Джеффри Арчер - The Eleventh Commandment

‘It only takes one phone call,’ said Jackson, ‘off the record, of course — and suddenly you find you’ve been removed from any shortlist. I’ve always been wary of speaking ill of the living, but in the case of Helen Dexter, I’m happy to make an exception.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘You see, Dexter believes that Tom Lawrence has the second most important job in America,’ he continued. ‘ She is the true defender of the faith, the nation’s last bastion, and to her elected politicians are nothing more than a temporary inconvenience who will, sooner or later, be ejected by the voters.’

‘The President has been made aware of that on more than one occasion,’ Lloyd said, with some feeling.

‘Presidents come and go, Mr Lloyd. My bet is that, like the rest of us, your boss is human, and therefore you can be sure that Dexter will have a file on him which is filled with the reasons why Lawrence isn’t qualified for a second term. And by the way, she’ll have one almost as thick on you.’

‘Then we’ll have to start building up our own file, Mr Jackson. I can think of no one better qualified to carry out the task.’

‘Where would you like me to begin?’

‘By investigating who was behind the assassination of Ricardo Guzman in Bogota last month,’ said Lloyd. ‘We have reason to believe that the CIA might have been involved, directly or indirectly.’

‘Without the President’s knowledge?’ said Jackson in disbelief.

Lloyd nodded, removed a file from his briefcase and slid it across the table. Jackson flicked it open.

‘Take your time,’ said Lloyd, ‘because you’re going to have to memorise everything.’

Jackson began reading, and started making observations even before he had come to the end of the first page.

‘If we assume that it was a lone gunman, trying to get any reliable information will be virtually impossible. That sort of character doesn’t leave a forwarding address.’ Jackson paused. ‘But if it is the CIA we’re dealing with, then Dexter has a ten-day start on us. She’s probably already turned every avenue that might lead to the assassin into a blind alley — unless...’

‘Unless...?’ echoed Lloyd.

‘I’m not the only person that woman has crossed over the years. It’s just possible that there might be someone else based in Bogota who—’ He paused. ‘How long have I got?’

‘The new President of Colombia is making an official visit to Washington in three weeks’ time. It would help if we had something by then.’

‘It’s already beginning to feel like the old days,’ said Jackson as he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Except this time there’s the added pleasure of Dexter being officially on the other side.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Who will I be working for?’

‘Officially you’re freelance, but unofficially you work for me. You’ll be paid at the same level as you were when you left the Agency, your account credited on a monthly basis, although for obvious reasons your name won’t appear on any books. I’ll contact you whenever...’

‘No you won’t, Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson. ‘I’ll contact you whenever I have anything worthwhile to report. Two-way contacts only double the chance of someone stumbling across us. All I’ll need is an untraceable phone number.’

Lloyd wrote down seven figures on a cocktail napkin. ‘This gets straight through to my desk, bypassing even my secretary. After midnight it’s automatically transferred to a phone by the side of my bed. You can call me night or day. You needn’t bother about the time difference when you’re abroad, because I don’t care about being woken up.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Jackson. ‘Because I don’t think Helen Dexter ever sleeps.’

Lloyd smiled. ‘Have we covered everything?’

‘Not quite,’ said Jackson. ‘When you leave, turn right and then take the next right. Don’t look back, and don’t hail a taxi until you’ve walked at least four blocks. From now on you’re going to have to think like Dexter, and be warned, she’s been at it for thirty years. There’s only one person I know who’s better than she is.’

‘I hope that’s you,’ said Lloyd.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Jackson.

‘Don’t tell me he already works for Dexter.’

Jackson nodded. ‘Even though he’s my closest friend, if Dexter ordered him to kill me, there isn’t an insurance company in town that would take out a policy on my life. If you expect me to beat both of them, you’d better hope I haven’t gone rusty over the past eight months.’

The two men rose. ‘Goodbye, Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson as they shook hands. ‘I’m sorry that this will be our first and last meeting.’

‘But I thought we agreed—’ said Lloyd, looking anxiously at his new recruit.

‘To work together, Mr Lloyd, not to meet. You see, Dexter wouldn’t consider two meetings a coincidence.’

Lloyd nodded. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

‘And Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson, ‘don’t visit the National Gallery again, unless it’s for the sole purpose of seeing the paintings.’

Lloyd frowned. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Because the half-asleep guard in Gallery 71 was planted there on the day of your appointment. It’s all in your file. You go there once a week. Is Hopper still your favourite artist?’

Lloyd’s mouth went dry. ‘Then Dexter already knows about this meeting?’

‘No,’ said Jackson. ‘You got lucky this time. It’s the guard’s day off.’

Although Connor had seen his daughter cry many times when she was younger, over a cut leg, a bruised ego or simply not getting her own way, this was quite different. While she clung to Stuart he pretended to be absorbed in a rack of bestselling books at the news-stand, and reflected on one of the most enjoyable holidays he could remember. He’d put on a couple of pounds and had managed to almost master the surfboard, although he had rarely experienced more pride before more falls. During the past fortnight he had come first to like, and later to respect Stuart. And Maggie had even stopped reminding him every morning that Tara hadn’t returned to her room the previous night. He took that to be his wife’s reluctant seal of approval.

Connor picked up the Sydney Morning Herald from the newsstand. He flicked over the pages, only taking in the headlines until he came to the section marked ‘International News’. He glanced towards Maggie, who was paying for some souvenirs that they would never display or even consider giving as presents, and which would undoubtedly end up in Father Graham’s Christmas sale.

Connor lowered his head again. ‘Landslide for Herrera in Colombia’ was the headline running across three columns at the foot of the page. He read about the new President’s one-sided victory over the National Party’s last-minute replacement for Ricardo Guzman. Herrera, the article went on to say, planned to visit America in the near future to discuss with President Lawrence the problems Colombia was currently facing. Among the subjects uppermost...

‘Do you think this would be all right for Joan?’

Connor glanced across at his wife, who was holding up a Ken Done print of Sydney Harbour.

‘A bit modern for her, I would have thought.’

‘Then we’ll have to get her something from duty free once we’re on the plane.’

‘This is the last call for United Airlines Flight 816 to Los Angeles,’ said a voice that echoed around the airport. ‘Will all those who have not yet boarded the aircraft please make their way immediately to Gate 27.’

Connor and Maggie began walking in the direction of the large departure sign, trying to stay a few paces in front of their daughter and Stuart, who were locked together as if they were in a three-legged race. Once they had gone through passport control, Connor hung back, while Maggie carried on towards the departure lounge to tell the gate agent that the last two passengers would be following shortly.