The Eleventh Commandment

Chapter Twenty-Four

At seven A.M., the three thugs entered his cell and marched him off to the Chief’s office. Once they had left the room Bolchenkov locked the door, and without a word went over to a wardrobe in the corner. Inside was a policeman’s uniform, which he indicated Connor should change into. Because of his loss of weight over the past week, the clothes hung on him, and he was grateful for the braces. But with the aid of a wide-brimmed hat and a long blue coat, he managed to look like any of the thousand policemen who would be walking the beat in St Petersburg that morning. He left his prison clothes at the bottom of the wardrobe, wondering how the Chief would dispose of them. Still without saying a word, Bolchenkov ushered him out of his office and into a tiny anteroom, then locked him in.

After a long silence, Connor heard a door opening, then footsteps, followed by another door opening, which could have been the wardrobe in the Chief’s office. He didn’t move a muscle as he tried to work out what was going on. The first door opened again and two, possibly three, people rushed noisily into the office. They left a few seconds later, dragging something or someone out of the room and slamming the door behind them.

Moments later the door was unlocked, and Bolchenkov indicated that he should come out. They went through the office and back into the corridor. If the Chief turned left, they would be returning to his cell; but he turned right. Connor’s legs felt very weak, but he followed as quickly as he could.

The first thing he saw when he stepped into the courtyard was the scaffold, and someone placing a magnificent gilded chair with plush red upholstery a few paces in front of it. He didn’t need to be told who would be sitting there. As he and Bolchenkov walked across the yard, Connor noticed a group of policemen dressed in long blue coats like the one he was wearing dragging passers-by off the street, presumably to witness the execution.

The Chief moved quickly across the gravel to a car on the far side of the courtyard. Connor was about to open the passenger door when Bolchenkov shook his head and pointed to the driver’s seat. Connor took his place behind the wheel.

‘Drive up to the gate and then stop,’ said the Chief as he got into the passenger seat.

Connor kept the car in first gear as he drove slowly across the yard, stopping in front of two guards posted by the closed gate. One of them saluted the Chief and immediately began checking under the vehicle, while the other looked through the back window and inspected the boot.

The Chief leaned across and pulled down the sleeve on Connor’s left wrist. When the guards had completed their search, they returned to their positions and saluted Bolchenkov once again. Neither of them took the slightest interest in the driver. The vast wooden bolts were removed and the great gates of the Crucifix Prison were pulled open.

‘Get moving,’ said the Chief under his breath as a small boy ran into the prison compound, looking as if he knew exactly where he was going.

‘Which way?’ Connor whispered.

‘Right.’

Connor swung the car across the road and began driving alongside the Neva towards the city centre. There wasn’t another car in sight.

‘Cross the next bridge,’ said Bolchenkov, ‘then take the first left.’

As they passed the prison on the far side of the river, Connor glanced across at its high walls. The police were still trying to coax people in to add to the small crowd who had already gathered to witness his hanging. How was Bolchenkov going to get away with it?

Connor continued driving for another couple of hundred metres, until Bolchenkov said, ‘Pull over here.’ He slowed down and brought the car to a halt behind a large white BMW with one of its rear doors open.

‘This is where we part company, Mr Fitzgerald,’ said Bolchenkov. ‘Let’s hope we never meet again.’

Connor nodded his agreement. As he stepped out of the car, the Chief added, ‘You are privileged to have such a remarkable friend.’

It was to be some time before Connor understood the full significance of his words.

‘Your flight leaves from Gate 11, Mr Jackson. It will be boarding in twenty minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Connor, as he picked up his boarding pass. He began walking slowly towards Departures, hoping the official wouldn’t check his passport too closely. Although they had replaced Jackson’s photograph with his, Chris was three years older than him, two inches shorter, and was bald. If he was asked to remove his hat, he would have to explain why his head was covered in Gorbachev-like marks. In California they would simply have assumed he was a cult member.

He handed his passport over with his right hand — if he had used his left, the sleeve would have risen to reveal the tattooed number on his wrist. Once he was back in America he would buy himself a wider watchstrap.

The official gave the passport only a cursory glance before allowing him through. His newly acquired suitcase, containing nothing more than a change of clothes and a spongebag, passed through security without hindrance. He picked it up and made his way to Gate 11, where he took a seat in the far corner of the lounge facing away from the exit that led to the plane.

In the twenty-four hours since he had left the Crucifix, Connor hadn’t relaxed for one moment.

‘This is the first call for Finnair Flight 821 to Frankfurt,’ said a voice over the intercom.

Connor didn’t move. If they had told him the truth, he would never have allowed Chris to take his place. He tried to piece together everything that had happened after he had left Bolchenkov.

He had got out of the police car and walked as quickly as he could to the waiting BMW. The Chief had already begun his return journey to the Crucifix by the time Connor climbed into the back of the car and sat beside a pale, thin young man wearing a long black cashmere coat. Neither he nor the two similarly-dressed men seated in the front of the car spoke, or even acknowledged his presence.

The BMW eased out onto the empty road and moved quickly away from the city. Once they joined the highway, the driver ignored the speed limit. As 8.00 flicked up on the dashboard clock, a road sign told Connor that they were 150 kilometres from the Finnish border.

As the distance on the signs dropped to a hundred kilometres, then fifty, then thirty, then ten, Connor began to wonder how they were going to explain the presence of a Russian policeman to the border guards. But no explanation proved necessary. When the BMW was about three hundred metres from the no man’s land that divided the two countries, the driver flashed his lights four times. The barrier at the frontier rose immediately, allowing them to cross the border into Finland without even dropping their speed. Connor was beginning to appreciate the extent of the Russian Mafya’s influence.

No one in the car had uttered a word since their journey had begun, and once again the road signs gave Connor the only clue as to where they were heading. He began to think Helsinki must be their destination, but a dozen kilometres before they reached the outskirts of the city, they took a slip road off the highway. The car slowed as the driver manoeuvred over potholes and around blind bends that led deeper and deeper into the countryside. Connor gazed at the barren landscape, covered in a thick layer of snow.

‘This is the second call for Finnair Flight 821 to Frankfurt. Would all passengers please board the aircraft.’

Connor still didn’t move.

Forty minutes after leaving the highway, the car turned into the yard of what appeared to be a deserted farmhouse. A door was opened even before they had come to a halt. The tall young man jumped out and led Connor into the house. He didn’t acknowledge the cowering woman they passed as they marched in. Connor followed him up a flight of stairs to the first landing. The Russian opened a door, and Connor entered the room. The door was slammed behind him, and he heard another key turning in another lock.

He walked across the room and looked out of the only window. One of the bodyguards was standing in the yard, staring up at him. He moved away from the window, and noticed that a complete set of clothes and a black rabbit-skin hat had been laid out on a small, uncomfortable-looking bed.

Connor stripped off all his clothes and threw them over a chair by the bed. In a corner of the room was a plastic curtain, and behind it a rusty shower. With the aid of a rough bar of soap and a trickle of lukewarm water, Connor spent several minutes trying to remove the stench of the Crucifix from his body. He dried himself with two dishcloths. When he looked in the mirror he realised that it would be some time before the scars on his head would heal and his hair return to its natural length. But the number tattooed on his wrist would be with him for the rest of his life.

He dressed in the clothes that had been left on the bed. Although the trousers were a couple of inches too short, the shirt and jacket fitted quite well, even though he must have lost at least ten pounds while he was in prison.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and the key turned in the lock. The woman who had been in the hall when they’d arrived was standing there, holding a tray. She placed it on the side table and slipped back out before Connor could thank her. He looked down at the bowl of warm broth and the three bread rolls, and literally licked his lips. He sat down and began to attack the food, but after sipping a few spoonfuls of soup and devouring one of the rolls he felt full. Suddenly overcome by drowsiness, he slumped down on the bed.

‘This is the third call for Finnair Flight 821 to Frankfurt. Would all remaining passengers please board the aircraft.’

Connor still remained in his place.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembered was waking and finding the pale young man standing at the end of the bed, looking down at him.

‘We leave for the airport in twenty minutes,’ he had told him, and tossed a thick brown package onto the bed.

Connor sat up and tore open the envelope. It contained a first-class ticket to Dulles International, a thousand US dollars, and an American passport.

He flicked open the passport and read the name ‘Christopher Andrew Jackson’, above a photograph of himself. He looked up at the young Russian.

‘What does this mean?’

‘It means you’re still alive,’ said Alexei Romanov.

‘This is the final call for Flight 821 for Frankfurt. Would any remaining passengers please take their seats immediately.’

Connor strolled across to the gate agent, handed over his boarding pass and made his way to the waiting plane. The steward checked his seat number and pointed to the front section of the aircraft. Connor didn’t have to search for the window seat in the fifth row, because the tall young Russian was already strapped into the aisle seat. It was obviously his job not only to pick up the package, but also to deliver it and to make sure the contract was carried out. As Connor stepped over his escort’s feet, a stewardess asked, ‘Can I take your hat, Mr Jackson?’

‘No, thank you.’

He leaned back in the comfortable seat, but didn’t relax until the plane had taken off. Then it began to sink in for the first time that he really had escaped. But to what, he wondered. He glanced to his left: from now on someone would be with him night and day until he had carried out his side of the bargain.

During the flight to Germany, Romanov never once opened his mouth, except to eat a few morsels of the meal they put in front of him. Connor left an empty plate, and then passed the time by reading Finnair’s in-flight magazine. By the time the plane landed in Frankfurt, he knew all about saunas, javelin throwers, and the Finns’ dependence on the Russian economy.

As they walked into the transit lounge, Connor spotted the CIA agent immediately. He quickly detached himself from his escort, returning twenty minutes later, to Romanov’s evident relief.

Connor knew it would be easy to shake off his minder once they were back on his own territory, but he also knew that if he tried to escape, they would carry out the threat the Chief had so vividly described. He shuddered at the thought of any of those thugs laying a finger on Maggie or Tara.

The United Airlines 777 took off for Dulles on schedule. Connor managed to eat most of the first and second courses of his lunch. The moment the stewardess removed his tray, he pressed the button in his armrest, reclined his seat and began to think about Maggie. How he envied the fact that she could always... A few moments later he fell asleep on a plane for the first time in twenty years.

When he woke, they were serving a snack. He must have been the only person on the flight to eat everything they put in front of him, including the two pots of marmalade.

In the final hour before they were due to land in Washington, his thoughts returned to Chris Jackson and the sacrifice he’d made. Connor knew he could never repay him, but he was determined not to let it be a worthless gesture.

His mind switched to Dexter and Gutenburg, who must now be assuming he was dead. First they had sent him to Russia to save their own skins. Next they had murdered Joan, because she just might have passed some information on to Maggie. How long would it be before they decided Maggie herself had become too great a risk, and that she also needed to be disposed of?

‘This is your captain speaking. We have been cleared to land at Dulles International Airport. Would the cabin crew please prepare for landing. On behalf of United Airlines, I’d like to welcome you to the United States.’

Connor flicked open his passport. Christopher Andrew Jackson was back on his home soil.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Maggie arrived at Dulles Airport an hour early — a habit which used to drive Connor mad. She checked the arrivals screen, and was pleased to see that the flight from San Francisco was scheduled to land on time.

She picked up a copy of the Washington Post from the newsstand and wandered into the nearest coffee shop, perched herself on a stool at the counter and ordered a black coffee and a croissant. She didn’t notice the two men occupying a table in the opposite corner, one of whom also had a copy of the Washington Post which he appeared to be reading. But however hard she’d looked, she wouldn’t have seen the third man who was taking more interest in her than in the arrivals screen he was looking up at. He had already spotted the other two men in the corner.

Maggie read the Post from cover to cover, checking her watch every few minutes. By the time she had ordered her second coffee, she was delving into the supplement on Russia published in anticipation of President Zerimski’s forthcoming visit to Washington. Maggie didn’t like the sound of the Communist leader, who seemed to belong in the last century.

She had downed her third coffee twenty minutes before the plane was scheduled to land, so she slipped off the stool and headed for the nearest bank of phones. Two men followed her out of the restaurant, while a third slipped from one shadow into another.

She dialled a cellphone number. ‘Good morning, Jackie,’ she said when her deputy answered. ‘I’m just checking to see if everything’s OK.’

‘Maggie,’ said a voice trying not to sound too exasperated, ‘it’s seven o’clock in the morning, and I’m still in bed. You called yesterday, remember? The university is in recess, no one is due back until the fourteenth of January, and after three years of being your deputy, I am just about capable of running the office in your absence.’

‘Sorry, Jackie,’ said Maggie. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you. I forgot how early it was. I promise not to bother you again.’

‘I hope Connor gets back soon, and that Tara and Stuart keep you fully occupied for the next few weeks,’ said Jackie. ‘Have a good Christmas, and I don’t want to hear from you again before the end of January,’ she added with feeling.

Maggie put the phone down, realising she had only been killing time, and shouldn’t have bothered Jackie in the first place. She chastised herself, and decided she wouldn’t call her again until the New Year.

She walked slowly over to the arrivals gate and joined the growing number of people peering through the windows at the runway, where early-morning flights were taking off and landing. Three men who weren’t checking the insignia of every aircraft that arrived continued to watch Maggie as she waited for the board to confirm that United’s Flight 50 from San Francisco had landed. When the message finally appeared, she smiled. One of the three men punched eleven numbers into his cellphone, and passed the information back to his superior at Langley.

Maggie smiled again when a man wearing a 49ers cap emerged from the jetway — the first passenger off the ‘red-eye’. She had to wait for another ten minutes before Tara and Stuart came through the door. She had never seen her daughter looking more radiant. The moment Stuart spotted Maggie, he gave her the huge grin that had become so familiar during their holiday in Australia.

Maggie hugged them in turn. ‘It’s wonderful to see you both,’ she said. She took one of Tara’s bags and led them towards the subway which led to the main terminal.

One of the men who had been watching her was already waiting in the short-term parking lot, in the passenger seat of a Toyota transporter with a load of eleven new cars. The other two were running across the lot.

Maggie, Tara and Stuart stepped into the cold morning air and walked over to Maggie’s car. ‘Isn’t it time you got yourself something more up to date than this old scrapheap, Mom?’ Tara asked in mock horror. ‘I was still in high school when you bought it, and it was second-hand then.’

‘The Toyota is the safest car on the road,’ said Maggie primly, ‘as Consumer Reports regularly confirms.’

‘No thirteen-year-old car is safe on the road,’ replied Tara.

‘In any case,’ said Maggie, ignoring her daughter’s jibe, ‘your father thinks we should hold on to it until he begins his new job, when he’ll be given a company car.’

The mention of Connor brought a moment of awkward silence.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing your husband again, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ said Stuart as he climbed into the back seat.

Maggie didn’t say, ‘And so am I,’ but satisfied herself with, ‘So this is your first visit to America.’

‘That’s right,’ Stuart replied as Maggie switched on the ignition. ‘And already I’m not sure I’ll ever want to return to Oz.’

‘We have enough overpaid lawyers in the States already, without adding another one from down under,’ said Tara as they waited in line to pay the parking fee.

Maggie smiled at her, feeling happier than she had for weeks.

‘When do you have to go home, Stuart?’

‘If you feel he’s already outstayed his welcome, we could just turn round and take the next flight back, Mom,’ said Tara.

‘No, I didn’t mean that, it’s just...’

‘I know — you do love to plan ahead,’ said Tara with a laugh. ‘If she could, Stuart, Mom would make students register for Georgetown at conception.’

‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ said Maggie.

‘I’m not expected back at my desk until the fifth of January,’ said Stuart. ‘I hope you’ll be able to tolerate me for that long.’

‘She’s not going to be given a lot of choice,’ said Tara, squeezing his hand.

Maggie handed a ten-dollar bill to the cashier before pulling out of the parking lot and onto the highway. She glanced in the rear-view mirror, but didn’t notice a nondescript blue Ford about a hundred yards behind her, travelling at roughly the same speed. The man in the passenger seat was reporting in to his superior at Langley that the subject had left ‘Kerbside’ at seven forty-three and was headed in the direction of Washington with the two packages she had picked up.

‘Did you enjoy San Francisco, Stuart?’

‘Every moment,’ he replied. ‘We’re planning to spend a couple more days there on my way back.’

When Maggie glanced in her rear-view mirror again, she saw a Virginia State patrol car coming up behind her, its lights flashing.

‘Is he following me, do you think? I certainly wasn’t speeding,’ said Maggie, looking down to check her speedometer.

‘Mom, this car is practically an antique, and should have been towed away years ago. It could be anything, from your brake lights to defective tyres. Just pull over.’ Tara looked out the back window. ‘And when the traffic cop speaks to you, be sure to flash that Irish smile of yours.’

Maggie pulled over as the blue Ford drove by in the centre lane.

‘Shit,’ said the driver, as he shot past them.

Maggie wound down her window as the two policemen stepped out of their patrol car and walked slowly towards them. The first officer smiled and said politely, ‘May I see your licence, ma’am?’

‘Certainly, officer,’ said Maggie, returning his smile. She leaned over, opened her bag and began rummaging around inside as the second patrolman indicated to Stuart that he should also wind down his window. Stuart thought this was an odd request, as he could hardly have been guilty of any traffic offence, but as he wasn’t in his own country, he thought it wiser to comply. He wound down the window just as Maggie located her driving licence. As she turned to hand it over, the second policeman drew his gun and fired three shots into the car.

The two of them walked quickly back to their patrol car. While one eased the car into the early-morning traffic, the other phoned the man in the passenger seat of the transporter. ‘A Toyota has broken down, and is in need of your immediate assistance.’

Soon after the patrol car accelerated away, the transporter carrying eleven brand-new Toyotas drew up and stopped in front of the stationary vehicle. The man in the passenger seat, wearing a Toyota cap and blue overalls, leapt out of the cab and ran towards the stationary car. He opened the driver’s door, lifted Maggie gently across to the passenger seat and pulled the lever that opened the car’s bonnet, then leaned over to where Stuart was slumped, removed his wallet and passport from his jacket pocket and replaced them with another passport and a slim paperback book.

The driver of the transporter opened the Toyota’s bonnet and checked underneath. He swiftly deactivated the tracking device and slammed the bonnet closed. His companion was now seated behind the wheel of the Toyota. He turned on the ignition, put the car into first gear and slowly drove up the transporter’s ramp, taking the one space left. He switched off the ignition, put on the handbrake, fastened the car’s wheels to the ramp and rejoined the driver in the cab. The entire exercise had taken less than three minutes.

The transporter resumed its journey towards Washington, but after half a mile it took the air freight exit and drove back in the direction of the airport.

The CIA officers in the blue Ford had come off the highway at the next exit, then doubled back and rejoined the morning traffic heading into Washington. ‘She must have committed some minor offence,’ the driver was saying to his superior at Langley. ‘It wouldn’t be surprising with a car that old.’

The officer in the passenger seat was surprised to find that the Toyota was no longer registering on his screen. ‘They’re probably on their way back to Georgetown,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll call in the moment we regain contact.’

As the two agents sped towards Washington, the transporter carrying the twelve Toyotas turned left off the Dulles service road at a sign marked ‘Cargo Only’. After a few hundred yards it turned right, through a high wire gate held open by two men in airport overalls, and drove down an old runway towards an isolated hangar. A lone figure stood at the entrance to guide them in, as if the transporter was a recently-landed aircraft.

The driver brought the vehicle to a halt next to an unmarked van. Seven men in white overalls quickly emerged from the back. One of them undid the chains that secured the old car to the transporter. Another took his place behind the wheel, released the handbrake and allowed the Toyota to roll slowly back down the ramp to the ground. The moment it came to a halt, its doors were opened and the bodies inside were carefully lifted out.

The man in the Toyota cap jumped out of the transporter and took the wheel of the old car. He threw it into first gear, swung round in a circle and shot out of the hangar as if he had been driving it all his life. As he passed through the open gate the bodies were being gently placed in the rear of the van, where three coffins were waiting for them. One of the men in overalls said, ‘Don’t put the lids on until you’re approaching the plane.’

‘OK, doc,’ came the reply.

‘And once the hold’s been closed, remove the bodies and strap them into their seats.’

As another man nodded, the transporter backed out of the hangar and retraced its route down the old runway and out of the gates. When the driver reached the highway he turned left and headed towards Leesburg, where he would deliver eleven new Toyotas to the local dealer. His fee for six hours’ unscheduled work would allow him to buy one of them.

The wire gate had already been locked and bolted by the time the van drove out of the hangar and began heading slowly towards the cargo docking area. The driver passed rows of cargo planes, finally stopping at the back of a 747 marked ‘Air Transport International’. The hold was open, and two customs officials stood waiting at the bottom of the ramp. They began checking the paperwork just as the two CIA officers in the blue Ford drove past 1648 Avon Place. After cautiously circling the block, the agents reported back to Langley that there was no sign either of the car or the three packages.

The old Toyota came off Route 66 and joined the highway into Washington. The driver put his foot down hard on the accelerator and sped towards the city. Over his earphone he listened to the two officers in the Ford being instructed to go to Mrs Fitzgerald’s office to see if the car was in her usual parking space behind the Admissions building.

Once the customs officials had satisfied themselves that the coroner’s documents were in order, one of them said, ‘OK. Remove the lids.’

They carefully checked through the clothes, and in the mouths and other orifices of all three bodies, then countersigned the documents. The lids were replaced, and the men in white overalls carried the coffins one by one up the ramp and laid them side by side in the hold.

The ramp of the 747 was being raised as the old Toyota drove past Christ Church. It sped up the hill for another three blocks before screeching to a halt in the driveway of 1648 Avon Place.

The driver had already slipped around the side of the house and let himself in through the back door by the time the doctor began checking the pulses of his three patients. He ran upstairs to the master bedroom, and opened the chest of drawers by the side of the bed. He rummaged among the sports shirts, took out the brown envelope marked ‘Not to be opened before 17 December’, and slipped it into an inside pocket. He pulled down two suitcases from the top of the wardrobe and quickly filled them with clothes. Next he removed a small cellophane packet from his overalls and slipped it into a cosmetics bag which he threw into one of the cases. Before he left the bedroom he switched on the bathroom light, then the light at the bottom of the stairs, and finally, using the remote control, the television in the kitchen, setting the volume to high.

He left the suitcases by the back door and returned to the Toyota, raised the bonnet and reactivated the tracking device.

The CIA officers had begun slowly circling the university parking lot for a second time when a blip reappeared on their screen. The driver quickly turned round and headed back towards the Fitzgeralds’ home.

The man in the Toyota cap returned to the rear of the house, grabbed the suitcases and let himself out by the back gate. He spotted the taxi parked in front of Tudor Place, and jumped into the back just as the two agents returned to Avon Place. A relieved young man called Langley to report that the Toyota was parked in its usual place, and that he could see and hear a television on in the kitchen. No, he couldn’t explain how the tracking device had been out of action for nearly an hour.

The taxi driver didn’t even turn his head when the man jumped in the back of his cab carrying two suitcases. But then, he knew exactly where Mr Fitzgerald wanted to be taken.

Chapter Twenty-Six

‘Are you telling me that all three of them have disappeared off the face of the earth?’ said the Director.

‘It looks that way,’ replied Gutenburg. ‘It was such a professional operation that if I didn’t know he was dead, I would have said it had all the hallmarks of Connor Fitzgerald.’

‘As we know that’s impossible, who do you think it was?’

‘My bet is still Jackson,’ replied the Deputy Director.

‘Well, if he’s back in the country, Mrs Fitzgerald will know her husband is dead. So we can expect to see her home video on the early-evening news any day now.’

Gutenburg grinned complacently. ‘Not a chance,’ he said, passing a sealed package across the table to his boss. ‘One of my agents finally found the tape, a few minutes before the university library closed last night.’

‘That’s one problem dealt with,’ said the Director, tearing open the package. ‘But what’s to stop Jackson telling Lloyd who’s really buried in the Crucifix?’

Gutenburg shrugged his shoulders. ‘Even if he does, what use is the information to Lawrence? He’s hardly going to phone up his pal Zerimski, a few days before he’s due to arrive in Washington on a goodwill visit, to let him know that the man they hanged for planning his assassination wasn’t a South African terrorist hired by the Mafya after all, but a CIA agent carrying out orders that had come directly from the White House.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Dexter. ‘But as long as Jackson and the Fitzgerald women are out there, we still have a problem. So I suggest you deploy the best dozen agents we’ve got to track them down, and as quickly as possible — I don’t care what sector they’re working in or who they’re assigned to. If Lawrence can prove what really happened in St Petersburg, he’ll have more than enough excuse to call for someone’s resignation.’

Gutenburg was unusually silent.

‘And as it’s your signature at the bottom of every relevant document,’ continued the Director, ‘I would, alas, be left with no choice but to let you go.’

Small beads of sweat appeared on Gutenburg’s forehead.

Stuart thought he was coming out of a bad dream. He tried to recall what had happened. They had been picked up at the airport by Tara’s mother, who had been driving them towards Washington. But the car had been stopped by a traffic cop, and he had been asked to wind down his window. And then...?

He looked around. He was on another plane, but where was it going? Tara’s head was resting on his shoulder; on her other side was her mother, also fast asleep. All the other seats were empty.

He began to go over the facts again, as he always did when preparing for a case. He and Tara had landed at Dulles. Maggie had been waiting for them at the gate...

His concentration was broken when a smartly dressed middle-aged man appeared by his side and leaned over to check his pulse.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Stuart quietly, but the doctor didn’t reply. He carried out the same cursory examination on Tara and Maggie, then disappeared back up to the front of the plane.

Stuart unfastened his seatbelt, but hadn’t enough strength to stand up. Tara had begun stirring, while Maggie remained resolutely asleep. He checked his pockets. They had taken his wallet and passport. He tried desperately to make some sense of it. Why should anyone go to these extremes for a few hundred dollars, some credit cards and an Australian passport? Even more strangely, they seemed to have replaced them with a slim volume of Yeats’s poems. He had never read Yeats before he met Tara, but after she had returned to Stanford he had begun to enjoy his work. He opened the book at the first poem, ‘A Dialogue of Self and Soul’. The words ‘I am content to live it all again, and yet again’ were underlined. He flicked through the pages, and noticed that other lines had also been marked.

As he was considering the significance of this, a tall, heavily built man appeared by his side, towering menacingly over him. Without a word, he snatched the book from Stuart’s hands and returned to the front of the plane.

Tara touched his hand. He quickly turned to her and whispered in her ear, ‘Say nothing.’ She glanced across at her mother, who still hadn’t stirred, seemingly at peace with the world.

Once Connor had placed the two suitcases in the hold and checked that all three passengers were alive and unharmed, he left the aircraft and climbed into the back of a BMW whose engine was already running.

We continue to keep our side of the bargain,’ said Alexei Romanov, who was sitting next to him. Connor nodded his agreement as the BMW drove out through the wire gates and began its journey to Ronald Reagan National Airport.

After his experience at Frankfurt, where the local CIA agent had nearly spotted him because Romanov and his two sidekicks did practically everything except publicly announce their arrival, Connor realised that if he was going to pull off his plan to rescue Maggie and Tara, he would have to run the operation himself. Romanov had finally accepted this when he had been reminded of the clause agreed by his father. Now Connor could only hope that Stuart was as resourceful as he had appeared to be when he had quizzed him on the beach in Australia. He prayed that Stuart would notice the words he’d underlined in the book he’d slipped into his pocket.

The BMW drew up outside the upper-level Departure entrance of Washington National Airport. Connor stepped out, with Romanov a pace behind. Two other men joined them and followed Connor as he strolled calmly into the airport and over to the ticket counter. He needed them all to relax before he made his next move.

When Connor handed over his ticket, the man behind the American Airlines desk said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Radford, but Flight 383 to Dallas is running a few minutes late, though we hope to make up the time en route. You’ll be boarding at Gate 32.’

Connor walked casually in the direction of the lounge, but stopped when he reached a bank of telephones. He chose one with occupied booths on either side. Romanov and the two bodyguards hovered a few paces away, looking displeased. Connor smiled at them innocently, then slipped Stuart’s international phone-card into the slot and dialled a Cape Town number.

The phone rang for some time before it was eventually answered.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Connor.’

There was a protracted silence. ‘I thought it was only Jesus who could rise from the dead,’ said Carl eventually.

‘I spent some time in purgatory before I managed it,’ Connor replied.

‘Well, at least you’re alive, my friend. What can I do for you?’

‘First, as far as the Company is concerned, there will be no second coming.’

‘Understood,’ said Carl.

Connor was answering Carl’s last question when he heard the final call for Flight 383 to Dallas. He put the phone down, smiled at Romanov again, and headed quickly for Gate 32.

When Maggie eventually opened her eyes, Stuart leaned across and warned her to say nothing until she was fully awake. A few moments later a stewardess appeared and asked them to lower their tray tables. An inedible selection of food appeared, as if they were on a normal first-class flight.

As he contemplated a fish that should have been left in the sea, Stuart whispered to Maggie and Tara, ‘I haven’t a clue why we’re here or where we’re going, but I have to believe that in some way it’s connected with Connor.’

Maggie nodded, and quietly began to tell them everything she had found out since Joan’s death.

‘But I don’t think the people holding us can be the CIA,’ she said, ‘because I told Gutenburg that if I was missing for more than seven days, that video would be released to the media.’

‘Unless they’ve already found it,’ said Stuart.

‘That’s not possible,’ said Maggie emphatically.

‘Then who the hell are they?’ said Tara.

No one offered an opinion as the stewardess reappeared and silently removed their trays.

‘Have we got anything else to go on?’ Maggie asked after the stewardess had left them.

‘Only that somebody put a book of Yeats’s poems in my pocket,’ said Stuart.

Tara noticed Maggie give a start.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, looking anxiously at her mother, whose eyes were now filling with tears.

‘Don’t you understand what this means?’

‘No,’ said Tara, looking puzzled.

‘Your father must still be alive. Let me see it,’ said Maggie. ‘He might have left a message in it.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got it any more. I’d hardly opened it before a heavy appeared from the front of the plane and snatched it away,’ said Stuart. ‘I did notice that a few words were underlined, though.’

‘What were they?’ asked Maggie urgently.

‘I couldn’t make much sense of them.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Can you remember any of them?’

Stuart closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. ‘“Content”,’ he said suddenly.

Maggie smiled. ‘“I am content to live it all again, and yet again”.’

Flight 383 did land in Dallas on time, and when Connor and Romanov stepped out of the airport another white BMW was waiting for them. Had the Mafya placed a bulk order? Connor wondered. The latest pair of thugs to accompany them looked as if they had been hired from central casting — even their shoulder holsters were bulging under their jackets.

He could only hope that the Cape Town branch was a recent subsidiary, although he found it hard to believe that Carl Koeter, with over twenty years’ experience as the CIA’s senior operative in South Africa, wouldn’t be able to handle the latest new kid on the block.

The trip into downtown Dallas took just over twenty minutes. Connor sat silently in the back of the car, aware that he might be about to come face to face with someone else who had worked for the CIA for almost thirty years. Although they’d never met, he knew this was the biggest risk he had taken since arriving back in America. But if the Russians expected him to honour the most demanding clause in their contract, he had to have the use of the only rifle ideal for carrying out such an assignment.

After another silent journey they pulled up outside Harding’s Big Game Emporium. Connor slipped quickly into the shop, with Romanov and his two new shadows dogging his every step. He went up to the counter, while they pretended to take a keen interest in a rack of automatic pistols on the far side of the shop.

Connor glanced around. His search needed to be quick, unobtrusive but thorough. After a few moments he was convinced there were no security cameras in the shop.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said a young assistant dressed in a long brown coat. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m out here on a shooting trip, and I’d like to buy a rifle.’

‘Do you have any particular model in mind?’

‘Yes, a Remington 700.’

‘That should be no problem, sir.’

‘It may need a few modifications,’ said Connor.

The assistant hesitated. ‘Excuse me for a moment, sir.’ He disappeared through a curtain into a back room.

A few moments later an older man, also dressed in a long brown coat, appeared through the curtain. Connor was annoyed: he had hoped to purchase the rifle without having to meet the legendary Jim Harding.

‘Good afternoon,’ the man said, looking closely at his customer. ‘I understand you’re interested in a Remington 700.’ He paused. ‘With modifications.’

‘Yes. You were recommended by a friend,’ said Connor.

‘Your friend must be a professional,’ said Harding.

As soon as the word ‘professional’ was mentioned, Connor knew he was being tested. If Harding hadn’t been the Stradivarius of gunsmiths, he would have left the shop without another word.

‘What modifications did you have in mind, sir?’ asked Harding, his eyes never leaving the customer’s.

Connor described in detail the gun he had left in Bogota, watching carefully for any reaction.

Harding’s face remained impassive. ‘I might have something that would interest you, sir,’ he said, then turned and disappeared behind the curtain.

Once again, Connor considered leaving, but within seconds Harding reappeared carrying a familiar leather case, which he placed on the counter.

‘This model came into our possession after the owner’s recent death,’ he explained. He flicked up the catches, opened the lid and swivelled the case round so that Connor could inspect the rifle. ‘Every part is hand-made, and I doubt if you’ll find a finer piece of craftsmanship this side of the Mississippi.’ Harding touched the rifle lovingly. ‘The stock is fibreglass, for lightness and better balance. The barrel is imported from Germany — I’m afraid the Krauts still produce the best. The scope is a Leupold 10 Power with mil dots, so you don’t even have to adjust for wind. With this rifle you could kill a mouse at four hundred paces, never mind a moose. If you’re technically minded, you would be capable of a half-minute of angle at one hundred yards.’ He looked up to see if his customer understood what he was talking about, but Connor’s expression gave him no clue. ‘A Remington 700 with such modifications is only sought after by the most discerning of customers,’ he concluded.

Connor didn’t remove any of the five pieces from their places, for fear Mr Harding would discover just how discerning a customer he was.

‘How much?’ he asked, realising for the first time that he had no idea of the price of a hand-crafted Remington 700.

‘Twenty-one thousand dollars,’ Harding said. ‘Though we do have the standard model should you...’

‘No,’ said Connor. ‘This one will be just fine.’

‘And how will you be paying, sir?’

‘Cash.’

‘Then I will require some form of identification,’ said Harding. ‘I’m afraid there’s even more paperwork since they passed the Instant ID and Registration Law to replace the Brady Bill.’

Connor took out a Virginia driver’s licence he’d bought for a hundred dollars from a pickpocket in Washington the previous day.

Harding studied the licence and nodded. ‘All we need now, Mr Radford, is for you to fill in these three forms.’

Connor wrote out the name, address and Social Security number of the assistant manager of a shoe store in Richmond.

As Harding entered the numbers into a computer, Connor tried to look bored, but he was silently praying that Mr Radford hadn’t reported the loss of his driver’s licence during the past twenty-four hours.

Suddenly Harding looked up from the screen. ‘Is that a double-barrelled name?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Connor, not missing a beat. ‘Gregory is my first name. My mother had a thing about Gregory Peck.’

Harding smiled. ‘Mine too.’

After a few more moments Harding said, ‘That all seems to be in order, Mr Radford.’

Connor turned and nodded to Romanov, who strolled over and extracted a thick bundle of notes from an inside pocket. He spent some time ostentatiously peeling off hundred-dollar bills, counting out 210 of them before passing them across to Harding. What Connor had hoped would appear no more than a casual purchase, the Russian was fast turning into a pantomime. The sidekicks might as well have stood out on the street and sold tickets for the performance.

Harding wrote out a receipt for the cash and handed it to Connor, who left without another word. One of the hoodlums grabbed the rifle and ran out of the shop onto the sidewalk as if he had just robbed a bank. Connor climbed into the back of the BMW and wondered if it was possible to attract any more attention to themselves. The car screeched away from the kerb and cut into the fast-moving traffic, setting off a cacophony of horns. Yes, Connor thought, they obviously could. He remained speechless as the driver broke the speed limit all the way back to the airport. Even Romanov began to look a little apprehensive. Connor was quickly discovering that the new Mafia in the States were still amateurish compared with their cousins from Italy. But it wouldn’t be long before they caught up, and when they did, God help the FBI.

Fifteen minutes later, the BMW drew up outside the entrance to the airport. Connor stepped out and began walking towards the revolving door as Romanov gave instructions to the two men in the car, finally peeling off several more hundred-dollar bills and handing them over. When he joined Connor at the check-in counter, he whispered confidently, ‘The rifle will be in Washington within forty-eight hours.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Connor as they headed towards the departure lounge.

‘You know the whole of Yeats off by heart?’ asked Stuart in disbelief.

‘Um, most of it,’ admitted Maggie. ‘But then, I do reread a few poems almost every night before going to bed.’

‘Darling Stuart, you’ve still got so much to learn about the Irish,’ said Tara. ‘Now, try to remember some more of the words.’

Stuart thought for a moment. ‘“Hollow”!’ he said triumphantly.

‘“Through hollow lands and hilly lands”?’ asked Maggie.

‘That’s it.’

‘So it can’t be Holland we’re headed for,’ said Tara.

‘Stop being facetious,’ said Stuart.

‘Then try to remember some more words,’ said Tara.

Stuart began to concentrate once again. ‘“Friend”,’ he said eventually.

‘“Always we’d have the new friend meet the old”,’ said Maggie.

‘So we’re about to meet a new friend in a new country,’ said Tara.

‘But who? And where?’ said Maggie, as the plane continued its journey through the night.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Within moments of reading the priority message, Gutenburg was dialling the number in Dallas. When Harding came on the line, the Deputy Director of the CIA simply said, ‘Describe him.’

‘Six foot, possibly six one. He was wearing a hat, so I couldn’t see his hair colour.’

‘Age?’

‘Fifty. Could be a year or two either way.’

‘Eyes?’

‘Blue.’

‘Dress?’

‘Sports jacket, khaki pants, blue shirt, penny loafers, no tie. Smart but casual. I assumed he was one of ours, until I noticed that he was accompanied by a couple of well-known local hoodlums, who he tried to pretend weren’t with him. There was also a tall young man who never once opened his mouth, but he was the one who paid for the gun — in cash.’

‘And the first man made it clear he wanted those particular modifications?’

‘Yes. I’m pretty sure he knew exactly what he was looking for.’

‘Right — hold on to the cash. We may be able to identify a fingerprint from one of the bills.’

‘You won’t find any of his prints on them,’ said Harding. ‘The young man paid, and one of the hoodlums carried the gun out of the shop.’

‘Whoever it was obviously wasn’t willing to risk taking it through airport security,’ said Gutenburg. ‘The two thugs must simply have been couriers. What name did he sign the forms in?’

‘Gregory Peck Radford.’

‘Identification?’

‘Virginia driver’s licence. The address and date of birth all tied in with the correct Social Security number.’

‘I’ll have an agent with you in under an hour. He can start by e-mailing me any details you have on the two hoodlums, and I’ll need a police artist’s computerised sketch of the main suspect.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Harding.

‘Why not?’

‘Because the whole transaction was recorded on video.’ Gutenburg couldn’t see Harding’s smile of satisfaction as he added, ‘Even you wouldn’t have spotted the security camera.’

Stuart continued to concentrate. ‘“Find out”!’ he said suddenly.

‘“I will find out where she has gone”,’ said Maggie with a smile.

‘We’re going to meet a new friend in a new country, and he’ll find us,’ said Tara. ‘Can you remember anything else, Stuart?’

‘“All things fall...”’

‘“...and are built again”,’ Maggie whispered as the man who had snatched the book out of Stuart’s hands reappeared by their side.

‘Now listen, and listen carefully,’ he said, looking down at them. ‘If you hope to survive — and I don’t give a damn either way — you will follow my instructions to the letter. Is that understood?’ Stuart stared into the man’s eyes and didn’t doubt that he looked upon the three of them as just another job. He nodded.

‘Right,’ the man continued. ‘When the plane lands, you will go directly to the baggage area, pick up your luggage and pass through customs without attracting any attention to yourselves. You will not, I repeat not, use the rest rooms. Once you’re through customs and in the arrivals area, you will be met by two of my men who will accompany you to the house where you’ll be staying for the foreseeable future. I will meet up with you again later this evening. Is that clear?’

‘Yes,’ said Stuart firmly on behalf of the three of them.

‘If any of you is stupid enough to make a run for it, or tries to enlist any help, Mrs Fitzgerald will be killed immediately. And if she’s not available for any reason, I get to choose between you two.’ He looked at Tara and Stuart. ‘Those were the terms Mr Fitzgerald agreed.’

‘That’s not possible,’ began Maggie. ‘Connor would never...’

‘I think it might be wise, Mrs Fitzgerald, to allow Mr Farnham to speak on behalf of all of you in future,’ said the man. Maggie would have corrected him if Tara hadn’t quickly kicked her leg. ‘You’ll need these,’ he said, handing over three passports to Stuart. He checked them and passed one to Maggie and another to Tara, as the man returned to the cockpit.

Stuart looked down at the remaining passport, which like the other two bore the American eagle on its cover. When he flicked it open he found his own photograph above the name ‘Daniel Farnham’. Profession: University law professor. Address: 75 Marina Boulevard, San Francisco, California. He passed it across to Tara, who looked puzzled.

‘I do like dealing with professionals,’ said Stuart. ‘And I’m beginning to realise that your father is one of the best.’

‘Are you sure you can’t remember any more words?’ asked Maggie.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Stuart. ‘No, wait a moment — “anarchy”.’

Maggie smiled. ‘Now I know where we’re going.’

It’s a long drive from Dallas to Washington. The two thugs who had dropped Connor and Romanov off at the airport had always planned to break the journey somewhere before continuing to the capital the following day. Just after nine o’clock that evening, having covered around four hundred miles, they pulled into a motel on the outskirts of Memphis.

The two senior CIA officers who watched them park their BMW reported back to Gutenburg forty-five minutes later. ‘They’ve checked into the Memphis Marriott, rooms 107 and 108. They ordered room service at nine thirty-three, and are currently in Room 107 watching Nash Bridges.’

‘Where’s the rifle?’ asked Gutenburg.

‘It’s handcuffed to the wrist of the man booked into Room 108.’

‘Then you’re going to need a waiter and a pass key,’ said Gutenburg.

Just after ten o’clock, a waiter appeared in Room 107 and set up a table for dinner. He opened a bottle of red wine, poured two glasses and laid out the food. He told the guests he would return in about forty minutes to clear the table. One of them told him to cut up his steak into little pieces, as he only had the use of one hand. The waiter was happy to oblige. ‘Enjoy,’ he added, as he left the room.

The waiter then went straight to the carpark and reported to the senior officer, who thanked him, then made a further request. The waiter nodded, and the agent handed him a fifty-dollar bill.

‘Obviously not willing to let go of it even when he’s eating,’ said the other agent once the waiter was out of earshot.

The waiter returned to the carpark a few minutes after midnight, to report that both men had gone to bed in their own rooms. He handed over a pass-key, and in return was given another fifty-dollar bill. He left feeling he’d done a good night’s work. What he didn’t know was that the man in Room 107 had taken the keys of the handcuffs, so as to be sure that no one would try and steal the briefcase from his partner while he was asleep.

When the guest in 107 woke the following morning, he felt unusually drowsy. He checked his watch, and was surprised to find how late it was. He pulled on his jeans and hurried through the connecting door to wake his partner. He came to a sudden halt, fell on his knees and began to vomit. Lying on the carpet in a pool of blood was a severed hand.

As they stepped off the plane in Cape Town, Stuart was aware of the presence of two men watching their every move. An immigration officer stamped their passports, and they headed towards the baggage claim area. After only a few minutes, luggage began to appear on the carousel. Maggie was surprised to see two of her old suitcases coming down the chute. Stuart was starting to get used to the way Connor Fitzgerald operated.

Once they had retrieved their bags, Stuart put them all on a trolley and they walked towards the green customs exit. The two men filed in close behind them.

As Stuart was wheeling the trolley through customs, an officer stepped into his path, pointed to the red suitcase and asked if the owner would place it on the counter. Stuart helped Maggie lift it, as the two men following them reluctantly moved on. Once they had passed through the sliding doors they stationed themselves a few feet from the exit. Each time the doors opened, they could be seen peering back through. Within moments they were joined by two other men.

Would you open the case, please, ma’am,’ asked the customs officer.

Maggie flicked up the catches and smiled at the mess that greeted her. Only one person could have packed that case. The customs officer dug around among her clothes for a few moments, and eventually came out with a cosmetics bag. He unzipped it and removed a small cellophane packet which contained a white powdery substance.

‘But that isn’t...’ began Maggie. This time it was Stuart who restrained her.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to conduct a body search, ma’am,’ said the officer. ‘Perhaps, in the circumstances, your daughter would like to join you.’

Stuart wondered how the officer could possibly have known that Tara was Maggie’s daughter, when he apparently didn’t assume that he was her son.

‘Would all three of you care to follow me,’ said the officer. ‘Please bring the case, and the rest of your luggage.’ He lifted a section of the counter and ushered them through a door that led into a small, drab room with a table and two chairs. ‘One of my colleagues will join you in a moment,’ he said. He closed the door, and they heard the key turning in the lock.

‘What’s going on?’ said Maggie. ‘That bag wasn’t...’

‘I expect we’re about to find out,’ said Stuart.

A door on the far side of the room opened, and a tall, athletic-looking man, who didn’t have a hair on his head although he couldn’t have been a day over fifty, bounced into the room. He was dressed in blue jeans and a red sweater, and certainly didn’t give the impression of being a customs officer. He went straight over to Maggie, took her right hand and kissed it.

‘My name is Carl Koeter,’ he said in a broad South African accent. ‘This is a great honour for me, Mrs Fitzgerald. I’ve wanted for many years to meet the woman who was brave enough to marry Connor Fitzgerald. He called me yesterday afternoon and asked me to assure you that he’s very much alive.’

Maggie would have said something, but the flow didn’t stop.

‘Of course I know far more about you than you do about me, but unhappily on this occasion we will not have time to remedy that.’ He smiled at Stuart and Tara, and bowed slightly. ‘Perhaps you would all be kind enough to follow me.’

He turned, and began to push the trolley through the door.

‘“Always we’d have the new friend meet the old”,’ Maggie whispered. Stuart smiled.

The South African led them down a steep ramp and along a dark, empty passageway. Maggie quickly caught up with him, and immediately began to question him about his phone conversation with Connor. At the end of the tunnel they climbed up another ramp, and emerged on the far side of the airport. Koeter guided them quickly through security, where they were met with only the most cursory of checks. After another long trek they arrived in an empty departure lounge, where Koeter handed over three tickets to a gate agent and received three boarding passes for a Qantas flight to Sydney that had been mysteriously held up for fifteen minutes.

‘How can we begin to thank you?’ asked Maggie.

Koeter took her hand and kissed it again. ‘Ma’am,’ he replied, ‘you will find people all over the world who will never be able to fully repay Connor Fitzgerald.’

They both sat watching the television. Neither of them spoke until the twelve-minute clip had come to an end.

‘Could it be possible?’ said the Director quietly.

‘Only if he somehow changed places with him in the Crucifix,’ replied Gutenburg.

Dexter was silent for some time before she said, ‘Jackson would only have done that if he was willing to sacrifice his own life.’

Gutenburg nodded.

‘And who’s the man who paid for the rifle?’

‘Alexei Romanov, the son of the Czar and the number two in the Russian Mafya. One of our agents spotted him at Frankfurt airport, and we suspect he and Fitzgerald are now working together.’

‘So it must have been the Mafya who got him out of the Crucifix,’ said Dexter. ‘But if he needed a Remington 700, who’s the target?’

‘The President,’ said Gutenburg.

‘You could be right,’ replied Dexter. ‘But which one?’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The President of the United States and the Secretary of State were among the seventy-two officials lined up on the runway when the Russian Air Force Ilyushin 62 landed at Andrews Air Force Base just outside Washington DC. The red carpet had already been rolled out, a podium with a dozen microphones was in place, and a wide staircase was being towed towards the exact spot on the tarmac where the aircraft would taxi to a standstill.

As the door of the plane opened, Tom Lawrence shielded his eyes from the bright morning sun. A tall, slim stewardess was standing in the doorway. A moment later a short, squat man appeared next to her. Although Lawrence knew that Zerimski was only five foot four, standing next to the tall stewardess cruelly emphasised his lack of stature. Lawrence doubted if it would be possible for a man of Zerimski’s height to become President of the United States.

As Zerimski slowly descended the steps, the massed ranks of photographers began clicking furiously. From behind their cordon, camera crews from every network focused on the man who would dominate the world’s news for the next four days.

The US Chief of Protocol stepped forward to introduce the two Presidents, and Lawrence shook hands warmly with his guest. ‘Welcome to the United States, Mr President.’

‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Zerimski, immediately wrong-footing him.

Lawrence turned to present the Secretary of State.

‘Nice to meet you, Larry,’ said Zerimski.

Zerimski appeared disarmingly affable and friendly as he was introduced to each new official: the Defense Secretary, the Commerce Secretary, the National Security Advisor. When he came to the end of the line, Lawrence touched his elbow and guided him towards the podium. As they walked across the runway, the American President leaned down and said, ‘I’ll just say a few words of welcome, Mr President, and then perhaps you’d like to reply.’

‘Victor, please,’ Zerimski insisted.

Lawrence stepped up onto the podium, extracted a single sheet of paper from an inside pocket and placed it on the lectern.

‘Mr President,’ he began; then, turning towards Zerimski, he smiled and said, ‘Victor. May I begin by welcoming you to America. Today marks the opening of a new era in the special relationship between our two great countries. Your visit to the United States heralds...’

Connor sat in front of three television screens, watching the major networks’ coverage of the ceremony. That night he would replay the tapes again and again. There was an even greater security presence on the ground than he had anticipated. The Secret Service seemed to have turned out a full Dignitary Protective Division for each President. But there was no sign of Gutenburg, or of any CIA operatives. Connor suspected that the Secret Service was unaware that a potential assassin was on the loose.

Connor wasn’t at all surprised that the rifle he had bought in Dallas had never reached its destination. The two Mafya hoodlums had done everything to tip off the CIA except call them on their toll-free number. Had he been Deputy Director, Connor would have allowed them to deliver the rifle, in the hope that they would lead him to the person who intended to use it. Gutenburg had obviously considered that removing the weapon was more important. Perhaps he was right. Connor couldn’t risk being put through another debacle like the one in Dallas. They had made it necessary for him to come up with an alternative plan.

After the episode in the Memphis Marriott, it had become clear that Alexei Romanov wasn’t willing to take the blame if anything else went wrong, and Connor now had overall control of the preparations for the assassination. Those shadowing him kept a respectful distance, although they never let him out of their sight — otherwise he would have been at Andrews Air Force Base that morning. Although he could still have shaken them off whenever he chose, Connor was made aware of their attitude to failure when he learned that the local Mafya boss in Dallas had chopped off the hoodlum’s other hand, so that he couldn’t make the same mistake twice.

The President came to the end of his welcoming speech and received a round of applause that had little impact in such a large open space. He stepped aside to allow Zerimski to respond, but when the Russian President took his place, he couldn’t be seen above the bank of microphones. Connor knew that the press would remind the six foot one American President of this public relations disaster again and again over the next four days, and that Zerimski would assume it had been done intentionally to upstage him. He wondered which White House advance man’s head would roll later that day.

Shooting a six-foot man would be much easier than one who was only five foot four, Connor reflected. He studied the agents from the Dignitary Protective Division who had been assigned to protect Zerimski during his visit. He recognised four of them, all of whom were as good as any in their profession. Any one of them could have brought a man down with a single shot at three hundred paces, and disarmed an attacker with one blow. Behind their dark glasses, Connor knew that their eyes were darting ceaselessly in every direction.

Although Zerimski could not be seen by those standing on the runway, his words could be heard clearly. Connor was surprised to find that the hectoring, bullying manner he had employed in Moscow and St Petersburg had been replaced by a far more conciliatory tone. He thanked ‘Tom’ for his warm welcome, and said that he was confident the visit would prove fruitful for both nations.

Connor was sure that Lawrence wouldn’t be fooled by this outward display of warmth. This obviously wasn’t the time or place for the Russian President to allow the Americans to discover his real agenda.

As Zerimski continued to read from his script, Connor glanced down at the four-day itinerary prepared by the White House and so conveniently catalogued minute by minute in the Washington Post. He knew from years of experience that even with the best-laid plans, such programmes rarely managed to keep to their original timetables. At some time during the visit, he had to assume that the unexpected would happen; and he had to be sure that it wasn’t at the moment when he was lining up his rifle.

The two Presidents would be flown by helicopter from the Air Force base to the White House, where they would immediately go into a session of private talks, which would continue over lunch. After lunch, Zerimski would be taken to the Russian Embassy to rest, before returning to the White House in the evening for a black-tie dinner in his honour.

The following morning he would travel to New York to address the United Nations and have lunch with the Secretary-General, followed by a visit to the Metropolitan Museum in the afternoon. Connor had laughed out loud when he read that morning in the style section of the Post that Tom Lawrence had become aware of his guest’s great love of the arts during the recent presidential campaign, in the course of which Zerimski had found time in his busy schedule to visit not only the Bolshoi, but also the Pushkin and the Hermitage Museums.

After the Russian President returned to Washington on Thursday night, he would have just enough time to rush to the Embassy and change into a dinner jacket before attending a performance of Swan Lake by the Washington Ballet at the Kennedy Center. The Post tactlessly reminded its readers that over half the corps de ballet were Russian immigrants.

On the Friday morning there would be extended talks at the White House, followed by lunch at the State Department. In the afternoon Zerimski would deliver an address to a joint session of Congress, which would be the high point of his four-day visit. Lawrence hoped that the legislators would be convinced that the Russian leader was a man of peace, and agree to back his Arms Reduction Bill. An editorial in the New York Times warned that this might be the occasion at which Zerimski would outline Russia’s defence strategy for the next decade. The paper’s diplomatic correspondent had contacted the press office at the Russian Embassy, only to be informed curtly that there would be no advance copies of that particular speech.

In the evening Zerimski would be the guest of honour at a US-Russia Business Council dinner. Copies of that speech had already been widely circulated, with a casual indifference to any embargo. Connor had been through every sentence, and knew that no self-respecting journalist would bother to print a word of it.

On the Saturday Zerimski and Tom Lawrence would go to Cooke Stadium in Maryland to watch the football game between the Washington Redskins and the Green Bay Packers, the team that Lawrence, who had been the senior Senator for Wisconsin, had supported all his life.

In the evening Zerimski would host a dinner at the Russian Embassy to return the hospitality of all those whose guest he had been during his visit.

The following morning he would fly back to Moscow — but only if Connor had failed to carry out the contract.

Nine venues for Connor to consider. But he had already dismissed seven of them before Zerimski’s plane had touched down. Of the remaining two, the banquet on the Saturday night looked the most promising, especially after he’d been told by Romanov that the Mafya had the catering concession for all functions held at the Russian Embassy.

A smattering of applause brought Connor’s attention back to the welcoming ceremony. Some of the people standing on the runway were unaware that Zerimski had completed his speech until he stepped down from the podium, so the reception he received was not quite as enthusiastic as Lawrence had hoped.

The two leaders walked across the tarmac to a waiting helicopter. Normally no Russian President would fly in a US military aircraft, but Zerimski had brushed aside any objections, telling his advisors he wanted to take every opportunity of wrong-footing Lawrence. They climbed on board and waved to the crowd. Moments later Marine One rose, hovered above the ground for a few seconds, then lifted away. Those women who had not attended a welcoming ceremony before were unsure whether to cling on to their hats or hold down their dresses.

In seven minutes Marine One would land on the South Lawn of the White House, to be met by Andy Lloyd and the White House senior staff.

Connor flicked off the three televisions, rewound the tapes and began considering the alternatives. He had already decided not to go to New York. The United Nations and the Metropolitan Museum offered virtually no possibility of escape. And he was aware that the Secret Service were trained to spot anyone who appeared on more than one occasion during a visit such as this one, including journalists and television crews. Added to that, at least three thousand of New York’s finest would be guarding Zerimski every second of his visit.

He would use the time while Zerimski was out of town to check out the two most promising venues. The Mafya had already arranged for him to be a member of the catering team that would visit the Russian Embassy that afternoon so he could be taken through the details of Saturday night’s banquet. The Ambassador had made it clear that he wanted it to be an occasion that neither President would ever forget.

Connor checked his watch, put on a coat and went downstairs. The BMW was waiting for him. He climbed into the back seat.

‘Cooke Stadium,’ was all he said.

No one in the car commented as the driver eased the car into the centre lane.

As a transporter laden with new cars passed on the other side of the road, Connor thought of Maggie and smiled. He had spoken to Carl Koeter earlier that morning, and had been reassured that all three of the kangaroos were safely in their pouches.

‘By the way, the Mafya are under the impression that they were sent straight back to America,’ Koeter had told him.

‘How did you manage to pull that one off?’ asked Connor.

‘One of their guards tried to bribe a customs officer. He took the money and informed him they’d been caught with drugs, and had been “returned to their port of embarkation”.’

‘Do you think they fell for it?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Koeter. ‘They were made to pay a lot of money for that piece of information.’

Connor laughed. ‘I’ll always be in your debt, Carl. Just let me know how I can repay you.’

‘That won’t be necessary, my friend,’ Koeter had replied. ‘I will simply look forward to meeting your wife again in more agreeable circumstances.’

Connor’s watchdogs had made no mention of Maggie’s disappearance, so he couldn’t be certain whether they were too proud to admit that they’d lost her, Stuart and Tara, or whether they were still hoping to catch up with them before he found out the truth. Perhaps they were afraid he wouldn’t carry out the job if he knew his wife and daughter were no longer in their hands. But Connor never doubted that if he failed to honour the agreement, Alexei Romanov would eventually track down Maggie and kill her, and if not Maggie, Tara. Bolchenkov had warned him that until the contract had been completed — one way or the other — Romanov wouldn’t be allowed to return to his homeland.

As the driver swung onto the beltway, Connor thought about Joan, whose only crime was to have been his secretary. He clenched his fist, and wished that his contract with the Mafya had been to take out Dexter and her conniving Deputy. That was an assignment he would have carried out with relish.

The BMW passed the Washington city limits, and Connor sat back, thinking about just how much preparation still needed to be done. He would have to circle the stadium several times, checking every exit, before deciding if he would even enter it.

Marine One landed gently on the South Lawn. The two Presidents stepped out of the helicopter, and were greeted by warm applause from the six hundred assembled White House members of staff.

When Lawrence introduced Zerimski to his Chief of Staff, he couldn’t help noticing that Andy seemed preoccupied. The two leaders spent an unusually long time posing for the photographers before retiring to the Oval Office with their advisors to confirm the subjects that would be covered at the later meetings. Zerimski put forward no objections to the timetable Andy Lloyd had prepared, and seemed relaxed about the topics that would come under consideration.

When they broke for lunch, Lawrence felt the preliminary discussions had gone well. They moved into the Cabinet Room, and Lawrence told the story of when President Kennedy had dined there with eight Nobel Laureates, and had remarked that it was the greatest gathering of intellect there since Jefferson had dined alone. Larry Harrington laughed dutifully, although he had heard the President tell the story a dozen times before. Andy Lloyd didn’t even attempt a smile.

After lunch Lawrence accompanied Zerimski to his limousine, which was waiting at the diplomatic entrance. As soon as the last car of the motorcade was out of sight — once again Zerimski had insisted he should have one more vehicle than any past Russian President — Lawrence hurried back to the Oval Office. A grim-faced Andy Lloyd was standing by his desk.

‘I thought that went as well as could be expected,’ said the President.

‘Possibly,’ said Lloyd. ‘Although I wouldn’t trust that man to tell the truth even to himself. He was far too cooperative for my liking. I just get the feeling that we’re being set up.’

‘Was that the reason you were so uncommunicative during lunch?’

‘No. I think we’ve got a far bigger problem on our hands,’ said Lloyd. ‘Have you seen Dexter’s latest report? I left it on your desk yesterday afternoon.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ the President replied. ‘I spent most of yesterday holed up with Larry Harrington in the State Department.’ He flicked open a file bearing the CIA emblem, and began reading.

He had sworn out loud on three occasions before he had reached the second page. By the time he’d come to the final paragraph, his face was drained of colour. He looked up at his oldest friend. ‘I thought Jackson was supposed to be on our side.’

‘He is, Mr President.’

‘Then how come Dexter claims she can prove that he was responsible for the assassination in Colombia, then went to St Petersburg intending to kill Zerimski?’

‘Because that way she clears herself of any involvement, and leaves us to explain why we hired Jackson in the first place. By now she’ll have a cabinet full of files to prove that it was Jackson who killed Guzman, and anything else she wants the world to believe about him. Just look at these pictures she’s supplied of Jackson in a Bogota bar handing money over to the Chief of Police. What they don’t show is that the meeting took place almost two weeks after the assassination. Never forget, sir, that the CIA are unrivalled when it comes to covering their asses.’

‘It’s not their asses I’m worried about,’ said the President. ‘What about Dexter’s story that Jackson’s back in America, and is working with the Russian Mafya?’

‘Isn’t that convenient,’ said Lloyd. ‘If anything goes wrong during Zerimski’s visit, she already has someone lined up to take the rap.’

‘Then how do you explain the fact that Jackson was recorded by a security camera in Dallas a few days ago buying a high-powered rifle of near-identical specifications to the one used to kill Guzman?’

‘Simple,’ said Lloyd. ‘Once you realise it wasn’t actually Jackson, everything else falls into place.’

‘If it wasn’t Jackson, then who the hell was it?’

‘It was Connor Fitzgerald,’ said Lloyd quietly.

‘But you told me Fitzgerald was arrested in St Petersburg, and then hanged. We’d even discussed how we might get him out.’

‘I know, sir, but that was never going to be a possibility once Zerimski had been elected. Unless...’

‘Unless?’

‘Unless Jackson took his place.’

‘Why on earth would he do that?’

‘Remember that Fitzgerald saved Jackson’s life in Vietnam, and has the Medal of Honor to prove it. When Fitzgerald returned from the war, it was Jackson who recruited him as an NOC. For the next twenty-eight years he served the CIA, and gained the reputation of being their most respected officer. Then, overnight, he disappears and can’t be traced on their books. His secretary, Joan Bennett, who worked for him for nineteen years, suddenly dies in a mysterious car accident while she’s on the way to see Fitzgerald’s wife. Then his wife and daughter also vanish off the face of the earth. Meanwhile, the man we appoint to find out what’s going on is accused of being an assassin and double-crossing his closest friend. But however carefully you search through Helen Dexter’s numerous reports, you’ll never find a single reference to Connor Fitzgerald.’

‘How do you know all this, Andy?’ asked Lawrence.

‘Because Jackson called me from St Petersburg just after Fitzgerald had been arrested.’

‘Do you have a recording of that conversation?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘Goddamn it,’ said Lawrence. ‘Dexter makes J. Edgar Hoover look like a Girl Scout.’

‘If we accept that it was Jackson who was hanged in Russia, we have to assume it was Fitzgerald who flew to Dallas, with the intention of buying that rifle so he could carry out his present assignment.’

‘Am I the target this time?’ asked Lawrence quietly.

‘I don’t think so, Mr President. That’s the one thing I think Dexter’s being straight about — I still believe the target’s Zerimski.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Lawrence, slumping into his chair. ‘But why would an honourable man with a background and reputation as good as Fitzgerald’s get involved in a mission like this? It just doesn’t add up.’

‘It does if that honourable man believes that the original order to assassinate Zerimski came from you.’

Zerimski was running late when his plane took off from New York to fly him back to Washington, but he was in a good mood. His speech to the United Nations had been well received, and his lunch with the Secretary-General had been described in a communique issued by the Secretariat as ‘wide-ranging and productive’.

During his visit to the Metropolitan Museum that afternoon, not only had Zerimski been able to name the Russian artist who had been given an exhibition in one of the upper galleries, but when he left the museum he had abandoned his itinerary and, to the consternation of his Secret Service minders, walked down to Fifth Avenue to shake hands with Christmas shoppers.

Zerimski had fallen an hour behind schedule by the time his plane touched down in Washington, and he had to change into his dinner jacket in the back of the limousine so that he didn’t hold up the performance of Swan Lake at the Kennedy Center by more than fifteen minutes. After the dancers had taken their final bow, he returned to spend a second night at the Russian Embassy.

While Zerimski slept, Connor remained awake. He could rarely sleep for more than a few minutes at a time during the build-up to an operation. He had cursed out loud when he’d seen the early evening news coverage of the walkabout on Fifth Avenue. It had reminded him that he should always be prepared for the unexpected: from an apartment on Fifth Avenue, Zerimski would have been an easy target, and the crowd would have been so large and out of control that he could have disappeared within moments.

He dismissed New York from his mind. As far as he was concerned, there were still only two serious venues to consider.

At the first, there was the problem that he wouldn’t have the rifle he felt most at ease with, although with a crowd that large the getaway would be easier.

As for the second, if Romanov could supply a modified Remington 700 by the morning of the banquet and guarantee his getaway, it seemed the obvious choice. Or was it a little too obvious?

He began to write out lists of pros and cons for each site. By two o’clock the next morning, exhausted, he realised he would have to visit both venues again before he could make his final decision.

But even then he had no intention of letting Romanov know which one he’d chosen.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

‘Pug’ washer — no one knew his real name — was one of those characters who is an expert on one subject. In his case it was the Washington Redskins.

Pug had worked for the Redskins, man and boy, for fifty years. He had joined the ground staff at the age of fifteen, when the team was still playing at Griffith Stadium. He had started life as a waterboy and had later taken over as the team’s masseur, becoming the trusted friend and confidant of generations of Redskins players.

Pug had spent the year before his retirement in 1997 working alongside the contractor who was building the new Jack Kent Cooke Stadium. His brief was simple: to make sure that the Redskins’ fans and players had every facility they would expect of the greatest team in the country.

At the opening ceremony, the senior architect told the assembled gathering that he would be forever indebted to Pug for the role he had played in the building of the new stadium. During his closing speech John Kent Cooke, the Redskins’ President, announced that Pug had been elected to the team’s Hall of Fame, a mark of distinction normally reserved only for the greatest players. Pug told the journalists, ‘It doesn’t get any better than this.’ Despite his retirement, he never missed a Redskins game — home or away.

It took Connor two phone calls to track Pug down at his little apartment in Arlington, Virginia. When he explained to the old man that he had been commissioned to write an article for Sports Illustrated on the significance of the new stadium to Skins fans, it was like turning on a tap.

‘Perhaps you could spare an hour or two to show me around “the Big Jack”,’ suggested Connor. Pug’s monologue dried up for the first time, and he remained silent until Connor suggested an honorarium of $100. He had already found out that Pug’s usual fee for guided tours was fifty.

They agreed to meet at eleven o’clock the following morning.

When Connor arrived at one minute to eleven, Pug ushered him into the stadium as if he were the owner of the club. For the next three hours he regaled his guest with the complete history of the Redskins and answered every one of Connor’s questions — from why the stadium had not been completed in time for the opening ceremony to how the management went about employing temporary labour on the day of a game. Connor learned that the Sony JumboTrons behind the end zones made up the largest video-screen system in the world, and that the front row of seats had been raised nine feet above the field of play so the fans could see over the television cameras and the bulky players roaming restlessly up and down the sidelines in front of them.

Connor had been a Redskins fan for almost thirty years, so he already knew that all the season tickets had been sold out since 1966, and that there was currently a waiting list of fifty thousand. He knew because he was one of them. He also knew that the Washington Post sold an extra twenty-five thousand copies whenever the Skins won a game. But he didn’t know that there were thirty-five miles of steam-heated pipes under the field of play, that there was parking space for twenty-three thousand vehicles, and that a local band would be playing the national anthems of Russia and the United States before tomorrow’s kick-off. Most of the information Pug came up with would be of no practical use to Connor, but he still produced a gem every few minutes.

As they strolled around the stadium, Connor could see the tight security checks that the White House advance staff were carrying out for the following day’s game. The magnetometers through which everyone who entered the ground would have to pass, and which would detect if they were carrying anything that could be used as a weapon, were already in place. The nearer they got to the owner’s box — from where the two Presidents would be watching the game — the more intense the checks became.

Pug was irate when he was stopped by a Secret Service agent guarding the entrance to the executive boxes. He explained forcefully that he was a member of the Redskins Hall of Fame, and that he would be among the guests who would meet the two Presidents the next day, but the agent still refused to let him in without a security pass. Connor tried to assure the furious Pug that it wasn’t that important.

As they walked away, Pug muttered under his breath, ‘Do I look like the sort of person who would want to assassinate the President?’

When the two men parted at two o’clock, Connor handed his guide $120. The old man had told him more in three hours than an entire Secret Service detail would have divulged in a lifetime. He would have given him $200, but that might have aroused Pug’s suspicions.

Connor checked his watch, to find he was running a few minutes late for his appointment with Alexei Romanov at the Russian Embassy. As he was driven away from the stadium he switched on the radio, tuning in to C-SPAN, a station he rarely listened to.

A commentator was describing the atmosphere on the floor of the House, as the members waited for the Russian President to arrive. No one had any idea what Zerimski was going to say, as the press had not been issued with advance copies of the speech, and had been advised to check against delivery.

Five minutes before the speech was due to begin, Zerimski walked out onto the floor of the House, accompanied by his escort committee.

‘Everyone present,’ announced the commentator, ‘has risen from their seats and is applauding the guest from Russia. President Zerimski is smiling and waving as he makes his way down the aisle through the packed House chamber to the dais, shaking outstretched hands.’ The commentator went on to describe the applause as ‘warm rather than rapturous’.

When Zerimski reached the podium he carefully placed his papers on the lectern, took out his spectacle case and put on his glasses. Kremlin-watchers immediately knew that the speech would be delivered word for word from a prepared text, and there would be none of the off-the-cuff remarks for which Zerimski had become notorious during his election campaign.

The Members of Congress, the Supreme Court and the Diplomatic Corps resumed their seats, unaware of the bombshell that was about to be dropped.

‘Mr Speaker, Mr Vice-President and Mr Chief Justice,’ Zerimski began. ‘Let me begin by thanking you and your countrymen for the kind welcome and generous hospitality I have received on this, my first, visit to the United States. Let me assure you that I look forward to returning again and again.’ At this point Titov had written ‘PAUSE’ in the margin — rightly, because there followed a round of applause.

Zerimski then delivered several flattering homilies concerning America’s historic achievements, reminding his listeners that three times in the past century their two nations had fought together against a common enemy. He went on to describe ‘the excellent relationship currently enjoyed by our two countries’. Tom Lawrence, who was watching the speech with Andy Lloyd on C-SPAN in the Oval Office, began to relax a little. After another few minutes, he even allowed a flicker of a smile to cross his lips.

That smile was wiped off his face as Zerimski delivered the next seventy-one words of his speech.

‘I am the last person on earth who would want our two great nations to become embroiled in another pointless war.’ Zerimski paused. ‘Especially if we were not on the same side.’ He looked up and beamed at the assembled gathering, although nobody present appeared to find his comment particularly funny. ‘To be sure that such a calamity can never befall us again, it will be necessary for Russia to remain as powerful as the United States on the battlefield if it is to carry the same weight at the conference table.’

In the Oval Office, Lawrence watched as the television cameras scanned the sullen faces of the members of both Houses, and knew that it had taken Zerimski about forty seconds to destroy any chance of his Arms Reduction Bill becoming law.

The rest of Zerimski’s speech was received in silence. When he stepped down from the podium there were no outstretched hands, and the applause was distinctly cool.

As the white BMW drove up Wisconsin Avenue, Connor switched off the radio. When they reached the gates of the Russian Embassy, one of Romanov’s henchmen checked them through security.

Connor was escorted into the white marble reception area for the second time in three days. He could immediately see what Romanov had meant when he said the Embassy’s internal security was lax. After all, who would want to murder Russia’s beloved President in his own Embassy?’ he had remarked with a smile.

As they walked down a long corridor, Connor said to Romanov, ‘You seem to have the run of the building.’

‘So would you have, if you’d paid enough into the Ambassador’s Swiss bank account to ensure that he never had to return to the motherland again.’

Romanov continued to treat the Embassy as if it were his own home, even unlocking the door to the Ambassador’s study and letting himself in. As they entered the ornately furnished room, Connor was surprised to see a customised Remington 700 resting on the Ambassador’s desk. He picked it up and studied it closely. He would have asked Romanov how he’d got his hands on it, if he thought there was any chance of being told the truth.

Connor gripped the stock and broke the breech. There was a single boat-tailed bullet in the chamber. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at Romanov.

‘I assume that from that range you will only need one bullet,’ said the Russian. He led Connor to the far corner of the room, and drew back a curtain to reveal the Ambassador’s private lift. They stepped inside, pulled the gate shut and travelled slowly up to the gallery above the ballroom on the second floor.

Connor checked every inch of the gallery several times, then squeezed in behind the vast statue of Lenin. He looked through its cocked arm to check the sightline to the spot from which Zerimski would deliver his farewell speech, making sure that he would be able to see without being seen. He was thinking how easy it all seemed when Romanov touched him on the arm and ushered him back towards the lift.

‘You will have to arrive several hours early, and work with the catering staff before the banquet begins,’ Romanov said.

‘Why?’

‘We don’t want anyone to become suspicious when you disappear just before Zerimski begins his speech.’

Romanov checked his watch. ‘We should go. Zerimski is due back in a few minutes.’

Connor nodded, and they walked towards the rear entrance. As he climbed back into the BMW, he said, ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve decided which venue I’ve chosen.’

Romanov looked surprised, but said nothing.

Connor was driven out through the Embassy gates minutes before Zerimski was due to return from the Capitol. He switched the radio on in time to catch the early-evening news: ‘Senators and Congressmen were falling over each other to grab the microphones and assure their constituents that after hearing President Zerimski’s speech, they would not be voting for the Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction Bill.’

In the Oval Office, Tom Lawrence was watching CNN’s reporter speaking from the Senate press gallery: ‘No statement has yet come from the White House,’ he was saying, ‘and the President...’

‘And don’t hang around waiting for one,’ Lawrence said angrily as he switched off the television. He turned to his Chief of Staff. ‘Andy, I’m not even sure I can face sitting next to that man for four hours tomorrow afternoon, let alone respond to his farewell speech in the evening.’

Lloyd didn’t comment.

‘I am looking forward to sitting next to my dear friend Tom and watching him have to squirm in front of an audience of millions,’ said Zerimski as his limousine entered the grounds of the Russian Embassy. Dmitri Titov remained impassive.

‘I think I shall cheer for the Redskins. It would be an added bonus if Lawrence’s team lost,’ Zerimski smirked. ‘A fitting prelude to the humiliation I have planned for him in the evening. Make sure you prepare a speech so flattering that it will appear all the more tragic in retrospect.’ He smiled again. ‘I have ordered the beef to be served cold. And even you will be surprised by what I have in mind for dessert.’

Connor spent several hours that evening wondering if he could risk breaking the rule of a lifetime. He phoned Romanov a few minutes after midnight.

The Russian seemed delighted that they had both come to the same conclusion. ‘I’ll arrange for a driver to pick you up at three thirty so you can be at the Embassy by four.’

Connor put the phone down. If everything went to plan, the President would be dead by four.

Wake him up.’

‘But it’s four o’clock in the morning,’ said the First Secretary.

‘If you value your life, wake him up.’

The First Secretary threw on a dressing gown, ran out of his bedroom and down the corridor. He knocked on the door. There was no response, so he knocked again. A few moments later, a light appeared under the door.

‘Come in,’ said a sleepy voice. The First Secretary turned the handle and entered the Ambassador’s bedroom.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Your Excellency, but there’s a Mr Stefan Ivanitsky on the line from St Petersburg. He insists that we wake the President. He says he has an urgent message for him.’

‘I’ll take the call in my study,’ said Pietrovski. He threw back the blanket, ignoring the groans of his wife, ran downstairs and told the night porter to transfer the call to his study.

The phone rang several times before it was eventually picked up by a slightly breathless Ambassador. ‘Pietrovski speaking.’

‘Good morning, Your Excellency,’ said Ivanitsky. ‘I asked to be put through to the President, not to you.’

‘But it’s four o’clock in the morning. Can’t it wait?’

‘Ambassador, I don’t pay you to tell me the time. The next voice I want to hear is the President’s. Do I make myself clear?’

The Ambassador put the receiver down on his desk and walked slowly back up the wide staircase to the first floor, trying to decide which of the two men he was more frightened of. He stood outside the door of the President’s suite for some time, but the sight of the First Secretary hovering at the top of the stairs stiffened his resolve. He tapped gently on the door, but there was no response. He knocked a little louder, and tentatively opened it.

In the light from the landing the Ambassador and the First Secretary could see Zerimski stirring in his bed. What they didn’t see was the President’s hand slipping under the pillow, where a pistol was concealed.

‘Mr President,’ whispered Pietrovski as Zerimski switched on the light by the side of his bed.

‘This had better be important,’ said Zerimski, ‘unless you want to spend the rest of your days as refrigerator inspectors in Siberia.’

‘We have a call for you from St Petersburg,’ said the Ambassador, almost in a whisper. ‘A Mr Stefan Ivanitsky. He says it’s urgent.’

‘Get out of my room,’ said Zerimski as he picked up the phone by his bed.

The two men stepped backwards into the corridor and the Ambassador quietly closed the door.

‘Stefan,’ said Zerimski. ‘Why are you calling at this hour? Has Borodin staged a coup in my absence?’

‘No, Mr President. The Czar is dead.’ Ivanitsky spoke without emotion.

‘When? Where? How?’

‘About an hour ago, at the Winter Palace. The colourless liquid finally got him.’ Ivanitsky paused. ‘The butler has been on my payroll for almost a year.’

The President was silent for a few moments before saying, ‘Good. It couldn’t have worked out better for us.’

‘I would agree, Mr President, were it not for the fact that his son is in Washington. There’s very little I can do from this end until he returns.’

‘That problem may resolve itself this evening,’ said Zerimski.

‘Why? Have they fallen into our little trap?’

‘Yes,’ said Zerimski. ‘By tonight I shall have disposed of both of them.’

‘Both of them?’

‘Yes,’ the President replied. ‘I have learned an appropriate new expression since I’ve been over here — “killing two birds with one stone”. After all, how many times does one have the chance to see the same man die twice?’

‘I wish I was there to witness it.’

‘I’m going to enjoy it even more than I did watching his friend dangling from a rope. All things considered, Stefan, this will have been a most successful trip, especially if...’

‘It’s all been taken care of, Mr President,’ said Ivanitsky. ‘I arranged yesterday for the income from the Yeltsin and Chernopov oil and uranium contracts to be diverted to your Zurich account. That is, unless Alexei countermands my orders when he returns.’

‘If he doesn’t return, he won’t be able to, will he?’ Zerimski put the phone down, switched off the light, and fell asleep again within moments.

At five o’clock that morning Connor was lying motionless on his bed, fully dressed. He was going over his escape route when the wake-up call came through at six. He rose, pulled back a corner of the curtain and checked that they were still there. They were: two white BMWs parked on the far side of the street, as they had been since midnight the previous evening. By now their occupants would be drowsy. He knew they changed shifts at eight, so he planned to leave ten minutes before the hour. He spent the next thirty minutes carrying out some light stretching exercises to get rid of his stiffness, then stripped off his clothes. He allowed the cold jets of the shower to needle his body for some time before he turned it off and grabbed a towel. Then he dressed in a blue shirt, a pair of jeans, a thick sweater, a blue tie, black socks and a pair of black Nikes with the logo painted out.

He went into the small kitchenette, poured himself a glass of grapefruit juice and filled a bowl with cornflakes and milk. He always ate the same meal on the day of an operation. He liked routine. It helped him believe everything else would run smoothly. As he ate, he read over the seven pages of notes he had made following his meeting with Pug, and once again minutely studied an architect’s plan of the stadium. He measured the girder with a ruler, and estimated that it was forty-two feet to the trapdoor. He mustn’t look down. He felt the calm come over him that a finely-tuned athlete experiences when called to the starting line.

He checked his watch and returned to the bedroom. They had to be at the intersection of Twenty-First Street and DuPont Circle just as the traffic was building up. He waited a few more minutes, then put three hundred-dollar bills, a quarter and a thirty-minute audiocassette in the back pocket of his jeans. He then left the anonymous apartment for the last time. His account had already been settled.

Chapter Thirty

Zerimski sat alone in the Embassy dining room reading the Washington Post as a butler served him breakfast. He smiled when he saw the banner headline:

As he sipped his coffee, he mused for a moment on what the Post might lead with the following morning.

He smiled again, and turned to the editorial, which confirmed that Lawrence’s Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction Bill was now considered by all the leading commentators to be ‘dead in the water’. Another useful expression he had picked up on this trip.

At a few minutes past seven he rang the silver bell by his side and asked the butler to fetch the Ambassador and the First Secretary. The butler hurried away. Zerimski knew both men were already standing anxiously outside the door.

The Ambassador and the First Secretary thought they should wait for a minute or two before joining the President. They were still uncertain if he was pleased to have been woken at four in the morning, but as neither of them had yet been fired, they assumed that they must have made the right decision.

‘Good morning, Mr President,’ said Pietrovski as he entered the dining room.

Zerimski nodded, folded the paper and placed it on the table in front of him. ‘Has Romanov arrived yet?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Mr President,’ said the First Secretary. ‘He has been in the kitchen since six o’clock this morning, personally checking the food that’s being delivered for tonight’s banquet.’

‘Good. Ask him to join us in your study, Mr Ambassador. I will be along shortly.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Pietrovski, retreating backwards out of the room.

Zerimski wiped his mouth with a napkin. He decided to keep the three of them waiting for a few more minutes. That would make them even more nervous.

He returned to the Washington Post, smiling as he read the editorial’s conclusion for a second time: ‘Zerimski is the natural successor to Stalin and Brezhnev, rather than Gorbachev or Yeltsin.’ He had no quarrel with that; in fact he hoped that before the day was out he would have reinforced that image. He rose from his chair and strolled out of the room. As he walked down the corridor towards the Ambassador’s study, a young man coming from the opposite direction stopped in his tracks, rushed over to the door and opened it for him. A grandfather clock chimed as he entered the room. He instinctively checked his watch. It was exactly seven forty-five.

At ten minutes to eight, Connor appeared at the entrance of the apartment building and walked slowly across the street to the first of the two BMWs. He climbed in beside a driver who looked a little surprised to see him so early — he’d been told that Fitzgerald wasn’t expected at the Embassy until four o’clock that afternoon.

‘I need to go downtown to pick up a couple of things,’ said Connor. The man in the back nodded, so the driver put the car into first and joined the traffic on Wisconsin Avenue. The second car followed closely behind them as they turned left into P Street, which was thickly congested as a result of the construction work that plagued Georgetown.

As each day passed, Connor had noticed that his minders had become more and more relaxed. At roughly the same time every morning he had jumped out of the BMW at the corner of Twenty-First Street and DuPont Circle, bought a copy of the Post from a newsvendor and returned to the car. Yesterday the man in the back seat hadn’t even bothered to accompany him.

They crossed Twenty-Third Street, and Connor could see DuPont Circle in the distance. The cars were now bumper to bumper, and had almost ground to a halt. On the other side of the street the traffic heading west was moving far more smoothly. He would need to judge exactly when to make his move.

Connor knew that the lights on P Street approaching the Circle changed every thirty seconds, and on average twelve cars managed to get across during that time. The most he’d counted during the week was sixteen.

When the light turned red, Connor counted seventeen cars ahead of them. He didn’t move a muscle. The light switched to green and the driver changed into first gear, but the traffic was so heavy that it was some time before he was able to edge forward. Only eight cars crawled through the light.

He had thirty seconds.

He turned and smiled at his minder in the back, and pointed to the newsvendor. The man nodded. Connor stepped out onto the sidewalk and started walking slowly towards the old man wearing a fluorescent orange vest. He didn’t once look back, so he had no idea if anyone from the second car was following him. He concentrated on the traffic moving in the opposite direction on the other side of the street, trying to estimate how long the line of cars would be when the light turned red again. When he reached the newsvendor, he already had a quarter in his hand. He gave it to the old man, who handed him a copy of the Post. As he turned and began to walk back towards the first BMW, the light turned red and the traffic came to a halt.

Connor spotted the vehicle he needed. He suddenly switched direction and started sprinting, darting in and out of the stationary traffic on the westbound side of the street until he reached an empty taxi, six cars away from the lights. The two men in the second BMW leaped out of the car and began running after him just as the light at DuPont Circle turned green.

Connor pulled open the door and threw himself into the back of the taxi. ‘Straight ahead,’ he shouted. ‘You get $100 if you beat that light.’

The driver pressed the palm of his hand onto his horn and kept it there as he ran the red light. The two white BMWs executed screeching U-turns, but the lights had already changed, and their path was blocked by three stationary cars.

So far everything had gone to plan.

The taxi swung left onto Twenty-Third Street, and Connor instructed the driver to pull over. When the car had come to a halt he passed him a hundred-dollar bill and said, ‘I want you to drive straight to Dulles Airport. If you spot a white BMW coming up behind you, don’t let it overtake you. When you get to the airport, stop for thirty seconds outside Departures, then drive slowly back into town.’

‘OK, man, anything you say,’ said the driver, pocketing the hundred-dollar bill. Connor slipped out of the cab, darted across Twenty-Third Street and flagged down another cab heading in the opposite direction.

He slammed the door shut as the two BMWs swept past him in pursuit of the first taxi.

‘And where would you like to go this fine morning?’

‘Cooke Stadium.’

‘I hope you got a ticket, man, otherwise I’ll be bringing you straight back.’

The three men stood as Zerimski entered the room. He waved them down as if they were a large crowd, and took the chair behind the Ambassador’s desk. He was surprised to see a rifle where the blotter would normally be, but he ignored it and turned to Alexei Romanov, who was looking rather pleased with himself.

‘I have some sad news for you, Alexei,’ said the President. Romanov’s expression turned to apprehension, and then to anxiety, during the long silence Zerimski allowed to follow.

‘I received a call earlier this morning from your cousin Stefan. It appears that your father suffered a heart attack during the night, and died on the way to hospital.’

Romanov bowed his head. The Ambassador and First Secretary glanced towards the President to see how they should react.

Zerimski rose, walked slowly over to Romanov and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. The Ambassador and First Secretary looked suitably grief-stricken.

‘I shall mourn him,’ said Zerimski. ‘He was a great man.’ The two diplomats nodded their agreement as Romanov inclined his head to acknowledge the President’s kind words.

‘Now his mantle has passed on to you, Alexei; a most worthy successor.’

The Ambassador and the Chief Secretary continued to nod.

‘And soon,’ Zerimski said, ‘you will be given an opportunity to demonstrate your authority in a way that will leave no one in Russia in any doubt who is the new Czar.’

Romanov raised his head and smiled, his brief period of mourning over.

‘That is,’ added Zerimski, ‘assuming nothing goes wrong this evening.’

‘Nothing can go wrong,’ said Romanov emphatically. ‘I spoke to Fitzgerald just after midnight. He’s agreed to my plan. He will report to the Embassy at four o’clock this afternoon, while you are at the football game with Lawrence.’

‘Why so early?’ asked Zerimski.

‘We need everyone to think he’s simply another member of the catering team, so that when he slips out of the kitchen six hours later nobody will give it a second thought. He will remain in the kitchen under my supervision until a few minutes before you rise to make your farewell speech.’

‘Excellent,’ said Zerimski. ‘And then what happens?’

‘I will accompany him to this room, where he will collect the rifle. He will then take the private elevator to the gallery that overlooks the ballroom.’

Zerimski nodded.

‘Once he is there, he will position himself behind the great statue of Lenin, where he will remain until you reach that section of your speech where you thank the American people for their hospitality and the warm welcome you have received everywhere, et cetera, et cetera, and particularly from President Lawrence. At that point, I have arranged for prolonged applause. Throughout it you must remain absolutely still.’

‘Why?’ demanded Zerimski.

‘Because Fitzgerald won’t squeeze the trigger if he thinks you’re likely to make a sudden movement.’

‘I understand.’

‘Once he has fired, he will climb out onto the ledge by the cedar tree in the back garden. He made us repeat the whole exercise several times yesterday afternoon, but this evening he will discover there is a small difference.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Zerimski.

‘Waiting under the tree will be six of my personal bodyguards,’ said Romanov. ‘They will have gunned him down long before his feet touch the ground.’

Zerimski was silent for a moment before saying, ‘But surely your plan has a minor flaw?’

Romanov looked puzzled.

‘How am I expected to survive a shot from a marksman of Fitzgerald’s reputation from such close range?’

Romanov rose from his chair and picked up the rifle. He removed a small piece of metal and handed it to the President.

‘What is this?’ Zerimski asked.

‘The firing pin,’ Romanov replied.

Chapter Thirty-One

The two white BMWs sped west on Route 66, pursuing an empty taxi that exceeded the speed limit all the way to Dulles Airport. A second cab was travelling east at a more leisurely pace towards Cooke Stadium in Maryland.

Connor thought again about his decision to choose the stadium, with all its risks, rather than the Embassy. He had been allowed in and out of that building far too easily: no one was that lax about security, especially when their President was in town.

When Connor was dropped at the stadium, he knew exactly where to go. He walked up the wide gravel path towards the north entrance and the two long lines of people who hung around before every home game in the hope of a day’s work. Some of them just needed the cash, while others, Pug had explained, were such fanatical Skins fans that they would resort to anything, including bribery, to get into the stadium.

‘Bribery?’ Connor had asked innocently.

‘Oh yes. Someone has to serve in the executive suites,’ said Pug with a wink. ‘And they end up with the best view of the game.’

‘Fascinating material for my article,’ Connor had assured him.

The first queue was for those who wanted to work outside the stadium, organising the parking for the twenty-three thousand cars and buses or selling programmes, cushions and souvenirs to the seventy-eight thousand fans. The other was for those who hoped to work inside the stadium. Connor joined that queue, mostly made up of the young, the unemployed and what Pug had described as the early-retirement junkies, who simply enjoyed the regular outing. Pug had even described how this group dressed, so that no one would mistake them for the unemployed.

On this particular day, a handful of Secret Service men were eyeing the hopeful applicants. Connor kept reading the Washington Post as the line moved slowly forward. Most of the front page was devoted to Zerimski’s speech to the joint session of Congress. The reaction from the members was universally hostile. When he turned to the editorial, he suspected Zerimski would be pleased with it.

He turned to the Metro section, and a wry smile crossed his face as he read of the premature death of a distinguished academic from his home town.

‘Hi,’ said a voice.

Connor glanced round at a smartly-dressed young man who had joined the queue behind him.

‘Hi,’ he responded briefly, before returning to his paper. He didn’t want to get involved in an unnecessary conversation with someone who might later be called as a witness.

‘My name’s Brad,’ the young man announced, thrusting out his right hand.

Connor shook it, but said nothing.

‘I’m hoping to get a job on one of the lighting towers,’ he added. ‘How about you?’

‘Why the lighting towers?’ asked Connor, avoiding his question.

‘Because that’s where the Secret Service’s Special Agent in Charge will be stationed, and I want to find out what the job’s really like.’

‘Why?’ asked Connor, folding up his paper. This was clearly not a conversation he could easily cut short.

‘I’m thinking about joining them when I leave college. I’ve already taken the graduate training course, but I want to see them working at close quarters. An agent told me the one job nobody wants is taking meals up to the guys on the lighting platforms behind the end zones. All those steps scare them off.’

All 172 of them, thought Connor, who had dismissed the idea of the lighting towers early on, not because of the steps, but because there was no escape route. Brad started to tell him his life story, and by the time Connor reached the front of the queue he knew which school the boy had been to, that he was now a senior at Georgetown studying criminology — that made him think of Maggie — and why he still couldn’t decide whether to join the Secret Service or be a lawyer. ‘Next,’ said a voice. Connor turned round to the man seated behind a trestle table.

‘What have you got left?’ Connor asked.

‘Not much,’ said the man, looking down at a list covered with ticks.

‘Anything in catering?’ asked Connor. Like Brad, he knew exactly where he wanted to be.

‘Washing dishes or serving meals to employees around the stadium is all I’ve got left.’

‘That will be just fine.’

‘Name?’

‘Dave Krinkle,’ said Connor.

‘ID?’

Connor handed over a driver’s licence. The man filled in a security pass and a photographer stepped forward and took a Polaroid of Connor, which seconds later was laminated onto the pass.

‘OK, Dave,’ the man said, handing it over. ‘This pass will get you everywhere inside the stadium except the high-security area, which includes the executive suites, the club boxes and the VIP section. You won’t need to go there anyway.’ Connor nodded and clipped the pass onto his sweater. ‘Report to Room 47, directly below Block H.’ Connor moved off to the left. He knew exactly where Room 47 was.

‘Next.’

It took him a lot longer to get through the three security checks, including the magnetometer, than it had the previous day, as they were now manned by Secret Service personnel rather than the usual rentacops. Once Connor was inside the stadium, he ambled slowly along the inner walkway, past the museum and under a red banner declaring ‘HAIL VICTORY’, until he came to a stairway with an arrow pointing down to ‘Room 47, Private Catering’. Inside the small room at the foot of the stairs he found a dozen men lounging around. They all looked as if they were familiar with the routine. He recognised one or two who had been standing in the line in front of him. No one else in the room looked as if they didn’t need the money.

He took a seat in a corner and returned to the Post, rereading a preview of the afternoon’s game. Tony Kornheiser thought it would be nothing less than a miracle if the Redskins beat the Packers — the finest team in the country. In fact, he was predicting a twenty-point margin. Connor was hoping for a totally different outcome.

‘OK,’ said a voice, ‘pay attention.’ Connor looked up to see a huge man wearing a chef’s uniform standing in front of them. He was about fifty, with an enormous double chin, and must have weighed over 250 pounds.

‘I’m the catering manager,’ he said, ‘and as you can see, I represent the glamour end of the business.’ One or two of the old hands laughed politely.

‘I can offer you two choices. You either wash dishes or you serve stadium employees and security guys stationed around the stadium. Any volunteers for the dishes?’ Most of the men in the room put their hands up. Dishwashing, Pug had explained, was always popular because not only did the washers get the full rate of $10 an hour, but for some of them the leftovers from the executive boxes were the best meal they had all week.

‘Good,’ he said, picking out five of them and writing down their names. When he had completed the list, he said, ‘Now, waiting. You can either serve the senior staff or the security personnel. Senior staff?’ he said, looking up from his clipboard. Almost all the remaining hands shot up. Again the catering manager wrote down five names. When he’d finished, he tapped his clipboard. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Everyone on the list can now report to work.’ The old pros rose from their seats and shuffled past him, through a door that Connor knew led to the kitchens. Only he and Brad were still in the room.

‘I’ve got two jobs left in Security,’ said the catering manager. ‘One great, one lousy. Which one of you is going to get lucky?’ He looked hopefully at Connor, who nodded and placed a hand in his back pocket.

The catering manager walked up to him, not even glancing at Brad, and said, ‘I have a feeling you’d prefer the comfort of the JumboTron.’

‘Right first time,’ said Connor, slipping him a hundred-dollar bill.

‘Just as I thought,’ said the catering manager, returning his smile.

Connor said nothing as the fat man pocketed the cash, exactly as Pug had predicted he would.

That man had been worth every cent of his fee.

‘I should never have invited him in the first place,’ Tom Lawrence growled as he boarded Marine One to take him from the White House to the Redskins’ stadium.

‘And I have a feeling that our problems aren’t over yet,’ said Andy Lloyd, strapping himself into his seat.

‘Why? What else can go wrong?’ asked Lawrence as the helicopter blades slowly began to rotate.

‘There are still two public events before Zerimski returns to Russia, and my bet is that Fitzgerald will be waiting for us at one of them.’

‘This evening shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Lawrence. Ambassador Pietrovski has told the Secret Service on countless occasions that his people are quite capable of protecting their own President. In any case, who would take that sort of risk with so much security around?’

‘The normal rules don’t apply to Fitzgerald,’ said Lloyd. ‘He doesn’t work by the book.’

The President glanced down at the Russian Embassy. ‘It would be hard enough just getting into that building,’ he said, ‘without having to worry about how you’d get out of it.’

‘Fitzgerald wouldn’t have the same trouble this afternoon, in a stadium holding nearly eighty thousand spectators,’ replied Lloyd. ‘That’s one place he would find it easy to slip in and out of.’

‘Don’t forget, Andy, there’s only a thirteen-minute window when any problem could arise. Even then, everybody in the stadium will have passed through the magnetometers, so there’s no way anyone could get a penknife in, let alone a gun.’

‘You think Fitzgerald doesn’t know that?’ said Lloyd as the helicopter swung east. ‘It’s not too late to cancel that part of the programme.’

‘No,’ said Lawrence firmly. ‘If Clinton could stand in the middle of the Olympic Stadium in Atlanta for the opening ceremony, I can do the same in Washington for a football game. Damn it, Andy, we live in a democracy, and I’m not going to allow our lives to be dictated to in that way. And don’t forget that I’ll be out there, taking exactly the same risk as Zerimski.’

‘I accept that, sir,’ said Lloyd. ‘But if Zerimski were to be assassinated, no one would praise you for standing by his side, least of all Helen Dexter. She’d be the first to point out...’

Who do you think will win this afternoon, Andy?’ asked the President.

Lloyd smiled at a ploy his boss often fell back on if he didn’t wish to continue discussing an unpalatable subject. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he replied. ‘But until I saw how many of my staff were trying to cram themselves into the advance cars this morning, I had no idea we had so many Skins fans working at the White House.’

‘Some of them might just have been Packers fans,’ said Lawrence. He opened the file on his lap and began to study the short profiles of the guests he would be meeting at the stadium.

‘OK, pay attention,’ said the catering manager. Connor gave the impression of listening intently.

‘The first thing you do is collect a white coat and a Redskins cap, to show you’re on the staff. Then you take the elevator to the seventh level and wait for me to put the food in the service elevator. The Secret Service agents have a snack at ten, and lunch — Coke, sandwiches, whatever else they want — at the start of the game. You press the button on the left-hand side,’ he continued, as if he was addressing a ten-year-old, ‘and it should be with you in about a minute.’

Connor could have told him that it took exactly forty-seven seconds for the service elevator to travel from the basement to the seventh level. But as there were two other levels — the second (club seats) and the fifth (executive suites) — which also had access to the service lift, he might have to wait until their orders were completed before the elevator reached him, in which case it could take as long as three minutes.

‘Once your order arrives, you take the tray to the officer stationed inside the JumboTron at the eastern end of the ground. You’ll find a door marked “Private” down the walkway to your left.’ Thirty-seven paces, Connor recalled. ‘Here’s the key. You go through it, and down an enclosed walkway until you reach the back entrance of the JumboTron.’ Seventy yards, thought Connor. In his footballing days he could have covered that distance in around seven seconds.

While the manager continued to tell him things he already knew, Connor studied the service elevator. It was two foot three by two foot seven, and inside were clearly printed the words: ‘Maximum weight permitted 150 pounds’. Connor weighed 210 pounds, so he hoped the designer had allowed a bit of leeway. There were two other problems: he wouldn’t be able to test it out, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it from being stopped at the fifth or second floors once he was on his way down.

‘When you reach the door at the back of the JumboTron,’ the catering manager was saying, ‘you knock, and the agent on duty will unbolt it and let you in. Once you’ve handed him the tray, you can go to the back of the stadium and watch the first quarter. At the break you go and get the tray and take it to the service elevator. You press the green button and it will go back down to the basement. Then you can watch the rest of the game. Did you understand all that, Dave?’

Connor was tempted to say, No, sir. Would you be kind enough to run through it once again, but a little more slowly?

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Any questions?’

‘No, sir.’

‘OK. If the officer treats you good, I’ll send him up a steak after full time. When he’s finished that, report to me and collect your pay. Fifty dollars.’ He winked.

Pug had explained that serious fans didn’t bother to pick up their wages if they wanted to be offered the job again. ‘Remember,’ he had said, ‘when the manager mentions the word “pay”, just wink.’

Connor had no intention of collecting the $50, or of ever returning to the stadium. He winked.

Chapter Thirty-Two

‘Why is Lawrence travelling to the game by helicopter when I’m stuck in the back of this car?’ Zerimski asked as his nine-limousine motorcade swept out of the Embassy gates.

‘He has to make sure he’s there before you,’ said Titov. ‘He wants to be introduced to all the guests, so that by the time you arrive he can give the impression he’s known them all his life.’

‘What a way to run a country,’ said Zerimski. ‘Not that this afternoon is important.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Do you know, I’ve even seen the rifle Fitzgerald plans to kill me with,’ he said eventually. Titov looked surprised. ‘He’s using the same model the CIA planted on him in St Petersburg. But with a refinement.’ He put a hand in his jacket pocket. ‘What do you think this is?’ he asked, holding up what looked like a bent nail.

Titov shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘It’s the firing pin of a Remington 700,’ Zerimski replied. ‘So we can even allow him to pull the trigger before the bodyguards begin to pump bullets into him.’ He studied it closely. ‘I think I’ll have it mounted and keep it on my desk in the Kremlin.’ He dropped it back in his pocket. ‘Has the speech I’m meant to be giving tonight been released to the press?’

‘Yes, Mr President,’ replied Titov. ‘It’s full of the usual platitudes. You can be confident that not a word of it will ever be printed.’

‘And what about my spontaneous reaction after Fitzgerald has been killed?’

‘I have it here, Mr President.’

‘Good. Give me a taste of it,’ said Zerimski, leaning back in his seat.

Titov removed a file from the case by his side and began reading from a handwritten script: ‘On the day of my election, President Lawrence telephoned me at the Kremlin and gave me a personal invitation to visit his country. I accepted that offer in good faith. What happens when I take it up? My outstretched hand is met not with an olive branch, but with a rifle pointing directly at me. And where? In my own Embassy. And who pulled the trigger? An officer of the CIA. Had it not been for my good fortune...’

‘A former officer,’ interrupted Zerimski.

‘I thought it prudent,’ said Titov, looking up from his notes, ‘for you to appear to make the occasional error, even to repeat yourself. That way no one will suggest you always knew what was going on. In America, they want to believe that everything is a conspiracy.’

‘I shall be only too happy to fuel their paranoia,’ said Zerimski. ‘Long after Lawrence has been removed, I expect Americans will be writing copious volumes about how I was responsible for the complete breakdown in relations between the two countries. Lawrence’s administration will end up as nothing more than a footnote in the history of the resurgence of the Russian empire under my presidency.’ He beamed at Titov. And after I have achieved that, there will be no more talk of elections. Because I shall remain in power until the day I die.’

Connor checked his watch. It was nine fifty-six. He pressed the button beside the service elevator and immediately heard the whirr of an engine as it began its slow journey up to the seventh level.

There were still thirty-four minutes before the stadium would be opened to the public, although Connor knew it would take some time for the crowd to pass through the thirty magnetometers and the personal security checks. But he was keeping to a far stricter timetable than anyone else in the stadium. Forty-seven seconds later he removed the tray and pressed the button to let the staff in the basement know he had received it.

He walked quickly along the seventh-floor concourse, past a concession stand, and up to the door marked ‘Private’. He balanced the tray on one hand, turned the key in the lock with the other and slipped inside. Then he switched on the lights and strode down the covered walkway at the back of the JumboTron. He checked his watch again — eighty-three seconds. Too long, but as the final run would be without a tray, it should be possible to complete the whole exercise, from roof to basement, in under two minutes. If it all went to plan, he would be out of the stadium and on his way to the airport before they had time to set up any roadblocks.

Connor balanced the tray in one hand and knocked on the door with the other. A few seconds later it was opened by a tall, heavily-built man who stood silhouetted in an oblong of light.

‘I’ve brought you a snack,’ said Connor with a warm smile.

‘Great,’ said the sharpshooter. ‘Why don’t you come in and join me?’ He removed a pastrami sandwich from the tray, and Connor followed him along a thin, galvanised steel platform behind a vast screen made up of 786 televisions. The Secret Service man sat down and dug his teeth into the sandwich. Connor tried not to let him see how closely he was studying his rifle.

The JumboTron was on three floors, one above the platform and one below. Connor put the tray down beside the officer, who was sitting in the middle of the flight of stairs that led to the lower ramp. He took more interest in his can of Diet Coke than in Connor’s roaming eyes.

‘By the way,’ he said, between swigs, ‘I’m Arnie Cooper.’

‘Dave Krinkle,’ Connor replied.

‘So how much did you have to pay for the privilege of spending the afternoon with me?’ asked Arnie with a grin.

Marine One landed at the heliport to the north-east of the stadium, and a limousine purred up even before the copter’s steps had touched the ground. Lawrence and Lloyd emerged a moment later, and the President turned to wave to the large gathering of well-wishers before climbing into the back of the waiting car. They covered the quarter-mile to the stadium in under a minute, passing through every security check without hindrance. John Kent Cooke, the owner of the Redskins, was waiting at the stadium’s entrance to greet them.

‘This is a great honour, sir,’ he said as Lawrence stepped out of the limousine.

‘It’s good to meet you, John,’ replied the President, shaking the slim, grey-haired man by the hand.

Cooke guided his guest towards a private lift.

‘Do you really believe the Skins can win, John?’ Lawrence asked with a grin.

‘Now that’s the sort of loaded question I might have expected from a politician, Mr President,’ Cooke replied as they stepped into the lift. ‘Everyone knows you’re the Packers’ number one fan. But I’m bound to say the answer to your question is “Yes, sir.” Fight for old DC. The Skins will win.’

‘The Washington Post doesn’t agree with you,’ said the President as the doors opened at the press level.

‘I’m sure you’re the last person to believe everything you read in the Post, Mr President,’ said Cooke. Both men laughed as he led Lawrence into his box, a large, comfortable room positioned above the fifty-yard line, with a perfect view of the whole field. ‘Mr President, I’d like to introduce you to one or two of the folks who have made the Redskins the greatest football team in America. Let me start with my wife, Rita.’

‘Good to meet you, Rita,’ Lawrence said, shaking her by the hand. ‘And congratulations on your triumph at the National Symphony Ball. I’m told they raised a record amount under your chairmanship.’

Mrs Cooke beamed with pride.

Lawrence was able to recall an appropriate fact or anecdote about every person he was introduced to, including the little old man wearing a Redskins blazer who couldn’t possibly have been a former player.

‘This is Pug Washer,’ said John Kent Cooke, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘Now, he...’

‘...is the only man in history to make the Redskins Hall of Fame without playing a single game for the team,’ said the President.

A huge smile appeared on Pug’s face.

‘And I’m also told that you know more about the history of the team than any living person.’

Pug promised himself he would never vote Republican again.

‘So tell me, Pug, in Packers versus Skins games, what were Vince Lombardi’s regular-season points when he was coaching the Packers, compared to his year with the Skins?’

‘Packers 459, Skins 435,’ said Pug with a rueful smile.

‘Just as I thought — he should never have left the Packers in the first place,’ said the President, slapping Pug on the back.

‘Do you know, Mr President,’ said Cooke, ‘I’ve never been able to come up with a question about the Redskins that Pug wasn’t able to answer.’

‘Has anyone ever stumped you, Pug?’ asked the President, turning to the walking encyclopaedia again.

‘They try all the time, Mr President,’ Pug replied. ‘Why, only yesterday a man...’

Before Pug could complete his sentence, Andy Lloyd touched Lawrence’s elbow. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but we’ve just been informed that President Zerimski is only five minutes away from the stadium. You and Mr Cooke should make your way to the north-east entrance now, so that you’ll be in time to welcome him.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Lawrence. He turned to Pug and said, ‘Let’s continue our conversation just as soon as I get back.’

Pug nodded as the President and his entourage left the room to go and greet Zerimski.

‘It’s a bit cramped in here,’ Connor shouted above the noise of the large ventilation fan in the ceiling.

‘Sure is,’ said Arnie, finishing off his Diet Coke. ‘But I guess it goes with the job.’

‘Are you expecting any trouble today?’

‘Nope, not really. Of course, we’ll all be on full alert the moment the two Presidents walk out onto the field, but that only lasts for about eight minutes. Although if Special Agent Braithwaite had his way, neither of them would be allowed out of the owner’s box until it was time for them to go home.’

Connor nodded and asked several more innocuous questions, listening carefully to Arnie’s Brooklyn accent, and concentrating especially on any expressions he used regularly.

As Arnie dug his teeth into a slice of chocolate cake, Connor looked through a gap in the rotating advertising boards. Most of the Secret Service officers in the stadium were also taking a snack break. He focused on the lighting tower behind the western end zone. Brad was up there listening intently to an officer who was pointing towards the owner’s box. Just the sort of young man the Service needed to recruit, thought Connor. He turned back to Arnie. ‘I’ll see you again at the start of the game. A plate of sandwiches, another slice of cake and some more Coke suit you?’

‘Yep, sounds great. But go easy on the cake. I don’t mind my wife telling me I’ve put on a few pounds, but lately the SAIC has begun to comment on it.’

A siren sounded to let all the staff in the stadium know it was ten thirty, and the gates were about to be opened. The fans began to flood into the stands, most of them heading straight for their usual seats. Connor gathered up the empty Coke can and the plastic container and placed them on the tray.

‘I’ll be back with your lunch when the game kicks off,’ he said.

‘Yep,’ replied Arnie, his binoculars now focused on the crowd below. ‘But don’t come in until after the two Presidents are back in the owner’s box. No one else is allowed in the JumboTron while they’re out on the field.’

‘OK, I understand,’ said Connor, taking a last look at Arnie’s rifle. As he turned to go, he heard a voice coming over a two-way radio.

‘Hercules 3.’

Arnie unclipped the radio from the back of his belt, pressed a button and said, ‘Hercules 3, go ahead.’

Connor hesitated by the door.

‘Nothing to report, sir. I was just about to run an eye over the west stand.’

‘Fine. Report in if you see anything suspicious.’

‘Will do,’ said Arnie, and clipped the receiver back onto his belt.

Connor quietly stepped out onto the covered walkway, closed the door behind him and placed the empty Coke can on the step.

He checked his watch, then walked quickly down the covered walkway, unlocked the door and turned off the lights. The concourse was swarming with fans heading for their seats. When he reached the lift shaft, he checked his watch again. Fifty-four seconds. On the final run it would have to take less than thirty-five. He pressed the button. Forty-seven seconds later the service elevator reappeared. Obviously no one on the second or fifth levels had been calling for it. He placed the tray inside and pressed the button once again. It immediately began its slow journey down to the basement.

No one gave Connor, dressed in a long white catering coat and a Redskins cap, a second glance as he strolled casually past the concession stand towards the door marked ‘Private’. He slipped inside and locked the door behind him. In the darkness he walked noiselessly back along the narrow walkway until he was a few yards from the entrance to the JumboTron. He stood looking down at the vast steel girder that held the massive screen in place.

Connor gripped the handrail for a moment, then fell to his knees. He leaned forward, grabbed the girder with both hands, and eased himself off the walkway. He stared fixedly at the screen which, according to the architects’ plans, was forty-two feet in front of him. It looked more like a mile.

He could see a small handle, but he still had no idea if the emergency trapdoor that had been clearly marked on the engineer’s plans really existed. He began to crawl slowly along the girder, inch by inch, never once looking down at the 170-foot drop below him. It felt like two miles.

When he finally reached the end of the girder, he dropped his legs over the sides and gripped tightly, as if he was on horseback. The screen switched from a replay of a touchdown in the Skins’ previous game to an advertisement for Modell’s sporting goods store. Connor took a deep breath, gripped the handle, and pulled. The trapdoor slid back, revealing the promised twenty-two-and-a-half-inch-square hole. Connor slowly hauled himself inside and slid the door back in place.

Pressed in on all sides by steel, he began to wish that he had added a thick pair of gloves to his clothing. It was like being inside a refrigerator. Nevertheless, as each minute passed he became more confident that should it prove necessary to fall back on his contingency plan, no one would ever discover where he was hiding.

He lay suspended inside the hollow steel girder 170 feet above the ground for over an hour and a half, barely able to turn his wrist to check the time. But then, in Vietnam he’d once spent ten days’ solitary confinement standing upright in a bamboo cage with water up to his chin.

Something he suspected Arnie had never experienced.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Zerimski shook hands warmly with everyone he was introduced to, and even laughed at John Kent Cooke’s jokes. He remembered the names of all the guests, and answered every question that was put to him with a smile. ‘What the Americans call a charm offensive,’ Titov had told him: it would only add to the horror of what he had planned for them that evening.

He could already hear the guests telling the press, ‘He couldn’t have been more relaxed and at ease, especially with the President, whom he kept referring to as “my dear and close friend Tom”.’ Lawrence, the guests would recall, did not show quite the same degree of warmth, and was slightly frosty towards his Russian visitor.

After the introductions had been completed, John Kent Cooke banged on a table with a spoon. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt such a pleasant occasion,’ he began, ‘but time is marching on, and this is probably going to be the only opportunity I have in my life to brief two Presidents at once.’ A little laughter broke out. ‘So here goes.’ He put on a pair of glasses and began reading from a sheet of paper handed to him by his public affairs assistant.

‘At eleven twenty I will accompany both Presidents to the south entrance of the stadium, and at eleven thirty-six I will lead them out onto the field.’ He looked up. ‘I have arranged for the welcome to be deafening,’ he said with a smile. Rita laughed just a little too loudly.

‘When we reach the centre of the field, I will introduce the Presidents to the two team captains, and they in turn will introduce them to their co-captains and the coaches. Then the Presidents will be introduced to the match officials.

‘At eleven forty, everyone will turn and face the west stand, where the Redskins band will play the Russian national anthem, followed after a short pause by “The Star-Spangled Banner”.

‘At precisely eleven forty-eight our honoured guest President Zerimski will flip a silver dollar. I shall then accompany both gentlemen off the field and bring them back here, where I hope everyone will enjoy watching the Redskins defeat the Packers.’

Both Presidents laughed.

Cooke looked up at his guests, smiling with relief that the first part of his ordeal was over, and asked, Any questions?’

‘Yes, John, I have a question,’ said Zerimski. ‘You didn’t explain why I have to flip the coin.’

‘So that the captain who correctly guesses whether it’s heads or tails can choose which team kicks off

What an amusing idea,’ said Zerimski.

As the minutes slipped by, Connor checked his watch more and more frequently. He didn’t want to be inside the JumboTron for any longer than necessary, but he needed time to familiarise himself with a rifle he hadn’t used for some years.

He checked his watch again. Eleven ten. He’d wait for another seven minutes. However impatient you become, never go early — it only adds to the risk.

Eleven twelve. He thought about Chris Jackson, and the sacrifice he had made just to give him this one chance.

Eleven fourteen. He thought about Joan, and the cruel and unnecessary death Gutenburg had ordered for no reason other than that she had been his secretary.

Eleven fifteen. He thought about Maggie and Tara. If he managed to pull this off, it might just give them a chance to live in peace. Either way, he doubted if he would ever see them again.

Eleven seventeen. Connor slid open the trapdoor and eased himself slowly out of the confined space. He gathered his strength for a moment before swinging his legs over the girder and gripping it firmly with his thighs. Again, he didn’t look down as he began the slow forty-two-foot crawl back to the walkway.

Once he had reached the safety of the ledge, he pulled himself up onto the walkway. He held onto the rail for a few moments, steadied himself, and began a short series of stretching exercises.

Eleven twenty-seven. He breathed deeply as he went over his plan for the final time, then walked quickly towards the JumboTron, pausing only to pick up the empty Coke can he had left on the step.

He banged loudly on the door. Without waiting for a response, he opened it, marched in and shouted above the noise of the ventilation unit, ‘It’s only me.’

Arnie peered down from the ledge above, his right hand moving towards the trigger of his Armalite. ‘Beat it!’ he said. ‘I told you not to come back till the Presidents were off the field. You’re lucky I didn’t put a bullet through you.’

‘Sorry,’ said Connor. ‘It’s just that I noticed how hot it gets in here, so I brought you another Coke.’

He passed the empty can up, and Arnie bent down to take it with his free hand. As his fingers touched the rim of the can, Connor let go of it, grabbed him by the wrist and, with all the strength he could muster, pulled him down from the ledge.

Arnie let out a terrible scream as he came crashing over, landing head first on the galvanised walkway, his rifle skidding away across it.

Connor swung round and leapt on his adversary before he had a chance to get up. As Arnie raised his head, Connor landed a straight left to the chin that stunned him for a moment, then grabbed for the pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt. He only just caught sight of the knee flying towards his crotch, but deftly moved to his left and managed to avoid its full impact. As Arnie tried to rise to his feet, Connor landed another punch, this time full on his nose. Connor heard the break, and as blood began to flow down his face, Arnie’s legs buckled and he sank to the ground. Connor sprang on him again, and as Arnie tried to get up he delivered a blow to his right shoulder that caused him to go into spasms. This time when he collapsed onto the walkway he finally lay still.

Connor tore off his long white coat, his shirt, tie, trousers, socks and cap. He threw them all in a pile in the corner, then unlocked Arnie’s handcuffs and quickly stripped him of his uniform. As he put it on he found that the shoes were at least two sizes too small, and the trousers a couple of inches too short. He had no choice but to pull up his socks and stick with his trainers, which were at least black. He didn’t think that in the mayhem he was about to cause anyone would recall that they had seen a Secret Service agent who wasn’t wearing regulation shoes.

Connor retrieved his tie from the pile of clothes in the corner and bound Arnie’s ankles tightly together. He then lifted up the unconscious man and held him against the wall, placed his arms around a steel beam which ran across the width of the JumboTron, and clamped the handcuffs on his wrists. Finally he took a handkerchief out of his pocket, rolled it up into a ball and forced it into Arnie’s mouth. The poor bastard was going to be sore for several days. It wouldn’t be much compensation that he would probably lose those extra pounds the SAIC had berated him about.

‘Nothing personal,’ said Connor. He placed Arnie’s cap and dark glasses by the door, and picked up his rifle: as he’d thought, an M-16. It wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it could do the job. He quickly climbed the steps to the second-floor landing where Arnie had been sitting, picked up his binoculars and, through the gap between the ad panel and the video screen, scanned the crowd below.

Eleven thirty-two. It had been three minutes and thirty-eight seconds since Connor had entered the JumboTron. He’d allowed four minutes for the take-over. He started breathing deeply and evenly.

Suddenly he heard a voice behind him.

‘Hercules 3.’

At first he couldn’t work out where the sound was coming from, but then he remembered the small two-way radio attached to Arnie’s belt. He snatched it off. ‘Hercules 3, go ahead.’

‘Thought we’d lost you there for a moment, Arnie,’ said the SAIC. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yep,’ said Connor. ‘Just needed to take a leak, and thought I’d better not do it over the crowd.’

‘Affirmative,’ said Braithwaite, breaking into a laugh. ‘Keep scanning your section. It won’t be long before Red Light and Waterfall come out on the field.’

‘Will do,’ said Connor, in an accent his mother would have chastised him for. The line went dead.

Eleven thirty-four. He looked around the stadium. Only a few of the red and yellow seats remained unoccupied. He tried not to be distracted by the scantily-clad Redskinettes kicking their legs high in the air directly below him.

A roar went up from the stands as the teams emerged from the tunnels at the south end of the stadium. They jogged slowly towards the centre of the field, as the crowd began to sing ‘Hail to the Redskins’.

Connor raised Arnie’s binoculars to his eyes and focused on the lighting towers high above the stadium. Almost all the agents were now scanning the crowd below, looking for any suggestion of trouble. None of them was showing any interest in the one location it was actually going to come from. Connor’s gaze settled on young Brad, who was peering down into the north stand, checking it row by row. The boy looked as if this was the nearest he’d been to heaven.

Connor swung round and lined the binoculars up on the fifty-yard line. The two captains were now facing each other.

Eleven thirty-six. Another roar went up as John Kent Cooke proudly led the two Presidents out onto the field, accompanied by a dozen agents who were almost as big as the players. One look and Connor could tell that Zerimski and Lawrence were both wearing bulletproof vests.

He would have liked to line up his rifle on Zerimski and focus the mil dots on his head there and then, but he couldn’t risk being spotted by one of the sharpshooters on the lighting towers, all of whom held their rifles in the crooks of their arms. He knew that they’d been trained to aim and fire in under three seconds.

As the Presidents were introduced to the players, Connor turned his attention to the Redskins flag which was fluttering in the breeze above the western end of the stadium. He cracked the rifle open to find, as he’d expected, that it was in ‘gun-box’ condition — fully loaded, off-safe, off-cocked. He chambered the first round and slammed the breech shut. The noise acted on him like the crack of a starting pistol, and he suddenly felt his heart rate almost double.

Eleven forty-one. The two Presidents were now chatting with the match officials. Through the binoculars, Connor could see John Kent Cooke nervously checking his watch. He leaned across and whispered something into Lawrence’s ear. The American President nodded, touched Zerimski’s elbow and guided him to a space between the two teams. There were two little white circles on the grass, with a bear painted inside one and an eagle inside the other, so the two leaders would know exactly where to stand.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said a voice over the loudspeaker. ‘Will you please stand for the national anthem of the Russian Republic.’

There was a clattering of seats as the crowd rose from their places, many of them removing their Redskins caps as they turned to face the band and choir at the western end of the field. The bandleader raised his baton, paused, then suddenly lowered it with gusto. The crowd listened restlessly to a tune few of them had ever heard before.

Although Connor had stood through the Russian national anthem many times in the past, he had found that few bands outside the country knew either at what tempo it should be played or how many verses ought to be included. So he had decided to wait for ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ before he took his one chance.

When the Russian anthem came to an end, the players began to stretch and jog on the spot in an attempt to calm their nerves. Connor waited for the bandleader to raise his baton once more, which would be his cue to line up Zerimski in his sights. He glanced at the flagpole on the far side of the stadium: the Redskins banner was now hanging limp, indicating that there was virtually no wind.

The bandmaster raised his baton a second time. Connor placed the rifle through the gap between the triangular ad panel and the video screen, using the wooden frame as a rest. He swept the telescopic sight across the field, then focused on the back of Zerimski’s head, lining up the mil dots until it completely filled the centre of the rifle’s sights.

The opening bars of the American anthem struck up, and both Presidents visibly stiffened. Connor breathed out. Three... two... one. He gently squeezed the trigger just as Tom Lawrence’s right arm swung across his chest, his hand coming to rest over his heart. Distracted by the sudden movement, Zerimski glanced to his left, and the bullet flew harmlessly past his right ear. Seventy-eight thousand out-of-tune voices ensured that no one heard the soft thud as the inch of metal embedded itself in the grass beyond the fifty-yard line.

Brad, lying flat on his stomach on the lighting platform high above the executive suite stared intently down at the crowd through a pair of binoculars. His eyes settled on the JumboTron. The vast screen was dominated by a larger than life President Lawrence, hand on heart, lustily singing the national anthem.

Brad’s glasses swept on. Suddenly he jerked them back. He thought he’d seen something in the gap between the triangular ad panel and the screen. He double-checked... it was the barrel of a rifle, pointing towards the centre of the field from the gap where he had earlier seen Arnie peering through his binoculars. He touched the fine focus and stared at a face he’d seen earlier that day. He didn’t hesitate.

‘Cover and evacuate. Gun.’

Brad spoke with such urgency and authority that Braithwaite and two of his counter-snipers instantly swung their binoculars round to the JumboTron. Within moments they had focused on Connor lining up his second shot.

‘Relax,’ Connor was murmuring to himself. ‘Don’t rush. You’ve got plenty of time.’ Zerimski’s head again filled the scope. Connor lined up the mil dots and breathed out again. Three... two...

Braithwaite’s bullet hammered into his left shoulder, knocking him backwards. A second bullet whistled through the gap where his head had been an instant before.

The national anthem came to an end.

Twenty-eight years of training had prepared Connor for this moment. Everything in his body screamed out to him to make good his escape. He immediately began to carry out plan A, trying to ignore the excruciating pain in his shoulder. He struggled to the door, switched off the light and clambered out onto the walkway. He tried to run to the far door that led out onto the concourse, but found he needed every ounce of energy just to keep moving. Forty seconds later, just as the two Presidents were being escorted from the field, he reached the door. He heard a roar from the crowd as the Redskins prepared to kick off.

Connor unlocked the door, staggered to the service elevator and jabbed the button several times. He could hear the little engine whirr into action as it began its slow progress towards the seventh level. His eyes were darting right and left, searching for the slightest sign of danger. The pain in his shoulder was becoming more and more intense, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. The first places every law enforcement agency would check were the local hospitals. He stuck his head into the shaft, and watched the top of the elevator heading towards him. It was about fifteen seconds away. But then it came to a sudden halt. Someone must be loading or unloading at the executive level.

Connor’s instinctive reaction was to fall back on his contingency plan, something he had never had to do in the past. He knew he couldn’t hang around — if he waited for more than a few more seconds, someone would spot him.

He moved as quickly as he could back towards the door that led to the JumboTron. The service elevator resumed its journey. A tray of sandwiches, a slice of Black Forest cake and the Coke that Arnie had been looking forward to appeared a few seconds later.

Connor slipped back through the door marked ‘Private’, leaving it unlocked. He had to summon up every ounce of willpower in his body to cover the seventy yards along the walkway, but he knew that agents from the Protective Intelligence Division mobile team would be swarming through that door within moments.

Twenty-four seconds later, Connor reached the massive girder that supported the video screen. He gripped the rail with his right hand and eased himself over the edge of the walkway and onto the ledge just as the door to the corridor swung open. He slipped under the walkway and heard two sets of feet run towards him, pass above him and stop outside the door to the JumboTron itself. Through a gap in the walkway he could see an officer clasping a hand gun pushing the door open. Without stepping inside, he fumbled for the light switch.

Connor waited until the lights went on and the two officers had disappeared inside the JumboTron before he began to crawl along the forty-two-foot girder for the third time that day. But now he could only hold on with his right arm, which meant that his progress was even slower. At the same time he had to be sure that the blood dripping from his left shoulder fell the 170 feet to the ground and not onto the girder for all to see.

When the leading Secret Service agent entered the JumboTron, the first thing he saw was Arnie handcuffed to the steel beam. He moved slowly towards him, constantly checking in every direction until he was standing by his side. His partner covered him while he unlocked Arnie’s handcuffs and gently lowered him to the ground, then removed the handkerchief from his mouth and checked his pulse. He was alive.

Arnie raised his eyes to the ceiling, but didn’t speak. The first Secret Service man immediately began to mount the steps to the second level, while the other officer covered him. The first man edged cautiously along the ledge behind the vast screen. A deafening roar went up around the stadium as the Redskins scored a touchdown, but he ignored it. Once he had reached the far wall, he turned back and nodded. The second officer began to climb to the top level, where he carried out a similar reconnaissance.

Both officers were back on the lower level, double-checking every possible hiding place, when a message came over the first agent’s radio.

‘Hercules 7.’

‘Hercules 7, go ahead.’

‘Any sign of him?’ asked Braithwaite.

‘There’s nobody here except Arnie, who was cuffed to a beam in his underwear. Both doors were unlocked, and there’s a trickle of blood all the way to the concourse, so you definitely winged him. He has to be out there somewhere. He’s wearing Arnie’s uniform, so he shouldn’t be too hard to spot.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ said Braithwaite. ‘If it’s who I think it is, he could be right under your nose.’

Chapter Thirty-Four

Three men sat in the Oval Office listening to the tape. Two were in evening dress, the third in uniform.

‘How did you find it?’ asked Lawrence.

‘It was among the pile of clothes Fitzgerald left in the JumboTron,’ said Special Agent in Charge Braithwaite. ‘In the back pocket of his jeans.’

‘How many people have heard it?’ asked Lloyd, trying not to sound anxious.

‘Just the three of us in this room, sir,’ said Braithwaite. ‘As soon as I’d listened to it, I contacted you immediately. I haven’t even briefed my boss.’

‘I’m grateful for that, Bill,’ said the President. ‘But what about those who witnessed the incident in the stadium?’

‘Apart from myself, only five other people were aware that anything happened, and you can be assured of their discretion,’ said Braithwaite. ‘Four of them have been on my personal staff for ten years or more, and between them they know enough secrets to sink the last four Presidents, not to mention half of Congress.’

‘Did anyone actually see Fitzgerald?’ asked Lloyd.

‘No, sir. The two agents who searched the JumboTron immediately after the incident found no sign of him except a pile of clothes, a lot of blood and one of my men handcuffed to a beam. After I’d played the tape, I gave an order that there was to be no written or verbal report concerning the incident.’

‘What about the man who was hanging from the beam?’ asked the President.

‘He just lost his footing and slipped off the ledge. I’ve put him on sick leave for a month.’

‘You mentioned a fifth person,’ said Lloyd.

‘Yes, sir, a young trainee who was up on the lighting tower with us.’

‘How can you be sure he won’t talk?’ asked Lloyd.

‘His application to join the Secret Service is on my desk as we speak,’ said Braithwaite. ‘I think he’s hoping to be assigned to my division as soon as he’s completed his training.’

The President smiled. ‘And the bullet?’

‘I made a hell of a mess digging it out of the field after the stadium had been cleared,’ said Braithwaite, passing a spent piece of flat metal across to the President.

Lawrence rose from his desk, turned round and stared out of the bay window. Dusk had fallen over the Capitol. He looked across the lawn while he thought about what he was going to say.

‘It’s important that you realise one thing, Bill,’ he said eventually. ‘It certainly sounds like my voice on that tape, but I have never suggested to anyone, at any time, that Zerimski or any other person should be the target of an assassin.’

‘I accept that without question, Mr President, or I wouldn’t be here now. But I must be equally candid with you. If anyone in the Secret Service had realised that it was Fitzgerald in the JumboTron, they would probably have helped him escape.’

‘What kind of man can inspire such loyalty?’ asked Lawrence.

‘In your world, I suspect it’s Abraham Lincoln,’ said Braithwaite. ‘In ours it’s Connor Fitzgerald.’

‘I would have liked to meet him.’

‘That’s going to be difficult, sir. Even if he’s still alive, he seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I wouldn’t want my career to depend on finding him.’

‘Mr President,’ interrupted Lloyd, ‘you’re already running seven minutes late for the dinner at the Russian Embassy.’

Lawrence smiled and shook hands with Braithwaite. ‘Another good man I can’t tell the American people about,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I suppose you’ll be on duty again tonight.’

‘Yes, sir, I’ve been detailed to cover the whole of President Zerimski’s visit.’

‘I may see you later then, Bill. If you pick up any new information about Fitzgerald, I want to hear about it immediately.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Braithwaite, turning to leave.

A few minutes later, Lawrence and Lloyd walked in silence to the south portico, where nine limousines with their engines running stood in line. As soon as the President was in the back of the sixth car, he turned to his Chief of Staff and asked, ‘Where do you think he is, Andy?’

‘I have no idea, sir. But if I did, I’d probably sign up with Braithwaite’s team and help him escape.’

‘Why can’t we have someone like that as Director of the CIA?’

‘We might have had, if Jackson had lived.’

Lawrence turned to look out of the window. Something had been nagging at him ever since he had left the stadium, but when the motorcycle escort drove through the gates of the Russian Embassy he was still no nearer to dragging it up from the recesses of his mind.

‘What’s he looking so angry about?’ said Lawrence, spotting Zerimski pacing up and down outside the Embassy.

Lloyd glanced at his watch. ‘You’re seventeen minutes late, sir.’

‘That’s hardly a big deal, after what we’ve been through. Frankly, the damn man’s lucky to be alive.’

‘I don’t think that’s something you can use as an excuse, sir.’

The motorcade drew up at the feet of the Russian President. Lawrence stepped out of the car and said, ‘Hi, Victor. Sorry we’re a couple of minutes late.’

Zerimski made no attempt to hide his displeasure. After a cool handshake, he led his guest of honour silently into the Embassy and up the steps to the packed reception in the Green Room without uttering a word. Then he made a perfunctory excuse and dumped the President of the United States on the Egyptian Ambassador.

Lawrence’s eyes circled the room as the Ambassador tried to interest him in an exhibition of Egyptian artefacts that had recently opened at the Smithsonian.

‘Yes, I’ve been trying to find a gap in my schedule to see it,’ said the President, on autopilot. ‘Everybody who’s been tells me it’s quite magnificent.’ The Egyptian Ambassador beamed, as Lawrence spotted the man he was looking for. It took him three Ambassadors, two wives and the political correspondent of Pravda before he managed to reach Harry Nourse without causing undue suspicion.

‘Good evening, Mr President,’ said the Attorney-General. ‘You must have been pleased with the result of the game this afternoon.’

‘Sure was, Harry,’ said Lawrence expansively. ‘Always said the Packers could whip the Redskins any time, any place.’ He lowered his voice: ‘I want to see you in my office at midnight tonight. I need your advice on a legal matter.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said the Attorney-General quietly.

‘Rita,’ said the President, turning to his right, ‘it was such fun being with you this afternoon.’

Mrs Cooke returned the smile as a gong sounded in the background and a butler announced that dinner was about to be served. The chatter subsided, and the guests made their way into the ballroom.

Lawrence had been placed between Mrs Pietrovski, the Ambassador’s wife, and Yuri Olgivic, the newly appointed head of the Russian Trade Delegation. The President soon discovered that Olgivic didn’t speak a word of English — another of Zerimski’s subtle hints about his attitude to opening up trade between the two nations.

‘You must have been pleased with the result of the game this afternoon,’ said the Russian Ambassador’s wife, as a bowl of borscht was placed in front of the President.

‘Sure was,’ said Lawrence. ‘But I don’t think most of the crowd was with me on that one, Olga.’

Mrs Pietrovski laughed.

‘Were you able to follow what was going on?’ asked Lawrence, picking up his soup spoon.

‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘But I was fortunate enough to be placed next to a Mr Pug Washer, who didn’t seem to mind answering the most simple questions I asked him.’

The President dropped his spoon before he’d taken a sip. He looked across the room at Andy Lloyd, and placed a clenched fist under his chin — the sign he always used when he needed to speak to his Chief of Staff urgently.

Lloyd murmured a few words to the woman on his right, then folded his napkin, placed it on the table and walked over to the President’s side.

‘I need to see Braithwaite immediately,’ Lawrence whispered. ‘I think I know how to find Fitzgerald.’

Lloyd slipped out of the room without saying a word as the President’s soup bowl was whisked away.

Lawrence tried to concentrate on what the Russian Ambassador’s wife was saying, but he couldn’t get Fitzgerald out of his mind. Something about how much she would miss the States once her husband had retired.

‘And when will that be?’ asked the President, not at all interested in her reply.

‘In about eighteen months,’ Mrs Pietrovski replied, as a plate of cold beef was placed in front of the President. He continued the conversation as first one waiter served him some vegetables, and a moment later another brought some potatoes. He picked up his knife and fork just as Lloyd walked back into the room. He was at the President’s side a moment later.

‘Braithwaite’s waiting for you in the back of “Stagecoach”.’

‘I hope there isn’t a problem,’ said Mrs Pietrovski as Lawrence began folding his napkin.

‘Nothing important, Olga,’ Lawrence assured her. ‘They just can’t find my speech. But don’t worry, I know exactly where it is.’ He rose from his place, and Zerimski followed his every step as he left the room.

Lawrence walked out of the ballroom, down the wooden staircase and through the front door of the Embassy before jogging down the steps and climbing into the back of the sixth car.

Lloyd and the driver stood by the limousine as a dozen Secret Service agents surrounded it, scanning in every direction.

‘Bill, if Fitzgerald is still in the stadium, there’s one man who’ll know where he is. Find Pug Washer, and my bet is you’ll find Fitzgerald.’

A few moments later the President opened the car door.

‘OK, Andy,’ he said, ‘let’s get back before they discover what we’re up to.’

‘What are we up to?’ asked Lloyd as he chased the President up the stairs.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Lawrence, striding into the ballroom.

‘But sir,’ said Lloyd, ‘you’ll still need...’

‘Not now,’ said Lawrence, as he took his seat next to the Ambassador’s wife and smiled apologetically.

‘Did you manage to find it?’ she asked.

‘Find what?’

‘Your speech,’ said Mrs Pietrovski, as Lloyd placed a file on the table between them.

‘Of course,’ said Lawrence, tapping the file. ‘By the way, Olga, how’s that daughter of yours? Natasha, isn’t it? Is she still studying Fra Angelico in Florence?’ He picked up his knife and fork.

The President glanced in Zerimski’s direction as the waiters reappeared to remove the plates. He put his knife and fork back down, settling for a stale bread roll with a pat of butter and finding out what Natasha Pietrovski had been up to during her junior year in Florence. He couldn’t help noticing that the Russian President appeared nervous, almost on edge, as the time drew nearer for him to make his speech. He immediately assumed that Zerimski was about to deliver another unexpected bombshell. The thought put him off his raspberry souffle.

When Zerimski eventually rose to address his guests, even his most ardent admirers would have been hard pressed to describe his efforts as anything other than pedestrian. Some of those who watched him particularly closely wondered why he appeared to be directing so many of his remarks to the massive statue of Lenin in the gallery above the ballroom. Lawrence thought it must have been put there recently, as he didn’t remember seeing it at Boris’s farewell dinner.

He kept waiting for Zerimski to reinforce his message to Congress the previous day, but he said nothing controversial. To Lawrence’s relief he stuck to the bland script that had been sent to the White House that afternoon. He glanced down at his own speech, which he should have gone over with Andy in the car. His Chief of Staff had scribbled a few suggestions in the margins, but there wasn’t a witty phrase or memorable paragraph from page one to page seven. But then, Andy had also had a busy day.

‘Let me end by thanking the American people for the generous hospitality and warm welcome I have experienced everywhere I have been during my visit to your great country, in particular from your President, Tom Lawrence.’

The applause that greeted this statement was so loud and prolonged that Lawrence looked up from his notes. Zerimski was once again standing motionless, staring up at the statue of Lenin. He waited until the applause had ended before he sat down. He didn’t look at all pleased, which surprised Lawrence, as in his opinion the speech’s reception had been far more generous than it deserved.

Lawrence rose to reply. His speech was received with courteous interest, but hardly with enthusiasm. He concluded with the words, ‘Let us hope, Victor, that this will be the first of many visits you make to the United States. On behalf of all your guests, I wish you a safe flight home tomorrow.’ Lawrence reflected that two lies in one sentence were a bit much, even for a politician, and wished he had had time to read the line before delivering it. He sat down to respectful applause, but it was nothing compared with the ovation Zerimski had received for an equally banal offering.

Once the coffee had been served, Zerimski rose from his place and walked over to the double doors at the far side of the room. He soon began saying ‘Goodnight,’ in a voice that carried across the room, making it abundantly clear that he wanted his guests off the premises as quickly as possible.

A few minutes after ten had struck on several clocks around the Embassy, Lawrence rose and began moving slowly in the direction of his host. But, like Caesar in the Capitol, he found he was continually stopped by different citizens wanting to touch the hem of the emperor’s clothes. When he eventually reached the door, Zerimski gave him a curt nod before accompanying him down the stairs to the first floor. As Zerimski didn’t speak, Lawrence took a long look at the Nzizvestni statue of Christ on the Cross that was still in its place on the first landing. Now that Lenin was back, he was surprised that Jesus had survived. At the foot of the stone steps he turned to wave to his host, but Zerimski had already disappeared back inside the Embassy. If he had taken the trouble to accompany Lawrence beyond the front door, he would have seen the SAIC waiting for him as he climbed into the back of his limousine.

Braithwaite didn’t speak until the door had been closed.

‘You were right, sir,’ he said as they passed through the Embassy gates.

The first person Zerimski saw as he walked back into the Embassy was the Ambassador. His Excellency smiled hopefully.

‘Is Romanov still in the building?’ Zerimski bellowed, unable to hide his anger for a moment longer.

‘Yes, Mr President,’ the Ambassador said, chasing after his leader. ‘He’s been...’

‘Bring him to me immediately.’

‘Where will I find you?’

‘In what used to be your study.’

Pietrovski scurried away in the opposite direction.

Zerimski marched down the long marble corridor, hardly breaking his stride as he shoved open the door of the Ambassador’s study as if he was thumping a punchbag. The first thing he saw was the rifle, still lying on the desk. He sat down in the large leather chair normally occupied by the Ambassador.

While he waited impatiently for them to join him, he picked up the rifle and began to study it more closely. He looked down the barrel and saw that the single bullet was still in place. As he held it up to his shoulder he could feel its perfect balance, and he understood for the first time why Fitzgerald had been willing to fly halfway across America to find its twin.

It was then that he saw the firing pin had been replaced.

Zerimski could hear the two men hurrying down the marble corridor. Just before they reached the study, he lowered the rifle onto his lap.

They almost ran into the room. Zerimski pointed unceremoniously to the two seats on the other side of the desk.

‘Where was Fitzgerald?’ he demanded before Romanov had even sat down. ‘You assured me in this room that he would be here by four o’clock this afternoon. “Nothing can go wrong,” you boasted. “He’s agreed to my plan.” Your exact words.’

‘That was our agreement when I spoke to him just after midnight, Mr President,’ said Romanov.

‘So what happened between midnight and four o’clock?’

‘While my men were escorting him into the city early this morning, the driver was forced to stop at a set of traffic lights. Fitzgerald leaped out of the car, ran to the other side of the road and jumped into a passing taxi. We pursued it all the way to Dulles Airport, only to find when we caught up with it outside the terminal that Fitzgerald wasn’t inside.’

‘The truth is that you allowed him to escape,’ said Zerimski. ‘Isn’t that what really happened?’

Romanov bowed his head and said nothing.

The President’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘I understand you have a code in the Mafya,’ he said, clicking the breech of the rifle shut, ‘for those who fail to carry out contracts.’

Romanov looked up in horror as Zerimski raised the gun until it was pointing at the centre of his chest.

‘Yes or no?’ said Zerimski quietly.

Romanov nodded. Zerimski smiled at the man who had accepted the judgement of his own court, and gently squeezed the trigger. The boat-tailed bullet tore into Romanov’s chest about an inch below the heart. The power of its impact hurled his lithe body back against the wall, where it remained for a second or two before slithering down onto the carpet. Fragments of muscle and bone were scattered in every direction. The walls, the carpet, the Ambassador’s dress suit and white pleated shirt were drenched with blood.

Zerimski swung slowly round until he was facing his former representative in Washington. ‘No, no!’ cried Pietrovski, falling on his knees. ‘I’ll resign, I’ll resign.’

Zerimski squeezed the trigger a second time. When he heard the click, he remembered that there had been only one bullet in the breech. He rose from his seat, a look of disappointment on his face.

‘You’ll have to send that suit to the cleaners,’ he said, as if the Ambassador had done no more than spill some egg yolk on his sleeve. The President placed the rifle back on the desk. ‘I accept your resignation. But before you clear your office, see that what’s left of Romanov’s body is patched together and sent back to St Petersburg.’ He began walking towards the door. ‘Make it quick — I’d like to be there when he’s buried with his father.’

Pietrovski, still on his knees, didn’t reply. He had been sick, and was too frightened to open his mouth.

As Zerimski reached the door, he turned back to face the cowering diplomat. ‘In the circumstances, it might be wise to arrange for the body to be sent back in the diplomatic pouch.’

Chapter Thirty-Five

The snow was falling heavily as Zerimski climbed the steps to the waiting Ilyushin 62, creating a thick white carpet around its wheels.

Tom Lawrence was standing on the tarmac, wearing a long black topcoat. An aide held a large umbrella above his head.

Zerimski disappeared through the door without even bothering to turn and give the traditional wave for the cameras. Any suggestion of this being the time of year for good will to all men was obviously lost on him.

The State Department had already issued a press release. It talked in broad terms of the success of the new Russian President’s four-day visit, significant steps taken by both countries, and the hope for further cooperation at some time in the future. ‘Useful and constructive’ were the words Larry Harrington had settled on before the morning press conference, and, as an afterthought, ‘a step forward’. The journalists who had just witnessed Zerimski’s departure would translate Harrington’s sentiments as ‘useless and destructive, and without doubt a step backwards’.

Within moments of its grey door slamming shut the Ilyushin lurched forward, almost as if, like its master, it couldn’t wait to get away.

Lawrence was the first to turn his back on the departing aircraft as it lumbered towards the runway. He walked quickly over to his waiting helicopter, where he found Andy Lloyd, a phone already pressed against his ear. Once the rotor blades began to turn, Lloyd quickly concluded his call. As Marine One lifted off, he leaned across and briefed the President on the outcome of the emergency operation that had taken place early that morning at the Walter Reed Hospital. Lawrence nodded as his Chief of Staff outlined the course of action Agent Braithwaite was recommending. ‘I’ll ring Mrs Fitzgerald personally,’ he said.

The two men spent the rest of the short journey preparing for the meeting that was about to take place in the Oval Office. The President’s helicopter landed on the South Lawn, and neither of them spoke as they made their way towards the White House. Lawrence’s secretary was waiting anxiously by the door.

‘Good morning, Ruth,’ the President said for the third time that day. Both of them had been up for most of the night.

At midnight the Attorney-General had arrived unannounced and told Ruth Preston that he had been summoned to attend a meeting with the President. It wasn’t in his diary. At two a.m. the President, Mr Lloyd and the Attorney-General had left for the Walter Reed Hospital — but again, there was no mention of the visit in the diary, or of the name of the patient they would be seeing. They returned an hour later and spent another ninety minutes in the Oval Office, the President having left instructions that they were not to be disturbed. When Ruth arrived back at the White House at ten past eight that morning, the President was already on his way to Andrews air base to say farewell to Zerimski.

Although he was wearing a different suit, shirt and tie from when she had last seen him, Ruth wondered if her boss had gone to bed at all that night.

‘What’s next, Ruth?’ he asked, knowing only too well.

‘Your ten o’clock appointment has been waiting in the lobby for the past forty minutes.’

‘Have they? Then you’d better send them in.’

The President walked into the Oval Office, opened a drawer in his desk and removed two sheets of paper and a cassette tape. He placed the paper on the blotter in front of him and inserted the cassette in the recorder on his desk. Andy Lloyd came in from his office, carrying two files under his arm. He took his usual seat by the side of the President.

‘Have you got the affidavits?’ asked Lawrence.

‘Yes, sir,’ Lloyd replied.

There was a knock on the door. Ruth opened it and announced, ‘The Director and Deputy Director of the CIA.’

‘Good morning, Mr President,’ said Helen Dexter brightly, as she entered the Oval Office with her Deputy a pace behind. She too had a file under her arm.

Lawrence did not return her salutation.

‘You’ll be relieved to know,’ continued Dexter, as she took a seat in one of the two vacant chairs opposite the President, ‘that I was able to deal with that problem we feared might arise during the visit of the Russian President. In fact, we have every reason to believe that the person in question no longer represents a threat to this country.’

‘Could that possibly be the same person I had a chat with on the phone a few weeks ago?’ asked Lawrence, leaning back in his chair.

‘I’m not quite sure I understand you, Mr President,’ said Dexter.

‘Then allow me to enlighten you,’ said Lawrence. He leaned forward and pressed the ‘Play’ button of the tape recorder on his desk.

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

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

Lawrence pressed the ‘Stop’ button.

‘No doubt you have a simple explanation as to how and why this conversation took place,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure I fully understand you, Mr President. The Agency is not privy to your personal telephone conversations.’

‘That may or may not be true,’ said the President. ‘But that particular conversation, as you well know, did not emanate from this office.’

‘Are you accusing the Agency of...’

‘I’m not accusing the Agency of anything. The accusation is levelled at you personally.’

‘Mr President, if this is your idea of a joke...’

‘Do I look as if I’m laughing?’ asked the President, before hitting the ‘Play’ button again.

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

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

The President leaned forward and once again pressed the ‘Stop’ button.

‘There’s more, if you want to hear it.’

‘I can assure you,’ said Dexter, ‘that the operation the agent in question was referring to was nothing more than a routine exercise.’

‘Are you asking me to believe that the assassination of the Russian President is now considered by the CIA to be nothing more than a routine exercise?’ said Lawrence in disbelief.

‘It was never our intention that Zerimski should be killed,’ said Dexter sharply.

‘Only that an innocent man would hang for it,’ the President retorted. A long silence followed before he added, ‘And thus remove any proof that it was also you who ordered the assassination of Ricardo Guzman in Colombia.’

‘Mr President, I can assure you that the CIA had nothing to do with...’

‘That’s not what Connor Fitzgerald told us earlier this morning,’ said Lawrence.

Dexter was silent.

‘Perhaps you’d care to read the affidavit he signed in the presence of the Attorney-General.’

Andy Lloyd opened the first of his two files and passed Dexter and Gutenburg copies of an affidavit signed by Connor Fitzgerald and witnessed by the Attorney-General. As the two of them began reading the statement, the President couldn’t help noticing that Gutenburg was sweating slightly.

‘Having taken advice from the Attorney-General, I have authorised the SAIC to arrest you both on a charge of treason. If you are found guilty, I am advised that there can only be one sentence.’

Dexter remained tight-lipped. Her Deputy was now visibly shaking. Lawrence turned to him.

‘Of course it’s possible, Nick, that you were unaware that the Director hadn’t been given the necessary executive authority to issue such an order.’

‘That is absolutely correct, sir,’ Gutenburg blurted out. ‘In fact she led me to believe that the instruction to assassinate Guzman had come directly from the White House.’

‘I thought you’d say that, Nick,’ said the President. ‘And if you feel able to sign this document’ — he pushed a sheet of paper across the desk — ‘the Attorney-General has indicated to me that the death sentence would be commuted to life imprisonment.’

‘Whatever it is, don’t sign it,’ ordered Dexter.

Gutenburg hesitated for a moment, then removed a pen from his pocket and signed his name between the two pencilled crosses below his one-sentence resignation as Deputy Director of the CIA, effective nine a.m. that day.

Dexter glared at him with undisguised contempt. ‘If you’d refused to resign, they wouldn’t have had the nerve to go through with it. Men are so spineless.’ She turned back to face the President, who was pushing a second sheet of paper across the desk, and glanced down to read her own one-sentence resignation as Director of the CIA, also effective nine a.m. that day. She looked up at Lawrence and said defiantly, ‘I won’t be signing anything, Mr President. You ought to have worked out by now that I don’t frighten that easily.’

‘Well, Helen, if you feel unable to take the same honourable course of action as Nick,’ said Lawrence, ‘when you leave this room you’ll find two Secret Service agents on the other side of the door, with instructions to arrest you.’

‘You can’t bluff me, Lawrence,’ said Dexter, rising from her chair.

‘Mr Gutenburg,’ said Lloyd, as she began walking towards the door, leaving the unsigned sheet of paper on the desk, ‘I consider life imprisonment, with no hope of parole, too high a price to pay in the circumstances. Especially if you were being set up, and didn’t even know what was going on.’

Gutenburg nodded as Dexter reached the door.

‘I would have thought a sentence of six, perhaps seven years at the most, would be more appropriate in your case. And with a little assistance from the White House, you need only end up serving three to four.’

Dexter stopped dead in her tracks.

‘But that would of course mean your agreeing to...’

‘I’ll agree to anything. Anything,’ Gutenburg spluttered.

‘...to testifying on behalf of the prosecution.’

Gutenburg nodded again, and Lloyd extracted a two-page affidavit from the other file resting on his lap. The former Deputy Director spent only a few moments reading the document before scribbling his signature across the bottom of the second page.

The Director rested a hand on the doorknob, hesitated for some time, then turned and walked slowly back to the desk. She gave her former Deputy one last look of disgust before picking up the pen and scrawling her signature between the pencilled crosses.

‘You’re a fool, Gutenburg,’ she said. ‘They would never have risked putting Fitzgerald on the stand. Any half-decent lawyer would have torn him to shreds. And without Fitzgerald, they don’t have a case. As I’m sure the Attorney-General has already explained to them.’ She turned again to leave the room.

‘Helen’s quite right,’ said Lawrence, retrieving the three documents and handing them to Lloyd. ‘If the case had ever reached the courts, we could never have put Fitzgerald on the stand.’

Dexter stopped in her tracks for a second time, the ink not yet dry on her resignation.

‘Sadly,’ said the President, ‘I have to inform you that Connor Fitzgerald died at seven forty-three this morning.’