The Eleventh Commandment (1998) (28 page)

‘Good,’ said Romanov. ‘And now I should like to learn a little more about you, Mr Jackson. I can tell at a glance that you work for a law enforcement agency, and as you are in my country’ - he emphasised the word
my
- ‘I assume it has to be the CIA rather than the FBI. Am I right?’

‘I worked for the CIA for twenty-eight years, until quite recently when I was - replaced.’ Jackson chose his words carefully.

‘It’s against the rules of nature to have a woman as your boss,’ commented Romanov, without even the suggestion of a smile. ‘The organisation I control would never indulge in such stupidity.’

The old man leant across to a table on his left and picked up a small glass full of a colourless liquid that Jackson hadn’t noticed until that moment. He took a sip, and replaced the glass on the table before asking his next question.

‘Are you currently working for another law enforcement agency?’

‘No,’ said Jackson firmly.

‘So you have gone freelance?’ suggested the old man.

Jackson didn’t reply.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘From your silence I am bound to deduce that you are not the only person who doesn’t trust Helen Dexter.’

Again Jackson said nothing. But he was quickly learning why it wouldn’t pay to lie to Romanov.

‘Why did you want to see me, Mr Jackson?’

Jackson suspected that the old man knew exactly why, but played along with the charade. ‘I came on behalf of a friend of mine who, because of my stupidity, has been arrested and is currently locked up in the Crucifix Prison.’

‘An establishment that isn’t known for its humanitarian record, especially when it comes to considering appeals or granting parole.’

Jackson nodded his agreement.

‘I am aware that it was not your friend who was responsible for informing the press that my organisation had offered him a million dollars to remove Zerimski from the presidential race. Had that been the case, he would have been found hanging in his cell long before now. No, I suspect that the person peddling that particular piece of misinformation,’ Romanov continued, ‘is one of Helen Dexter’s minions. If only you had come to me a little earlier, Mr Jackson, I could have warned you about Mitchell.’ He took another sip from his glass and added, ‘One of the few of your countrymen I would consider recruiting into my organisation. I see you are surprised by the extent of my knowledge.’

Jackson thought he hadn’t moved a muscle.

‘Mr Jackson, surely you wouldn’t be shocked to learn that I have my own people well placed in the upper echelons of both the CIA and the FBI?’ The thin smile returned to his face. ‘And if I thought it would prove useful, I would also have someone working for me in the White House. But as President Lawrence will reveal anything he is asked at his weekly news conference, it’s hardly necessary. Which leads on to my next question. Your friend works for the CIA?’

Jackson didn’t reply.

‘Ah, I see. Just as I thought. Well, I think he can be confident that Helen Dexter will not be riding to his rescue on this occasion.’

Jackson still said nothing.

‘Good,’ said the old man. ‘So now I know exactly what you expect of me.’ He paused. ‘But I am at a loss to understand what you have to offer in return.’

‘I have no idea what the going rate is,’ said Jackson.

The old man began laughing. ‘You can’t believe for one moment, Mr Jackson, that I dragged you out here to discuss money, can you? Look around and you will see that however much you have to offer, it wouldn’t be enough.
Time
was well short of the mark when it speculated on the extent of my power and wealth. Last year alone my organisation had a turnover of $187 billion, more than the economy of Belgium or Sweden. We now have fully operational branches in 142 countries. A new one opens every month, to paraphrase McDonald’s slogan. No, Mr Jackson, I do not have enough days left on earth to waste any of them discussing money with a penniless man.’

‘Then why did you agree to see me in the first place?’ asked Jackson.

‘You don’t ask questions, Mr Jackson,’ said Romanov sharply. ‘You only answer them. I’m surprised that you don’t appear to have been properly briefed.’

The old man took a further sip of the colourless liquid before spelling out exactly what he expected in return for assisting Connor to escape. Jackson knew he didn’t have the authority to accept Romanov’s terms on Connor’s behalf, but as he had been instructed not to ask questions, he remained silent.

‘You may need a little time to think over my proposition, Mr Jackson,’ continued the old man. ‘But should your friend agree to my terms and then fail to carry out his side of the bargain, he must be made fully aware of the consequences of his actions.’ He paused to draw breath. ‘I do hope, Mr Jackson, that he’s not the sort of person who, having signed an agreement, then relies on some clever lawyer to identify a loophole that will get him out of honouring it. You see, in this court I am both judge and jury, and I shall be appointing my son Alexei as prosecuting counsel. I have made it his personal responsibility to see that this particular contract is carried out to the letter. I have already given orders that he will accompany you both back to the United States, and he will not return until the agreement has been honoured. I hope I make myself clear, Mr Jackson.’

Zerimski’s office could not have been in greater contrast to the Czar’s country palace. The Communist leader occupied the third floor of a dilapidated building in a northern suburb of Moscow - although anyone who was invited to stay at his dacha on the Volga quickly became aware that Zerimski was no stranger to luxury.

The last vote had been cast at ten o’clock the previous evening. Now all Zerimski could do was sit and wait for the officials from the Baltic to the Pacific to count the ballot papers. He knew only too well that in some districts people would have voted several times. In others the ballot boxes would simply never reach the town hall. But he was confident that once he had agreed terms with Borodin, and the General had withdrawn from the race, he was in with a real chance of winning. But he was enough of a realist to know that, with the Mafya backing Chernopov, he would need to poll well over half of the votes cast to have the slightest chance of being declared the winner. For that reason he had decided to make an ally in the Czar’s camp.

The result of the election would not be known for a couple of days, as they still tallied the votes by hand in most parts of the country. He didn’t need to be reminded of Stalin’s oft-quoted remark that it doesn’t matter how many people vote, only who counts them.

Zerimski’s inner circle were working the phones as they tried to keep track of what was happening across the vast nation. But all the state chairmen were willing to say was that it looked too close to call. The Communist leader thumped the table more times that day than he had during the past week, and remained closeted in his room for long periods of time making private calls.

‘That’s good news, Stefan,’ Zerimski was saying. ‘As long as you can take care of the problem of your cousin.’ He was listening to Ivanitsky’s response when there was a knock on the door. He put the phone down the moment he saw his Chief of Staff enter the room. He had no desire for Titov to find out who he had been talking to.

‘The press are wondering if you’ll speak to them,’ said Titov, hoping it might keep his master occupied for a few minutes. The last time Zerimski had seen the vultures, as he referred to them, was the previous morning, when they had all turned out to watch him cast his vote in Koski, the district of Moscow in which he was born. It would have been no different if he had been running for President of the United States.

Zerimski nodded reluctantly, and followed Titov down the stairs and out onto the street. He had instructed his staff never to allow a member of the press to enter the building, for fear that they would discover just how inefficient and understaffed his organisation was. That was something else which would change once he got his hands on the state coffers. He hadn’t told even his Chief of Staff that if he won, this would be the last election the Russian people would vote in while he was alive. And he didn’t give a damn how many protests there were in foreign newspapers and magazines. In a very short time they would have a zero circulation east of Germany.

When Zerimski stepped out onto the pavement, he was met by the largest gathering of journalists he’d seen since the campaign had begun.

‘How confident are you of victory, Mr Zerimski?’ someone shouted, before he even had a chance to say good afternoon.

‘If the winner is the man who the most people have voted for, I will be the next President of Russia.’

‘But the chairman of the international panel of observers says that this has been the most democratic election in the history of Russia. Do you not accept that judgement?’

‘I will if I’m declared victor,’ replied Zerimski. The journalists laughed politely at his little pun.

‘If elected, how long will it be before you visit President Lawrence in Washington?’

‘Soon after he has visited me in Moscow,’ came back the immediate reply.

‘If you become President, what will happen to the man who was arrested in Freedom Square and accused of plotting to assassinate you?’

‘That will be a decision for the courts. But you can be sure he will receive a fair trial.’

Zerimski suddenly became bored. Without warning he turned and disappeared back into the building, ignoring the questions shouted at his retreating back.

‘Have you offered Borodin a post in your cabinet?’

‘What will you do about Chechnya?’

‘Will the Mafya be your first target?’

As he wearily climbed the worn stone stairs to the third floor he decided that, win or lose, that was the last occasion he would ever speak to the press. He didn’t envy Lawrence trying to run a country where journalists expected to be treated as equals. When he reached his office he slumped into the only comfortable chair in the room, and slept for the first time in days.

The key turned in the lock, and the cell door swung open. Bolchenkov entered, carrying a large duffel bag and a battered leather briefcase.

‘As you see, I have returned,’ said St Petersburg’s Chief of Police, sitting down opposite Connor. ‘From which you can assume that I want another off-the-record chat. Though I am bound to say I hope it will be a little more productive than our last encounter.’

The Chief stared down at the man sitting on the bunk. Connor looked as if he had lost several pounds in the past five days.

‘I see that you haven’t yet become accustomed to our
nouvelle cuisine
,’ said Bolchenkov, lighting a cigarette. ‘I must confess that it does take a few days even for the low life of St Petersburg to fully appreciate the Crucifix’s menu. But they come round to it once they realise that they’re here for the rest of their lives, and that there is no
a la carte
alternative.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nose.

‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘you may have read in the press quite recently that one of our inmates ate a fellow prisoner. But what with the food shortage and the problem of overcrowding, we didn’t think it worth making a fuss about.’

Connor smiled.

‘Ah, I see you are alive after all,’ said the Chief. ‘Now, I have to tell you that there have been one or two interesting developments since our last meeting, which I have a feeling you will want to know about.’