‘Four hundred and seventy-two,’ replied Gutenburg.
‘Presumably you’ve requisitioned every one.’
‘I thought about doing that, but if an inquisitive student or member of staff became aware of a CIA presence on the campus, all hell would break loose.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Dexter. ‘So how do you intend to go about finding that video?’
‘I’ve detailed a dozen hand-picked officers, all recent graduates, to check out every one of the titles on that list until they come across a home-made video in what should be an empty box. The problem is that, despite their being dressed like students, I can’t afford to leave any one of them inside the library for longer than twenty minutes, or let them go there more than twice in a day, if they’re not going to stick out like sore thumbs, especially as there’s hardly anyone around at this time of year. So the exercise is proving rather time-consuming.’
‘How long do you think it will be before they find it?’
‘We could get lucky and come across it almost immediately, but my bet is that it will probably take a day or two, three at the most.’
‘Don’t forget you have to be back in touch with Mrs Fitzgerald in less than forty-eight hours.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten. But if we find the tape before then, that won’t be necessary.’
‘Unless Mrs Fitzgerald also recorded her phone conversation with you.’
Gutenburg smiled. ‘She did, but it was erased within seconds of her replacing the receiver. You should have seen the pleasure it gave Professor Ziegler to demonstrate his latest toy.’
‘Excellent,’ said Dexter. ‘Ring me the moment you get your hands on that video. Then there will be nothing to stop us eliminating the one person who could still …’ The red phone on her desk began to ring, and she grabbed it without completing her sentence.
‘The Director,’ she said, pressing a button on her stopwatch. ‘When did this happen? … Are you absolutely certain? … And Jackson? Where is he?’ When she had heard the reply, she immediately put the phone down. Gutenburg noticed that the stopwatch had reached forty-three seconds.
‘I do hope you find that videotape within the next forty-eight hours,’ said the Director, looking across the desk at her Deputy.
‘Why?’ asked Gutenburg, looking anxious.
‘Because Mitchell tells me that Fitzgerald was hanged at eight o’clock this morning St Petersburg time, and that Jackson has just boarded a United Airlines flight out of Frankfurt, bound for Washington.’
BOOK THREE
THE HIRED ASSASSIN
24
AT SEVEN A.M., the three thugs entered his cell and marched him off to the Chief’s office. Once they had left the room Bolchenkov locked the door, and without a word went over to a wardrobe in the corner. Inside was a policeman’s uniform, which he indicated Connor should change into. Because of his loss of weight over the past week, the clothes hung on him, and he was grateful for the braces. But with the aid of a wide-brimmed hat and a long blue coat, he managed to look like any of the thousand policemen who would be walking the beat in St Petersburg that morning. He left his prison clothes at the bottom of the wardrobe, wondering how the Chief would dispose of them. Still without saying a word, Bolchenkov ushered him out of his office and into a tiny anteroom, then locked him in.
After a long silence, Connor heard a door opening, then footsteps, followed by another door opening, which could have been the wardrobe in the Chief’s office. He didn’t move a muscle as he tried to work out what was going on. The first door opened again and two, possibly three, people rushed noisily into the office. They left a few seconds later, dragging something or someone out of the room and slamming the door behind them.
Moments later the door was unlocked, and Bolchenkov indicated that he should come out. They went through the office and back into the corridor. If the Chief turned left, they would be returning to his cell; but he turned right. Connor’s legs felt very weak, but he followed as quickly as he could.
The first thing he saw when he stepped into the courtyard was the scaffold, and someone placing a magnificent gilded chair with plush red upholstery a few paces in front of it. He didn’t need to be told who would be sitting there. As he and Bolchenkov walked across the yard, Connor noticed a group of policemen dressed in long blue coats like the one he was wearing dragging passers-by off the street, presumably to witness the execution.
The Chief moved quickly across the gravel to a car on the far side of the courtyard. Connor was about to open the passenger door when Bolchenkov shook his head and pointed to the driver’s seat. Connor took his place behind the wheel.
‘Drive up to the gate and then stop,’ said the Chief as he got into the passenger seat.
Connor kept the car in first gear as he drove slowly across the yard, stopping in front of two guards posted by the closed gate. One of them saluted the Chief and immediately began checking under the vehicle, while the other looked through the back window and inspected the boot.
The Chief leaned across and pulled down the sleeve on Connor’s left wrist. When the guards had completed their search, they returned to their positions and saluted Bolchenkov once again. Neither of them took the slightest interest in the driver. The vast wooden bolts were removed and the great gates of the Crucifix Prison were pulled open.
‘Get moving,’ said the Chief under his breath as a small boy ran into the prison compound, looking as if he knew exactly where he was going.
‘Which way?’ Connor whispered.
‘Right.’