The Eleventh Commandment (1998) (16 page)

‘Make and model?’

‘The usual custom-made Remington 700,’ said Gutenburg. ‘But if Chernopov stays ahead in the polls, I don’t expect your services will be needed, in which case you’re to return to Washington the day after the election. I’m afraid this mission may turn out to be a bit of a non-event.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Connor, and left the Deputy Director without shaking hands.

‘I’m afraid my arm was twisted so far up my back that I couldn’t say no,’ said Connor, putting another blue shirt in his suitcase.

‘You could have refused,’ said Maggie. ‘Starting a new job on the first of the month would have been a convincing enough excuse.’ She paused. ‘What was Ben Thompson’s reaction?’

‘He’s been very understanding,’ said Connor. ‘He has no problem with me starting a month later. It seems December is always a quiet time.’ Connor pressed his clothes down, wondering how he would fit his spongebag in. He was already wishing he had allowed Maggie to pack for him, but hadn’t wanted her to come across several items that didn’t tie in with his story. He sat down heavily on the suitcase lid. Maggie snapped the lock shut, and they fell on the bed, laughing. He took her in his arms and held on to her a little too long.

‘Is everything all right, Connor?’ she asked quietly.

‘Everything’s just fine, honey,’ he said, releasing her.

He picked up the case and carried it downstairs. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be here for Thanksgiving. Don’t forget to tell Tara I’m looking forward to seeing her at Christmas,’ he said as Maggie followed him out of the front door. He stopped beside a car she had never seen before.

‘And Stuart too,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said as he placed the suitcase in the boot. ‘It will be good to see him again.’ Once more he took his wife in his arms. This time he made sure he didn’t hold on too long.

‘Heavens, what are we going to give Tara for Christmas?’ Maggie suddenly said. ‘I haven’t even thought about it.’

‘If you’d seen her latest phone bill, you wouldn’t have to think about it,’ said Connor, climbing behind the wheel.

‘I don’t remember this car,’ said Maggie.

‘It’s one of the company’s,’ he explained as he turned on the ignition. ‘By the way, could you let Father Graham know he’ll have to find someone else to make up his bridge four on Saturday? Goodbye, honey.’

Without another word he put the car into drive and eased it out onto the road. He hated saying goodbye to Maggie, and always tried to keep their farewells as short as possible. He checked in the rear-view mirror. She was standing at the end of the drive, waving, as he turned the corner onto Cambridge Place and headed for the airport.

When he reached the end of the Dulles access road, he didn’t need to look for the arrow pointing to the long-term parking lot. He drove down the ramp and took a ticket from the machine, then parked in a far corner. He locked the car and headed towards the airport entrance, then took the escalator up one flight to the United Airlines check-in desk.

‘Thank you, Mr Perry,’ said the uniformed assistant who checked his ticket. ‘Flight 918 is almost ready for boarding. Please make your way to Gate C7.’

After clearing security, Connor boarded a mobile lounge to the mid-field terminal. In the waiting area he sat in the far corner, and when the passengers were asked to board he took his usual window seat near the back. Twenty minutes later he was listening to the captain explaining that although they would not be taking off on time, they would somehow miraculously still be arriving on schedule.

Back in the terminal, a young man in a dark blue suit dialled a number on his cellphone.

‘Yes?’ said a voice.

Agent Sullivan calling from “Coach House”. The bird has flown.’

‘Good. Report in again as soon as you’ve carried out the rest of your assignment.’ The line went dead.

The young man switched off his phone and took the escalator to the ground floor. He walked over to a car in the far corner of the long-term carpark, unlocked it, drove out of the lot, paid the parking ticket, and headed east.

Thirty minutes later he returned the keys to the car pool and signed the daily log. It showed that the vehicle had been checked out in his name and returned in his name.

‘Can you be absolutely sure there’ll be no trace of his ever having existed?’ asked the Director.

‘No trace whatsoever,’ said Gutenburg. ‘Don’t forget that as an NOC he was never on the Company’s books in the first place.’

‘But what about his wife?’

‘Why should she suspect anything? His monthly pay-cheque has been paid into their joint account. She won’t give it a second thought. As far as she’s concerned, he’s resigned from his present position and will be joining Washington Provident on the first of January.’

‘There’s still his former secretary.’

‘I’ve had her transferred to Langley so I can keep an eye on her.’

‘What division?’

‘Middle East.’

‘Why Middle East?’

‘Because she’ll have to be at the office during their working hours, from six in the evening until three in the morning. And for the next eight months I’m going to work her so hard that she’ll be too tired to think about anything other than what she’s going to do once she retires.’

‘Good. Where’s Fitzgerald at this moment?’

Gutenburg checked his watch. ‘Halfway across the Atlantic. He’ll be landing at London Heathrow in about four hours.’

And the car?’

‘Has already been returned to the pool. It’s currently being resprayed and given a new set of plates.’

What about his office on M Street?’

‘It will be stripped overnight, and that floor will be placed in the hands of real estate agents on Monday.’

‘You seem to have thought of everything except what happens when he returns to Washington,’ said the Director.

‘He isn’t going to return to Washington,’ replied Gutenburg.

Connor joined the long queue waiting to go through passport control. When he eventually reached the front, an official checked his passport and said, ‘I hope you have an enjoyable fortnight in Britain, Mr Perry.’

In the little box asking ‘How long do you intend to stay in the United Kingdom?’ Mr Perry had written ‘Fourteen days.’ But then, it would be Mr Lilystrand who returned to the airport the following morning.

Two men watched him as he left Terminal Three and boarded the bus for Victoria Coach Station. Forty-two minutes later, the same two men saw him join the queue at a taxi rank. Separately they followed the black cab to the Kensington Park Hotel, where one of them had already left a package for him in reception.

‘Any messages for me?’ Connor asked as he signed the registration form.

‘Yes, Mr Lilystrand,’ said the concierge. ‘A gentleman left this for you this morning.’ He handed Connor an enormous brown envelope. ‘Your room number is 211. The porter will bring up your luggage.’

‘I can manage it myself, thank you,’ he said.

As soon as Connor entered the room, he tore open the envelope. Inside was a ticket to Geneva in the name of Theodore Lilystrand, and a hundred Swiss francs. He slipped off his jacket and lay down on the bed, but despite being exhausted he was unable to sleep. He turned on the television and flicked through endless programmes - what Tara called channel surfing - but it didn’t help.

He had always disliked the waiting game. That was the only time doubts ever set in. He kept reminding himself that this would be his last mission. He began to think about Christmas with Maggie and Tara - and, yes, Stuart. He disliked not being allowed to carry photographs with him, always having to visualise them in his mind. Most of all, he hated not being able to just pick up a phone and talk to either of them whenever he felt like it.

Connor didn’t stir from his bed until it was dark. Then he emerged from his overnight prison cell to go in search of a meal. He bought an
Evening Standard
from a corner news-vendor and strolled into a small Italian restaurant on High Street, Kensington that was only half full.

The waiter showed him to a quiet table in the corner. The light was barely strong enough for him to read the paper. He ordered a Diet Coke with lots of ice. The British would never understand the meaning of ‘lots of ice’, and he was not surprised when the waiter returned a few minutes later bearing a long glass with three small ice cubes floating in it, and a tiny piece of lemon.

He ordered cannelloni and a side salad. Funny how he picked Maggie’s favourite dishes whenever he was abroad. Anything to remind him of her.

‘The one thing you have to do before you start your new job is find a decent tailor,’ Tara had said to him when they last spoke. ‘And I want to come with you so I can pick your shirts and ties.’

‘Your new job.’ Once again he thought about that letter.
I am sorry to have to inform you …
However many times he went over it, he still couldn’t think of a reason for Thompson to have changed his mind. It simply didn’t add up.

He began to read the front page of the paper: nine candidates were contesting an election to be the first Mayor of London. That’s odd, thought Connor: haven’t they always had a Mayor - what about Dick Whittington? He looked at the photographs of the contenders and their names, but they meant nothing to him. One of them would be running England’s capital in a couple of weeks’ time. He wondered where he would be then.

He paid the bill in cash and left a tip that would not give the waiter any reason to remember him. When he was back in his hotel room he switched on the television and watched a few minutes of a comedy that didn’t make him laugh. After trying a couple of movies, he slept intermittently. But he was comforted by the thought that at least he was better off than the two men stationed outside on the pavement, who wouldn’t sleep at all. He had spotted them within moments of landing at Heathrow.

He checked his watch. A few minutes after midnight - a few minutes after seven in Washington. He wondered what Maggie would be doing that evening.