‘Why?’ demanded Zerimski.
‘Because Fitzgerald won’t squeeze the trigger if he thinks you’re likely to make a sudden movement.’
‘I understand.’
‘Once he has fired, he will climb out onto the ledge by the cedar tree in the back garden. He made us repeat the whole exercise several times yesterday afternoon, but this evening he will discover there is a small difference.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Zerimski.
‘Waiting under the tree will be six of my personal bodyguards,’ said Romanov. ‘They will have gunned him down long before his feet touch the ground.’
Zerimski was silent for a moment before saying, ‘But surely your plan has a minor flaw?’
Romanov looked puzzled.
‘How am I expected to survive a shot from a marksman of Fitzgerald’s reputation from such close range?’
Romanov rose from his chair and picked up the rifle. He removed a small piece of metal and handed it to the President.
‘What is this?’ Zerimski asked.
‘The firing pin,’ Romanov replied.
31
THE TWO WHITE BMWs sped west on Route 66, pursuing an empty taxi that exceeded the speed limit all the way to Dulles Airport. A second cab was travelling east at a more leisurely pace towards Cooke Stadium in Maryland.
Connor thought again about his decision to choose the stadium, with all its risks, rather than the Embassy. He had been allowed in and out of that building far too easily: no one was that lax about security, especially when their President was in town.
When Connor was dropped at the stadium, he knew exactly where to go. He walked up the wide gravel path towards the north entrance and the two long lines of people who hung around before every home game in the hope of a day’s work. Some of them just needed the cash, while others, Pug had explained, were such fanatical Skins fans that they would resort to anything, including bribery, to get into the stadium.
‘Bribery?’ Connor had asked innocently.
‘Oh yes. Someone has to serve in the executive suites,’ said Pug with a wink. ‘And they end up with the best view of the game.’
‘Fascinating material for my article,’ Connor had assured him.
The first queue was for those who wanted to work outside the stadium, organising the parking for the twenty-three thousand cars and buses or selling programmes, cushions and souvenirs to the seventy-eight thousand fans. The other was for those who hoped to work inside the stadium. Connor joined that queue, mostly made up of the young, the unemployed and what Pug had described as the early-retirement junkies, who simply enjoyed the regular outing. Pug had even described how this group dressed, so that no one would mistake them for the unemployed.
On this particular day, a handful of Secret Service men were eyeing the hopeful applicants. Connor kept reading the Washington Post as the line moved slowly forward. Most of the front page was devoted to Zerimski’s speech to the joint session of Congress. The reaction from the members was universally hostile. When he turned to the editorial, he suspected Zerimski would be pleased with it.
He turned to the Metro section, and a wry smile crossed his face as he read of the premature death of a distinguished academic from his home town.
‘Hi,’ said a voice.
Connor glanced round at a smartly-dressed young man who had joined the queue behind him.
‘Hi,’ he responded briefly, before returning to his paper. He didn’t want to get involved in an unnecessary conversation with someone who might later be called as a witness.
‘My name’s Brad,’ the young man announced, thrusting out his right hand.
Connor shook it, but said nothing.
‘I’m hoping to get a job on one of the lighting towers,’ he added. ‘How about you?’
‘Why the lighting towers?’ asked Connor, avoiding his question.
‘