The Eleventh Commandment

Chapter Thirty-Six

The cortége continued its slow progress over the brow of the hill.

Arlington National Cemetery was packed for a man who had never sought public recognition. The President of the United States stood on one side of the grave, flanked by the White House Chief of Staff and the Attorney-General. Facing them was a woman who hadn’t raised her head for the past forty minutes. On her right stood her daughter; on her left her future son-in-law.

The three of them had flown over from Sydney two days after receiving a personal telephone call from the President. The large crowd assembled at the graveside could not have left Maggie Fitzgerald in any doubt how many friends and admirers Connor had left behind.

At a meeting the previous day at the White House, Tom Lawrence had told the widow that Connor’s last words had been of his love for her and his daughter. The President went on to say that although he had only met her husband once, he would remember him for the rest of his life. ‘This from a man who meets a hundred people a day,’ Tara had written in her diary that evening.

A few paces behind the President stood the newly appointed Director of the CIA and a group of men and women who had no intention of reporting to work that day. They had travelled from the four corners of the earth to be there.

A tall, heavily-built man without a hair on his head stood slightly to one side of the other mourners, weeping uncontrollably. No one present would have believed that the most ruthless gangsters in South Africa would have been delighted to know that Carl Koeter was out of the country, if only for a couple of days.

The FBI and the Secret Service were also present in large numbers. Special Agent William Braithwaite stood at the head of a dozen sharpshooters, any one of whom would have been satisfied to end their careers regarded as the successor to Connor Fitzgerald.

Higher up the slope of the hill, filling the cemetery as far as the eye could see, were relatives from Chicago, academics from Georgetown, bridge players, Irish dancers, poets and people from every walk of life. They stood with their heads bowed in memory of a man they had loved and respected.

The cortége came to a halt on Sheridan Drive, a few yards from the graveside. The eight-man honour guard lifted the coffin from the gun carriage, raised it onto their shoulders and began the slow march towards the grave. The coffin was draped in the American flag, and resting on top were Connor’s battle ribbons. The Medal of Honor lay in the centre. When the pallbearers reached the graveside they lowered the coffin gently to the ground, and joined the other mourners.

Father Graham, who had been the Fitzgeralds’ family priest for over thirty years, raised his arms in the air.

‘My friends,’ he began. ‘Priests are often called upon to sing the praises of parishioners who have passed away, with whom they were barely acquainted and whose achievements were not always apparent. But this cannot be said of Connor Fitzgerald. As a student, he will be remembered as one of the finest quarterbacks the University of Notre Dame has ever produced. As a soldier, no feeble words of mine could possibly match the citation written by Captain Christopher Jackson, his platoon commander: “A fearless officer in the face of danger, who always placed his men’s lives before his own.” As a professional he gave almost three decades’ service to his country; you only have to look around to see the high regard in which he was held by his peers. But most of all, as a husband to Maggie and a father to Tara, we will remember him. Our hearts go out to both of them.’

Father Graham lowered his voice. ‘I was lucky enough to count myself among his friends. I had been looking forward to playing bridge with him again over the Christmas holiday — in fact, I was rather hoping to win back the $10 I lost to him in a rubber just before he went away on his last assignment. Dear God, I would happily give everything I possess just to be able once again to lose a game of bridge to him.

‘Sportsman, soldier, professional, lover, father, friend, and for me — although I would never have had the courage to mention it in his presence, simply because he would have laughed at me — hero.

‘Buried not far from you, Connor, is another American hero.’ The elderly priest raised his head. ‘If I were John Fitzgerald Kennedy, I would be proud to be buried in the same cemetery as Connor Fitzgerald.’

The pallbearers stepped forward and lowered the coffin into the grave. Father Graham made the sign of the cross, bent down, picked up a handful of earth and scattered it on the coffin.

‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ intoned the priest as a lone Marine bugler played Taps. The honour guard folded the flag from the coffin until it ended as a neat triangle in the hands of the youngest cadet, a boy of eighteen who, like Connor, had been born in Chicago. Normally he would have presented it to the widow with the words, ‘Ma’am, on behalf of the President of the United States.’ But not today. Today he marched in a different direction. Seven Marines raised their rifles in the air and fired a twenty-one-gun salute as the young cadet stood to attention in front of the President of the United States, and surrendered the flag.

Tom Lawrence received it, walked slowly around to the other side of the grave and stood before the widow. Maggie raised her head and tried to smile as the President presented her with the standard of the nation.

‘On behalf of a grateful country, I pass to you the flag of the Republic. You are surrounded by friends who knew your husband well. I only wish I’d had that privilege.’ The President bowed his head and returned to the other side of the grave. As the Marine band struck up the national anthem, he placed his right hand over his heart.

No one moved until Maggie had been escorted by Stuart and Tara to the entrance of the cemetery. She stood there for almost an hour, shaking hands with every mourner who had attended the ceremony.

Two men who had remained on the top of the hill throughout the service had flown in from Russia the previous day. They had not come to mourn. They would return to St Petersburg on the evening flight, and report that their services were no longer required.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Stuart looked up from the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald as Maggie walked into the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a sweater. They had been living in the same house for over six months, and he had never seen her with a hair out of place.

‘Good morning, Stuart,’ she said. ‘Anything interesting in the paper?’

‘Zerimski’s still flexing his muscles at the slightest opportunity,’ Stuart replied. ‘And your President is having to put a brave face on it. At least, that’s the view of the Russian correspondent of the Herald.’

‘Zerimski would drop a nuclear bomb on the White House if he thought he could get away with it,’ said Maggie. ‘Isn’t there any brighter news to tell me on a Saturday morning?’

‘The Prime Minister has announced the date for the election of our first President.’

‘You’re so slow in this country,’ said Maggie, filling a bowl with cornflakes. ‘We got rid of the British over two hundred years ago.’

‘It won’t take us much longer,’ said Stuart with a laugh as his wife strolled into the room in her dressing gown.

‘Good morning,’ she said sleepily. Maggie slid off her stool and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

‘You sit there and have these cornflakes while I make you an omelette. You really mustn’t...’

‘Mother, I’m pregnant, not dying of consumption,’ said Tara. ‘I’ll be just fine with a bowl of cornflakes.’

‘I know, it’s just that...’

‘...you’ll never stop worrying,’ said Tara, putting her arms around her mother’s shoulders. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret. There is no medical evidence that miscarriages are hereditary; only fussing mothers. What’s the big story this morning?’ she asked, looking across at Stuart.

‘My case in the criminal court has made the headlines — on page sixteen,’ he said, pointing to three short paragraphs tucked away in the bottom left-hand corner.

Tara read the report through twice before saying, ‘But they don’t even mention your name.’

‘No. They seem to be more interested in my client at the moment,’ admitted Stuart. ‘But if I get him off, that could change.’

‘I hope you don’t get him off,’ said Maggie as she broke a second egg. ‘I think your client is a little creep, and ought to spend the rest of his life in jail.’

‘For stealing $73?’ said Stuart in disbelief.

‘From a defenceless old woman.’

‘But it was the first time.’

‘The first time he was caught, I think you mean,’ said Maggie.

‘You know, Maggie, you would have made a first-class prosecuting counsel,’ said Stuart. ‘You should never have agreed to taking a sabbatical this year — you should have enrolled in law school instead. Mind you, I suspect life imprisonment for stealing $73 might not go down that big with everyone.’

‘You’d be surprised, young man,’ retorted Maggie.

There was a thud on the doormat. ‘I’ll get it,’ said Stuart, rising from the table.

‘Stuart’s right,’ said Tara, as her mother placed an omelette in front of her. ‘You shouldn’t waste your time being an unpaid housekeeper. You’re far too good for that.’

‘Thank you, my darling,’ said Maggie. She returned to the stove and cracked another egg. ‘But I enjoy being with you both. I only hope I’m not outstaying my welcome.’

‘Of course you’re not,’ said Tara. ‘But it’s been over six months since...’

‘I know, darling, but I still need a little longer before I can face going back to Washington. I’ll be fine by the time the fall semester begins.’

‘But you don’t even accept invitations to things you’d enjoy.’

‘Such as?’

‘Last week Mr Moore invited you to Fidelio at the Opera House, and you told him you were already going out that evening.’

‘To be honest, I can’t remember what I was doing,’ said Maggie.

‘I can. You sat in your room reading Ulysses.’

‘Tara, Ronnie Moore is a sweet man, and I have no doubt that whatever it is he does at the bank, he does very well. But what he doesn’t need is to spend an evening with me being reminded how much I miss your father. And I certainly don’t need to spend an evening with him being told how much he adored his late wife, whatever her name was.’

‘Elizabeth,’ said Stuart, as he returned clutching the morning post. ‘Ronnie’s rather nice actually.’

‘Not you as well,’ said Maggie. ‘The time has come for you both to stop worrying about my social life.’ She placed an even larger omelette in front of Stuart.

‘I should have married you, Maggie,’ he said with a grin.

‘You’d have been far more suitable than most of the men you’ve been trying to fix me up with,’ she said, patting her son-in-law on the head.

Stuart laughed and started sorting out the letters, the bulk of which were for him. He passed a couple over to Tara and three to Maggie, and pushed his own little pile to one side in favour of the sports section of the Herald.

Maggie poured herself a second cup of coffee before she turned to her post. As always, she studied the stamps before deciding in which order she would open them. Two of them carried the same portrait of George Washington. The third displayed a colourful picture of a kookaburra. She tore open the Australian letter first. When she had finished reading it, she passed it across the table to Tara, whose smile became broader with each paragraph she read.

‘Very flattering,’ said Tara, handing the letter to Stuart.

Stuart read it through quickly. ‘Yes, very. How will you respond?’

‘I’ll write back explaining that I’m not in the job market,’ said Maggie. ‘But not until I discover which one of you I have to thank for it.’ She waved the letter in the air.

‘Not guilty,’ said Tara.

‘Mea culpa,’ admitted Stuart. He had learned early on that it wasn’t worth trying to fool Maggie. She always found you out in the end.

‘I saw the job advertised in the Herald, and I thought you were ideally qualified for it. Overqualified, if anything.’

‘There’s a rumour that the Head of Admissions will be retiring at the end of the academic year,’ said Tara. ‘So they’ll be looking for a replacement in the near future. Whoever gets this job...’

‘Now listen to me, you two,’ said Maggie, starting to clear away the plates. ‘I’m on a sabbatical, and come August I intend to return to Washington and continue my job as Dean of Admissions at Georgetown. Sydney University will just have to find someone else.’ She sat down to open her second letter.

Neither Tara nor Stuart made any further comment as she extracted a cheque for $277,000, signed by the Treasury Secretary. ‘Benefit in full’, the attached letter explained, for the loss of her husband while serving as an officer with the CIA. How could they begin to understand what the words ‘benefit in full’ meant?

She quickly opened the third letter. She had saved it till last, recognising the ancient typeface and knowing exactly who had sent it.

Tara nudged Stuart. ‘The annual love letter from Dr O’Casey, if I’m not mistaken,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘I must admit, I’m impressed that he managed to track you down.’

‘So am I,’ said Maggie with a smile. ‘At least with him I don’t have to pretend.’ She tore open the envelope.

‘See you both outside and ready to leave in one hour,’ Stuart said, checking his watch. Maggie glanced over the top of her reading glasses and smiled. ‘I’ve booked a table at the beach café for one o’clock.’

‘Oh, you’re so masterful,’ said Tara with an adoring sigh. Stuart was just about to hit her on the head with his newspaper when Maggie said, ‘Good heavens.’ They both looked at her in amazement. It was the nearest they’d ever heard her get to blasphemy.

‘What is it, Mother?’ asked Tara. ‘Is he still proposing, or after all these years has he finally married someone else?’

‘Neither. He’s been offered a job as head of the Mathematics Department at the University of New South Wales, and he’s coming over to meet the Vice-Chancellor before he makes a final decision.’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Tara. ‘After all, he’s Irish, handsome, and has always adored you. And as you regularly remind us, Dad only just managed to beat him off in the first place. What more could you ask for?’

There was a long silence before Maggie said, ‘I’m afraid that’s not altogether accurate.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Tara.

‘Well, the truth is that although he was handsome, and a magnificent dancer, he was also a bit of a bore.’

‘But you always told me...’

‘I know what I told you,’ said Maggie. ‘And you needn’t look at me like that, young lady. I’m sure you occasionally tease Stuart about that young waiter from Dublin who...’

‘Mother! In any case, he’s now a...’

‘A what?’ asked Stuart.

‘...a lecturer at Trinity College, Dublin,’ said Tara. ‘And what’s more, he’s happily married with three children. Which is more than can be said for most of your ex-girlfriends.’

‘True,’ admitted Stuart. ‘So tell me,’ he said, turning his attention back to Maggie, ‘when does Dr O’Casey arrive in Oz?’

Maggie unfolded the letter again and read out:

‘But that’s today,’ said Stuart.

Maggie nodded before continuing:

She looked up. ‘He’ll be on his way home before we get back from the weekend.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Tara. ‘After all these years, I would have liked to meet the faithful Dr Declan O’Casey.’

‘And you still could, just,’ said Stuart, glancing at his watch. ‘What time does his plane land?’

‘Eleven twenty this morning,’ said Maggie. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to miss him. And he doesn’t say where he’ll be staying, so there’s no way I can get in touch with him before he flies home.’

‘Don’t be so feeble,’ said Stuart. ‘If we leave in ten minutes, we might still get to the airport in time to meet his plane. You could invite him to join us for lunch.’

Tara looked across at her mother, who didn’t appear at all enthusiastic about the idea. ‘Even if we do make it, he’ll probably say no,’ said Maggie. ‘He’ll be jetlagged, and he’ll want to prepare for his meeting tomorrow.’

‘But at least you’ll have made the effort,’ said Tara.

Maggie folded the letter, took off her apron and said, ‘You’re right, Tara. After all these years it’s the least I can do.’ She smiled at her daughter, quickly left the kitchen and disappeared upstairs.

In her room she opened her wardrobe and picked out her favourite dress. She didn’t want Declan to think of her as middle-aged — though that was rather silly, because she was, and so was he. She inspected herself in the mirror. Passable, she decided, for fifty-one. She hadn’t put on any weight, but one or two new lines had appeared on her forehead during the last six months.

Maggie came back downstairs to find Stuart pacing up and down in the hall. She knew the car would already be loaded, probably with the engine running.

‘Come on, Tara,’ he shouted up the stairs for the third time.

Tara appeared a few minutes later, and Stuart’s impatience evaporated the moment she smiled.

As she climbed into the car Tara said, ‘I can’t wait to meet Declan. Even his name has a romantic ring to it.’

‘That’s exactly the way I felt at the time,’ said Maggie.

‘What’s in a name?’ said Stuart with a grin as he manoeuvred the car down the drive and out onto the road.

‘Quite a lot when you’re born Margaret Deirdre Burke,’ replied Maggie. Stuart burst out laughing. ‘When I was at school I once wrote a letter to myself addressed to “Dr and Mrs Declan O’Casey”. But it didn’t make him any more interesting.’ She touched her hair nervously.

‘Isn’t it just possible,’ said Tara, ‘that after all these years, Dr O’Casey might turn out to have become amusing, rugged and worldly?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Maggie. ‘I think it’s more likely he’ll be pompous, wrinkled, and still a virgin.’

‘How could you possibly have known that he was a virgin?’ asked Stuart.

‘Because he never stopped telling everybody,’ Maggie replied. ‘Declan’s idea of a romantic weekend was to deliver a trigonometry paper at a maths conference.’

Tara burst out laughing.

‘Though, to be fair, your father wasn’t a lot more experienced than he was. We spent our first night together on a park bench, and the only thing I lost was my slippers.’

Stuart was laughing so much he nearly hit the kerb.

‘I even found out how Connor lost his virginity,’ Maggie continued. ‘It was to a girl known as “Never Say No Nancy”,’ she whispered, in mock confidentiality.

‘He can’t have told you that,’ said Stuart in disbelief.

‘No, he didn’t. I would never have found out if he hadn’t been late back from football training one night. I decided to leave a message in his locker, and I found Nancy’s name scratched inside the door. But I couldn’t really complain. When I checked his team-mates’ lockers, Connor had by far the lowest score.’

Tara was now bent double with laughter, and was begging her mother to stop.

‘When your father finally...’

By the time they reached the airport Maggie had exhausted all her stories of the rivalry between Declan and Connor, and was beginning to feel rather apprehensive about meeting up with her old dancing partner after so many years.

Stuart pulled into the kerb, jumped out of the car and opened the back door for her. ‘Better hurry,’ he said, checking his watch.

‘Do you want me to come with you, Mom?’ Tara asked.

‘No, thank you,’ Maggie replied, and walked quickly towards the automatic doors before she had time to change her mind.

She checked the arrivals board. United’s Flight 815 from Chicago had landed on time, at eleven twenty. It was now nearly eleven forty. She had never been so late to meet someone off a plane in her life.

The nearer she got to the arrivals area, the slower she walked, in the hope that Declan would have time to slip away. She decided to hang around dutifully for fifteen minutes, then return to the car. She began studying the arriving passengers as they came through the gate. The young, bright and enthusiastic, carrying surfboards under their arms; the middle-aged, bustling and attentive, clutching their children; the old, slow-moving and thoughtful, bringing up the rear. She began to wonder if she would even recognise Declan. Had he already walked past her? After all, it had been over thirty years since they had last met, and he wasn’t expecting anyone to be there to greet him.

She checked her watch again — the fifteen minutes were almost up. She began to think about a plate of gnocchi and a glass of Chardonnay over lunch at Cronulla, and then dozing in the afternoon sun while Stuart and Tara surfed. Then her eyes settled on a one-armed man who was striding through the arrivals gate.

Maggie’s legs felt weak. She stared at the man she had never stopped loving, and thought she might collapse. Tears welled up in her eyes. She demanded no explanation. That could come later, much later. She ran towards him, oblivious of anyone around her.

The moment he saw her, he gave that familiar smile which showed he knew he’d been found out.

‘Oh my God, Connor,’ she said, flinging out her arms. ‘Tell me it’s true. Dear God, tell me it’s true.’

Connor held her tightly with his right arm, his left sleeve dangling by his side. ‘It’s true enough, my darling Maggie,’ he said in a broad Irish accent. ‘Unfortunately, although Presidents can fix almost anything, once they’ve killed you off you have no choice but to disappear for a little while and take on another identity.’ He released her and looked down at the woman he had wanted to hold every hour of the past six months. ‘I decided on Dr Declan O’Casey, an academic considering taking up a new appointment in Australia, because I remembered your once telling me that you’d wanted nothing more from life than to be Mrs Declan O’Casey. I was also confident that I wouldn’t be unduly troubled by too many Australians testing me on my mathematical prowess.’

Maggie looked up at him, the tears streaming down her cheeks, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

‘But the letter, my darling,’ she said. ‘The crooked “e”. How did you...?’

‘Yes, I thought you’d enjoy that touch,’ said Connor. ‘It was after I saw the picture of you in the Washington Post, standing by the grave opposite the President, and then read the glowing tributes to your late husband that I thought, Declan, my boy, this could be your last chance to marry that young Margaret Burke from the East Side.’ He smiled. ‘So how about it, Maggie?’ he said. ‘Will you marry me?’

‘Connor Fitzgerald, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do,’ said Maggie.

‘I have indeed, Mrs O’Casey. And the rest of our lives to do it.’