Connor’s love of art had begun when Maggie had dragged him around galleries while they were still at college. At first he had gone along just so he could spend more time in her company, but within weeks he became a convert. Whenever they travelled out of town together he would happily accompany her to any gallery she chose, and as soon as they moved to Washington they had become Friends of the Corcoran and Members of the Phillips. While Zerimski was being guided around the Pushkin by its director, Connor had to be careful not to become distracted by the many masterpieces, and to concentrate on observing the Communist leader.
When Connor had first been sent to Russia back in the 1980s, the nearest any senior politician got to the people was to stare down at them from the Praesidium during May Day parades. But now that the masses could make a choice on a ballot paper, it had suddenly become necessary for those who hoped to be elected to move among them, even to listen to their views.
The gallery was as crowded as Cooke Stadium for a Redskins game, and wherever Zerimski appeared, the crowds parted as if he were Moses approaching the Red Sea. The candidate moved slowly among the Muscovites, ignoring the paintings and sculptures in favour of their outstretched hands.
Zerimski was shorter than he looked in his photographs, and had surrounded himself with an entourage of even smaller aides so as not to emphasise the fact. Connor recalled President Truman’s comment about size: ‘When it comes down to inches, my boy, you should only consider the forehead,’ he once told a Missouri student. ‘Better to have a spare inch between the top of your nose and the hairline than between the ankle and the kneecap.’ Connor noticed that Zerimski’s vanity hadn’t affected his dress-sense. His suit was badly cut, and his shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs. Connor wondered if it was wise for the director of the Pushkin to be wearing a hand-tailored suit that obviously hadn’t been made in Moscow.
Although Connor was aware that Victor Zerimski was a shrewd and educated man, it soon became clear that his visits to art galleries over the years must have been infrequent. As he bustled through the crowd he occasionally jabbed a finger in the direction of a canvas and informed the onlookers of the name of the artist in a loud voice. He managed to get it wrong on several occasions, but the crowd still nodded their agreement. He ignored a magnificent Rubens, showing more interest in a mother standing in the crowd clinging to her child than in the genius with which the same scene was depicted behind her. When he picked up the child and posed for a picture with the mother, Titov suggested he should take a pace to the right. That way they would get the Virgin Mary into the photograph as well. No front page would be able to resist it.
Once he had walked through half a dozen galleries, and was sure that everyone visiting the Pushkin was aware of his presence, Zerimski became bored and switched his attention to the journalists following closely behind him. On the first-floor landing he began to hold an impromptu press conference.
‘Go on, ask me anything you like,’ he said, glowering at the pack.
‘What is your reaction to the latest opinion polls, Mr Zerimski?’ asked the Moscow correspondent of The Times.
‘Heading in the right direction.’
‘You now appear to be in second place, and therefore Mr Chernopov’s only real rival,’ shouted another journalist.
‘By election day he will be my only real rival,’ said Zerimski. His entourage laughed dutifully.
‘Do you think Russia should return to being a Communist state, Mr Zerimski?’ came the inevitable question, delivered with an American accent.
The wily politician was far too alert to fall into that trap. ‘If by that you mean a return to higher employment, lower inflation, and a better standard of living, the answer must be yes.’ He sounded not unlike a Republican candidate during an American primary.
‘But that’s exactly what Chernopov claims is the government’s present policy.’
‘The government’s present policy,’ said Zerimski, ‘is to make sure that the Prime Minister keeps his Swiss bank account overflowing with dollars. That money belongs to the Russian people, which is why he is not fit to be our next President. I’m told that when Fortune magazine next publishes its list of the ten richest people in the world, Chernopov will be in seventh place. Elect him as President and within five years he’ll knock Bill Gates off the top spot. No, my friend,’ he added. ‘You are about to learn that the Russian people will vote resoundingly for a return to those days when we were the most respected nation on earth.’
‘And the most feared?’ suggested another journalist.
‘I’d rather that than continue the present situation, where we are simply ignored by the rest of the world,’ said Zerimski. Now the journalists were writing down his every word.
‘Why is your friend so interested in Victor Zerimski?’ whispered Sergei at the other end of the gallery.
‘You ask too many questions,’ said Jackson.
‘Zerimski bad man.’
‘Why?’ asked Jackson, his eyes fixed on Connor.
‘If elected, he put people like me in jail and we all go back to “the good old days”, while he’s in Kremlin eating caviar and drinking vodka.’
Zerimski began striding towards the gallery’s exit, with the director and his entourage trying to keep up with him. The candidate stopped on the bottom step to be photographed in front of Goya’s vast Christ Descending from the Cross. Connor was so moved by the painting that he was almost knocked over by the pursuing crowd.
‘You like Goya, Jackson?’ whispered Sergei.
‘I haven’t seen that many,’ admitted the American. ‘But yes,’ he said, ‘it’s quite magnificent.’
‘They have several more in the basement,’ said Sergei. ‘I could always arrange for one …’ he rubbed his thumb against his fingers.
Jackson would have cuffed the boy if it wouldn’t have drawn attention to them.
‘Your man’s on the move again,’ said Sergei suddenly. Jackson looked up to see Connor disappearing out of a side entrance of the gallery with Ashley Mitchell in pursuit.
Connor sat alone in a Greek restaurant on the Prechinstenka and considered what he had seen that morning. Although Zerimski was always surrounded by a bunch of thugs, their eyes staring in every direction, he was still not as well protected as most Western leaders. Several of his strong-arm men might be brave and resourceful, but only three of them appeared to have any previous experience of protecting a world statesman. And they couldn’t be on duty all the time.
He tried to digest a rather bad moussaka as he went over the rest of Zerimski’s itinerary, right through to election day. The candidate would be seen in public on twenty-seven different occasions during the next eight days. By the time a waiter had placed a black coffee in front of him, Connor had shortlisted the only three locations worth considering if Zerimski’s name needed to be removed from the ballot paper.
He checked his watch. That evening the candidate would address a Party gathering in Moscow. The following morning he would travel by train to Yaroslavl, where he would open a factory before returning to the capital to attend a performance by the Bolshoi Ballet. From there he would take the midnight train to St Petersburg. Connor had already decided to shadow Zerimski in Yaroslavl. He had also booked tickets for the ballet and the train to St Petersburg.
As he sipped his coffee he thought about Ashley Mitchell at the Pushkin, slipping behind the nearest pillar whenever Connor had glanced in his direction, and tried not to laugh. He had decided that he would allow Mitchell to follow him during the day - he might prove useful at some point - but he wouldn’t let him find out where he slept at night. He glanced out of the window to see the Cultural Attache seated on a bench, reading a copy of Pravda. He smiled. A professional should always be able to watch his prey without being seen.
Jackson removed a wallet from inside his jacket, extracted a hundred-rouble note and passed it to the boy.
‘Get us both something to eat, but don’t go anywhere near that restauran
t,’ he said, nodding across the road.
‘I’ve never been inside a restaurant. What would you like?’
‘I’ll have the same as you.’
‘You catching on fast, Jackson,’ said Sergei as he scurried away.
Jackson checked up and down the road. The man seated on the bench reading a copy of Pravda wasn’t wearing an overcoat. He had obviously assumed that surveillance was only carried out in warm, comfortable surroundings, but having lost Fitzgerald the previous day, there was clearly no way he could risk moving. His ears were bright red, his face flushed with the cold, and he had no one to fetch him something to eat. Jackson doubted if they would be seeing him tomorrow.
Sergei returned a few minutes later, carrying two paper bags. He passed one up to Jackson. ‘A big Mac with French fries and ketchup.’
Why do I have a feeling that if Zerimski becomes President, he’ll close down McDonald’s?’ said Jackson. He took a bite of the hamburger.
And I thought you might need this,’ said Sergei, handing him an officer’s hat made of rabbit’s fur.
‘Did a hundred roubles cover all this?’ asked Jackson.
‘No, I stole the hat,’ said Sergei matter-of-factly. ‘I thought your need was greater than his.’
‘You could get us both arrested.’
‘Not likely,’ said Sergei. ‘There are over two million soldiers in Russia. Half of them haven’t been paid for months, and most would sell you their sister for a hundred roubles.’
Jackson tried on the hat - it fitted perfectly. Neither of them spoke while they devoured their lunch, their eyes pinned on the restaurant.
‘See that man sitting on the bench reading Pravda, Jackson?’
‘Yes,’ said Jackson between bites.
‘He was at the gallery this morning.’
‘You also catch on fast,’ said Jackson.
‘Don’t forget that I have a Russian mother,’ replied Sergei. ‘By the way, which side is the bench man on?’
‘I know who’s paying him,’ said Jackson, ‘but I don’t know which side he’s on.’
13
CONNOR WAS AMONG THE LAST to arrive at the Lenin Memorial Hall. He took a seat at the back of the room in the section reserved for the press and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He couldn’t help remembering the last time he’d attended a political meeting in Russia. On that occasion he had also come to listen to the Communist candidate, but that was in the days when there was only one name on the ballot paper. Which was possibly why the turnout on election day had been only 17 per cent.
Connor glanced around the hall. Although there was another fifteen minutes to go before the candidate was due to arrive, every seat had already been taken, and the gangways were almost full. At the front of the hall, a few officials were milling around on the stage, making sure everything would be as the leader expected it. An old man was placing a grandiose chair towards the back of the stage.
The gathering of Party faithful couldn’t have been in greater contrast to an American political convention. The delegates, if that was what they were, were dressed in drab clothes. They looked undernourished, and sat in silence as they waited for Zerimski to appear.
Connor lowered his head and began scribbling some notes on his pad; he had no desire to get involved in a conversation with the journalist on his left. She had already told the correspondent on the other side of her that she represented the Istanbul News, the sole English-language paper in Turkey, and that her editor thought it would be a disaster if Zerimski were ever to become President. She went on to say she had recently reported that the Communist candidate might just pull it off. If she had asked Connor’s opinion, he would have had to agree. The odds on his being required to carry out his assignment were shortening by the hour.
A few moments later, the Turkish journalist began sketching a portrait of Zerimski. Her paper obviously couldn’t afford the luxury of a photographer, and was probably relying on wire services and whatever she came up with. He had to admit that the drawing was a good likeness.
Connor checked the room again. Would it be possible to assassinate someone in a room as crowded as this? Not if you hoped to escape. Getting at Zerimski while he was in his car was another option, although it was certain to be well protected. No professional would consider a bomb, which often ended up killing innocent people while failing to eliminate the target. If he was to have any chance of escaping, he would have to rely on a high-powered rifle in an open space. Nick Gutenburg had assured him that a customised Remington 700 would be safely in the US Embassy long before he arrived in Moscow - another misuse of the diplomatic pouch. If Lawrence gave the order, they would leave him to decide the time and place.
Now that he’d studied Zerimski’s itinerary in detail, Connor had decided that his first choice would be Severodvinsk, where the Communist leader was addressing a rally in a shipyard two days before the election. Connor had already begun to study the various cranes which operated at Russian docks, and the possibility of remaining hidden inside one for a long period of time.
Heads were beginning to turn towards the back of the room, and Connor looked around. A group of men in badly cut suits with bulges under their arms were filling the back of the hall, scanning the room before their leader made his entrance.
Connor could see that their methods were primitive and ineffective, but like all security forces they probably hoped that their presence and sheer weight of numbers would make anyone think twice before trying anything. He checked the faces - all three of the professionals were back on duty.
Suddenly loud applause burst from the rear of the hall, followed by cheering. As Zerimski entered, the Party members rose as one to acclaim their leader. Even the journalists were forced to stand to catch a glimpse of him. Zerimski’s progress toward the stage was continually held up as he stopped to clasp outstretched hands. When he finally reached the platform, the noise became almost deafening.
The elderly chairman who had been waiting patiently at the front of the hall led Zerimski up the steps and onto the stage, guiding him towards the large chair. Once Zerimski had sat down, he walked slowly forward to the microphone. The audience resumed their places and fell silent.
He didn’t do a good job of introducing ‘the next President of Russia’, and the longer he spoke, the more restless the audience became. Zerimski’s entourage, who were standing behind him, began to fidget and look annoyed. The old man’s final flourish was to describe the speaker as ‘the natural successor to Comrade Vladimir Ilyich Lenin’. He stood aside to make way for his leader, who didn’t look at all certain that Lenin was the most fortunate comparison that could have been chosen.
As Zerimski rose from his place at the back of the stage and walked slowly forward, the crowd began to come alive again. He threw his arms high in the air, and they cheered more loudly than ever.
Connor’s eyes never left Zerimski. He carefully noted his every movement, the stances he took, the poses he struck. Like all energetic men, he hardly remained still for a moment.
After Zerimski felt the cheering had gone on for long enough, he waved his audience back down into their seats. Connor noted that the whole process from start to finish had taken a little over three minutes.
Zerimski didn’t begin to speak until everyone had resumed their places and he had complete silence.
‘Comrades,’ he began in a firm voice, ‘it is a great honour for me to stand before you as your candidate. As each day passes, I become more and more aware that the Russian people are demanding a fresh start. Although few of our citizens wish to return to the old totalitarian regime of the past, the majority want to see a fairer distribution of the wealth that has been created by their skills and hard work.’
The audience began clapping again.
‘Let us never forget,’ Zerimski continued, ‘that Russia can once again become the most respected nation on earth. If other countries entertain any doubt about that, under my presidency they will do
so at their peril.’
The journalists scribbled away furiously, and the audience cheered even more loudly. Nearly twenty seconds passed before Zerimski was able to speak again.
‘Look at the streets of Moscow, comrades. Yes, you will see Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars, but who is driving them? Just a privileged few. And it is those few who are hoping that Chernopov will be elected so they can continue to enjoy a lifestyle no one in this room can ever hope to emulate. The time has come, my friends, for this wealth - your wealth - to be shared among the many, not the few. I look forward to the day when Russia no longer has more limousines than family cars, more yachts than fishing boats, and more secret Swiss bank accounts than hospitals.’
Once again the audience greeted his words with prolonged applause.
When the noise eventually died down, Zerimski dropped his voice, but every word still carried to the back of the hall. ‘When I become your President, I shall not be opening bank accounts in Switzerland, but factories all over Russia. I shall not be spending my time relaxing in a luxurious dacha, but working night and day in my office. 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.’
This time the applause was so enthusiastic that it was over a minute before Zerimski was able to continue.
‘At the back of the room,’ he said, pointing a stubby finger at the assembled journalists, ‘are the representatives of the world’s press.’ He paused, curled his lip and added, ‘And may I say how welcome they are.’
No applause followed this particular remark.
‘However, let me remind them that when I am President, they’ll need to be in Moscow not only during the run-up to an election, but permanently. Because then Russia will not be hoping for handouts whenever the Group of Seven meet, but will once again be a major participant in world affairs. If Chernopov were elected, the Americans would be more concerned about the views of Mexico than those of Russia. In future, President Lawrence will have to listen to what you are saying, and not just soft-talk the world’s press by telling them how much he likes Boris.’
The Eleventh Commandment (1998) Page 12