The Eleventh Commandment (1998) (46 page)

‘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.

‘W
HY IS
L
AWRENCE 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.