The Eleventh Commandment (1998) (26 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How are we responding to any press enquiries?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gutenburg nodded his agreement.

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