The Eleventh Commandment (1998) (32 page)

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

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

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

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

Maggie smiled.

Maggie frowned.

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

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

‘Come on, come on,’ said Maggie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romanov nodded.

‘But you’re still facing one problem.’

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

‘Yes,’ replied Jackson. ‘I have.’

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

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

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

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

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

Connor went on gazing at the ceiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bolchenkov listened with interest.