The Eleventh Commandment (1998) (17 page)

‘And how’s Stuart?’ Maggie asked.

‘Still hanging in there,’ Tara replied. ‘He arrives in LA in fifteen days. I can’t wait.’

Will you both be flying straight here?’

‘No, Mom,’ said Tara, trying not to sound exasperated. As I’ve told you several times already, we’re going to rent a car and drive up the West Coast. Stuart’s never been to America, and he wants to see LA and San Francisco. Remember?’

‘Do drive carefully, won’t you?’

‘Mother, I’ve been driving for nine years without even a ticket, which is more than can be said for you or Dad. Now, will you stop worrying and tell me what you’re doing this evening?’

‘I’m going to hear Placido Domingo in
La Boheme.
I decided to wait until your father was out of town before I went, because I know he’d fall asleep before the first act was over.’

Are you going on your own?’

‘Yes.’

Well, be careful, Mother, and make sure you don’t sit in the first six rows.’

Why not?’ asked Maggie innocently.

‘Because some rich, handsome man might leap out of one of the boxes and ravish you.’

Maggie laughed. ‘I consider myself properly chastised.’

Why don’t you ask Joan to go with you? Then you can both talk about Dad all night.’

‘I called her at the office, but the number seems to be out of order. I’ll try her at home later.’

‘Bye, Mom, talk to you tomorrow,’ said Tara. She knew her mother would call every day while Connor was away.

Whenever Connor travelled abroad or took an evening off to partner Father Graham at the bridge club, Maggie would catch up with some of her university activities. Anything from GULP, the Georgetown University Litter Patrol, of which she was a founder member, to the Alive Women’s Poetry Society and the Irish dance class, where she gave lessons. The sight of the young students dancing, their backs straight, their feet tapping away, brought back memories of Declan O’Casey. He was now a distinguished professor, with a chair at the University of Chicago. He had never married, and still sent her a card every Christmas, and an unsigned one on Valentine’s Day. The old typewriter with the crooked ‘e’ always gave away his identity.

She picked up the phone again and dialled Joan’s home number, but there was no reply. She fixed herself a light salad, which she ate alone in the kitchen. After she had put the plate in the dishwasher she rang Joan again. There was still no answer, so she set off for the Kennedy Center. A single ticket was always easy to come by, however celebrated the guest tenor happened to be.

Maggie was transfixed by the first act of
La Bohe`me
, and only wished she had someone with whom to share the experience. When the curtain came down, she joined the throng heading for the foyer. As she approached the crowded bar, Maggie thought she caught a glimpse of Elizabeth Thompson. She remembered that she had invited her for coffee, but had never followed it up. She had been surprised, because the offer had sounded so genuine at the time.

When Ben Thompson turned and caught her eye, Maggie smiled and walked over to join them.

‘How nice to see you, Ben,’ she said.

‘And you too, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he replied, but not in the warm voice she remembered from dinner a fortnight before. And why hadn’t he called her Maggie?

Undaunted, she ploughed on. ‘Domingo is magnificent, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, and we were extremely lucky to lure Leonard Slatkin from St Louis,’ said Ben Thompson. Maggie was surprised that he didn’t offer to buy her a drink, and when she finally ordered an orange juice, she was even more puzzled when he made no attempt to pay for it.

‘Connor is so looking forward to joining you all at Washington Provident,’ she said, taking a sip of her juice. Elizabeth Thompson appeared surprised, but didn’t comment.

‘He’s particularly grateful to you, Ben, for allowing him to put it off for a month so he could complete that unfinished contract for his old firm.’

Elizabeth was just about to say something when the three-minute bell sounded.

Well, we’d better get back to our seats,’ said Ben Thompson, although his wife had only half-finished her drink. ‘Nice to have seen you again, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ He took his wife firmly by the arm and guided her towards the auditorium. ‘I hope you enjoy the second act.’

Maggie didn’t enjoy the second act. She couldn’t concentrate, as the conversation that had just taken place in the foyer kept running through her mind. But however many times she went over it, she couldn’t reconcile his attitude with what had taken place at the Thompsons’ only a fortnight before. If she had known how to get in touch with Connor, she would have broken the rule of a lifetime and phoned him. So she did the next best thing. The moment she arrived home, she called Joan Bennett again.

The phone rang and rang.

The following morning Connor rose early. He had settled his bill in cash, hailed a taxi and was on his way to Heathrow before the duty porter even realised he’d left. At seven forty he boarded Swissair Flight 839 to Geneva. The flight took just under two hours, and he readjusted his watch to ten thirty as the wheels of the aircraft touched the ground.

During the stopover he took advantage of Swissair’s offer to take a shower. He entered the ‘exclusive facility’ - the description in their in-flight magazine - as Theodore Lilystrand, an investment banker from Stockholm, and emerged forty minutes later as Piet de Villiers, a reporter with the
Johannesburg Mercury.

Even though he still had over an hour to kill, Connor did not browse in any of the duty-free shops, buying only a croissant and a cup of coffee from one of the most expensive restaurants in the world.

Eventually he walked across to Gate 23. There wasn’t a long queue for the Aeroflot flight to St Petersburg. When the passengers were called a few minutes later, he made his way to the back of the aircraft. He began to think about what needed to be done the following morning, once the train had pulled in to Moscow’s Raveltay station. He went over the Deputy Director’s final briefing again, wondering why Gutenburg had repeated the words, ‘Don’t get caught. But if you are, deny absolutely that you have anything to do with the CIA. Don’t worry - the Company will always take care of you.’

Only raw recruits were ever reminded of the Eleventh Commandment.

‘The flight to St Petersburg has just taken off, and our package is on board.’

‘Good,’ said Gutenburg. Anything else to report?’

‘I don’t think so,’ replied the young CIA agent. He hesitated. ‘Except…’

‘Except what? Come on, spit it out.’

‘It’s just that I thought I recognised someone else who boarded the plane.’

‘Who was it?’ snapped Gutenburg.

‘I can’t remember his name, and I’m not that certain it was him. I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off Fitzgerald for more than a few seconds.’

‘If you remember who it was, call me immediately.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The young man switched off his phone and made his way to Gate 9. In a few hours he would be back behind his desk in Berne, resuming his role as Cultural Attache at the American Embassy.

‘Good morning. This is Helen Dexter.’

‘Good morning, Director,’ replied the White House Chief of Staff stiffly.

‘I thought the President would want to know immediately that the man he asked us to track down in South Africa is on the move again.’

‘I’m not sure I follow you,’ said Lloyd.

‘The head of our Johannesburg office has just informed me that Guzman’s killer boarded a South African Airways flight to London two days ago. He was carrying a passport in the name of Martin Perry. He only stayed in London overnight. The following morning he took a Swissair flight to Geneva, using a Swedish passport in the name of Theodore Lilystrand.’

Lloyd didn’t interrupt her this time. After all, he could play the tape back if the President wanted to hear exactly what she had said.

At Geneva he boarded an Aeroflot flight to St Petersburg. This time he was carrying a South African passport in the name of Piet de Villiers. From St Petersburg, he took the overnight train to Moscow.’

‘Moscow? Why Moscow?’ asked Lloyd.

‘If I recall correctly,’ said Dexter, ‘an election is about to take place in Russia.’

When the plane landed in St Petersburg, Connor’s watch claimed that it was five fifty. He yawned, stretched and waited for the aircraft to taxi to a halt before altering the hands to local time. He looked out of the window at an airport that was in semi-darkness because half the lightbulbs were missing. Light snow was falling, but didn’t settle. The hundred weary passengers had to wait another twenty minutes before a bus arrived to transport them to the terminal. Some things simply didn’t change, whether the KGB or organised criminals were in charge. Americans had come to refer to them as the Mafya, to avoid confusion with the Italian version.

Connor was the last to leave the aircraft, and the last to get off the bus.

A man who had travelled first class on the same flight rushed to the front of the queue to be sure of being the first through immigration and customs. He was grateful that Connor followed the textbook routine. Once the man had stepped off the bus, he never looked back. He knew Connor’s eyes would always be moving.

When Connor walked out of the airport onto the pot-holed road thirty minutes later, he hailed the first available taxi and asked to be taken to Protsky station.

The first-class traveller followed Connor into the booking hall, which looked more like an opera house than a railway station. He watched closely to see which train he would be boarding. But there was another man standing in the shadows who even knew the number of the sleeping compartment he would be occupying.