The Eleventh Commandment

by Jeffrey Archer

  The Chief slammed the cell door closed, and Connor heard a key turn in the lock.

  18

  THREE WHITE BMWs drew up outside the hotel. The man seated next to the driver in each car leapt out onto the pavement and checked up and down the road. Once they were satisfied, the back door of the middle car was opened to allow Alexei Romanov to step out. The tall young man was wearing a long black cashmere coat, and didn’t look to either side as he walked quickly into the hotel. The other three men followed, forming a semi-circle around him.

  From the description he had been given over the phone, Romanov immediately recognised the tall American standing in the middle of the hall, looking as if he was waiting for someone.

  ‘Mr Jackson?’ enquired Romanov in a guttural accent.

  ‘Yes,’ Jackson replied. He would have shaken hands if Romanov had not simply turned round and headed straight back towards the entrance.

  The three cars’ engines were running and their doors were still open when Jackson stepped out onto the street. He was ushered towards the back door of the centre vehicle, and sat between the man who hadn’t been willing to shake hands with him and another equally silent but more heavily built man.

  The three cars slipped into the centre lane, and as if by magic every other vehicle moved out of their path. Only the traffic lights didn’t seem to know who they were.

  As the little motorcade swept through the city, Jackson cursed himself again. None of this would have been necessary if he had been able to get through to Lloyd twenty-four hours earlier. But that was hindsight, he thought - a gift only politicians are born with.

  ‘You need to meet Nicolai Romanov,’ Sergei had said. He had dialled his mother’s number, and when the phone was eventually answered, he behaved in a way Jackson had not witnessed before. He was respectful, listened attentively, and never once interrupted. Twenty minutes later he put the phone down.

  ‘I think she’ll make the call,’ he said. ‘The problem is that you can’t become a member of the “Thieves in Law” - or the Mafya, as you call them - until you’re fourteen. It was the same even for Alexei, the Czar’s only son.’

  Sergei went on to explain that he had asked that Jackson should be granted a meeting with the Czar, the leader of the Thieves in Law. The organisation had been founded at the time when Russia was ruled by a real Czar, and had survived to become the most feared and respected criminal organisation in the world.

  ‘My mother is one of the few women the Czar will talk to. She will ask him to grant you an audience,’ said Sergei.

  The phone rang, and he immediately picked it up. As he listened carefully to what his mother had to say, he turned white and began to tremble. He hesitated for some time, but finally agreed to whatever she was suggesting. His hand was still shaking when he put the receiver down.

  ‘Has he agreed to see me?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sergei quietly. ‘Two men come to pick you up tomorrow morning: Alexei Romanov, the Czar’s son, who will succeed him when he dies, and Stefan Ivanitsky, Alexei’s cousin, who is third in command.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  As they do not know you, they make one condition.’

  And what’s that?’

  ‘If the Czar thinks you waste his time, the two men will come back and break one of my legs, to remind me not to bother them again.’

  ‘Then you’d better make sure you’re not around when I get back.’

  ‘If I’m not here they pay a call on my mother and break her leg. And when they catch me, they break both my legs. It is the unwritten code of the Mafya.’

  Jackson wondered if he should cancel the meeting. He didn’t want to be responsible for Sergei ending up on crutches. But the boy told him it was too late. He had already accepted their terms.

  One glance at Stefan Ivanitsky, the Czar’s nephew, who was seated on his right, was enough to convince Jackson that breaking a leg would take him only a moment, and would be forgotten even more quickly.

  Once the BMWs had passed the city boundaries, the little motorcade quickly accelerated to sixty miles per hour. As they climbed the winding roads up into the hills, they met few other vehicles. They sped past peasants on the side of the road with their heads bowed, and no sign in their faces that they cared about either the past or the future. Jackson began to understand why Zerimski’s words might excite any last flicker of hope left in them.

  Without warning, the leading car suddenly swung left and stopped outside a massive wrought-iron gate dominated by a crest with a black falcon’s outstretched wings. Two men holding Kalashnikovs stepped forward, and the first driver lowered a smoked-glass window to allow them to peer in. It reminded Jackson of arriving outside the CIA’s headquarters - except that at Langley the guards had to be satisfied with side-arms that remained in their holsters.

  After all three cars had been inspected, one of the guards nodded and the wings of the falcon split open. The motorcade proceeded at a more stately pace along a gravel drive that wound through a thick forest. It was another five minutes before Jackson caught his first glimpse of the house - though house it was not. A century before it had been the palace of an Emperor’s first-born. It was now inhabited by a remote descendant who also believed in his hereditary position.

  ‘Don’t speak to the Czar unless he speaks first,’ Sergei had warned him. ‘And always treat him like his imperial ancestors.’ Jackson preferred not to tell Sergei that he had no idea how to treat a member of the Russian Royal Family.

  The cars crunched to a halt outside the front door. A tall, elegant man in a long black tailcoat, white shirt and bow tie stood waiting on the top step. He bowed to Jackson, who tried to look as if he was used to this sort of treatment. After all, he had once met Richard Nixon.

  ‘Welcome to the Winter Palace, Mr Jackson,’ said the butler. ‘Mr Romanov awaits you in the Blue Gallery.’

  Alexei Romanov and Stefan Ivanitsky accompanied Jackson through the open door. Jackson and the young Romanov followed the butler down a long marble corridor, while Ivanitsky remained standing by the entrance. Jackson would have liked to stop and admire the paintings and statues that would have graced any museum in the world, but the steady pace of the butler did not allow it. The butler stopped when he reached two white doors at the end of the corridor that stretched almost to the ceiling. He knocked, opened one of the doors, and stood aside to allow Jackson to enter.

  ‘Mr Jackson,’ he announced, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Jackson stepped into a vast, lavishly furnished drawing room. The floor was covered by a single carpet a Turk would have traded his life for. From a Louis XIV winged chair of red velvet rose an elderly man in a blue pin-striped suit. His hair was silver, and the pallor of his skin suggested that he had suffered a long illness. His thin body was slightly stooped as he took a step forward to shake hands with his guest.

  ‘It is kind of you to come all this way to see me, Mr Jackson,’ he said. ‘You must forgive me, but my English is a little rusty. I was forced to leave Oxford in 1939, soon after the war broke out, although I was only in my second year. You see, the British never really trusted the Russians, even though we were later to become allies.’ He smiled sweetly. ‘I’m sure they show much the same attitude when dealing with the Americans.’

  Jackson wasn’t sure how to react.

  ‘Do have a seat, Mr Jackson,’ said the old man, gesturing towards the twin of the chair he had been sitting in.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jackson. They were the first words he had spoken since leaving the hotel.

  ‘Now, Mr Jackson,’ said Romanov, lowering himself slowly into his chair, ‘if I ask you a question, be sure to answer it accurately. If you are in any doubt, take your time before replying. Because should you decide to lie to me - how shall I put it? - you will find that it’s not only this meeting that will be terminated.’

  Jackson would have walked out there and then, but he knew that the old
man was probably the one person on earth who could get Connor out of the Crucifix prison alive. He gave a curt nod to show that he understood.

  ‘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.