Джеффри Арчер: The Eleventh Commandment

Fitzgerald waited patiently. Never leave yourself in the open for longer than is necessary.

‘Viva la Colombia!’ Guzman cried. ‘Viva la Colombia!’ the mob screamed back in a frenzy, although many of them were no more than paid flunkies strategically placed among the crowd.

‘I love my country,’ declared the candidate. Thirty seconds of the speech left. Fitzgerald pushed open the french windows, to be greeted by the full volume of the masses repeating Guzman’s every word.

The candidate dropped his voice almost to a whisper: ‘And let me make one thing clear — my love of my country is my only reason for wishing to serve as your President.’

For a second time, Fitzgerald pulled the stock of the Remington 700 slowly up into his shoulder. Every eye was looking at the candidate as he boomed out the words, ‘Dios guarde a la Colombia!’ The noise became deafening as he raised both arms high in the air to acknowledge the roars of his supporters shouting back, ‘Dios guarde a la Colombia!’ Guzman’s hands remained triumphantly in the air for several seconds, as they did at the end of every speech. And, as always, for a few moments he remained absolutely still.

Fitzgerald lined up the tiny mil dots until they were an inch above the candidate’s heart, and breathed out as he tightened the fingers of his left hand around the stock. ‘Three... two... one,’ he murmured under his breath, before gently squeezing the trigger.

Guzman was still smiling as the boat-tailed bullet tore into his chest. A second later he slumped to the ground like a string-less puppet, fragments of bone, muscle and tissue flying in every direction. Blood spurted over those who were standing nearest to him. The last Fitzgerald saw of the candidate was his outstretched arms, as if he were surrendering to an unknown enemy.

Fitzgerald lowered the rifle, broke the stock and quickly closed the french windows. His assignment was completed.

His only problem now was to make sure he didn’t break the Eleventh Commandment.

‘Should I send a message of condolence to his wife and family?’ asked Tom Lawrence.

‘No, Mr President,’ replied the Secretary of State. ‘I think you should leave that to an Assistant Secretary for Inter-American Affairs. It now looks certain that Antonio Herrera will be the next President of Colombia, so he’ll be the person you’ll have to do business with.’

‘Will you represent me at the funeral? Or should I send the Vice-President?’

‘Neither of us, would be my advice,’ replied the Secretary of State. ‘Our Ambassador in Bogota can represent you quite adequately. As the funeral will take place this weekend, we couldn’t be expected to be available at such short notice.’

The President nodded. He had become accustomed to Larry Harrington’s matter-of-fact approach to everything, including death. He could only wonder what line Larry would adopt were he himself to be assassinated.

‘If you have a moment, Mr President, I think I should brief you in greater detail on our present policy in Colombia. The press may want to question you on the possible involvement of...’

The President was about to interrupt him when there was a knock on the door, and Andy Lloyd entered the room.

It must be eleven o’clock, thought Lawrence. He hadn’t needed a watch since he had appointed Lloyd as his Chief of Staff.

‘Later, Larry,’ said the President. ‘I’m about to give a press conference on the Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction Bill, and I can’t imagine many journalists will be interested in the death of a presidential candidate in a country that, let’s face it, most Americans couldn’t even place on a map.’

Harrington said nothing. He didn’t feel it was his responsibility to point out to the President that most Americans still couldn’t place Vietnam on a map either. But once Andy Lloyd had entered the room, Harrington knew that only the declaration of a world war would have given him priority. He gave Lloyd a curt nod and left the Oval Office.

‘Why did I ever appoint that man in the first place?’ Lawrence asked, his eyes fixed on the closed door.

‘Larry was able to deliver Texas, Mr President, at a moment when our internal polls showed that the majority of southerners considered you a northern wimp who would quite happily appoint a homosexual as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.’

‘I probably would,’ said Lawrence, ‘if I thought he was the right man for the job.’

One of the reasons Tom Lawrence had offered his old college friend the post of White House Chief of Staff was that after thirty years, they had no secrets from each other. Andy told it as he saw it, without any suggestion of guile or malice. This endearing quality ensured that he could never hope to be elected to anything himself, and would therefore never be a rival.

The President flicked open the blue file marked ‘IMMEDIATE’ that Andy had left for him earlier that morning. He suspected that his Chief of Staff had been up most of the night preparing it. He began to go over the questions Andy considered were the most likely to be asked at the midday press conference:

How much taxpayers’ money do you anticipate saving by this measure?

‘I suppose Barbara Evans will be asking the first question, as usual,’ said Lawrence, looking up. ‘Do we have any idea what it might be?’

‘No, sir,’ Lloyd replied. ‘But as she’s been pressing for an Arms Reduction Bill ever since the day you beat Gore in New Hampshire, she’s hardly in a position to complain now that you’re ready to deliver it.’

‘True. But that won’t necessarily stop her asking an unhelpful question.’

Andy nodded his agreement as the President glanced at the next question.

How many Americans will lose their jobs as a result of this?

Lawrence looked up. ‘Is there anyone in particular you want me to avoid?’

‘The rest of the bastards,’ said Lloyd with a grin. ‘But when you wrap it up, go to Phil Ansanch.’

‘Why Ansanch?’

‘He backed the Bill at every stage, and he’s among your dinner guests tonight.’

The President smiled and nodded as he continued to run his finger down the list of anticipated questions. He stopped at number seven.

Isn’t this another example of America losing its way?

He looked up at his Chief of Staff. ‘Sometimes I think we’re still living in the Wild West, the way certain members of Congress have reacted to this Bill.’

‘I agree, sir. But as you know, 40 per cent of Americans still consider the Russians our greatest threat, and nearly 30 per cent expect us to go to war with Russia in their lifetime.’

Lawrence cursed, and ran a hand through his thick, prematurely grey hair before returning to the list of questions, stopping again when he reached nineteen.

‘How much longer am I going to be asked questions about burning my draft card?’

‘As long as you’re the Commander-in-Chief, would be my guess,’ replied Andy.

The President mumbled something under his breath and moved on to the next question. He looked up again. ‘Surely there’s no chance of Victor Zerimski becoming the next President of Russia?’

‘Probably not,’ said Andy, ‘but he’s moved up to third place in the latest opinion poll, and although he’s still well behind Prime Minister Chernopov and General Borodin, his stand against organised crime is beginning to make a dent in their leads. Probably because most Russians believe Chernopov is financed by the Russian Mafya.’

‘What about the General?’

‘He’s been losing ground, since most of the Russian army haven’t been paid for months. The press have been reporting that soldiers are selling their uniforms to tourists on the streets.’