The Eleventh Commandment

As he contemplated a fish that should have been left in the sea, Stuart whispered to Maggie and Tara, ‘I haven’t a clue why we’re here or where we’re going, but I have to believe that in some way it’s connected with Connor.’

Maggie nodded, and quietly began to tell them everything she had found out since Joan’s death.

‘But I don’t think the people holding us can be the CIA,’ she said, ‘because I told Gutenburg that if I was missing for more than seven days, that video would be released to the media.’

‘Unless they’ve already found it,’ said Stuart.

‘That’s not possible,’ said Maggie emphatically.

‘Then who the hell are they?’ said Tara.

No one offered an opinion as the stewardess reappeared and silently removed their trays.

‘Have we got anything else to go on?’ Maggie asked after the stewardess had left them.

‘Only that somebody put a book of Yeats’s poems in my pocket,’ said Stuart.

Tara noticed Maggie give a start.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, looking anxiously at her mother, whose eyes were now filling with tears.

‘Don’t you understand what this means?’

‘No,’ said Tara, looking puzzled.

‘Your father must still be alive. Let me see it,’ said Maggie. ‘He might have left a message in it.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got it any more. I’d hardly opened it before a heavy appeared from the front of the plane and snatched it away,’ said Stuart. ‘I did notice that a few words were underlined, though.’

‘What were they?’ asked Maggie urgently.

‘I couldn’t make much sense of them.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Can you remember any of them?’

Stuart closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. ‘”Content“,’ he said suddenly.

Maggie smiled. ‘”I am content to live it all again, and yet again“.’

Flight 383 did land in Dallas on time, and when Connor and Romanov stepped out of the airport another white BMW was waiting for them. Had the Mafya placed a bulk order? Connor wondered. The latest pair of thugs to accompany them looked as if they had been hired from central casting - even their shoulder holsters were bulging under their jackets.

He could only hope that the Cape Town branch was a recent subsidiary, although he found it hard to believe that Carl Koeter, with over twenty years’ experience as the CIA’s senior operative in South Africa, wouldn’t be able to handle the latest new kid on the block.

The trip into downtown Dallas took just over twenty minutes. Connor sat silently in the back of the car, aware that he might be about to come face to face with someone else who had worked for the CIA for almost thirty years. Although they’d never met, he knew this was the biggest risk he had taken since arriving back in America. But if the Russians expected him to honour the most demanding clause in their contract, he had to have the use of the only rifle ideal for carrying out such an assignment.

After another silent journey they pulled up outside Harding’s Big Game Emporium. Connor slipped quickly into the shop, with Romanov and his two new shadows dogging his every step. He went up to the counter, while they pretended to take a keen interest in a rack of automatic pistols on the far side of the shop.

Connor glanced around. His search needed to be quick, unobtrusive but thorough. After a few moments he was convinced there were no security cameras in the shop.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said a young assistant dressed in a long brown coat. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m out here on a shooting trip, and I’d like to buy a rifle.’

‘Do you have any particular model in mind?’

‘Yes, a Remington 700.’

‘That should be no problem, sir.’