The Eleventh Commandment (1998) (25 page)

Zerimski approached the microphone with his hands raised, to let the crowd know that he was about to begin his speech.

‘I’ve seen the needle,’ said Sergei.

‘Where?’ demanded Jackson.

‘There, about twenty paces from stage. He has different-coloured hair and walks like an old man. You owe me ten dollars.’

‘How did you pick him out from this distance?’ asked Jackson.

‘He is the only one trying to leave the square.’

Jackson passed over a ten-dollar bill as Zerimski stopped in front of the microphone. The old man who had introduced him in Moscow sat alone at the back of the stage. Zerimski didn’t allow that kind of mistake to happen a second time.

‘Comrades,’ he began resonantly, ‘it is a great honour for me to stand before you as your candidate. As each day passes, I become more and more aware …’

As Connor scanned the crowd, he once again caught sight of Mitchell. He’d taken another step towards him.

‘Although few of our citizens wish to return to the old totalitarian days of the past, the vast majority …’

Just the odd word change here and there, thought Connor. He noticed that Mitchell had taken another step towards him.

‘… want to see a fairer distribution of the wealth that has been created by their skills and hard work.’ As the crowd began to cheer, Connor quickly moved a few paces to his right. When the applause died down, he froze, not moving a muscle.

‘Why is the man on the bench following your friend?’ asked Sergei.

‘Because he’s an amateur,’ said Jackson.

‘Or a professional who knows exactly what he’s doing?’ suggested Sergei.

‘My God, don’t tell me I’m losing my touch,’ said Jackson.

‘So far he’s done everything but kiss him,’ said Sergei.

‘Look at the streets of St Petersburg, comrades,’ continued Zerimski. ‘Yes, you will see Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars, but who is driving them? Only the privileged few …’

When the crowd burst into applause again, Connor took a few more steps towards the north end of the square.

‘I look forward to the day when this is not the only country on earth where limousines outnumber family cars …’

Connor glanced back to find that Mitchell had taken two or three more steps in his direction. What was he playing at?

‘… and where there are more Swiss bank accounts than hospitals.’

He would have to lose him during the next burst of applause. He concentrated on Zerimski’s words, to anticipate exactly when he would make his move.

‘I think I’ve spotted him,’ said a plain-clothes policeman who was sweeping the crowd through a pair of binoculars.

‘Where, where?’ demanded Bolchenkov, grabbing the glasses.

‘Twelve o’clock, fifty yards back, not moving a muscle. He’s in front of a woman wearing a red scarf. He doesn’t look like his photograph, but whenever there’s a burst of applause he moves too quickly for a man of that age.’

Bolchenkov began focusing the glasses. ‘Got him,’ he said. After a few seconds he added, ‘Yes, it might just be him. Brief those two at one o’clock to move in and arrest him, and tell the pair twenty yards in front of him to cover them. Let’s get it over with as quickly as possible.’ The young officer looked anxious. ‘If we’ve made a mistake,’ said the Chief, ‘I’ll take the responsibility.’

‘Let us never forget,’ continued Zerimski, ‘that Russia can once again be the greatest nation on earth …’

Mitchell was now only a pace away from Connor, who was studiously ignoring him. In just a few more seconds there would be an extended ovation when Zerimski told the crowd what he intended to do when he became President. No bank accounts supplied by the bribes of dishonest businessmen - that always got the loudest cheer of all. Then he’d be clean away, and would make sure that Mitchell was transferred to a desk job in some mosquito-infested backwater.

‘… I shall be dedicating myself to your service, and be more than satisfied with the salary of a President, rather than taking bribes from dishonest businessmen whose only interest is in pillaging the nation’s assets.’

The crowd erupted into cheers. Connor turned suddenly and began moving to his right. He had taken almost three strides when the first policeman grabbed his left arm. A second later another came at him from the right. He was thrown to the ground, but made no attempt to resist. Rule one: when you’ve nothing to hide, don’t resist arrest. His hands were wrenched behind his back and a pair of handcuffs snapped around his wrists. The crowd began to form a little circle around the three men on the ground. They were now far more interested in the sideshow than in Zerimski’s words. Mitchell hung back slightly, and waited for the inevitable ‘Who is he?’

‘Mafya hitman,’ he whispered into the ears of those nearest him. He moved back towards the press enclosure, muttering the words ‘Mafya hitman’ periodically.

‘Let me leave you good citizens in no doubt that if I were to be elected President, you can be sure of one thing …’

‘You’re under arrest,’ said a third man whom Connor couldn’t see because his nose was being pressed firmly against the ground.

‘Take him away,’ said the same authoritative voice, and Connor was bundled off towards the north end of the square.

Zerimski had spotted the disturbance in the crowd, but like an old pro he ignored it. ‘If Chernopov were to be elected, the Americans would be more concerned about the views of Mexico than those of Russia,’ he continued unfalteringly.

Jackson never took his eyes off Connor as the crowd quickly divided, making a path to allow the police through.

‘My friends, there are only six days to go before the people decide …’

Mitchell walked quickly away from the commotion and headed towards the press stand.

‘Don’t do it for me. Don’t even do it for the Communist Party. Do it for the next generation of Russians …’

The police car, surrounded by four motorcycles, began to make its way out of the square.

‘… who will then be able to play their part as citizens of the greatest nation on earth. I ask for only one thing - the privilege of being allowed to lead those people.’ This time he was silent until he was sure he had the attention of everyone in the square, before ending softly with the words, ‘Comrades, I offer myself as your servant.’

He stood back, and suddenly the noise of the police sirens was obliterated by the roar of a hundred thousand voices.

Jackson looked towards the press enclosure. He could see that the journalists were far more interested in the disappearing police car than in Zerimski’s frequently repeated words.

‘Mafya hitman,’ the Turkish journalist was informing a colleague - a ‘fact’ that she had picked up from someone in the crowd, whom she would later quote as ‘an authoritative source’.

Mitchell was looking up at a row of television cameramen who were following the progress of the police car as it disappeared out of sight, its blue lamp flashing. His eyes settled on the one person he needed to speak to. He waited patiently for Clifford Symonds to look in his direction, and when he eventually did, Mitchell waved his arms to indicate that he needed to speak to him urgently. The CNN reporter quickly joined the American Cultural Attache among the cheering throng.

Zerimski remained in the centre of the platform, soaking up the adulation of the crowd. He had no intention of leaving while they were still howling their approval.

Symonds listened carefully to what Mitchell had to tell him. He was due on air in twelve minutes. The smile on his face became broader by the second.

‘Are you absolutely certain?’ he asked, when Mitchell had finished speaking.

‘Have I ever let you down in the past?’ Mitchell asked, trying to sound offended.

‘No,’ said Symonds apologetically. ‘You never have.’

‘But you must keep this piece of information a million miles away from the Embassy.’

‘Of course. But who shall I say is my source?’

‘A resourceful and diligent police force. That’s the last thing the Chief of Police is going to deny.’

Symonds laughed. ‘I’d better get back to my producer if I’m going to lead on this for the morning newscast.’

‘OK,’ said Mitchell. ‘Just remember - make sure it can’t be traced back to me.’

‘Have I ever let
you
down in the past?’ retorted Symonds. He turned and dashed back towards the press enclosure.

Mitchell slipped away in the opposite direction. There was still one more receptive ear in which he needed to plant the story, and it would have to be done before Zerimski left the stage.

A protective line of bodyguards was barring any over-enthusiastic supporters from getting near the candidate. Mitchell could see his press secretary only a few yards away, basking in the cheers his leader was receiving.

Mitchell told one of the guards in perfect Russian who he needed to speak to. The thug turned around and shouted at the press secretary. If Zerimski was elected, thought Mitchell, it wasn’t exactly going to be a subtle administration. The press secretary made an immediate sign to let the American through, and he entered the cordoned-off area and joined another of his chess partners. He briefed him quickly, telling him that de Villiers had been disguised as an old man, and which hotel he’d been seen leaving just before he’d entered the restaurant.

By the end of the day, it would have dawned on Fitzgerald and Jackson that they had both been dealing with a real professional.

T
HE
P
RESIDENT
and his Chief of Staff sat alone in the Oval Office, watching the early-morning news. Neither of them spoke as Clifford Symonds presented his report.

‘An international terrorist was arrested in Freedom Square this afternoon during a speech given by the Communist leader Victor Zerimski. The as-yet unnamed man is being held in the notorious Crucifix Prison in the centre of St Petersburg. The local police are not ruling out the possibility that this may be the same man who was recently linked with the assassination of Ricardo Guzman, a presidential candidate in Colombia. The man who police have arrested is thought to have been following Zerimski for several days while he was campaigning around the country. Only last week he was described in
Time
magazine as the most expensive hired gun in the west. He is thought to have been offered a million dollars by the Russian Mafya to remove Zerimski from the presidential race. When the police tried to arrest him, it took four of them just to hold him down.’

Some footage followed of a man being arrested in the crowd and hustled away, but the best shot they had managed was the back of a head covered in a fur hat. Symonds’ face reappeared on the screen.

‘The Communist candidate continued to deliver his speech, although the arrest took place only a few yards in front of the platform. Zerimski later praised the St Petersburg police for their diligence and professionalism, and vowed that however many attempts were made on his life, nothing would deter him from his fight against organised crime. Zerimski is currently running neck and neck with Prime Minister Chernopov in the opinion polls, but many observers feel that today’s incident will give a boost to his popularity in the final run-up to the election.

‘A few hours before Zerimski addressed the rally, he held a private meeting with General Borodin at his headquarters on the north side of the city. No one knows the outcome of those talks, but the General’s spokesmen are not denying that he will soon be making a statement about whether he intends to continue his campaign for President, and perhaps more importantly, which of the two remaining candidates he would pledge to support were he to withdraw. The election has suddenly been thrown wide open. This is Clifford Symonds, CNN International, in Freedom Square, St Petersburg.’

‘On Monday the Senate will continue to debate the Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction …’

The President pressed a button on his remote control, and the screen went blank.

‘And you’re telling me that the man they’ve arrested has no connection with the Russian Mafya, but is a CIA agent?’

‘Yes. I’m waiting for Jackson to call in and confirm that it’s the same man who killed Guzman.’

‘What do I say to the press if they question me about this?’