Джеффри Арчер - The Eleventh Commandment

‘That was our agreement when I spoke to him just after midnight, Mr President,’ said Romanov.

‘So what happened between midnight and four o’clock?’

‘While my men were escorting him into the city early this morning, the driver was forced to stop at a set of traffic lights. Fitzgerald leaped out of the car, ran to the other side of the road and jumped into a passing taxi. We pursued it all the way to Dulles Airport, only to find when we caught up with it outside the terminal that Fitzgerald wasn’t inside.’

‘The truth is that you allowed him to escape,’ said Zerimski. ‘Isn’t that what really happened?’

Romanov bowed his head and said nothing.

The President’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘I understand you have a code in the Mafya,’ he said, clicking the breech of the rifle shut, ‘for those who fail to carry out contracts.’

Romanov looked up in horror as Zerimski raised the gun until it was pointing at the centre of his chest.

‘Yes or no?’ said Zerimski quietly.

Romanov nodded. Zerimski smiled at the man who had accepted the judgement of his own court, and gently squeezed the trigger. The boat-tailed bullet tore into Romanov’s chest about an inch below the heart. The power of its impact hurled his lithe body back against the wall, where it remained for a second or two before slithering down onto the carpet. Fragments of muscle and bone were scattered in every direction. The walls, the carpet, the Ambassador’s dress suit and white pleated shirt were drenched with blood.

Zerimski swung slowly round until he was facing his former representative in Washington. ‘No, no!’ cried Pietrovski, falling on his knees. ‘I’ll resign, I’ll resign.’

Zerimski squeezed the trigger a second time. When he heard the click, he remembered that there had been only one bullet in the breech. He rose from his seat, a look of disappointment on his face.

‘You’ll have to send that suit to the cleaners,’ he said, as if the Ambassador had done no more than spill some egg yolk on his sleeve. The President placed the rifle back on the desk. ‘I accept your resignation. But before you clear your office, see that what’s left of Romanov’s body is patched together and sent back to St Petersburg.’ He began walking towards the door. ‘Make it quick — I’d like to be there when he’s buried with his father.’

Pietrovski, still on his knees, didn’t reply. He had been sick, and was too frightened to open his mouth.

As Zerimski reached the door, he turned back to face the cowering diplomat. ‘In the circumstances, it might be wise to arrange for the body to be sent back in the diplomatic pouch.’

The snow was falling heavily as Zerimski climbed the steps to the waiting Ilyushin 62, creating a thick white carpet around its wheels.

Tom Lawrence was standing on the tarmac, wearing a long black topcoat. An aide held a large umbrella above his head.

Zerimski disappeared through the door without even bothering to turn and give the traditional wave for the cameras. Any suggestion of this being the time of year for good will to all men was obviously lost on him.

The State Department had already issued a press release. It talked in broad terms of the success of the new Russian President’s four-day visit, significant steps taken by both countries, and the hope for further cooperation at some time in the future. ‘Useful and constructive’ were the words Larry Harrington had settled on before the morning press conference, and, as an afterthought, ‘a step forward’. The journalists who had just witnessed Zerimski’s departure would translate Harrington’s sentiments as ‘useless and destructive, and without doubt a step backwards’.

Within moments of its grey door slamming shut the Ilyushin lurched forward, almost as if, like its master, it couldn’t wait to get away.

Lawrence was the first to turn his back on the departing aircraft as it lumbered towards the runway. He walked quickly over to his waiting helicopter, where he found Andy Lloyd, a phone already pressed against his ear. Once the rotor blades began to turn, Lloyd quickly concluded his call. As Marine One lifted off, he leaned across and briefed the President on the outcome of the emergency operation that had taken place early that morning at the Walter Reed Hospital. Lawrence nodded as his Chief of Staff outlined the course of action Agent Braithwaite was recommending. ‘I’ll ring Mrs Fitzgerald personally,’ he said.

The two men spent the rest of the short journey preparing for the meeting that was about to take place in the Oval Office. The President’s helicopter landed on the South Lawn, and neither of them spoke as they made their way towards the White House. Lawrence’s secretary was waiting anxiously by the door.

‘Good morning, Ruth,’ the President said for the third time that day. Both of them had been up for most of the night.

At midnight the Attorney-General had arrived unannounced and told Ruth Preston that he had been summoned to attend a meeting with the President. It wasn’t in his diary. At two a.m. the President, Mr Lloyd and the Attorney-General had left for the Walter Reed Hospital — but again, there was no mention of the visit in the diary, or of the name of the patient they would be seeing. They returned an hour later and spent another ninety minutes in the Oval Office, the President having left instructions that they were not to be disturbed. When Ruth arrived back at the White House at ten past eight that morning, the President was already on his way to Andrews air base to say farewell to Zerimski.

Although he was wearing a different suit, shirt and tie from when she had last seen him, Ruth wondered if her boss had gone to bed at all that night.

‘What’s next, Ruth?’ he asked, knowing only too well.

‘Your ten o’clock appointment has been waiting in the lobby for the past forty minutes.’

‘Have they? Then you’d better send them in.’

The President walked into the Oval Office, opened a drawer in his desk and removed two sheets of paper and a cassette tape. He placed the paper on the blotter in front of him and inserted the cassette in the recorder on his desk. Andy Lloyd came in from his office, carrying two files under his arm. He took his usual seat by the side of the President.

‘Have you got the affidavits?’ asked Lawrence.

‘Yes, sir,’ Lloyd replied.

There was a knock on the door. Ruth opened it and announced, ‘The Director and Deputy Director of the CIA.’

‘Good morning, Mr President,’ said Helen Dexter brightly, as she entered the Oval Office with her Deputy a pace behind. She too had a file under her arm.

Lawrence did not return her salutation.

‘You’ll be relieved to know,’ continued Dexter, as she took a seat in one of the two vacant chairs opposite the President, ‘that I was able to deal with that problem we feared might arise during the visit of the Russian President. In fact, we have every reason to believe that the person in question no longer represents a threat to this country.’

‘Could that possibly be the same person I had a chat with on the phone a few weeks ago?’ asked Lawrence, leaning back in his chair.

‘I’m not quite sure I understand you, Mr President,’ said Dexter.

‘Then allow me to enlighten you,’ said Lawrence. He leaned forward and pressed the ‘Play’ button of the tape recorder on his desk.

‘I felt I had to call and let you know just how important I consider this assignment to be. Because I have no doubt that you’re the right person to carry it out. So I hope you will agree to take on the responsibility.’

‘I appreciate your confidence in me, Mr President, and I’m grateful to you for taking the time to phone personally...’