifty-two...’

The young Romanov continued to take Jackson through the plan minute by minute, going into even greater detail when it came to explaining how Connor’s escape would be achieved. Jackson noticed that he seemed unconcerned by the one remaining problem, obviously confident that his father would come up with a solution before the following morning. When he had finished, Alexei switched off the television, replaced the tapestry and gave his father a slight bow. He then left the room without another word.

When the door had closed, the old man asked, ‘Do you have any observations?’

‘One or two,’ said Jackson. ‘First, let me say that I’m impressed by the plan, and convinced it has every chance of succeeding. It’s obvious you’ve thought of almost every contingency that might arise — that is, assuming Connor agrees to your terms. And on that, I must repeat, I have no authority to speak on his behalf

Romanov nodded.

‘But you’re still facing one problem.’

‘And do you have a solution?’ asked the old man.

‘Yes,’ replied Jackson. ‘I have.’

Bolchenkov spent nearly an hour spelling out Romanov’s plan in great detail, then left Connor to consider his response. He didn’t need to be reminded that he was faced with an unalterable time limit: Zerimski was due to arrive at the Crucifix in forty-five minutes.

Connor lay on his bunk. The terms could not have been expressed more explicitly. But even if he did accept those terms, and his escape was successfully engineered, he was not at all confident that he would be able to carry out his side of the bargain. If he failed, they would kill him. It was that simple — except that Bolchenkov had promised that it would not be the quick and easy death of the hangman’s noose. He had also spelled out — in case Connor should be in any doubt — that all contracts made with the Russian Mafya and not honoured automatically became the responsibility of the offender’s next of kin.

Connor could still see the cynical expression on the Chief’s face as he extracted the photographs from an inside pocket and passed them over to him. ‘Two fine women,’ Bolchenkov had said. ‘You must be proud of them. It would be a tragedy to have to shorten their lives for something they know nothing about.’

Fifteen minutes later the cell door swung open again, and Bolchenkov returned, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. This time he didn’t sit down. Connor continued to look up at the ceiling as if he wasn’t there.

‘I see that our little proposal is still presenting you with a dilemma,’ said the Chief, lighting the cigarette. ‘Even after our brief acquaintance, that does not surprise me. But perhaps when you hear my latest piece of news, you will change your mind.’

Connor went on gazing at the ceiling.

‘It appears that your former secretary, Joan Bennett, has met with an unfortunate car accident. She was on her way from Langley to visit your wife.’

Connor swung his legs off the bed, sat up and stared at Bolchenkov.

‘If Joan is dead, how could you possibly know she was on her way to see my wife?’

‘The CIA aren’t the only people who are tapping your wife’s telephone,’ replied the Chief. He took a last drag from his cigarette, allowed the stub to fall from his mouth and ground it out on the floor.

‘We suspect that your secretary had somehow discovered who it was that we arrested in Freedom Square. And without putting too fine a point on it, if your wife is as proud and headstrong as her profile suggests, I think we can assume that it won’t be long before she reaches the same conclusion. If that is the case, I fear Mrs Fitzgerald is destined to suffer the same fate as your late secretary.’

‘If I agree to Romanov’s terms,’ Connor said, ‘I wish to insert a clause of my own into the contract.’

Bolchenkov listened with interest.

‘Mr Gutenburg?’

‘Speaking.’

‘This is Maggie Fitzgerald. I’m the wife of Connor Fitzgerald, who I believe is currently abroad on an assignment for you.’

‘I don’t recall the name,’ said Gutenburg.

‘You attended his farewell party at our home in Georgetown only a couple of weeks ago.’

‘I think you must have mistaken me for someone else,’ replied Gutenburg calmly.

‘I have not mistaken you for anyone else, Mr Gutenburg. In fact, at eight twenty-seven on the second of November, you made a phone call from my home to your office.’

‘I made no such call, Mrs Fitzgerald, and I can assure you that your husband has never worked for me.’

‘Then tell me, Mr Gutenburg, did Joan Bennett ever work for the Agency? Or has she also been conveniently erased from your memory?’

‘What are you suggesting, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

‘Ah, I’ve caught your attention at last. Allow me to repair your temporary loss of memory. Joan Bennett was my husband’s secretary for nearly twenty years, and I have a feeling you would find it hard to deny that you knew she was on her way from Langley to see me when she met her death.’

‘I was sorry to read of Miss Bennett’s tragic accident, but I’m at a loss to understand what it has to do with me.’

‘The press are apparently mystified about what actually took place on the George Washington Parkway yesterday morning, but they might be a step nearer to the solution if they were told that Joan Bennett used to work for a man who has disappeared from the face of the earth while carrying out a special assignment for you. I’ve always found in the past that journalists consider a story involving a Medal of Honor winner to be of interest to their readers.’

‘Mrs Fitzgerald, I can’t be expected to remember every one of the seventeen thousand people the CIA employs, and I certainly don’t recall ever meeting Miss Bennett, let alone your husband.’

‘I see I’ll have to jog that failing memory of yours a little further, Mr Gutenburg. As it happens, the party you didn’t attend and didn’t telephone from was, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, videotaped by my daughter. She’d hoped to surprise her father by giving him the tape for Christmas. I’ve just had another look at it, Mr Gutenburg, and although you play only a minor role, I can assure you that your tete-a-tete with Joan Bennett is there for all to see. This conversation is also being recorded, and I have a feeling that the networks will consider your contribution worth airing on the early evening news.’

This time Gutenburg didn’t reply for some time. ‘Perhaps it might be a good idea for us to meet, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said eventually.

‘I can see no purpose in that, Mr Gutenburg. I already know exactly what I require from you.’

‘And what is that, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

‘I want to know where my husband is at this moment, and when I can expect to see him again. In return for those two simple pieces of information, I will hand over the tape.’

‘I’ll need a little time...’

‘Of course you will,’ said Maggie. ‘Shall we say forty-eight hours? And Mr Gutenburg, don’t waste your time tearing my home apart searching for the tape, because you won’t find it. It’s been hidden somewhere that even a mind as devious as yours wouldn’t think of.’

‘But...’ began Gutenburg.

‘I should also add that if you decide to dispose of me in the same way you did Joan Bennett, I’ve instructed my lawyers that if I die in suspicious circumstances, they are to immediately release copies of the tape to all three major networks, Fox and CNN. If, on the other hand, I simply disappear, the tape will be released seven days later. Goodbye, Mr Gutenburg.’

Maggie put the phone down and collapsed onto the bed, bathed in sweat.

Gutenburg shot through the connecting door between his office and the Director’s.

Helen Dexter glanced up from her desk, unable to hide her surprise that her Deputy had entered the room without bothering to knock.

‘We have a problem,’ was all he said.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The condemned man ate no breakfast.

The kitchen staff always made an effort to remove the lice from the bread for a prisoner’s last meal, but this time they had failed. He took one look at the offering and put the tin plate under his bunk.

A few minutes later, a Russian Orthodox priest entered the cell. He explained that although he was not of the same denomination as the prisoner, he would be happy to perform the last rites.

The holy sacrament was the only food he would eat that day. After the priest had performed the little ceremony, they knelt together on the cold stone floor. At the end of a short prayer the priest blessed him and left him to his solitude.

He lay on his bunk staring up at the ceiling, not for one moment regretting his decision. Once he had explained his reasons, Bolchenkov had accepted them without comment, even nodding curtly as he left the cell. It was the nearest the Chief would ever get to admitting that he admired a man’s moral courage.

The prisoner had faced the prospect of death once before. It didn’t hold the same horror for him a second time. On that occasion he had thought about his wife, and the child he would never see. But now he could only think of his parents, who had died within a few days of each other. He was glad that neither of them had gone to their graves with this as their final memory of him.

For them, his return from Vietnam had been a triumph, and they were delighted when he had told them that he intended to go on serving his country. He might even have become Director if a President in trouble hadn’t decided to appoint a woman, in the hope that it would help his flagging campaign. It hadn’t.

Although it was Gutenburg who had placed the knife firmly between his shoulderblades, there wasn’t any doubt about who had handed him the weapon; she would have enjoyed playing Lady Macbeth. He would go to his grave knowing that few of his fellow countrymen would ever be aware of the sacrifice he had made. For him that only made it all the more worthwhile.

There would be no ceremonial farewell. No coffin draped with the American flag. No friends and relatives standing by the graveside to hear the priest extolling the dedication and public service which had been the hallmark of his career. No Marines raising their rifles proudly in the air. No twenty-one-gun salute. No folded flag given on behalf of the President to his next of kin.

No. He was destined to be just another of Tom Lawrence’s unsung heroes.

For him, all that was left was to be hanged by the neck in an unloved and unloving land. A shaven head, a number on his wrist, and an unmarked grave.

Why had he made that decision which had so moved the usually passionless Chief of Police? He didn’t have time to explain to him what had taken place in Vietnam, but that was where the die had been irrevocably cast.

Perhaps he should have faced the firing squad all those years ago in another far-off land. But he had survived. This time there was no one to rescue him at the last moment. And it was too late now to change his mind.

The Russian President woke in a foul mood that morning. The first person he took it out on was his chef. He swept his breakfast onto the floor and shouted, ‘Is this the sort of hospitality I can expect when I come to Leningrad?’

He stormed out of the room. In his study, a nervous official placed on his desk documents for signing which would empower the police to arrest citizens without having to charge them with any crime. This did nothing to change Zerimski’s black mood. He knew that it was merely a ploy to get a few pickpockets, dope peddlers and petty criminals off the streets. It was the Czar’s head he wanted delivered to him on a platter. If the Minister for the Interior continued to fail him, he would have to consider replacing him.

By the time his Chief of Staff arrived, Zerimski had signed away the lives of another hundred men whose only crime had been to support Chernopov during the election campaign. Rumours were already circulating around Moscow that the former Prime Minister planned to emigrate. The day he left the country, Zerimski would sign a thousand such orders, and would imprison everybody who had ever served Chernopov in any capacity.

He threw his pen down on the desk. All this had been achieved in less than a week. The thought of the havoc he was going to cause in a month, a year, made him feel a little more cheerful.

‘Your limousine is waiting, Mr President,’ said a petrified official whose face he couldn’t see. He smiled at the thought of what would undoubtedly be the highlight of his day. He had been looking forward to a morning at the Crucifix as others would anticipate an evening at the Kirov.

He left his study and strode down the long marble corridor of the newly commandeered office block towards the open door, his entourage moving swiftly ahead of him. He paused for a moment on the top step to look down at the gleaming motorcade. He had instructed Party officials that he must always have one more limousine than any previous President.

He climbed into the back of the third car and checked his watch: seven forty-three. The police had cleared the road an hour before so that the motorcade could proceed without encountering a single vehicle travelling in either direction. Holding up the traffic makes the local inhabitants aware that the President is in town, he explained to his Chief of Staff.

The traffic police estimated that the journey, which would normally have taken twenty minutes, should be completed in less than seven. As Zerimski shot through traffic lights of whatever colour and swung across the river, he didn’t even glance in the direction of the Hermitage. Once they reached the other side of the Neva, the driver of the leading car pushed the speedometer up to a hundred kilometres an hour to be sure the President would be on time for his first official engagement that morning.

As he lay on his bunk, the prisoner could hear the guards marching down the stone passageway towards him, the noise of their boots becoming a little louder with each step. He wondered how many of them there would be. They stopped outside his cell. A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. When you have only moments to live, you notice every detail.

Bolchenkov led them in. The prisoner was impressed that he had got back so quickly. He lit a cigarette and inhaled once before offering it to the prisoner. He shook his head. The Chief shrugged his shoulders, ground the cigarette out on the stone floor with his foot, and left to greet the President.

The next person to enter the cell was the priest. He was carrying a large open bible and softly chanting some words that meant nothing to the prisoner. Next were three men he recognised immediately. But this time there was no razor, no needle, just a pair of handcuffs. They stared at him, almost willing him to put up a fight, but to their disappointment he calmly placed his hands behind his back and waited. They slapped on the cuffs and pushed him out of the cell into the corridor. At the end of the long grey tunnel he could just make out a pinprick of sunlight.

The President stepped out of his limousine, to be welcomed by the Chief of Police. It amused him that he had awarded Bolchenkov the Order of Lenin on the same day as he had signed an order to arrest his brother.

Bolchenkov led Zerimski into the yard where the execution would take place. No one suggested removing the President’s fur-lined coat or hat on such a bitterly cold morning. As they crossed the courtyard, the small crowd huddled up against one wall began to applaud. The Chief saw a frown cross Zerimski’s face. The President had expected far more people to turn up to witness the execution of a man who had been sent to kill him.

Bolchenkov had anticipated that this might present a problem, so he leaned over and whispered in the President’s ear, ‘I was instructed to permit only Party members to attend.’ Zerimski nodded. Bolchenkov didn’t add how difficult it had been to drag even the few people present into the Crucifix that morning. Too many of them had heard the stories of how, once you were in, you never got out.

The Chief came to a halt by a plush eighteenth-century chair that Catherine the Great had bought from the estate of the British Prime Minister Robert Walpole in 1779, and that had been requisitioned from the Hermitage the previous day. The President sank into the comfortable seat directly in front of the newly erected gallows.

After only a few seconds Zerimski began fidgeting impatiently as he waited for the prisoner to appear. He looked across at the crowd, and his eyes rested on a young boy who was crying. It didn’t please him.

At that moment the prisoner emerged from the dark corridor into the stark morning light. The bald head covered in dried blood and the thin grey prison uniform made him look strangely anonymous. He appeared remarkably calm for someone who had only a few more moments to live.

The condemned man stared up into the morning sun and shivered as an officer of the guard marched forward, grabbed his left wrist and checked the number: 12995. The officer then turned to face the President and read out the court order.

While the officer went through the formalities, the prisoner looked around the yard. He saw the shivering crowd, most of them wary of moving a muscle for fear that they might be ordered to join him. His eyes settled on the boy, who was still weeping. If they had allowed him to make a will, he would have left everything to that child. He glanced briefly at the scaffold, then settled his gaze on the President. Their eyes met. Although he was terrified, the prisoner held Zerimski’s gaze. He was determined not to let him have the satisfaction of knowing just how frightened he was. If the President had stopped staring back at him and looked down at the ground between his feet, he would have seen for himself.

The officer, having completed his commission, rolled up his scroll and marched away. This was the sign for two of the thugs to come forward, grab one of the prisoner’s arms each, and lead him to the scaffold.

He walked calmly past the President and on towards the gallows. When he reached the first of the wooden steps, he glanced up at the clock tower. Three minutes to eight. Few people, he thought, ever know exactly how long they have left to live. He almost willed the clock to strike. He had waited twenty-eight years to repay his debt. Now, in these final moments, it all came back to him.

It had been a hot, sweaty May morning in Nan Dinh. Someone had to be made an example of, and as the senior officer, he had been singled out. His second-in-command had stepped forward and volunteered to take his place. And, like the coward he was, he had not protested. The Vietcong officer had laughed and accepted the offer, but then decided that both men should face the firing squad the following morning.

In the middle of the night, the same Lieutenant had come to his bedside and said they must try to escape. They would never have another chance. Security at the camp was always lax, because to the north lay a hundred miles of jungle occupied by the Vietcong, and to the south twenty-five miles of impenetrable swamp. Several men had tried their luck with that route before, and their luck had run out.

The Lieutenant said he would rather risk dying in the swamps than face the certainty of death by firing squad. As he stole away into the night, the Captain had reluctantly joined him. When the sun appeared above the horizon a few hours later, the camp was still within sight. Across the stinking, mosquito-infested swamp they could hear the guards laughing as they took turns to fire potshots at them. They had dived below the surface of the swamp, but after only a few seconds they had to come up and struggle on. Eventually, after the longest day of his life, darkness fell. He had begged the Lieutenant to carry on without him, but he had refused.

By the end of the second day, he wished he had been allowed to face the firing squad instead of dying in that godforsaken swamp in that godforsaken country. But on and on the young officer went. For eleven days and twelve nights they didn’t eat, surviving only by drinking from the endless torrents of rain. On the twelfth morning they reached dry land and, delirious from illness and exhaustion, he collapsed. He later learned that for four more days the Lieutenant had carried him through the jungle to safety.

The next thing he recalled was waking in an army hospital.

‘How long have I been here?’ he asked the nurse who was tending him.

‘Six days,’ she said. ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’

‘And my friend?’

‘He’s been up for the past couple of days. He’s already visited you once this morning.’

He fell asleep again, and when he woke he asked the nurse for a pen and paper. He spent the rest of the day sitting in his hospital bed writing and rewriting the citation. When he had made a fair copy, he asked that it should be sent to the commanding officer.

Six months later, he had stood on the White House lawn between Maggie and her father and had listened to the citation being read out. Lieutenant Connor Fitzgerald stepped forward and the President had awarded him the Medal of Honor.

As he began to mount the steps of the gallows, he thought of the one man who would mourn him when he discovered the truth. He had warned them not to tell him, because if he found out, he would break the contract, give himself up and return to the Crucifix. ‘You must understand,’ he had explained to them, ‘that you are dealing with a totally honourable man. So be sure that the clock has struck eight before he finds out he’s been deceived.’

The first chime sent a shiver through his body, and his thoughts were brought back to the moment.

On the second chime, the little boy who had been crying ran up to the foot of the gallows and fell on his knees.

On the third, the Chief placed a restraining arm on a young Corporal who had taken a step forward to drag the child away.

On the fourth, the prisoner smiled down at Sergei as if he were his only son.

On the fifth, the two thugs pushed him forward so that he was standing directly below the dangling rope.

On the sixth, the hangman placed the noose around his neck.

On the seventh, he lowered his eyes and stared directly at the President of the Russian Republic.

On the eighth, the hangman pulled the lever and the trapdoor opened.

As the body of Christopher Andrew Jackson swung above him, Zerimski began to applaud. Some of the crowd halfheartedly joined in.

A minute later the two thugs carried the lifeless body down from the gallows. Sergei rushed forward to help them lower his friend into the crude wooden coffin that lay on the ground beside the scaffold.

The Chief accompanied the President back to his limousine and the motorcade sped out of the prison gates even before the coffin lid had been nailed down. Four prisoners lifted the heavy casket onto their shoulders and headed towards the graveyard. Sergei walked by their side, out of the yard to a patch of rough ground at the back of the prison. Even the dead were not allowed to escape from the Crucifix.

If Sergei had looked back, he would have seen the rest of the crowd running out through the prison gates before they were slammed shut and the vast wooden bolts pushed back in place.

The pallbearers stopped by the side of an unmarked grave that other prisoners had just finished digging. They dropped the casket unceremoniously into the gaping hole and then, without a prayer or even a moment’s pause, shovelled the recently dug sods of earth on top of it.

The boy didn’t move until they had completed their task. A few minutes later, the guards herded the prisoners back to their cells. Sergei fell on his knees, wondering how long they would allow him to remain by the grave.

A moment later a hand was placed on the boy’s shoulder. He looked up and saw the Chief standing above him. A fair man, he’d once told Jackson.

‘Did you know him well?’ the Chief asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sergei. ‘He was my partner.’

The Chief nodded. ‘I knew the man he gave his life for,’ he said. ‘I only wish I had such a friend.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘Mrs Fitzgerald is not quite as clever as she thinks she is,’ said Gutenburg.

‘Amateurs rarely are,’ said Helen Dexter. ‘Does that mean you’ve got hold of the video?’

‘No, although I have got a pretty good idea where it is,’ said Gutenburg. He paused. ‘But not exactly where.’

‘Stop being a smartass,’ said Dexter, ‘and get to the point. You don’t need to prove to me how clever you are.’

Gutenburg knew that this was about as near as he would ever get to receiving a compliment from the Director.

‘Mrs Fitzgerald doesn’t realise that her home and office have been bugged for the past month, and that we’ve had agents watching her since the day her husband flew out of Dulles three weeks ago.’

‘So what have you found out?’

‘Not a lot when the individual bits of information are taken in isolation. But if you piece them together, they start making a picture.’ He pushed a file and a tape recorder across the table.

The Director ignored them. ‘Talk me through it,’ she said, beginning to sound a little irritated.

‘During Mrs Fitzgerald’s lunch with Joan Bennett at the Café Milano, the conversation was inconsequential until just before she left to return to work. It was then that she asked Bennett a question.’

‘And what was that question?’

‘Perhaps you’d like to hear for yourself.’ The Deputy Director pressed the ‘Play’ button on the tape recorder and sat back.

‘Me too. Black, no sugar.’ Footsteps could be heard walking away. ‘Joan, I’ve never asked you to break a confidence before, but there’s something I have to know.’

‘I hope I can help, but as I’ve already explained, if it concerns Connor, I’m probably as much in the dark as you are.’

‘Then I need the name of someone who isn’t in the dark.’

There followed a long silence before Joan said, ‘I suggest you look at the guest-list for Connor’s farewell party.’

‘Chris Jackson?’

‘No. Unfortunately, he’s no longer employed by the Company.’

There was another long silence.

‘That smooth little man who left without saying goodbye? The one who said he worked in loss adjustment?’

Gutenburg flicked off the tape.

‘Why did you ever go to that party?’ snapped Dexter.

‘Because you instructed me to find out if Fitzgerald had landed a job that would keep him in Washington. Don’t forget that it was his daughter who gave us the lead that made it possible to convince Thompson that it might not be wise to employ him. I’m sure you recall the circumstances.’

The Director frowned. ‘What happened after Mrs Fitzgerald left the Café Milano?’

‘Nothing significant until she returned home that night, when she made several calls — she never makes personal calls from the office — including one to Chris Jackson’s cellphone.’

‘Why would she do that, when she knew he’d left the Company?’

‘They go back a long way. He and Fitzgerald served in Vietnam together. In fact, it was Jackson who recommended Fitzgerald for the Medal of Honor, and who recruited him as an NOC.’

‘Did Jackson tell her about you?’ asked Dexter in disbelief.

‘No, he didn’t have a chance,’ replied Gutenburg. ‘I gave an order to block his cellphone the moment we discovered he was in Russia.’ He smiled. ‘We can, however, still identify who’s been trying to call him, and who he’s been trying to call.’

‘Does that mean you’ve found out who he’s reporting back to?’

‘Jackson has only dialled one number on that line since he landed in Russia, and I suspect he only risked that because it was an emergency.’

‘Who did he call?’ asked Dexter impatiently.

‘An unlisted number at the White House.’

Dexter didn’t even blink. ‘Our friend Mr Lloyd, no doubt.’

‘No doubt,’ replied Gutenburg.

‘Is Mrs Fitzgerald aware that Jackson is reporting directly to the White House?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Gutenburg. ‘Otherwise I suspect she would have tried to contact him herself some time ago.’

Dexter nodded. ‘Then we must make certain that she never finds out.’

Gutenburg showed no emotion. ‘Understood. But I can’t do anything about that until I’ve got my hands on the family video.’

‘What’s the latest status on that?’ asked Dexter.

‘We wouldn’t have progressed an inch if we hadn’t picked up a clue in an intercepted phone call. When Joan Bennett rang Mrs Fitzgerald from Langley at two in the morning to say she’d be with her in an hour, one of my people checked what she’d been calling up on the reference library’s computer. It soon became clear that she must have stumbled on something that made her suspect it was her old boss who was in prison in St Petersburg. But, as you know, she never kept her appointment with Mrs Fitzgerald.’

‘A little too close for comfort.’

‘Agreed. But when she failed to turn up, Mrs Fitzgerald drove out to the GW Parkway and waited for the police to dredge up the car.’

‘She probably saw a report on TV, or heard about it on the radio,’ said Dexter.

‘Yes, that’s what we assumed — the story led the local news that morning. Once she knew for certain it was Bennett in the car, she immediately phoned her daughter at Stanford. If she sounds a little sleepy, that’s because it was only five o’clock in the morning in California.’ He leant forward again and touched the ‘Play’ button on the tape recorder.

‘Hi, Tara. It’s Mom.’

‘Hi, Mom. What time is it?’

‘I’m sorry to call so early, darling, but I have some very sad news.’

‘Not Dad?’

‘No, Joan Bennett — she’s been killed in a car crash.’

‘Joan’s dead? I can’t believe it. Tell me it’s not true.’

‘I’m afraid it is. And I have a terrible feeling that in some way it’s connected to the reason Connor hasn’t returned home.’

‘Come on, Mom, aren’t you getting a little paranoid? After all, Dad’s only been away for three weeks.’

‘You may be right, but I’ve still decided to move that video you made of his farewell party to a safer place.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s the only proof I have that your father ever met a man called Nick Gutenburg, let alone worked for him.’

The Deputy Director touched the ‘Stop’ button. ‘The conversation continues for some time, but it doesn’t add a great deal to our knowledge. When Mrs Fitzgerald left the house a few minutes later carrying a videotape, the officer listening in realised the significance of what he’d just heard, and tailed her to the university. She didn’t go straight to the Admissions Office as usual, but dropped in at the library, where she went to the computer section on the first floor. She spent twenty minutes searching for something on one of the computers, and left with a printout of about a dozen pages. Then she took the elevator down to the audio-visual research centre on the ground floor. The officer didn’t want to risk joining her in the elevator, so once he knew which floor she’d stopped at, he went to the computer she’d been working on and tried to call up the last file that had been opened.’

‘She’d erased everything, of course,’ said Dexter.

‘Of course,’ said Gutenburg.

‘But what about the printout?’

‘Again, no clue as to what was on it.’

‘She can’t have lived with Connor Fitzgerald for twenty-eight years and not picked up something about the way we work.’

‘The officer left the library and waited in his car. After a few minutes Mrs Fitzgerald came out of the building. She was no longer carrying the tape, but she was...’

‘She must have deposited it in the audio-visual centre.’

‘Exactly my thought,’ said Gutenburg.

‘How many tapes does the university store in its library?’

‘Over twenty-five thousand,’ said Gutenburg.

‘We don’t have enough time to go through them all,’ said Dexter.

‘We wouldn’t have, if Mrs Fitzgerald hadn’t made her first mistake.’

Dexter didn’t interrupt this time.

‘When she left the library she didn’t have the video, but she did have the printout. Our agent followed her to the Admissions Office, where I’m happy to say her principles got the better of her.’

Dexter raised an eyebrow.

‘Before returning to her office, Mrs Fitzgerald called in at the recycling centre. She’s not the Vice-President of GULP by accident.’

‘GULP?’

‘Georgetown University Litter Patrol. She dumped the printout in the paper depository.’

‘Good. So what did you find on it?’

‘A complete list of the videos currently on loan and unlikely to be returned until the beginning of next term.’

‘So she must have felt it was safe to leave her video in an empty box, because no one would come across it for weeks.’

‘Correct,’ said Gutenburg.

‘How many videos are there that fall into that category?’

‘Four hundred and seventy-two,’ replied Gutenburg.

‘Presumably you’ve requisitioned every one.’

‘I thought about doing that, but if an inquisitive student or member of staff became aware of a CIA presence on the campus, all hell would break loose.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Dexter. ‘So how do you intend to go about finding that video?’

‘I’ve detailed a dozen hand-picked officers, all recent graduates, to check out every one of the titles on that list until they come across a home-made video in what should be an empty box. The problem is that, despite their being dressed like students, I can’t afford to leave any one of them inside the library for longer than twenty minutes, or let them go there more than twice in a day, if they’re not going to stick out like sore thumbs, especially as there’s hardly anyone around at this time of year. So the exercise is proving rather time-consuming.’

‘How long do you think it will be before they find it?’

‘We could get lucky and come across it almost immediately, but my bet is that it will probably take a day or two, three at the most.’

‘Don’t forget you have to be back in touch with Mrs Fitzgerald in less than forty-eight hours.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten. But if we find the tape before then, that won’t be necessary.’

‘Unless Mrs Fitzgerald also recorded her phone conversation with you.’

Gutenburg smiled. ‘She did, but it was erased within seconds of her replacing the receiver. You should have seen the pleasure it gave Professor Ziegler to demonstrate his latest toy.’

‘Excellent,’ said Dexter. ‘Ring me the moment you get your hands on that video. Then there will be nothing to stop us eliminating the one person who could still...’ The red phone on her desk began to ring, and she grabbed it without completing her sentence.

‘The Director,’ she said, pressing a button on her stopwatch. ‘When did this happen?... Are you absolutely certain?... And Jackson? Where is he?’ When she had heard the reply, she immediately put the phone down. Gutenburg noticed that the stopwatch had reached forty-three seconds.

‘I do hope you find that videotape within the next forty-eight hours,’ said the Director, looking across the desk at her Deputy.

‘Why?’ asked Gutenburg, looking anxious.

‘Because Mitchell tells me that Fitzgerald was hanged at eight o’clock this morning St Petersburg time, and that Jackson has just boarded a United Airlines flight out of Frankfurt, bound for Washington.’