The Eleventh Commandment

‘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 restaurant,’ 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 col

d, 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.’