Джеффри Арчер - The Eleventh Commandment

‘Thank God the election’s still a couple of years away. If it looked as if that fascist Zerimski had the slightest chance of becoming the next President of Russia, an Arms Reduction Bill wouldn’t get past first base in either House.’

Lloyd nodded as Lawrence turned the page. His finger continued to run down the questions. He stopped at twenty-nine.

‘How many members of Congress have weapons manufacturing and base facilities in their districts?’ he asked, looking back up at Lloyd.

‘Seventy-two Senators and 211 House members,’ said Lloyd, without having to refer to his unopened file. ‘You’ll need to convince at least 60 per cent of them to support you to guarantee a majority in both Houses. And that’s assuming we can count on Senator Bedell’s vote.’

‘Frank Bedell was demanding a comprehensive Arms Reduction Bill when I was still in high school in Wisconsin,’ said the President. ‘He has no choice but to support us.’

‘He may still be in favour of the Bill, but he feels you haven’t gone far enough. He’s just demanded that you reduce our defence expenditure by over 50 per cent.’

‘And how does he expect me to pull that off?’

‘By withdrawing from NATO and allowing the Europeans to be responsible for their own defence.’

‘But that’s totally unrealistic,’ said Lawrence. ‘Even the Americans for Democratic Action would come out against that.’

‘You know that, I know that, and I suspect that even the good Senator knows that. But it doesn’t stop him appearing on every television station from Boston to Los Angeles, claiming that a 50 per cent reduction in defence expenditure would solve America’s health-care and pension problems overnight.’

‘I wish Bedell spent as much time worrying about the defence of our people as he does about their health care,’ said Lawrence. ‘How do I respond?’

‘Lavish praise on him for his tireless and distinguished record of defending the interests of the elderly. But then go on to point out that, as long as you are Commander-in-Chief, the United States will never lower its defences. Your first priority will always be to ensure that America remains the most powerful nation on earth, et cetera, et cetera . That way we should keep Bedell’s vote, and perhaps even sway one or two of the hawks as well.’

The President glanced at his watch before turning to the third page. He gave out a deep sigh when he came to question thirty-one.

How can you hope to get this Bill enacted, when the Democrats don’t have a majority in either House?

‘OK, Andy. What’s the answer to that one?’

‘You explain that concerned Americans are making it clear to their elected representatives right across the country that this Bill is long overdue, and no more than common sense.’

‘I used that line last time, Andy. For the Drugs Enforcement Bill, remember?’

‘Yes, I do remember, Mr President. And the American people backed you all the way.’

Lawrence let out another deep sigh before saying, ‘Oh, to govern a nation that doesn’t have elections every two years and isn’t hounded by a press corps convinced it could do a better job than the democratically elected government.’

‘Even the Russians are having to come to terms with the phenomenon of the press corps,’ said Lloyd.

‘Who would have believed we’d live to see that?’ said Lawrence, as he scanned the final question. ‘My hunch is that if Chernopov promised the Russian voters that he intended to be the first President to spend more on health care than on defence, he’d romp home.’

‘You may be right,’ said Lloyd. ‘But you can also be certain that if Zerimski were elected, he’d start rebuilding Russia’s nuclear arsenal long before he considered building new hospitals.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said the President. ‘But as there’s no chance of that maniac being elected...’

Andy Lloyd remained silent.

Fitzgerald knew that the next twenty minutes would decide his fate.

He walked quickly across the room and glanced at the television. The crowd were fleeing from the square in every direction. Noisy elation had turned to blind panic. Two of Ricardo Guzman’s advisors were bending over what remained of his body.

Fitzgerald retrieved the spent cartridge and replaced it in its slot inside the leather case. Would the owner of the pawn shop notice that one of the bullets had been used?

From the other side of the square, the unmistakable whine of a police siren rose above the noise of the screaming crowd. This time the response had been a lot quicker.

Fitzgerald unclipped the viewfinder and placed it in its sculpted slot. He then unscrewed the barrel, slipped it into position, and finally replaced the stock.

He glanced at the television screen for the last time and watched the local policia pouring into the square. He grabbed the leather case, pocketed a book of matches from an ashtray on top of the television, then crossed the room and opened the door.

He looked up and down the empty corridor, then walked quickly in the direction of the freight elevator. He jabbed the little white button on the wall several times. He had unlocked the window that led to the fire escape only moments before he left for the pawn shop, but he knew that if he had to fall back on his contingency plan, a posse of uniformed police would probably be waiting for him at the bottom of the rickety metal staircase. There would be no Rambo-type helicopter, blades whirring, offering him an escape to glory as bullets flew past his ears, hitting everything except him. This was the real world.

When the heavy lift doors slid slowly open, Fitzgerald came face to face with a young waiter in a red jacket carrying an overloaded lunch tray. He had obviously drawn the short straw, and not been given the afternoon off to watch the match.

The waiter was unable to hide his surprise at the sight of a guest standing outside the freight elevator. ‘No, senor, perdone, no puede entrar,’ he tried to explain as Fitzgerald brushed past him. But the guest had jabbed the button marked ‘Planta Baja’ and the doors had closed long before the young man could tell him that particular lift ended up in the kitchen.

When he reached the ground floor, Fitzgerald moved deftly between the stainless steel tables covered with row upon row of hors d’oeuvres waiting to be ordered, and bottles of champagne that would only be uncorked if the home side won. He had reached the far end of the kitchen, pushed his way through the swing doors and disappeared out of sight long before any of the white-clad staff could think of protesting. He ran down a poorly-lit corridor — he had removed most of the lightbulbs from their sockets the previous night — to a heavy door that led to the hotel’s underground car park.

He removed a large key from his jacket pocket, closed the door behind him and locked it. He headed straight for a small black Volkswagen parked in the darkest corner. He took a second, smaller key from his trouser pocket, unlocked the car’s door, slipped behind the wheel, placed the leather case under the passenger seat and turned on the ignition. The engine immediately sprang into life, even though it had not been used for the past three days. He revved the accelerator for a few seconds before easing the gear lever into first.

Fitzgerald manoeuvred the vehicle unhurriedly between the rows of parked cars and drove up the steep ramp out onto the street. He paused at the top of the slope. The policia were breaking into a parked car, and didn’t even glance in his direction. He turned left and headed slowly away from the Plaza de Bolivar.

And then he heard the whining sound behind him. He glanced at the rear-view mirror to see two policia outriders bearing down on him, their flashing lights full on. Fitzgerald pulled over to the side of the road as the outriders and the ambulance carrying Guzman’s lifeless body sped past him.